CHOIR TRIPS

 Nothing in my high school career was better than chorus. Milton Nelson chose his group with care, and to be in the class was an honor. My freshman year was spent in band, but playing the trumpet just didn’t offer that much fun, especially to a pimple-faced kid with braces. So, I auditioned for choir the next year and managed to get in.  

We worked in that class. Mr. Nelson taught us to sing with voices supported by plenty of air. We “ha-ha-haed" and “ho-ho-hoed" before vocalizing the first note. He taught us to enunciate so that audiences could understand the words we sang. It was a class of hard work, but not one person ever dropped the course. Each of us knew that in the spring we would board buses and travel to other places to sing.  

Our first choir trip was to Falls Church, Virginia and Washington D.C. We performed concerts along the way at schools and for our hosts families. I remember that I fell hard for a girl in their choir named Nora, but it never amounted to anything.  

Some of us ventured out to tour D.C. Yes, back then students were allowed to be on their own because none of us would ever do anything to bring trouble our director. We walked until a cab stopped and asked us if we’d like to hire him. For an amount that I no longer remember, the man loaded us into the car and gave us the tour of the most famous places. He’d sit in the car and wait for until we were ready to head to the next monument. At the Lincoln Monument, we sang and delighted in the acoustics of that place. After visiting the last place, we were tired and ready to rest. By the way, not long before we were to go in mid-April 1968, Martin Luther King was assassinated on April 4, and for a while the trip was in doubt.  

The next year we traveled through South Carolina. After performing at several places, we arrived in Charleston, SC. We toured the battery, old slave market, and Fort Sumter. Even though that trip was over 50 years ago, Charleston is still my favorite place to visit, and Isle of Palms is my favorite beach.  

The trip my senior year was to some place in Florida. The trip wasn’t as good as the previous ones. I managed to injure an already bad ankle playing basketball one evening. That meant hobbling to go anywhere, and I couldn’t perform with the choir either. We were far in the boonies of Florida, if there is such a thing, and a young boy whose family I stayed with asked me what it was like to live in a big city like Knoxville. The year was 1970, and Knoxville was in no way a big city.  

Think about how special Milton Nelson was. He worked to make his choirs the best in the county. He attended other school activities to support students. He taught all of us to love music and singing. Mr. Nelson moved not long after I graduated and took up residence upper East Tennessee. I saw him once when my son was 10 and playing in a tournament. We were eating at Waffle House and there he was. He’d married by then and had his daughter with him. I sometimes see a photo of him on Facebook. HIs hair and beard are snow white, and he loves playing Santa Claus.  

Mr. Nelson introduced me to some place outside of Knoxville that I still enjoy. The biggest giftChoir he gave me, however, was singing and the joys it provides. These days, my voice creaks or completely stops when I try to sing, and that bothers me. Still, I will always remember the man who called me and my twin brother “Heckle and Jeckel.” Thanks for the lessons, Mr. Nelson. They’ve made my life much fuller.  

HEIRLOOMS

 Around our family, we treasure our heirloom. Well, at least Amy and I do. The children aren’t so sure about those things. Pieces of furniture that our parents used dur our childhood are special to us, but many of those things just don’t suit the taste of Lacey or Dallas. Still, they will at some point have the task of going through those items in our home and deciding their fates. Many items will find new homes and possibly become heirlooms for new families. The two adult children do have some special things in our home that aren’t of value of anyone else in the world.  

Dallas’ car need some work, so I followed him to Charlie Muncey’s house. Charlie has worked on our cars since 1981 and can fix most any problem. My son was carless, so I loaned him my 1987 Pathfinder. He left our house with a big smile, and he’s forever bragging about that car. I don’t blame him though; that car is the one he grew up in. We traveled to all his ball games and a vacation in the old Pathfinder. I’ve tried to give the car to him, but he’s not sure that he can pay the general upkeep on a second car. Still, that car an heirloom that will be left to him. 

When my mother passed, our family assembled, and we three boys and their wives decided who would take things from the house. The three women looked at her jewelry and picked a few items. Pieces of furniture and iron skillets were chosen. During the entire process, no one ever argued, and I don’t think anyone left with hurt feelings.  

 A big, round kitchen table sat in Mother’s kitchen for years. All meals and thousands of people have sat at that table and enjoyed good food and fellowship. That table was left to me, but because we didn’t have enough room for it, I let my older brother Dal and his wife Brenda use it. Over the years, they brought four children into their home, and now a passel of grandchildren has eaten meals at that table. Lacey has asked for the table when the time comes, and I have indicated to Brenda of that. She said one of her children wanted it, but I told her Lacey has first claim. She will be the third or fourth generation to use the table. I’m thrilled that she wants it and that Madden will be the next generation to eat at it.  

I’m not one for tattoos, especially knowing what they’d look like on me at this late stage. My daughter Lacey and niece Mindy found some samples of Mother’s writing. The copied the capital letter “R” that she’d penned and had it tattooed on the inside of their wrists. Her hand-written noted and cards were heirlooms to them ,so they had those permanent “R’s” to remind them of their grandmother.  

Amy’s Aunt Mildred took a ceramics class years ago. She must a made several items, but the one she liked best was a white cat. The animal is lying on its stomach and stretches maybe 30 inches. My two children love that ceramic cat, and they’ve argued in a kidding manner for several years about which one would inherit the thing. We’ve told them to put pieces of tape on the bottoms of any items that they want, and both have covered the other’s name with theirs. Lacey also placed a post-a-note on the cat’s ear. Amy has several pieces of cut glass from her mother, and I suppose some of the stuff is worth at least of little money. Neither child is interested in the stuff, but they battle for sole possession of a ceramic cat. Go figure! 

The lesson in all of this is that the most precious things to us aren’t the ones that cost the most. Instead, an old car that probably isn’t worth $1000 is loved by my son. Some pieces of jewelry that Amy’s mother owned are meaningful to Lacey. The value of most favorite things is determined by the memories that they bring to us as older adults.  

A MAN, A DOG, AND A FIRE

 I’ve talked about the trees that I had cut and the work I’ve done. The job ended last week when a friend came to cut the remaining tree. I made deal with him to leave the limbs for me to take care of in order to save some money. Dragging, cutting, and burning those limbs and some larger pieces became and all-day project, but one I enjoyed.  

I set that fire at 9:00 a.m. after checking with the county to make sure burning was permissible that day. Having a burn permit is important to me, in case I set a nearby field on fire. Mother did that one year. She set her small fire, but the wind picked up and quickly blew cinders and flames onto the dried Bermuda grass. That short little woman worked feverishly to put out the flames, but they raced across the yard, jumped the fence, and singed the neighbor’s field before the fire department arrived with enough water to douse the fire. That might have been the first time my mother realized that she couldn’t do what she used to do.  

 I began by dragging some bark and branches from other downed trees. For this blaze, I needed only a splash of diesel fuel on the pile, and the old stuff on bottom immediately caught fire. Lying on the fence line were piles of roots I’d cut, as well as fallen limbs from other trees. Burning brush is somewhat akin to spring house cleaning. It’s always a good time to gather up unused things and get rid of them. The pile grew. 

Some time around noon, Amy came out with the dog. We have to walk her on a leash because she’s been known to take pursuit of a rabbit and be gone for a while. She told me she had errands that needed to be run, and I told her to leave Sadie with me. I gathered up two cables with hooks and attached one around a tree trunk and the other to the dog’s harness. Sadie sniffed at a few things but then lowered her haunches and sat as still as she’s ever been. 

I retrieved my blower from the building and aimed it at the dwindling fire. Cinders turned bright orange before bursting into flames, and the fire grew so hot that it singed the hair on my arms and on my head, thereby increasing the area of baldness on my head. Before long, the wind began blowing just enough to allow me to set the blower aside.  

I walked to the edge of the property to fetch an old metal school chair that I use for fires. I plopped down on the plastic seat to rest my weary legs and behind. It was located close enough to the fire that I could quickly rake up unburned sticks and chunks of wood.  

For a couple of hours, I sat and watched the fire. As soon as my backside hit the chair, Sadie ambled over and lay at the side of the chair in the prefect position for petting. Fires mesmerize me, and I think they make my dog sleepy. For as long as I was there tending the flames, my mind held no thought of any importance. Some say that happens all the time. I just sat there in the moment and was surrounded by the things of nature.  

Amy likes sitting by a fire, but I too easily grow antsy and look for something to do. It’s only when I have a big fire that needs tending that I stop and sit. The other day I worked and sat at that fire until 7:00 p.m. It had been a good day for a man, a dog, and a fire.