HEALTHY BUT HURTING

 My goodness, the past week has been a busy one for our country. Covid appears to be easing its two-year grip on the planet, and with just a little luck and without some new variant appearing, we might just return to a new kind of normal life. Just imagine how much quicker this terrible disease could have been wiped out if everyone had been vaccinated and boosted when the medicine first became available. Not to worry though, no matter how hard some work to make life better for the country, things occur that set us reeling and wondering what we’ll do.  

Russia has decided to turn the world on its ear by surrounding Ukraine and setting the stage for an invasion. With that, NATO allies will give aid in the form of money and arms to help the country to defend itself. Attempts at diplomacy have failed, as most of us expected. Putin used supposed good-faith efforts to find a solution to his advantage. That riled up both sides while the dictator further set his troops and military hardware in place.  

The US and its allies simply can’t let Putin bully his way through smaller, weaker countries in an effort to rebuild the U.S.S.R. He’s played our government and strung them along for years, not just since 2021. At stake is the survival of democracy. If democratic countries can’t stand firm, then authoritarians will take positions of power, and the great American experiment will be dead. I’m not ready for that to happen and hope other folks aren’t either. 

Inflation is eating us up right now. Looking up to see gas rising by a dime every couple of days brings out fears, not of disease but of being able to pay the bills. Groceries are also skyrocketing, and the money we budgeted for each week doesn’t cover the expenses. I never thought I’d see that a pound of hamburger cost $5.00. Every product in every store is increasing in price, but store owners can’t be blamed for increases in their prices. I’ve heard all the problems about boats stacking up as they wait to unload their cargo. I just don’t believe that the gas supply is short. I do believe big oil companies are finding ways to stem the flow of oil or refining it. They’ve profited by $175 billion since these gas prices began climbing. Other companies are surely raking in huge profits as well.  

I never was a fan of Nixon. I do give him credit for opening a dialogue with China. I appreciate what he did when gas was in short supply. The problems across the economy were so bad that the man froze prices. That gave Americans a bit of relief.  

I’m tired of relying on other countries for our energy supplies. The time is now for us to develop new energy sources and to cut the cord connecting us to those places. Let them keep their oil. We will turn our world into one that is no longer at the mercy of other countries, our economy will thrive as new energy is developed, and our climate will have at least a chance to heal as we switch from nasty oil to clean, efficient electricity or some other new product.  

I worry about the future. Most of us in the Baby Boomer generation will be all right. Our lives will have ended before the world become an uninhabitable orb. I hope that when I am gone that I’ll have something to leave my children, but if we don’t figure out these problems, they will have lives worse than ours. It will take both political parties working together to solve the problems. Let’s hope they discover that they are elected to help the citizens of this country.  

A LIFETIME OF NOSEDIVES

 I’m moving into a clumsy stage of life. People have told me it would come, but I fooled myself into believing I could escape it. All my life, I’ve not been graceful or even close to being light on my feet, so thinking for even one second I could avoid loss of balance was foolish. 

When Jim and I were toddlers, family and neighbors used the words “bless their hearts” when they looked at us. We were two boys with skinny limbs, round bellies, and oversized heads. Such awkward body builds were destined for falls and the pains that went with them. To protect us from ourselves, our parents put us in a play area in the front yard. It was encircled with chicken wire to make sure no escapes occurred.  

When we grew up a little, our parents paroled us from the cage. We played for a while, but before long, one of us would trip and scrape a knee or thump the ground with enough force to leave a goose-egg bump.  

As boys, we wanted desperately to be good athletes. Unfortunately, we turned out to be fat boys who couldn’t run fast or throw a ball to anyone or anything other than a rambling rosebush. A session of catch in the front yard always ended with our rolling around in the front yard and throwing punches.  

My first encounter with ankle problems began in the front yard when I was in third grade. My left foot stepped on an uneven place and turned, and before I could get into the house, the joint area had swollen into a huge ball. For the next couple of days, I couldn’t walk, I missed school and had to stay with grandparents, who didn’t seem at all glad to have me in the house.  

In high school I broke the same ankle as I carried dry footballs to the officials during a game. From that point on, my ankle turned unexpectedly. On one occasion I was walking to the mailbox after school and stepped on gravel that threw out my foot again. Over the years, I’ve had surgeries and now must wear a brace to stabilize the ankle.  

I managed to injure my back in another stupid move. I was digging out oak stumps from our front yard. A friend of mine stopped by the house to tell me he’d received an assistant principal’s job. I’d been working for that kind of position for several years. When he left, I returned to a particularly stubborn stump. With a long pry bar, I grunted and strained until my back popped, dropped me to my knees, and left me writhing in pain. I also blew out discs in my neck during a weightlifting session at the gym. See what I mean about never having the poise and control to avoid injuries?  

These days, I’m stiff as a poker when I first stand up or work outside. Getting down is a chore; getting back up is an impossibility. I often get my weight too forward and take a nosedive. A couple of summers ago I managed to do the same kind of thing and rammed a metal rod on a lawn mower in my leg behind my left knee. Getting up takes a couple of rocks sometimes because my weight isn’t distributed evenly. 

It’s part of life, this stiffness and lack of balance. It also is infuriating and embarrassing. I should be thankful to be on this side of the grass, but I wish I could be nimble enough to keep from falling. Just the other day, I fell as I stepped between limbs that I was cutting with a chain saw. Yes, I’ve already said thank you for not falling on the saw and inflicting more pain to my old body. Let’s all hope a cane isn’t in the near future for I would certainly become an even angrier old codger than I am now. 

A SPECIAL PALM SUNDAY

Palm Sunday was a special time for our family. Instead of going to our regular church, we made the trip to First Christian Church at the corner of Fifth and Gay. A holy time became more so as we stood in front of the church. 

Amy and I began attending FCC about 1979. We’d looked for a church family, and those members welcomed us with open arms better than any other place we’d visited. We were sold, and for 30 years, we attended services and Sunday school. Our children were baptized in that church, and the entire congregation became our family. 

After 100 years of living and surviving at that location, the church membership had shrunk to the point that closing the doors was the only option. For a while another church used the building, but eventually, they left.  

The remaining tenant was a The Point. This new church group had met for some time at the theater in West Town Mall. The chance to move to the FCC building was too good to pass up. This congregation has undertaken some projects with the approval of the landowner to make the church more welcome and accessible to all sorts of folks. The congregation rents rooms to small businesses, especially artists. That program pumped new blood into the old building and helped the Point financially as well.  

The smartest woman I know, my wife; sent out a Facebook post to former FCC members to suggest that we meet at the old place to see how it was doing. The reaction was positive and swift. Palm Sunday came, and Amy and I stood outside to greet any of our old friends. We hoped that a couple of folks would show up, but we were amazed that approximately 35 former members joined us. Minister Adam Woldt greeted our group and gave a tour after services.  

After our tour, many decided to meet at Marble City Market for lunch. Once again, FCC individuals had a chance to catch up. Marie Leonard still is the perfect southern lady at age 95. Two men who had always been sidekicks, Bill Knight and Ralph Alexander, appeared with their familiar smiles. Wayne and Mary Anne Walls brought their son Adam and his family to share their faith and love for the place that welcomed them when they moved to Knoxville.  

A contemporary service is far different from the ones that occurred at FCC. Some old timers would not have cared for the music, but I observed from the balcony where I sat, the people, young and old, swayed to the beat of the music. Yes, many white-haired people filled the pews, but not a single person made a negative comment. Intern Pastor Adam Moore gave the message for the day. It was informative, passionate, and to the point. I appreciated his ability to accomplish that.  

All of us who were members of FCC fought hard to keep that church alive. We knew the surrounding community needed a church like ours. As things turned out, many older members passed, and the congregation didn’t have the numbers or energy to complete a plan. We all give thanks for the arrival of The Point. The members are a mixture of ages, and it was pleasing to hear the sounds that accompany the presence of small children in church. 

Our group finished lunch and began the journey home. This might be the last time that we see each other. First Christian Church is in good hands. All who visited send their love and thanks to The Point for loving the old church building and for injecting the life that it so much deserves. What we witnessed on Palm Sunday was the resurrection of that place that means so much. The next Sunday folks returned to their new church homes to celebrate the most important of all resurrections.  

A church family is a gift from God. People are always ready to help others. I hope all of you find that in your lives. You might even try The Point to see if it fits your needs. It is located in a building that was built by Christians who loved and cared for it for over 100 years. 

NOT INTO FIGHTING

 Not many people know this, but back in the days of the 60’s and 70’s, my twin brother Jim was a pretty tough guy. In high school, he ran with a crowd that was rough. The groups idea of a fun weekend night was drinking and fighting. It’s a wonder that Jim wasn’t seriously hurt or worse in some of those interactions with others.  

When he returned to college after a hiatus to marry Brenda and work some hard jobs, he kept his anger in check, except for one time. In the lounge of the music department, one fellow student made a disparaging remark about Jim’s wife in a joking way. Before the boy could blink, Jim was on him and threatening to knock him out.  

As we know, a good wife will settle down even the crustiest men, and Brenda did a good job quickly. On occasion, he would have to stand his ground, but for the most part, the rough lifestyle faded into the past as Jim grew older and began a family.  

On the other hand, I wasn’t much of a fighter, or a lover for that matter. I avoided showdowns with other guys unless the situation demanded. In most cases, however, I didn’t have to fool with too many males looking for a fight. The rumor of Jim’s fiery temper and willingness to fight circulated. For some reason, folks thought that I was the same. They figured we twins shared one brain and the same craziness. I was told back then that people warned not to mess with the Rector boys because they were mean and ready to fight. Although I never uttered such a thing, I did nod in agreement. For my teen years, I lived off my brother’s reputation and stayed away from most fights.  

In my 30’s, my inadequacies in defending myself began to bother me. A wife and two children needed someone to protect them, and I was short on those skills. So, I began taking karate lessons. I became an Isshinryu karate student. On the first day, we completed stretches and exercises. Before the session was half done, I was already so sore that movement of any body part brought pain.  

As time went on, I learned the discipline and promoted. No, I never came close to earning a black belt. What I did develop was a love for sparring. Each evening after workouts, those who wanted to participate formed two lines. It made no difference at what level the individual was in his training, he fought two-minute rounds with every other person.  

On that first night, I dove into the fist of an experienced man, and when I stepped back, my nose gushed blood; it was broken. On another occasion a brown belt and I decide to spar a little without permission. At one point, I read the man’s move, which was to throw a kick. I thought I could step inside of the kick as he threw it and deliver a hand strike. Wrong! Instead, my face met his foot at the perfect time. I took a couple of steps back and then dropped like a rock. I was out cold for a couple of minutes, but no worse for the wear. 

The sport was taking too much of my time, and Amy told me that I needed to choose between it and family. See, I told you a good woman can defeat any man. I gave up the sport, but from it, I gained a bit of confidence that I could handle those situations that I’d avoided in school. 

I’m too old now to throw many of the kicks and punches and holds that I learned. Instead, I just avoid trouble as much as much as possible. These days, my brittle bones don’t heal nearly as fast as they once did. Besides, too many crazy people settle disputes with handguns instead of fists.  

OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE

I left my comfort zone this past week. My brother’s grandson plays for Western Carolina University, and on Wednesday they became the latest victim to the #1 college baseball team in the country. I wouldn’t have missed seeing Caden on the field at Lindsey Nelson Stadium for the world. As a freshman, he didn’t get in the game, but his time is coming.  

I hadn’t been on the UT campus for a while, and in only minutes, I discovered the road layouts that I once knew were different. As a graduate student, I could drive on roads that are now closed; buildings now stand where they led. More than once, my car was in reverse and then headed for a new direction to arrive at the baseball field.  

Classes had just let out, and young people filled the sidewalks and crosswalks. Few of them looked up as they walk to their next destinations, and it wouldn’t surprise me to hear of more students being hit by vehicles simply because they had to see what messages were on their phones.  

Other students walked zombie-like, and I deduced that they’d just left a physics or chemistry class or had listened to an hour or more of a droning as professor passionately presented the beauty of Romanticism. Some walked with a partner and held hands. They were filled that fresh kind of college love and knew of no other soul existing in their universe.  

I missed those college days and would visit them only if family and the girl I eventually married were present. Those four years at Tennessee Tech were ta good period in my life. I was young, enjoyed school, and fell in love. That thought left me wondering how those students would feel fifty years from now.  

The seats that we had were perfect. Our view of the entire field and home plate afforded us the chance to watch each play develop. It also gave the opportunity to critique every call the umpire made. The game was sold out, and soon folks were sitting around us. One man behind us spent the entire game talking about the adventures that he’d experienced. He spoke in a voice loud enough for all to hear his stories. I’m sure he didn’t see a single play because doing so would have interrupted his litany of tall tales.  

In front of us a family of four came in. Dad was a tall man with arms the size of telephone poles. I wanted to ask what sport he’d played. His children were bouncing up and down to go to the concessions stands and to do anything the announcer suggested. The parents took turns going with their offspring, and at some point, the dad looked different. He was haggard and impatient as his jack-in-the-box children never seemed to lose an ounce of energy.  

The seat beside me was empty. My dear wife had been stricken with the symptoms of a sinus infection and an allergy attack. However, in the next seat over was Dallas. I don’t remember the last time that we attended a ballgame together. We reminisced about the regional game at UT when the entire Tennessee Tech team had colored their hair blonde. Unlike any other time, I pitched him the keys and told him to drive us home. 

The day was good. Normally, I don’t like crowds. They make me nervous, I worry about parking, I fret over traffic, and I complain about the prices charged for everything. This time it didn’t matter. I missed Amy, but I sure enjoyed Dallas. It’s not often that old daddies and their sons find time to sit and watch a baseball game. No, baseball isn’t boring. It might be the only sport that allows people to relax and talk between pitches or innings. I’m sure glad Caden was on the WCU team because it forced me to get out of my comfort zone and have a good day with my son. Baseball still has it for men and boys.