ITS TIME FOR A MIRACLE

 The minister talked about miracles today. Instead of staying with her as she explained, my mind wandered about what kind of miracles this world could use today. Several of them quickly came to mind, but only a few seemed most important for now. I’ll call the miracle the four P’s. 

The first P is “polarization.” This country’s citizens have by choice divided themselves into groups. It’s always been a problem, but since the 2016 election, the separation into different groups has become a frightening thing. If the USA wants to continue to be “the shining beacon on the hill” or “the last best hope on earth,” then it is we, the present caretakers of this place who have to unite. The miracle of unity over polarization would bring an end to the problems we have in so many areas. The rest of the world would again have the symbol of freedom and democracy lighting the way. 

The next P is “phones.” This device is an essential tool for all parts of our lives. The problem is that cell phones have become too many people’s world. At restaurants, concerts, schools, and churches, those handheld devices are stuck square in the faces of users. Life outside the confines of the screens doesn’t exist. Entire families sit for a meal without uttering a word because each adult and child has a cell phone that transfixes their brains. A miracle that our world needs is disabling all cell phones except for set hours in the morning and evening. Presto! People sit together at meals and talk. Friends in the same room no longer text each other; they talk instead. Student grades might even improve if they have nothing to draw their attention away from the teacher.  

The third P would be “politics.” I am as bad as anyone about being sucked into the cable networks to hear the latest depressing news about the things our so-called leaders are doing or failing to do. The fact that we supported a country who was defending its sovereignty and then pulled the plug on helping to finance the place so that it could obtain military equipment baffles me. Few, if any, bills are passed because all the time is taken in hearing as both sides squabble over who is right. The miracle we need is to have only qualified people running for office. I don’t necessarily mean lawyers or lifetime office holders who’ve never held any other kind of job. I think that we could have this miracle by demanding that any person running for a federal office must be able to pass a rigid test on the Constitution. State candidates would have to pass a test on the state and federal constitutions. Such a demand assures the voters that candidates have some knowledge about the government for which they are making decisions.  

The last P is for “peace.” Most of us are just too busy. We run about our business in an almost sprinting way. “Hurry” is the word that echoes in our minds and drives us to the point of exhaustion. We worry over things of which we have no control and too often try to micromanage fellow workers and our children. We don’t live life: struggle through it. In the end, all that’s left to show for our madness is broken down bodies and worn-out minds. The miracle of peace would set us free from our worries. The things in this life that truly matter would take center stage in our lives. Individuals have to work on finding their peace by living in a new way. The change will be hard, but the miracles that come will be worth the efforts. 

Christmas is upon us, and it’s a time of excitement and wonder. It also is filled with expectation of what is possible and what might come. Pray for miracles in your lives and expect them to come. Know that they can change the lives of those who are willing to work to make them appear. Believe in miracles because they are right in front of you and only wait for you to reach for them. Your lives will never be the same.  

 

 

BULLIES MAKE LIFE HARD

As has been stated in other pieces of mine, I was an ugly child. No, that doesn’t mean things are different now. A young boy with a burr haircut, buck teeth, round belly, and popsicle stick legs has little eye appeal. He is, however, ripe for picking by bullies. Over the years, I’ve known plenty of bullies and they are all mad about something in their lives. Others are the targets on which these unhappy people pour their misery. 

The Cheek boys sometimes acted like bullies. Mike especially enjoyed picking on me. His talent for giving names was above average. Because I was fat, not chubby or large or hefty, Mike decided to call me “Round Man.” The name derived from the round bread that Merita Bread had begun producing. Mike changed the words to an ad jingle, and they stabbed me. He sang, “There’s a brand-new kid in town. His name is ‘round and round.’ Oh, oh, oh, Joe’s round and round.” 

I also suffered with a terrible overbite. Those exposed teeth led to stares by most everyone and to names given by folks I knew. Some called me “bottle opener” and asked me to open my mouth and pop the top of a bottle of Coke. Even worse, some called me “Bucky Beaver.” They’d make a quick, smacking noise and then try to stick out their teeth.  

In fourth grade, I was tormented by a bully whom I was sure wanted to kill me. The person had a surly temper that reared its ugly head without warning. When the anger oozed, the bully walked to me, smirked, and kicked me in the legs. Most every day, I returned home with complaints about how much legs hurt. My mother knew the reason for my pain, and after too much whining, she threatened me. “If you come home and complain about your legs without having defended yourself, I’ll spank you.” It was a golden opportunity to give back without fear of being punished.  

The next day, I walked confidently to class. My nemesis spied me and walked toward me, all the while smiling. After a couple of smart words, another foot connected with my leg. However, this time, a fist clashed with the jaw of the person, who then left crying. From that day on, Arlene Moore never messed with me again.  

During my senior year in college, I stopped at a market to pick up a few items. A car pulled in as I was leaving, and the driver threw open his door and put a small dent in my front door. I jumped out and asked him what his problem was. He came up to me and pushed me hard and asked me what I wanted to do about it. That morning the minister had talked about turning the other cheek and how that’s what we must do to be Christlike. As a result, I just stood there. To this day, it bothers me. I know what the good Lord did, but I’m human and will never again be treated like that.  Oh, I might suffer severe injuries from a fight, but I won’t turn the other cheek.  

I’ve never suffered the kind of bullying that some children have. Those incidents in my life occurred when someone was trying to be funny. The newsflash is that none of them were. Demeaning another person to feel better about yourself speaks volumes about who you are. Leave others alone; don’t do or say things that will make them feel inferior. Just treat the next person the way you’d want to be treated. That’s always been pretty good advice.   

CAST IRON COOKING

 It’s no surprise to folks that I love to eat. However, how picky I am about what I do consume might shock some. Whether the food was prepared by my mother or my wife, I never really considered the tools they used in preparations of those meals. 

Mother had a couple of pans that matched. Copper bottom pots were the rage at some point, and she had a large and small one that held some of the most delicious food that was ever cooked.  

My dear mother most often used the “old tools” of the trade. Yes, she had cast iron skillets. Fried food never tasted better than when it was prepared in those skillets. She kept them greased so that they continued to produce food with that “southern” flavor. A small pot sat on the stove. It contained the drippings from fried bacon or chicken or okra. A dab of that recycled Crisco made everything a special dish.  

She also had a Dutch Oven. On Sundays, she’d be up early to start dinner. That cooking pot weighed a ton even before she filled it with beef roast, potatoes, carrots, and onions. Just before leaving for church, Mother slid the cast iron pot into the oven so that the food cooked slowly. After church, she removed the monstrous Dutch Oven and served up a meal fit for royalty.  

One Christmas, Daddy gave Mother an electric skillet. We fretted that the chicken she’d always fried in an old black skillet wouldn’t taste as good. We of little faith discovered that our fears were unfounded. What made that chicken so delicious was a big scoop of Crisco and a ton of Mother’s love.  At the same time, we were thrilled that the cooking took less time.  

Amy also has cast iron skillets passed down from family. She has a set of pots and pans that are stick-free, at least when she cooks. When I try my hand at the skill, gunk covers those same pots, and food is stuck to the “unstickable” coating. 

We are living in a wonderful age. So many new appliances make cooking much easier for the family chef. The Insta-pot allows folks to load a meal into it and have it ready when everyone arrives home in the evening. It’s the latest version of a crockpot.  

The most wonderful new product in our home is the air-fryer. We haven’t eaten fried foods in years because we work to keep our bodies healthier. This machine is marvelous because it offers consumers foods that have a fried taste without the Crisco or other oils that clog arteries and choke hearts. I personally like the air-fryer because of time. Our convection oven takes half a day to preheat; the air-fryer is ready in just a couple of minutes. I’m all about eating when hunger hits, not a half hour later.  

I sometimes miss the taste of the food Mother made. However, after nearly 50 years, I prefer Amy’s cooking over anyone else’s. She’s perfected the meals we enjoy most and uses those appliances that prepare the food in a healthy way. If I ever crave Mother’s fried chicken, I can always make a stop at Gus’s Fried Chicken.  

 

TOO STUBBORN TO GIVE UP

 As I’ve stated on several occasions, my skills as a carpenter or plumber or handyman are limited. It’s not so much that I am unable to learn those skills; it’s more that no one ever taught me them. I still keep trying to complete projects, but many times they either take too long, look terrible when I finish them, or I have to hire someone to fix the additional mess I’ve made of things. I’m just stubborn enough to keep trying. With You Tube, I’ve learned to do some things; other tasks call for more skills knowledge than I have.  

The leaves that fall each fall overwhelm my yard. They pile up in flowerbeds and along the house’s foundation with each wind that blows. I wanted to keep most of them from gathering around the basement door of my house. I scrounged around and found a couple of pieces of lattice. Neither was wide enough to cover the opening, so I used zip ties to connect both pieces. Next, I tried to stand the lattice up by weaving stakes through it and then drive them into the ground. I didn’t count on the ground being as hard as concrete, nor did I have any idea that a hammer would splinter the stakes beyond use. Admitting defeat, I slid one side of the lattice between concrete blocks and hooked the other side to a post from the deck. The thing is serviceable. 

I was successful enough to replace the deck flooring with Trex. I also put down new treads on the steps. However, the lowest one has a bow in it. I’m not sure why. I screwed the Trex to the stringer as I was supposed to do, but for some reason, a bend in the thing is there. If I place a brace under it, something else will go haywire. Every time I approach the deck, that bow is the first thing in sight.  

My brother’s daughter Mindy bought an older home in Fountain City a few years ago. She keeps a list of projects, and Jim and I tackle some of them. For what seems to be half a year, Jim has been stripping inside doors. He removed layers of paint and smoothed the surfaces. I went with him to hang the basement door before cold weather set in. We found the hinges and put them on the door and the frame. The door wouldn’t shut, so we took it down, used another set of hinges, but the darn thing still refused to close. We took it down again and thought, argued, and cursed. Mindy suggested that we go home and that she would hire someone to hang the doors. We both said, “No way!”  

After another fifteen minutes, we realized that the problem was our having put the hinges on backward. Jim and I felt absolutely stupid, but at the same time a sense of relief came in having figured out how to hang the doors.  

On the way home, Jim and I kept talking about how dumb we were. I told him to look at the bright side of things: we learned how to do something that we would never forget. That proved to be little consolation to him, and I didn’t buy it either. 

Most of the projects I’ve completed are sad-looking things. I tried to dry pour a concrete slab. It didn’t work like the You Tube video promised. I tried to cut a place out of my workbench for my chop saw. It was cock-eyed. Still, I’m stubborn enough to keep on trying to create something that looks right. My desire to be a “craftsman” hasn’t cooled, but the costs of materials could make me yell, “Uncle!”