Ask For Neal

Packing enough clothes for a 15-day trip oversees into two checked bags is enough of a challenge, but as we were carrying tools to use on a worksite, keeping the weight of the bags under fifty pounds became something of a problem. Barbara and I decided to purchase a large duffle bag to hold mostly my things and some tools. We also bought a small duffle bag for me to use for a short stay at a safari lodge as well as to accommodate the luggage restrictions of the small aircraft that flew us to the game conservancy.

Suffice it to say, the large duffle bag was a mistake. With its bulkiness, and at just under fifty pounds, it taxed both my strength and my pleasant disposition every time I had to move it. Why I didn’t buy one with wheels is a question I’m still asking. Let’s just say the unwieldy device was enough to make a preacher cuss.

Clothes tend to shift around inside a duffle bag that’s not bursting at the seams. We did a lot of motel hopping in Kenya, so what was in the middle of the bag one night might be at the end of the bag the next night or a night or two later. Organization was a nightmare, but adding to the nightmare was the fact that our motels, by and large, lacked spaces allocated for baggage. There were none of those nice little folding racks found in cheap American motels. Conditions for living out of a suitcase were less than ideal.

I swore I would buy a large suitcase with wheels before lugging the duffle bag back to Pontotoc, but with the dollar’s weakness against the schilling, a bargain was not to be found. And, going through check-in at the airport in Nairobi on the night of our departure, I was still lugging the cumbersome, loathsome duffle bag.

I had left some clothes for the disadvantaged in Kenya and all the tools were donated to Habitat for Humanity, but part of the weight of these was offset by the souvenirs we had bought. It was a few pounds lighter than before, but not by a noticeable amount.

Check-in went fairly normal. I handed over my passport for scanning, a boarding pass was issued, and my bag was checked and strapped with a luggage tag, and a luggage stub was affixed to the back of my boarding pass.

Three hours later, around midnight, we filed, orderly, aboard the airplane that would take us to London. I had hardly gotten comfortable in my window seat when an airline representative boarded and asked if I were Mr. Carter.

I assured her I was, and she handed me another luggage stub, stating simply, “This has your baggage claim number.”

I pocketed it, all the while wondering why I had two stubs and only one bag.

After deplaning in London, a couple of our team members, including me, had to pick up a boarding pass at the American Airlines counter, as there had been a printer problem back in Nairobi. The very nice lady, who issued my pass, informed me there was no bag on our flight that matched the claim number assigned to me. I then retrieved the stub given me after boarding in Nairobi. It matched a bag on the flight, but she said I would have to go to the gate and identify the bag before it could be stowed aboard my flight to Chicago.

An agent adjacent to her had been tuned in to what we were discussing, and he said, “That’s my flight,” which I supposed to mean he would be assisting at the gate.

“Don’t worry, Sir,” he stated, “I’ll meet you at the gate and take you down to identify your bag. Just ask for Neal.”

But, as you might suppose at airports such as London’s, the gate assignment for my flight was not immediately forthcoming, especially since I was looking at a more than four-hour-layover. Fortunately, when traveling with a group, time passes more quickly than when traveling alone.

When we finally were in line to access the gate (lots of security in London) there was no Neal. I spoke to an agent at the gate desk and explained I was to meet Neal about a matter of luggage. Shortly afterwards, Neal arrived, found me and told me the baggage was not yet at the gate but should be shortly.

“I’ll find you as soon as the baggage is here,” he assured me.

“I’m easy to spot,” I replied, “in my red jacket with Ole Miss on the front.”

About ten minutes passed and Neal motioned for me to follow him. He was wearing a lime-green security vest, so I wondered what other passengers thought as I followed him from the waiting area. He led me into a room where another security guard met us and from there we went through security doors accessible by badges and passcodes.

At some point, Neal asked about Ole Miss, “Isn’t that the college in the movie Sandra Bullock was in?”

Knowing he was talking about the Michael Oher story and the movie “Blind Side,” I respondeded affirmatively, somewhat surprised by his memory. The other guard accompanied us at all times. An exterior door was raised and there sat my duffle bag on the pavement.

“Is this your bag?” Neal inquired.

I could see my name tag on the handles as well as the red/white/blue ribbon tied onto one end, and I responded, “Yes, it is. My name is on the name tag.”

Neal didn’t take my word of it he bent down to flip over the name tag, read it, right himself, and quiz, “The Bodock Post?” even, pronouncing bodock correctly.

“Yeah, that’s my newsletter,” I replied.

We chatted briefly about my hobby as we made our way to the waiting area of the gate via a different route of security doors. I looked inside my billfold to find my last Bodock Post business card and gave it to him. He gave me his, as well.

I thanked him for his helpfulness and was generally impressed with his politeness and professional manner, to say nothing of London Heathrow’s security measures. Fly American, I say, and if you do get to London Heathrow Airport sometime ask for Neal.

Kenya Motel ~ Heritage Club Resort

While we were lodged in Kenya, Barbara and I found our accommodations adequate for our needs, though nothing of the sort we expect from motels in America, the lone exception being the Serena Lodge at the Masai Mara wildlife preserve. We spent more nights at the Club Heritage Resort (motel) in Naivasha than anywhere else. For protection from malaria carrying mosquitoes, we slept under netting to prevent mosquito bites. Apparently it worked for as far as I can tell, I received no mosquito bites during the two weeks we were in Kenya.

Because Kenya is situated on the equator and the climate in Naivasha was mild, we did not need air-conditioning or heating systems to remain comfortable at night. Personal hygiene by the Kenyans we met seemed adequate, but for whatever reason, washcloths and hand towels were not provided by the motels. Barbara and I each had one bath towel, but that was all.

We had closet spaces but no dressers in our rooms, thus living out of a suitcase was more difficult than normal. The bathrooms consisted of a wall-mounted lavatory with a mirror, a commode, and a shower, all in a space roughly four feet by seven feet, with no vanity, no shower curtain, and virtually no hot water.

The shower head contained an electric water heater, but it did not function very well. Most everyone in our group, including me, reported taking cold to lukewarm baths. I would complain, except having seen the makeshift shower stalls the more than 335 families living in one of the IDP (Internally Displaced People) camps, I’m grateful the motel had an indoor facility, and I didn’t have to bathe out of a plastic container.

We enjoyed private dining for breakfast and dinner, which was a nice treat. The same members of the motel staff served us daily. There was plenty of food to choose from, but very little that appealed to me. I almost converted to vegetarianism while in Kenya, because I found very little meat that I could chew and swallow.

For my first few days in Kenya, I ate the pale-yolk eggs that were served. I tried them scrambled and the eggs looked white. I tried them fried and they looked white. I tried an omelet with peppers and cheese and it too looked white. I don’t think I tried them again.

The sausages served for breakfast looked awful and tasted like cheap bologna. Twice we were served bacon, and twice I tried to figure out what part of the pig it came from. It didn’t have enough fat to come from the belly and wasn’t lean enough to be Canadian bacon.

A few mornings I tried the fresh fruit selections, but generally I shied away from fruit. I don’t trust the handling fruit procedures in America, and I surely don’t in a third-world country. So, I ate a lot of toast and jam or toast and peanut butter for my breakfasts.

Our evening meals at the motel offered some variety from our noon meals eaten thirty miles away, but by the end of the week, I had given up chewing anything they called beef. As an old meat man, I’ve cut just about every part of a steer from the head back and down, but I’ve never seen meat that had gristle throughout it.

Early on in my Kenya trip, I learned that most any of the vegetable combinations or stews could be combined with the ever-plentiful rice. I also learned to put enough hot sauce on the food to make it go down easier. I never went hungry, but after two weeks in Kenya I came home ten pounds lighter.

While I may have grumbled and complained about my life in Kenya, it should not be construed that I didn’t have a good experience. As I told a teammate, "I wouldn't take anything for experiencing Kenya for two weeks, but I can't think of anything that would merit my returning."

Judy Johnston Maxey

In the early seventies, Judy and Terry Maxey moved to Pontotoc and bought (or built) a house with a few acres of land near the Damuth property south of Pontotoc. The Maxeys were soon involved members of First Baptist Church. Terry and I were in the same Sunday School Class and quickly became friends. Judy was busy kept busy with the twins, Tracy and Stacy, who were, according to some sources, little holy terrors.

I don’t remember whose idea it was to start a card club, but I remember the Maxeys, Prewetts, Huddlestons, Weatherlys, Bighams, and the Carters comprised the newly formed social club. We rotated host homes on a monthly basis, and we always enjoyed a meal in the host home prior to getting down to playing a friendly game of cards.

We never wagered on the games we played, but sometimes the spirit of competitiveness bordered on hostility. I know Judy and I butted heads on more than one occasion. I possess an argumentative nature, and there were times when I felt I had met my match in Judy Maxey. We never left a card game mad at each other, but one might have cut the tension in the air with a knife.

It was the fun times we had more so than any of the card games played that kept me looking forward to the next monthly meeting. As our children were birthed and grew, each of the couples in the club found it more difficult to squeeze in a Friday night once a month for our gatherings. The Bighams relocated, and we tried out several couples, including the Winstons and the Palmertrees. The once childless Huddlestons somehow managed to bring a son into the world before our card club split.

For Judy, the twins were still being themselves when she gave birth to another son, Patrick, of whom some would argue was more terrible to control than either of the twins. I can’t weigh in on this one because I never had to keep any of them, but Patrick and our son, Jason, became best of friends.

Of the couples in our original card club, two found the stresses of marriage, work, child rearing, and an active social life more than they were willing to endure together. First the Huddlestons threw in the proverbial towel then the Maxeys. Eventually, each divorced spouse found someone else to cherish within the bonds of matrimony. For Judy, her second marriage was a short-lived one, and, at its dissolution, she took back her name from her first marriage.

For the better part of twenty years, Judy battled cancer. The battle left her a mere shell of her former self, emaciated, and fragile. Fiercely independent, Judy spent this past year largely dependent on others to care for her.

Her youngest son, Patrick, became her primary caregiver as her health deteriorated and she needed a family member to act on her behalf. Patrick did an admirable job seeing that his mom was cared for in hospitals, assisted living facilities, and finally nursing homes.

Shortly before dawn on Sunday, September 25, 2011, Judy Johnson Maxey slipped quietly across the divide that separates the physical world and the spiritual world and into a realm where she now abides in the light of the Living Lamb.

I shall truly miss my friend Judy. I know she must have struggled with that great question, “Why me” when adversity struck her, but she handled pain and sorrow with dignity and a sense of purpose. While it’s been several months since I last saw her, she was then the same friendly and cheerful individual I had grown to appreciate years earlier.

Gladly, I can say that which separates us today is but temporary. I cannot visit her nor can she visit me, but one day I’ll see her again, not as she appeared when last I saw her but in a glorified body that will never grow old or suffer the ravages of disease. Goodbye, until we meet again, Judy… until we meet again.

Chicago Three and More

They came into our home during the wee hours of Friday morn. They napped perhaps four hours after their twelve-hour plus journey from Chicago. These were three young adults, who will be part of our Kenya Mission Team and will travel with us in early October to “the dark continent” and help us build a Habitat for Humanity house for an IDP (Internally Displaced Person).
They put in a long day’s work at our fish-fry fundraiser to help support our Mission Trip. They all have good jobs working for corporations in Chicago but were willing to take time off work to travel to Pontotoc.
Karen, an employee of Accenture, is our team leader and has participated in Habitat builds in Pontotoc for several summers. She is also the person who conceptualized our mission trip.
Mel, aka marvelous Mel, works for Morningstar and has also participated in Habitat builds in Pontotoc as part of the Charis Ministries group of which Karen is also an active member.
We had not previously met Eli, but since Mel vouched for him as one of her Morningstar friends, we welcomed him into our home and were thankful for another pair of hands and feet to help with the fish fry.
Already, Barbara and I think of them as family and are looking forward to strengthening our relationship with them while on the Kenya Mission Trip. The three nights they were in our home went by all too quickly, and now they are driving back to Chicago.
On Sunday afternoon we invited our other local team members into our home not only for a team meeting but also a meal. Gloria, Mattie and Keith each have special talents that will be needed if we are to complete a house in the nine days we will be working in Kenya.
Our Mission Team’s Pontotoc contingent will rendezvous with the Chicagoans in roughly one month where we will board an aircraft to fly first to London and then into Nairobi, Kenya. The excitement is building, and we will surely have lots of experiences to share when we return.

Fun With Felicia

Now, you’d think being over-protective would be a parental role, but sometimes this trait is found in the child. I believe my niece has rightly inherited her over-protectiveness from her mom, my sister, Sarah.

Saturday, August 20^th was my wedding anniversary, so Barbara and I went out to eat for dinner and invited my sister, Sarah. We had not previously eaten at Boochey’s near Thaxton, MS, but chose to go there based on what we had heard of its food and atmosphere.

We had hardly finished our meal and gotten into our car when Sarah received a text message from Felicia. Felicia and husband Cullen were not at home at the time. The gist of the message was Felicia was to bake and decorate a cake for someone and wanted her mom to pick up a few things from Walmart.

Sarah replied to the text, “I’m on my way back from Thaxton and will run by Walmart on my way home.”

This piqued Felicia’s cat-like curiosity.

“What you doing in Thaxton.”

By this time Barbara and I were fully engaged in the text conversation and prompted Sarah to respond with, “My man friend and I went out to eat.”

Almost instantly, Felicia’s response came, “What???”

As if given time to absorb the relevation and adjust, Felicia soon asked her mom a favor.

“If you really, really love me (notice the self-doubt), you’ll bake the cake for me, so all I’ll have to do is the icing.”

I suggested Sarah respond with something about Tunica.

“Okay, I should have time to do that when I get back from Tunica.”

By this time, I was pulling into Felicia’s drive for Sarah to drop off the ingredients for the cake icing. Sarah took the supplies inside, leaving her cell phone in the backseat of the car.

Momentarily, Sarah’s cell phone rang. I reached over the back of my seat for the phone, and in doing so accidently “answered” it. I saw the caller ID listed the caller as “Felicia, My Favorite.” Instead of talking, I gestured to Barbara that the call was from Felicia. After a few seconds, I hung up without saying a word.

In the blink of an eye, the phone rang. Again the caller ID indicated Felicia was the caller. This time, I spoke audibly but with a deep voice.

“Hello”

Felicia asked, “Who’s this?”

“John,” I replied stoically and in the same deep voice.

“I’d like to speak to Sarah Sue,” Felicia responded with some uncertainty.

“I think you have the wrong number.” I stated.

“I don’t think so,” Felicia demanded.

With no further words, I hung up on her again.

Barbara and I erupted with laughter and were enjoying our part in the masquerade rather immensely.

Two text messages appeared on Sarah’s phone almost simultaneously.

“Mom are you OK?”

“Call me.”

About then, Sarah had returned to the car, and we quickly filled her in on the happenings. She, too, laughed at our scheming and continued to cackle, as she phoned Felicia to assure her she was indeed okay and that she had been out to eat with Uncle Wayne and Aunt Barbara, the last of the red-hot lovers, on their wedding anniversary.

“I’m not amused,” Felicia calmly replied.

And, in her best principal-in-training-voice, Felicia remarked, “I don’t think it’s the least bit funny.”

As far as I know, Felicia still doesn’t think our “funning” her funny. But, we do. Bawahahahaaaa!

Seeing You Play

A musical extravaganza presented by long-time piano teacher, Patricia Henry, was performed last Friday night and Saturday afternoon to the delight of several hundred attendants. Somehow, Patricia Henry manages to pull off the seemingly impossible, assembling dozens of her former students, music club members, and others to perform musical selections using multiple pianos, keyboards, an organ, as well as a handful of orchestral instruments. Doing so once would be an achievement, but Patricia is up to about a half-dozen such performances over the past dozen years.

As my daughter, Rayanne Adams, is one of a select and talented group of pianists chosen to perform, I always look forward to Patricia’s programs. Rayanne’s childhood best friend, Mignon Montgomery Williamson, another pianist beaming with talent, is also a member of the core group of pianists upon which Patricia bills as her musical extravaganzas.

Because Rayanne and Mignon were practically inseparable in their youth, Mignon’s father and I came to think of each other’s daughter as one of our own family. The years of separation since their youth have weakened that bond of friendship and association, but I still think of the two as sisters and am proud of the accomplishments of each one.

Patricia knows she can count on certain individuals to stay together when playing as a group, and she asks her other talented players, who have less experience in group performances, to listen to her core players in order to keep time, musically. The end result, in my mind, is that of listening to a single great piano being played.

My daughter and Mignon often played piano duets for First Baptist Church in their young years. It was especially gratifying to see them perform similarly in Patricia’s musical extravaganza, and I admit to being proud of their solo selections as well.

For the greater part of her music life, starting at age five, Rayanne has been unflappable with regard to performing before an audience. But, I witnessed her worrying about being “good enough” for the first time as she struggled to master certain pieces while doing all the usual activities as a wife and mother, maintaining a job, being involved in the music program of her church, and trying to plan her eldest daughter’s wedding.

A number of individuals sought out Rayanne after the two performances to express their appreciation for the program and to comment on how much they enjoyed “seeing her play.” It was the “seeing her play” phrase that gave her pause to wonder what she might be doing with her actions to call attention to herself, something team players seek to avoid. We, her family, attempted to explain what we felt others were expressing.

“Rayanne, folks just recognize your ability to express yourself in your music. That’s what they mean by ‘seeing you play,’” we consoled.

In ordering several DVD copies of the music program through a company under contract with Patricia, I had the opportunity to discuss the music program at length with Patricia in the privacy of her home.

I asked her take on “seeing you play,” which she explained, thusly, with regard to her students, “What I’ve always told them is when you’re playing, your fingers are doing the talking and singing the song for you. And, you’ve got to play it like you mean what the words are saying in the song that you’re playing. And, I’ve always told them that they’re not a robot. That if you mash a button on a robot it does the same thing, same tone, but we’re human, and it’s a lot of difference when a human stands up and sings, and they put feeling into their face and in the way they do their voice. Well, you’ve got to do that with your fingers when you’re playing; you’ve got to put your feeling in.”

Apparently, Rayanne has gotten good enough at putting feeling into her music that it’s recognized by others. Certainly other players have similar abilities and they, too, develop distinctive styles of playing and expression, but it’s nice to know others see what I see in Rayanne’s creative expressions in music.

Musical talent seems to flow through the Carter bloodline, but my portion is far less than that of my son and daughter. Jason is an outstanding guitarist and singer. His genre of choice is the Blues, but he’s comfortable doing certain country classics. Both my children play well in their respective arenas and as far as I can tell, folks enjoy “seeing them play.”

Note: Photos from 1981 and 2011.

The Cricket's Tale

As Founder and President of People for the Ethical Treatment of Crickets (PETC), I hear of all kinds of cricket abuse. Crickets suffer dismemberment from small children. Children sometimes simply squash them for their sadistic pleasure, and it’s not uncommon to hear of children sealing them in old mayonnaise jars and let them suffocate.

Some of the tales told to me by crickets will chill you to the bone. Once a mature cricket told me how, as a young chirper, he and several of his friends were captured and imprisoned in a wire cage. They ended up in a fishing boat, where fishermen were using them as fish bait. Fish bait, can you believe it?

He watched as his friends were taken from the cage and impaled with barbed fish hooks and tossed overboard, presumably to attract fish. For him, the worst part was the looks on his friends’ faces as they were skewered. He, though, was a lucky cricket.

One of the fishermen failed to secure the door of his wire cage, and he slipped out, unnoticed, and swam to safety. Well, relative safety, as there are almost as many dangers facing a cricket as there are crickets.

Recently, a field worker for PETC brought in a black cricket that had become a pale gray due to a harrowing near-death experience. That which follows is a partial transcript of our recorded conversation.

“How may I help you, my good cricket?”

“For starters, you can let your people know, that I'm not out to harm them.”

“Well, that is part of our mission. Have you had a people problem?”

“No, not unless, you count a people-person trying to kill me ‘a problem.’”

“Kill you? Surely, not!”

“Oh yeah! I was on my way over the hill to see Gladys last Saturday evening.”

“Gladys?”

“Yeah, Gladys. She’s a slim-legged broad, er…excuse me, a slim-legged dolly-cricket, who lives about five cricket miles from me. Rather than walk around a people-house, I always prefer to work my way through it. When I got to the den, I noticed two people-persons sitting in comfortable chairs.”

“So you were trespassing?”

“Perhaps, but I’d call it taking a short cut. Anyway, I got about halfway across the carpeted floor when the woman-person jumped up and ran toward me.”

“Did you assume a threatening stance, or rear-up on your hind legs or show any sign of aggression?”

“Of course not! I simply stopped and sat very still. But, she started yelling to the man-person and took off a shoe and raised it high over me like she was going to drop it on me.”

“What did you do?”

“I prayed a quick prayer as she bent down closer to me. Then, with her shoe hand she tried to pin me to the carpet. My prayer must have been answered as I was temporarily given a state of super agility. Well, that or my adrenalin kicked in, and I kicked myself quickly away as the shoe landed where I had been. She may have been praying to her people-god, ‘cause she was pretty quick, too. She took a couple or more big shoe-slams at me before I hid out under a big chair.”

“So, you were saved by a chair?”

“In a way, yes. You see, she got the man-person to help pick up one side of the chair as she tried again to club, no, shoe me to death. But, I kept running from side to side, using the chair for cover. All of a sudden the man-person stood up, then fell back down on the chair and rolled into the floor. He was out cold for a minute or two in cricket time. I don’t know what happened to him, but the woman-person started tending to him and forgot about me. I made a dash for the grillwork around the fireplace and on to safety. I can honestly say, Gladys never looked so good as she did last Saturday night.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through such an ordeal, and I’m not condoning the violence on the part of my people, but you must realize that until we here at PETC can educate people to treat crickets in a humane and ethical manner, crickets should avoid all contact with people.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I bet I could have taken her, if it had been just her and me.”

Obviously, my work as President of PETC is incomplete. Both humans and crickets have a long way to go before harmonious co-existence is achieved. But, it is my hope that this tale will in some small measure advance the cause of PETC. And, please remember…there were crickets before there were people.

~ By Wayne “Cricket” Carter, President PETC

Felicia ~ Crimestopper

Habitat for Humanity, Pontotoc County is a non-profit organization, and as such is dependent upon financial contributions of individuals and organizations as well as fundraising efforts to operate in the black. The sale of recycled aluminum cans is but one of the many income sources for Habitat for Humanity. Persons often drop off bags of aluminum cans at the backdoor of the Habitat office, and it’s not uncommon to find some on the front steps, too.

On her way to work earlier this year, my wife, the Executive Director for the local Habitat for Humanity affiliate, saw several bags of cans had been left in front of the Habitat warehouse. She called Father Pete Peterson to let him know about the cans. Father Pete selflessly harvests aluminum products for recycling and donates 100% of the sales of the cans to Habitat. Sadly, the cans disappeared before he arrived to pick them up. Similar occurrences of cans disappearing from behind the office of Habitat have also been noted.

A month ago, my niece Felicia, who lives across the street from the office of Habitat for Humanity, Pontotoc County was about to leave for work when she saw a man picking up a bag of aluminum cans that had been left on the front steps of the Habitat office. When she confronted him, he told her he was helping “that man,” a likely reference to Father Pete.

It was a plausible story, but Felicia suspected the man was a thief. She obtained his name, wrote down his tag number along with a description of his vehicle, and phoned me to verify whether Father Pete had acquired a helper. I assured her that Father Pete did not have a sidekick.

Felicia, later, saw a friend on the police force and gave him the information she had written down. The officer traced the tag, phoned the surprised owner and learned that the brother of the owner of the vehicle used in the crime was the likely perpetrator. The vehicle owner assured the officer he’d find out what had transpired.

Felicia received a call about an hour later from the police officer asking her to come to the police station to identify the bag of cans. No charges were pressed as the stolen property was returned, and the owner of the vehicle explained the seriousness of the situation to his brother.

Father Pete credits Felicia’s civic action with a boost in his office collections. And, I’d like to believe the can-thief is now reformed. However, even if that’s true, there’s always someone out there looking to take advantage of a charitable act and turn it into a personal gain.

Ronald Reagan ~ Easter Thoughts

"I still can't help wondering how we can explain away what to me is the greatest miracle of all and which is recorded in history. No one denies there was such a man, that he lived and that he was put to death by crucifixion.

Where ... is the miracle I spoke of? Well consider this and let your imagination translate the story into our own time -- possibly to your own home town. A young man whose father is a carpenter grows up working in his father's shop. One day he puts down his tools and walks out of his father's shop. He starts preaching on street corners and in the nearby countryside, walking from place to place, preaching all the while, even though he is not an ordained minister.

He never gets farther than an area perhaps 100 miles wide at the most. He does this for three years. Then he is arrested, tried and convicted. There is no court of appeal, so he is executed at age 33 along with two common thieves. Those in charge of his execution roll dice to see who gets his clothing -- the only possessions he has.

His family cannot afford a burial place for him so he is interred in a borrowed tomb. End of story? No, this uneducated, property-less young man has, for 2,000 years, had a greater effect on the world than all the rulers, kings, emperors; all the conquerors, generals and admirals, all the scholars, scientists and philosophers who have ever lived -- all of them put together.

How do we explain that -- unless He really was what He said He was?" --President Ronald Reagan (1911-2004)

Oreo Fudge Cremes

The people who make Oreo cookies should know better than to mess with a good thing. But, perhaps their current “captains of industry” are too young to remember the Coke/ New Coke debacle a few decades ago. Even so, have they not heard the adage, “If it’s not broke, don’t fix it?” Sigh.

I am a victim of advertising and found myself believing the hype over a new Nabisco product, a spin-off from the original Oreo. Take the top cookie off an Oreo leaving the cream center and bottom cookie; dip the cream center and bottom cookie in fudge and market the new creation as the best thing since sliced bread. Suckers will buy it.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good concoction.
Great?

No!

Better than the original?

No!

Mind you, I’ve not tried other variations on the same theme…vanilla fudge crèmes, peanut butter fudge crèmes, but I’ve learned the Oreo Fudge Cremes are nothing to write home about.

Sure, others will buy ‘em and try ‘em and a small fan base will develop for this new cookie, but were I in charge of Nabisco, I’d “hang my hat” on the original Oreo.

I’m no sales and marketing guru, but I’m going on record as stating within two years, one will be hard pressed to find any of the new crème variations of the Oreo still on a grocer’s shelves.

Twlight Zone At A Sonic Drive In

Traveling back from the Storytelling Festival in Cape Girardeau on Sunday afternoon, the four of us (Joel, Shirley, Barbara and me) felt an ice cream indulgence from Sonic would be the thing to tide us over until supper, as we had eaten a late breakfast and skipped dinner completely.

Pulling into a bay at the Sonic in Sikeston, MO and rolling down my window, I remembered why I don’t like going to a Sonic drive-in by myself, let alone with several more people. It’s a bit of a hassle to get the order(s) right while staring into a stainless microphone with no face attached. I’d be happier if there were a cordless mike, which I could pass around to everyone in the car so they could give their own order. But, so far, that bit of modern technology has escaped the engineering department at Sonic.

After a few moments of decision-making, I was prepared to speak into the featureless “micro-face” and place our order. Nervously, I pressed the red call-button as I extended my arm and hand from the window.

“Welcome to Sonic, may I take your order?”

“Yes…I’d like an Oreo Blast, a Butterfinger Blast, a medium strawberry milkshake and a vanilla milkshake.”

“That’s an Oreo Blast, a Reese’s Blast, a regular strawberry shake and a regular vanilla shake?” she asked.

“No, I don’t want a Reese’s Blast, I want a Butterfinger Blast and an Oreo Blast.”

“Sir, would you repeat your order?”

“I’d like an Oreo Blast, a Butterfinger Blast, a medium strawberry milkshake and a vanilla milkshake,” I stated, trying to hide my malcontent in a calm voice.

“That’s an Oreo Blast, a Reese’s Blast, a regular strawberry shake and a regular vanilla shake?” she asked.

“No, no! I don’t want a Reese’s Blast, I want a Butterfinger Blast.” I responded, thinking I had somehow entered the fifth dimension, a Twilight Zone, if you will.

“And what else?”

“I’d like an Oreo Blast, a medium strawberry milkshake and a vanilla milkshake.”

“Okay, I have an Oreo Blast, a Reese’s Blast, a regular strawberry shake and a regular vanilla shake. Would you like anything else?” she replied.

Exasperated, and adhering to the “three strikes and you’re out” rule I stated, “Yes, I’d like a different order taker.”

Almost immediately, a different voice asked for my order.

“I’d like an Oreo Blast, a Butterfinger Blast, a medium strawberry milkshake and a vanilla milkshake.”

“That’s what we have, Sir!”

“Good, that’s what I want.”

I sat there mulling over why, if that’s what was on the display, the first order-taker didn’t read it back correctly. Maybe, she just got Reese’s STUCK in her brain and couldn’t say BUTTERFINGER. Stay cool, I’m okay.

Waiting for the order to arrive, I told Joel, “I guess you know she’s going to spit in your milkshake.”

“She won’t know which one is mine,” he laughed.

“In that case, she’ll spit in everybody’s.” I teased, though slightly repulsed at the thought of an order-taker getting revenge on a customer that got her in trouble.

My stress over the “spit” was for naught, and, as best we could determine, our ice cream treats were unadulterated and delicious.

Illinois ASB

The third week of Alternative Spring Break was a bang-up good one. Pontotoc County Habitat for Humanity hosted twenty-four volunteers. Half were University of Illinois students, and half were members of a church group not much further from Champaign/ Urbana than Pontotoc is from Oxford.

The University students were evenly divided by sex, six girls and six boys. The church group had a ration of two males per female.

One of the boys from the University of Illinois had been here two years ago on Spring Break. Some of the adults in the church group were here as volunteers in ’05. It makes those of us who are affiliated with PCHFH proud when we get repeaters. It tells us we’re doing something right, if folks want to keep coming back.

I’m somewhat amazed at the amount of work that was accomplished by the large group. Decking was placed on the high roof of the house and rafters for the lower roof are ready for decking. Our warehouse renovation project is now light years (exaggeration) ahead of schedule, thanks to the work of two experienced builders, an electrician, and a small group of students who helped relocate a number of odd windows to an adjacent storage area.

While everyone had the opportunity to drive a nail or two, I would be remiss not to credit the university students for their dirt work. They dug out the ply board that was used to stay the concrete foundation, removed all the soil that filled a road ditch necessary to prevent a dirt road from washing away, and dug a ditch twenty-five feet long and approximately three feet wide and three feet deep to accommodate a large culvert for a driveway.

I’m very appreciative of the church groups that feed our volunteers each night and for those that provided lunch two days. From what I could see, everyone including three vegetarians were well fed.

As long as America raises up young people such as these two groups and the groups of volunteers who participated in Alternate Spring Break during the prior two weeks, our nation has no reason not to prosper. Thank you one and all.

Bowdoin Crew

The salutation of the thank-you note read “Bowdoin Crew” and was signed by the eleven volunteers from Bowdoin College, Brunswick, Maine, who spent half of their Spring Break working on a new house for Pontotoc County Habitat for Humanity.

Penned by one of the leaders of the group, the note expressed their shared sentiments of appreciation for the role I played in working beside them and sharing something of my love of Pontotoc with them. Collectively, they resolved to “stay in touch” via The Bodock Post, the monthly newsletter that I co-edit and publish. Perhaps, they will.

This was the fourth group we’ve hosted from Bowdoin in the last five years. While each group has been unique in composition by sex and differing personalities, they’ve been alike in representing the best of the selfless spirit of many of today’s young people. It is one thing to spend a large sum of money for self-gratification, but it’s another thing to spend that same money to help others.

The Bowdoin Crew bore all the expenses of their journey: air travel, van rental, most of their meals, and made a generous donation to our local Habitat affiliate. For their investment they received free evening meals provided by local church groups, a church gym in which to sleep each night and the sense of satisfaction that comes in knowing one’s efforts to help others is worthwhile and appreciated.

On the work site, ours was a shared learning experience. My carpentry/ building skills are limited, though perhaps it’s accurate to say, “more advanced than theirs.” Each day there was something different to do, and each day both young men and young women gave their best efforts with the tasks at hand.

In time these eleven individuals will forget the names of the local volunteers they met while working and/or fellowshipping at mealtime, and they’re likely to forget most everything they learned of our local history, but I expect the Pontotoc Experience will last them a lifetime. I also expect some of them will be back next year or the next and bring others with them, as their friends will hardly believe what a great place Pontotoc is until they experience our land and people for themselves.

I am thankful for each of them, and my life is now richer in my having worked with them for a common good. Though my body begs otherwise, my mind tells me I’d stay young forever if I could be with a group such as these every week.

Thank you, one and all. May you remain faithful in well-doing throughout life, and may God bless everyone.

UCF Volunteers ~ Thank You

I have fellowshipped with a lot of volunteer groups of young people over the past ten years that my wife has been Executive Director of Pontotoc County Habitat for Humanity, yet the recent group from UCF distinguished itself and won a special place in my heart. While it’s true that they “hammered like girls,” they never faltered with their assigned tasks, and by week’s end several were proficient with the hammer.

Their week on the work site began on a newly poured concrete slab. It ended with their having raised all exterior and interior walls and the OSB outside sheathing covering one end and two corners of the new outside walls.

As these young people interacted with members of our community, their good conduct, their enthusiasm for life, and their willingness to help others was exemplified again and again and duly noted by our residents.

Personally, my life has been made richer, having had the opportunity to get to each know each one of them and by working hand in hand with each. I am both blessed and thankful for an unforgettable experience.

Time Will Tell

After having worked in Retail Technology for the twenty-one years prior to my retirement in October, I’m now finding myself enjoying volunteer work for Habitat for Humanity. And, to say I’m out of my element is an understatement.

In some respects, both types of work are similar. For example, problem solving skills are necessary in both, and a certain amount of experimentation is involved, as well. The biggest difference is the work with Habitat is largely manual labor.

Today (2/26), there were six of us on the work-site where a new house is being constructed. It’s still in the foundation-phase. We laid re-bar in the trenches made earlier in the week and retrofitted a plumbing mistake.

After the building inspector for the City of Pontotoc approved our work, we set about covering the in-ground plumbing and leveling the dirt, a step necessary prior to pouring the concrete slab next week.

It was in the fill-in phase, that I lamented to my co-laborers, “The reason I went to college was so I wouldn’t have to do manual labor.”

They laughed, and one chided, “But, this gives you an appreciation of the work being done.”

I appreciate it all right, but I’d appreciate it a lot more in a supervisory capacity.

But, because so much of what I help do is uncharted territory for me, I have difficulty balancing job skills and mental skills. Carpenters, masons, dry wall workers, and the like, all have specialized tools for the job. And, as it is often their means of livelihood, they are quite adept in their specialty. Carpenters have tool belts and/or nail aprons which aid them in keeping near at hand the tools and supplies needed to perform a given job.

Soon after I retired, Barbara bought me a leather apron to hold several tools and supplies for carpentry work. Fully stocked, it weighs a ton, so I don’t strap it around my waist unless I’m going to be hammering, measuring, sawing, and the like for extended periods of time.

Even with all the compartments, slots, loops, etc. I’m often undecided about what to put where after using say a pencil or utility knife. There are leather loops on either side for my hammer and a pouch front and center for my tape measure, which means those areas are out of the running for handy places to stow the aforementioned or my leather gloves, gloves that I’m apt to remove to make a phone call and then forget where I put them.

I’m not always consistent in holstering my hammer and several times in recent days, I’ve hung my hammer on top of a form stake to tighten a string or grab a shovel and minutes later be at a loss as to where I left my hammer. Maybe, I’ll get better with keeping up with my “stuff,” but at my age, maybe I won’t.

Today, my camera was the challenge. Barbara thinks I should document our work with pictures, and she likes me to take pictures of individuals and groups at work. Before, I started doing some of the manual labor, making pictures was simple…go to the work-site, make a few pictures and leave. It’s more complex trying to work and make pictures. Thus, she made some pictures with my camera at lunch and right after lunch, but gave it back to me after she finished and was leaving the work-site. I put into an already full pants pocket.

We finished our work and loaded all our tools and supplies to be returned to the warehouse for storage into the “company” truck I had driven from the warehouse to the work-site. I remember removing the camera from my pocket, as I collected my boots, jacket, and tool belt, placing some of these articles in the bed of the truck to make room for a passenger on the front seat.

I parked the truck in the warehouse and transferred my belongings to my truck and drove home. I took my jacket and tool belt and put them in the garage, then, without entering the house, carried my boots around back to hose off the sand and red-clay dirt.

Barbara heard me running water and brought her shoes for me to clean up, too. Afterwards, she asked to see the camera, and I told her it was among the things I dropped off in the carport. She checked the tool belt and my jacket. The camera was not in either.

“I remember it was in my pocket with my cell phone, and I took it out as I was getting in the truck to leave the site. Maybe, it’s still in my pickup,” I suggested.

It wasn’t. I checked the same places Barbara checked, and still the camera was missing. It bothered me that I could not remember what I did with the camera. Maybe, I put in on top of the tool box of the pickup, and it fell off leaving the work-site. Maybe it’s on the front seat of the pickup at the warehouse. Maybe…maybe we should go back to the warehouse and check the truck. We did. It wasn’t there.

Back at home, I was frustrated even more.

“Did we look on the dash of the truck?” I asked.

I thought we might as well rule out the work-site first, so we returned to the site. The shiny object in the ditch near where the truck had been was not the camera. Next, we drove back to the warehouse a second time and looked on the dash of the truck. We also looked at every place I had been in the warehouse when unloading the tools. No camera.

“Like you said earlier, ‘It’ll turn up…or it won’t,’” Barbara remarked as we left the warehouse.

As we walked into the carport, I checked the dryness of the boots I’d left drying on top of the lawnmower, and something inside the toe of the boot caught my eye. It was the shiny metallic surface of my camera. I plunged my hand deep into the boot and retrieved the camera.

“Here it is,” I exclaimed gleefully, not so much for the value of the camera as it’s relatively inexpensive (less than two hundred dollars) or for the pictures it held in memory but for the satisfaction in finding something that was lost.

In trying to remove the sand and clay, I had hosed, scrub-brushed, and banged those boots onto concrete an hour earlier, oblivious to the added weight of the camera inside one of them. Apparently, Sony makes a pretty rugged camera for the price paid.

Finally, I remembered having placed the camera in a boot prior to moving the boots from the floorboard of the pickup to the bed of the truck. Yes, I thought about putting in in my jacket, and I thought about putting in an open pouch of the tool belt, but the boot made sense at the time.

It may be an unlikely conclusion, but perhaps all the manual labor I’ve done recently is contributing to my forgetfulness. I’d like to believe it’s not early onset dementia, or Alzheimer’s Disease. One thing is certain; time will tell. ~ Wayne Carter