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

Disappearing Fast

They appeared suddenly in the morning hours of Christmas Day, but they are disappearing from local scenes at an alarming rate. Some were hastily constructed, while others were carefully thought out and erected. The one in my yard was an afterthought that didn’t come into fruition until forty-eight hours after the first ones appeared.

My youngest granddaughter and my great, great niece had rolled three snowballs to the size of beach balls and were unable to complete job. I was unaware of their efforts at the time, else I could have helped them.

Monday morning, I stacked the three large balls of snow and created my version of Frosty The Snowman. I fashioned a top hat for him using a cement trowel to carve through the topmost snowball. Charcoal briquettes were used for eyes and mouth, but there was no corncob pipe as ours is a no-smoking facility. A baby carrot became his nose; arms were left to one’s imagination.

I think the girls would have been proud of the snowman. My great, great niece was over again on Tuesday and was pleased with the final results. My granddaughter will have to settle for pictures as “Frosty” may have completely disappeared before she is back in Pontotoc.

While some may blame the disappearance of snowmen around town on Global Warming, I think it’s due to normal weather patterns over which man has little control. See for yourself, the changes over the past few days.

Patriotic Remembrance

Shortly after what we now know as 9/11, SUPERVALU distributed to its employees and retailers some patriotic memorabilia. I chose a magnetic flag and placed it on the left rear fender of my company car, where the red, white and blue looked good against the auto’s black background. As I recall, I vowed to keep the flag on my car until Osama bin Laden was captured or killed.

The flag decal would be there still, if it had held up as well as Bin Laden has held out in mountains of Pakistan and Afghanistan or wherever it is he’s hidden. But, the ravages of time and exposure to sunlight faded Old Glory, so I transferred it to my blue pickup, back when Jason was driving it.

Over time it became too shopworn to proudly display on the side of the truck, so Jason placed it on an inside wall of the bed of the pickup.

Recently, I noticed it was almost unrecognizable and removed it from the truck. I took a picture of it before tossing the faded flag decal into the garbage can.
Eleven years have passed since I obtained the decal and ObL is still on the lam. Now that my decal is shot, perhaps Osama bin Laden will soon meet a similar fate.

Unexpected Find

Among the first things I did in the way of yard work after returning from our trip out West, was to trim the hedges around our guesthouse. When neatly trimmed, they resemble large green snowballs approximately two feet in diameter. But, our extremely hot summer was sufficient cause for me to delay what should have been a mid-summer’s trim for these little beauties that simply grew and grew in spite of the heat.

They grew to the point where their limbs were interlocking, and it would have been far easier to treat the row of seven shrubs as one unit, but because they provide a nice contrast to the boxy run of hedges across the front of the main house, I determined to maintain them as orbs in hope that others might find the differences as aesthetically pleasing as I do.

I stood before the first of them, gas-powered hedge trimmer in hand, much as an Army barber might prepare to shear the flowing locks of a new recruit in boot camp; it’s all got to go, so it doesn’t really matter where one starts. I started by taking about ten inches off the top, and then I clipped another ten inches off the sides making the shrub appear barrel shaped. The rest of the job was simply to shape the limbs as spherically as possible.

There may be shrubs one can kill by severe pruning at the wrong time of the year, but I’ve not been privileged to have them in my yard. My hedges are like my crepe myrtles in that though they be hewn down, they’ll sprout from the roots and continue living. My wife thought I had killed the shrubs because they remained bare of leaves for weeks. However, last week green leaves returned to the shorn shrubbery.

By the time I set the trimmers into the thick greenery of the seventh shrub, I was close to overheating. As I brushed aside the clipped limbs from the top of the shrub, I spotted what looked like a strip of translucent plastic intertwined in the shrub. On closer inspection, I could see it was the skin of a snake. It was impossible to remove the skin to measure it, but I’d guess the length was perhaps thirty inches.

Since Barbara was home, I couldn’t resist showing her the find. She’s deathly afraid of snakes. Just knowing one had been near one of our houses sent a shiver down her spine.

In the history of our living in Dogwood Circle, I have not seen a snake on our property, save for the one that made it into our computer room a few years ago, though I’ve often been leery of them when toiling in the kudzu patch around back or the thick ground cover on the north end of the house.

It was already dark, last Friday night, as we were about to leave our house to eat supper at The Red Rooster. I clicked the remote entry device for my company car to help illuminate the area as we walked toward the car parked directly in front of the shrub, where I had found the snake skin.

I offered a word of caution, “You know that bush on your side of the car is where I showed you that snake skin.”

Well, that’s all it took for Barbara to stop her forward progress and wait for me to back the car out from in front of the shrub, so she wouldn’t have to step onto the grass.

Sometimes my evil nature gets the best of me.

Out West ~ Week 2 Day 14, Going Home

What a wonderful two weeks this has been. But, the days flew by. To see all that we saw required long hours of driving and meant we didn’t look at any place for long. We saw the West like some people read a book, by skimming it. Do we have any regrets, only that our resources would not allow us to have extended our trip to three weeks or more? As of today we view our trip as a once in a lifetime opportunity. Surely, it may be possible for us to do something similar at a later date, but then it may not, so we’re glad we can say, “been there, done that.”

Of the thirteen nights we dined out, six of these were spent with friends or family. And, in my case, four of these nights were spent with friends I had not met previously. One and his wife were Facebook friends, another and her husband was someone Barbara had met a few years ago, one I had corresponded with for a number of years, and we dined with a father and daughter in a pizza restaurant. In every instance, there was in instant connection, where it was as though I had known that person or persons all of my life. And, it was surprises like the people we engaged that rewarded us as much or more so than the natural wonders of the West.

Having spent the night with the Hunters in Cape Girardeau on Saturday night, the four of us enjoyed breakfasting at a local Cracker Barrel Restaurant. Joyce and Wayne Hunter were wonderful hosts. and it was hard to say goodbye to them after breakfast. But, Barbara and I expect to see them next April when we return to Cape to attend another Story Telling Festival.

The drive back to Pontotoc from Cape Girardeau, MO, is about five hours. It’s also along roads I’ve traveled numerous times, so the familiarity of my surroundings helped me relax more so than the thirteen prior days. Why, I was almost singing as we crossed the Mississippi River on the old bridge at Memphis, and at the sight of the Mississippi State Line near Olive Branch, my heart leaped for joy. Well, maybe not, but when I drove into Dogwood Circle and saw our home, it did. Though the lawn had two week’s growth, I was not worried about cutting it. I knew I’d have plenty of time to do that sort of thing.

To quote Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home…”

A few pictures and comments are at: http://rrnews.org/Week2Day14

Out West ~ Day 13, Missouri

Rick Vise is a friend, who for several years brought a group of teens to Pontotoc to work on a house for Habitat for Humanity. As Barbara and I were in Missouri, we determined to visit him and his family, if our timing was convenient. Our problem was contacting Rick.

Knowing Rick uses Facebook, I posted a message for him a day or so earlier but did not hear from him until the morning of our intended visit. We, finally, were able to exchange phone numbers and eventually speak to each other. Rick and his youngest daughter were in town; his wife and other two children were out of town. Barbara and I would meet them at a restaurant in Waynesville, MO, for lunch.

Rick had told me it was a two-hour drive from Columbia to Waynesville, and it took me every bit of two hours to make the back-country trek over mostly curvy, two-lane roads. The restaurant was a part of the regional chain supermarket, Price Cutter. It was more than a supermarket deli eating area, it was a full-blown restaurant.
We met Rick and his daughter, Jamie, and were seated and playing catch-up before 11:00 a.m. I was surprised the large restaurant was so crowded, but apparently a lot of folks show up for the breakfast buffet, which was still out when we ordered.

We were glad Rick agreed to see us on short notice, and we were careful not to overstay our welcome as we knew we were already interrupting his plans for the day. So after about an hour and a half of visiting, we said our goodbyes and set our GPS for Cape Girardeau, MO. It was only after we departed that I realized we didn’t get a picture of Rick and Jamie to document the occasion.

Neither of us were getting homesick, but we both noted how the rural areas we saw in Missouri looked similar to parts of north Mississippi. As much as I enjoyed the sights along the two-lane roads in Missouri, I was glad to get back on the Interstate about an hour north of Cape Girardeau.

Barbara and I had friends in Cape, who, knowing we would be returning to Pontotoc via Cape Girardeau, invited us to spend a night with them. Joyce and Wayne Hunter have a beautiful home with several acres and two nice fish ponds, all within ten minutes of downtown. And, their guest bathroom would be a wonderful master bathroom for most of us, with a modern glass shower and separate Jacuzzi-style tub, all in about a twelve foot by fifteen foot (or more) room.

Since the Hunters were saving us a motel bill, we treated them to dinner at the restaurant of their choice, which was Ray’s in nearby Scott City, MO. Wayne, in turn, treated us to a tour of Scott City, and too us to the facility that once housed the Wetterau warehouse where he worked, before SUPERVALU purchased Wetterau and closed the Scott City Distribution Center.

After a wonderful meal, we returned to Cape to have desserts at My Daddy’s Cheesecake. The cheesecake eatery has become a traditional place for me to go with the Hunters when I’m there visiting them on business trips, and while this wasn’t a business trip, we didn’t want to spoil a tradition.

I surprised Joyce by ordering Key Lime Cheesecake. Heretofore, I had ordered plain, unadulterated cheesecake on each visit. Joyce is careful about what she eats as she hopes to maintain her youthful figure forever, so she always selects a cookie or muffin. Wayne, on the other hand, would eat some of everything in the house if she let him.

I could not resist getting a picture of one of their pie displays clearly showing a Lemon Meringue Pie like the ones with which I’m most familiar. Rick Vise once asked me, when he was in Pontotoc on a Habitat trip, if the pie on the table was a Lemon Meringue Pie. I went to great lengths to explain it was a Lemon Ice Box pie and the difference between Lemon Meringue and Lemon Ice Box. Shortly afterwards, somebody produced an empty container showing it was a Mrs. Edwards’ brand, Lemon Meringue Pie. On subsequent trips, Rick has gleefully shared my apparent mistake. So, I made a picture of the pie display to exonerate myself. Just because Mrs. Edwards has it wrong, it doesn’t mean I’m wrong.

All in all, Day 13 was a great day.

Additional pictures with comments are at http://rrnews.org/Week2Day13/

Out West ~ Day 12, Travel

With few exceptions, our Out West adventure was plagued with road work. I’m not complaining for without the Interstate system, it would not have been possible for us to covered as much ground in our two-weeks of travel.

We departed Sioux Falls, South Dakota on Friday, August 20th, a date that marked our 43rd wedding anniversary. Our trip was planned as a celebration of three events, my retirement, my birthday and our wedding anniversary. As it worked out our anniversary and my birthday were travel days with no places of significance to visit.
Our goal for the day was to reach Columbia, Missouri and there spend the night.

Our route would take us south through Iowa and into Kansas City, MO and from there we drove east toward Columbia. We chose to stay in Columbia for no particular reason other than convenience. It would be about the greatest distance we cared to drive and it was relatively close to Waynesville, MO, the home of a friend of ours who for several years brought a youth group to Pontotoc each summer to work on a Habitat for Humanity house.

It became our practice to visit a welcome center in each state, though we missed a few, either because there was not one on the road we were traveling or else it was off the beaten path. And, of the several welcome centers we found, Barbara and I agreed the one in Iowa was the best. It was by no means the largest, but it was the most inviting. We particularly liked the floral landscapes that greeted us and the bench seating set in a canoe-shaped metal housing.

The welcome center’s theme was the Lewis and Clark expedition. Plaques with a copper appearance were hung on walls outside the building and near the entrance to commemorate the expedition. Large murals, on the order of 8’ by 12’ were housed inside at entrances to both restrooms. A beautiful tile mosaic of the Missouri River ran along the floor in the main section of the welcome center. And, were that not enough, the folks staffing the visitor center were perhaps the most cordial of all the welcome centers we visited. And, yes, if you’re wondering, we expressed our admiration of the facility to the staff and logged a comment on the guests’ register.

Other than the occasional construction delay, the day of driving went rather smoothly until we neared our destination of Columbia. Apparently a lot of folks work outside the city, perhaps in Kansas City, I really don’t know, but I know we crept along the last thirty or so miles of the day. To make matters worse, it was raining, and it was the heaviest rainstorm we drove through the entire trip.

I was pretty drained from all the driving and the rain. Thankfully the motel accommodations we better than expected. But, a friend had suggested a must-try pizza place named Shakespeare’s Pizza. It was about five minute drive from our motel, so we decided to celebrate our anniversary with a pizza.

As Columbia is a college town, I should have known better than to eat at a pizzeria. Was it ever noisy? I told somebody it was so noisy that if I wanted to say something to my wife I had to send a text message. Yes, it was that bad.
The college crowd was loud, but children ripping and romping through the dining area were equally as nerve-wracking. Things started to quiet down about the time we finished our meal at the same time the crowds were starting to thin out. With the pizza roughly average, as pizza goes, I can’t recommend this eatery to anyone over the age of fifty. But, if you like it loud, it’s the go-to place, in Columbia, Missouri.

The upside to the evening was it was our first wedding anniversary to have pizza!

Additional pics and comments at http://rrnews.org/Week2Day12

Out West ~ Day 11, Mt. Rushmore

While four days remain for us to enjoy our Out West vacation, this would be the last day for us to visit scenic sites on our list. We began by driving from Rapid City, South Dakota to nearby Mt. Rushmore. To say the images of the presidential faces of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, and Theodore Roosevelt loom larger than life is an understatement. The scale is such that a full sized statue of any one man would stand 465 feet tall.

Visually, Mt. Rushmore looks exactly like all the pictures I’ve seen of it, but having visited the site, I was able to see some of the less photographed beauty of this national treasure. There is a visitor center and gift shop, as well as a columned entrance to funnel visitors into a courtyard for prime viewing of the faces on the mountainside. The granite columns are square and contain the name of each state and the date that state joined the Union.

It doesn’t take a long time to see all one wants to see of Mt. Rushmore, at least it didn’t for us, and we were soon on our way to visit the Chief Crazy Horse Memorial, the world’s largest mountain carving. It’s a long, long way from being completed, but the sheer size of it is impressive. There was a scheduled blast* around noon the day we were there but we didn’t stay to see it. Instead, we left to drive toward the Badlands of South Dakota.

On the Interstate we saw sign after sign along the way promoting Wall Drug Store. Barbara mentioned that someone had told her we should stop to see it, too. The sites folks suggested we see are too numerous to mention here, and too numerous to see them all in a two-week tour, but Wall Drug Store was on our way to the Badlands, so we took the appropriate exit and soon found the Wall Drug Store in downtown Wall, SD.
I’m not sure there would still be a Wall, SD, were there no Wall Drug Store, and from what I could see Wall Drug Store comprised a city block. It had “tourist trap” written all over it, but the best way for me to describe it to others is to say, “Think of Gatlinburg, Tennessee compressed into one block.”

It was lunchtime when we arrived, and we soon found the restaurant, which adjoins an old-fashioned ice cream parlor. Now, that was a hard decision, but the restaurant won out.

We were settled into eating our sandwiches when the already full restaurant got a lot fuller. Two busloads of “old people” lined up in two, single-file lines. I spoke briefly to a woman in charge of the tour and learned they had departed South Georgia a few days prior on a thirty-one day trip that would take them to Alaska. Suddenly, our two-week adventure paled in comparison theirs.

Barbara want to check the souvenir shops, afterwards, and while perusing them we saw four Native-Americans in traditional bead and buckskin apparel enter a jewelry store and soon emerge. As most of the folks in town, were tourist, the Indians drew a crowd of the curious, including us. One mother asked if they would pose for a picture with their daughter. They obliged her, and thus afforded the rest of us the opportunity to photograph them as well.

Refreshed, we hit the road once more and were soon entering the Badlands National Park. Barbara had little prior knowledge as to what the Badlands looked like, while I had seen the Badlands vicariously via various media, I was unable to offer her much of a perspective. In some respects the Badlands look like a smaller version of The Grand Canyon, but there are many areas where rock formations rise above the plains.

The beauty of the Badlands is a quiet one. Like the Grand Canyon, it too was breathtaking, but I didn’t feel as though it would pull me into its depths, were I to get too close. I felt ill at ease walking along a ramp to a viewing area, but I wasn’t frozen with fear. Though signs warned visitors to beware or rattlesnakes, I saw numerous individuals pay no heed to the message and with children in tow were walking on narrow ledges to more scenic point. I could imagine one or more of them sliding down a steep slope into one of the ravines, knowing I would be powerless to help them.

Like so many of the natural wonders we had already visited on our vacation, we didn’t stay long at the Badlands, either, but it’s a place we’d love to visit once more.

Our pics and comments can be viewed at http://rrnews.org/Week2Day11

*The following video is not mine, but it was filmed the same day we were at the Crazy Horse Memorial. http://vimeo.com/14274844