What Rubs Off?

As the grandfather of four grandsons and one granddaughter, I have been thinking about a truth I first heard in a junior boy’s Sunday School class many years ago.

The truth was shared with a class of 12 year old boys by our teacher, Fred Moore.  Fred had our admiration and respect because he was a “Certified TSSAA Sports Official”.  He officiated many of the local area high school football and basketball games.  He was also a father, a deacon in our church and had a vast repertoire of personal stories he readily shared with our class.  Many of his stories grew out of his “rough and tumble” growing up years as a youth and young adult.  Each Sunday, as Fred taught our lesson, we listened.

I will always remember what he said one Sunday morning as he told about some of his experiences as a dock hand on the Great Lakes lock system. In his own unique way, he told of the excitement and energy required to move those giant freighters through the locks and the burly men who worked to keep the boats moving along.  Fred told of how he not only worked with these men, but also hung out with them after work and adopted some of their habits and language.  He admitted that he'd picked up some habits and language that were not things he was proud of in later years.

On that Sunday morning, after some vivid stories about his Great Lakes experiences mixed with a few scriptural references to the life of Joseph, Fred summed the lesson up by sharing this truth.  He said, “Boys, as you mix and mingle with people in life; some part of every person will rub off on you and some of you will rub off on them.  Sometimes it is good, sometimes it is not so good and sometimes it is bad, but it all goes into shaping you into what you become as a person.  Be careful what rubs off others on to you and be careful what rubs off you onto others.”

Now as I look back some sixty years later,  I think what Fred said that Sunday was pretty much right.  The whole of the person that is “me” is made up of many parts.  Of course, Fred didn’t get into genetics and heredity; not much you can do about that anyway.  With genetics, you just “get it’ without any dynamics of personal choice.  It is just in the genes.

But what you get from the dynamics of personal interaction is different.  You are able to filter some of it, analyze some of it, reject some of it; you’ll even forget a lot of it.  But in the end, you do keep a small part of every encounter and, want it or not, it becomes a part of you.

So, today as I spend time with my grandkids and they spend time with me, I am challenged as I think about Fred’s truth.  What little part of their Granddaddy are they keeping as they stick small bits of me to their one day adult persona.  Is what “rubs off” something that is good; not so good, or is it possibly bad?

I can only hope something rubs off their granddad that will make them better; something that will help, not hinder.  Will it be some truth that sticks, some belief or some action that will help point them in the right direction.  Let’s hope so. 

As Fred said, “Be careful what rubs off,” some of it is going to stick.

Busy Hands and A Caring Heart

When I think of my mother-in-law, Alga(Al-gee) Watts, I always think of her as a busy person, doing things for her family, her church, and her friends.  The old saying that “Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop” finds its antithesis in the life of Alga Watts. 

Throughout her life her hands were never idle and those busy hands most often were doing things that honored God and helped others.  She tended daily to the tasks required to maintain a household for her husband and five children.  When the required tasks of the day were finished, she’d use those hands to produce “gifts of love” for those around her.

As the young mother of a growing family she fashioned clothing like shirts, pants, blouses and dresses for her children.  Before she owned a sewing machine those hands cut the fabric and stitched it together by hand.  Later, a Singer treadle sewing machine was a blessing as she continued to sew and mend for a growing family of two girls and three boys.

She kept busy in the summer by breaking beans, canning fresh garden produce and cooking nourishing meals each day.  Today, many  would consider this a chore, but Alga found joy and fulfillment in such tasks and it kept her hands busy.  She delighted in having a house full of company, fixing meals and special deserts for special times.  I best remember the Christmas season when she prepared apple stack cake, coconut cake, egg custard and many kinds of special candies.  This extra work became just another special gift from those busy hands to those she loved.

As a mother who sometimes worked outside the home, those hands would often do a day’s labor for pay and then come home to work some more as she tended to her family’s needs.  During one of her working days as a young woman, the little finger on her left hand was crushed by a piece of machinery in the laundry where she worked and had to be amputated.  I don’t think she ever missed a beat.  Those hands just adapted to the loss and maintained a busy schedule. 

Alga was a pragmatic person, tackling life’s problems as needed, but totally relying on God to provide the direction and support she needed.  While some people are robbed of sleep by the demons of doubt and worry, Alga always slept well at night because she went to bed each night, “just leaving the world in God’s hands,” she’d say, simply trusting Him to take care of things.  She was devoted to God.  An old hymn expresses her theology perfectly; “Trust & obey, for there is no other way, to be happy in Jesus, but to trust & obey.”

Alga & husband, Ben, were married for some 63 years.  Before Ben died, Alga spent much time taking care of him.  In his final years Ben experienced a lot of health problems that challenged them both.  Ben had always been the spiritual leader of the Watts household; he’d been the primary bread-winner, providing stability and loving words and deeds for his wife and children.  I never heard anyone speak ill words about Ben and I reckon he was a “good man” by everyone’s account and Alga took care of this good man through some difficult years.

As the children left home and family responsibilities lessened, Alga had more time for other things like making craft items, ceramics, and of course those many quilts she pieced, stitched, and quilted.  Her patterns were many; some I remember were the wedding ring, circles, stars, Dutch Boys / Girls, Tulips, Birds-on-the-Wing, Flying Geese and the list goes on….every one a new challenge and adventure for those busy hands.  Alga’s hand-made quilts became her special gifts to family and friends throughout the year and especially at Christmas.  New grand babies and weddings always called for a special quilt.  No machine stitches for her, she believed that only “hand-stitching” made for a quality quilt.  At last count I think she had crafted well over one-hundred quilts; not to mention numerous pillows, lap throws and other fabric creations.  Alga was truly an artist with a needle in her hands.

Few people enjoyed the Christmas season like Alga.  Each Christmas would hardly be out of sight and she would be planning what to make for the Christmas yet to be; looking for ideas, shopping for materials, and making those “special gifts” for the people she loved.   Yep, the Devil never had a chance with those hands.  They were always busy, doing things for her family and friends; things that were made with her hands, but conceived in her heart.  For those of us who possess one of her hand-made items, we’ve got more than an artifact and a memory; we’ve got a piece of her heart.

Alga Watt’s lived to be ninety-five and her life was a lesson about how we ought to live.  The lesson is a simple one and it says to me that if I want to live a life that has meaning and purpose I need to keep things simple and do just three things:

1.   Trust and obey the Lord

2.   Work hard and stay busy

3.   Invest my energy in the lives and well being of others in my family, my church, and community.

The best gifts are always “free” and the legacy of a Christian woman is one of the best gifts any of us can receive.

Alga’s hands @ 94 years of age

 

The Funeral

Some years ago, a friend of mine had occasion to attend the funeral service of an uncle, one of his dad’s brothers.  Due to his parent's ages and health, my friend and one of his brothers were his family's representatives to make the three hour drive from East Tennessee to the small rural North Carolina mountain church for the service.  The week after the funeral, my friend related to a group of us his story of that memorable funeral.  Some stories you hear and enjoy, others you remember a long time; this one, I just had to write down.  This story is my my best recollection of what my friend shared about that trip, the funeral, and the symbolism of that day.  I've tried to put it into my friends words and I enjoy it every time I think of it and I hope you will too.
 

As my friend recalled, “We boys didn’t really didn’t know our uncle very well, but our mental image of him was not a good one.”  He was an alcoholic most of his adult life, but had been sober the last 22 years.  I remember my dad talking about how he had been unkind to his wife and kids in the early years.  He was a hard man with a drinking problem.  And thus, our family had never been close to our Uncle's family and I didn’t know him very well.

Our dad’s family had their roots in the mountains of western North Carolina and our uncle had continued to live in the region until his death.  As my brother and I made the drive over into the mountains for the funeral, we eventually made our way to a small country church sitting on a hilltop.  The view of the mountains and surrounding area was picturesque and pastoral in every way.  The deep greens of hilltop pastures and forested mountains on this beautiful June day were a delight to see. As is the case with many country churches, the cemetery was located only a few feet from the doors of the church.

The funeral was well attended, maybe 150 people in all.  It was obvious that our once wayward uncle had mended his ways during the past 22 years of his sobriety and his children, nieces and nephews were present to pay their respect to a man they loved and honored.

The preacher who delivered the funeral sermon, built his remarks around our Uncle's long struggle with Satan and alcohol and how he had eventually overcome the powers of evil.  Two of his nieces gave a family eulogy describing many of the good aspects they remembered about his life.  There was not a dry eye in the church when they sat down.
 

The church funeral ended and the coffin was carried the short distance to the cemetery and placed over a freshly dug grave.  Everyone moved to the grave site and the preacher stood at the head of the coffin, his back to a fence that separated the graveyard from an adjoining pasture.  The family, extended family and others gathered beside and around the grave site.  There was not a cloud in that clear western Carolina sky, the air was cool.  It was one of God’s perfect days. 
 

As the pastor began his graveside comments several curious Holstein cows from the neighboring pasture gathered at the fence directly behind the preacher and commenced to stand and watch the proceedings.  The preacher began to make his graveside comments, building on the same theme of our uncle's struggles, but ultimate victory over sin and Satan.  My brother and I were standing to the side and rear of the preacher with a good view of the grass area between the preacher and the pasture fence.  As the preacher delivered his graveside eulogy, we noticed a four foot black snake begin to slither its way toward the preacher.  It was heading straight for the preacher’s feet and then on to the coffin.  You can imagine the mental symbolism spinning through my head as the snake made its way deliberately toward our uncle's final resting place. 
 

Our uncle was a Veteran and there was a military Honor Guard from the local V.F.W. to give him the rights of a military burial.  The military Guard stood behind the preacher and was composed of seven 70-80 year old veterans with their rifles shouldered awaiting their time for the 21 gun salute.  As the snake approached the line of old veterans, one caught a glimpse of it and lowered his rifle and placed the butt of the gun on the snake’s head.  The snake writhed and coiled back as if to strike and then proceeded again toward the preacher who was still delivering his comments about a victorious struggle over Satan.  The old guardsman was persistent and with a few more pokes from the rifle butt, the snake finally surrendered and slithered back toward the pasture.  Everyone who witnessed these activities breathed a sigh of relief that the snake had departed, a major disruption avoided and perhaps Satan defeated again.
 

As the preacher concluded his remarks, the old sergeant gave the command for the firing of the 21 gun salute.  In the pristine silence of this mountain top setting the first volley of shots rang out.  The Holstein cows who had been quietly observing the funeral suddenly became animated, bolting away from the fence; literally stampeding in the opposite direction.  They had topped the first hill as the second volley rang out and were virtually out of sight by the third and final volley.
 

Despite the solemnity of the occasion there was a chuckle or two and a wisp of a smile across many of our faces as one fella said, “I bet those cows won’t give any milk for a week!”

Pikey

Growing up in a small east Tennessee town I learned a lot about people and about life.  We knew our neighbors by name; we played in the streets, on sidewalks, and in each others yards.  We knew next door neighbors and church friends very well, but there were others who lived among us who were less well known.  Etched indelibly into my mind are the images and memories of one such individual. He was a man everyone in town easily recognized, but often avoided, everyone called him “Pikey.”  Sooner or later most of us kids encountered Pikey and this story is about my memories of this man.

Like many small towns in America back in the 1940’s and early 50’s, we had no strip malls or shopping centers,  just one central main street. As you traveled it from one end to the other you’d find retail stores for every type, a couple of hotels, a few gas stations and several cafes.  All other streets in my town ran parallel to main street or crossed it at right angles.  Between the main streets and boulevards were other unpaved passages running through the centers of most blocks.  These narrow unpaved connectors were called alleys.

Alleys were used to provide access to the rear of homes and businesses and served as passage ways for garbage trucks, the milk man, the electric, water and gas meter readers and other service folks. Alleys were also important routes for kids.  When walking or riding a bike, an alley was sometimes a shortcut to your friend’s house, the city park, school, or a ball field.  It was also a good place for kids to explore other folk’s trash and discarded junk.  These were the days before folks knew about “garage sales” or “yard sales” or even “flea markets”.  Folks piled up their unwanted junk in the alley behind the house for the trash men to pick up.  I’ve recovered and carried home many “treasures” from junk piles in an alley behind someone’s house.

But alleys were also traveled by other people.  Back then, folks called them tramps or bums; some parents called these travelers “Booger Men” in an effort to frighten their kids and keep them from using the alley-ways.  

It was on those “shortcuts” through the alleys where most kids eventually crossed paths with Pikey.  All the kids knew Pikey and tried to keep from encountering him face to face.  Our parents had warned us to avoid him because Pikey was a mysterious and scary person who lived in the shadows of our town.  He was scary because he had a hideous and sinister looking face, a face that was characterized by three or four large bulbous growths, about the size of walnuts that grew around the base of his nose; ugly pendulous bulbs that jiggled and bounced as he walked.

Pikey always walked with a shuffling gate, head down, stooped over, his ever present flat cap with the little bill pulled down over his eyes; seldom looking up as he plodded through the alleys looking through garbage cans and people’s junk piles.  If you ever got near him he’d give you a sideways stare from the corner of his eyes that sent shivers down your back.

We kids always wondered if Pikey had a family or friends.  We wondered where Pikey lived, but the big questions were:  Was he dangerous?  Would he hurt you if he ever got hold of you?  Was he just odd or plumb crazy? 

Some of the boys said they had seen him go into the basement of an old church just a block from my house.  If you walked by there after dark there was a faint light shining through a small basement window, but none of us knew for sure or dared go close enough to look in the window.  All of us kids observed Pikey from a distance, just as did most of the adults.  Some said Pikey was an alcoholic, but I never saw him drinking or drunk.  He maintained his distance and we maintained ours.

Pikey was always a part of the landscape during my growing up years until I left home for college.  With the new college routines and new friends I pretty much forgot about Pikey and the other people who navigated the alley-ways back home.  That was until one visit home during my sophomore year.  I was home for the weekend and just driving around town looking to connect with old buddies when I spotted a man who looked a lot like Pikey.  But, this man was on Main Street, which Pikey had never used.  There were no bulbous tumors hanging from this man’s nose.  This man looked cleaner and walked with his head held a little higher than Pikey had held his, but this man still wore the signature cloth flat cap with the bill still pulled down over his eyes.   When I got home I asked my grandmother about the man I’d seen that looked like Pikey and to my surprise she said it probably was him.

She said that some months back while I was away at school, several local doctors in town had gotten involved with Pikey and decided to provide surgery at no cost to remove the tumors from his nose.  It turned out to be relatively simple surgery, but one that had life changing results for Pikey.  In the years following his surgery, Pikey still walked down the alleys a lot, but he also walked on the main sidewalks around town.  He would talk to people and even did odd jobs to earn money.   In fact, folks said he was a pretty good electrician, a fact most people didn’t even know.  Because of the surgery, Pikey no longer lived in the shadows of our town.

I didn’t know it then, but the alleys of my youth were a highway for the truly helpless in our community – the poor, the deformed, the vagrant, the homeless, and the kids.  These are the folks who didn’t then and still now have little power, social or political influence. 

Many times since those early years I’ve often asked myself…  “Why did it take those doctors so long to decide to help Pikey?  What am I doing to help those around me who are in some type of distress or need?  Why do we wait so long to take a stand for those who are helpless?”   Unfortunately, I don’t always have a good answer for my lack of action.

Do you know the lines from the old gospel hymn that say…..

“Do not wait until some deed of greatness you may do

Do not wait to spread your light afar

To the many duties ever near you now be true,

Brighten the corner where you are.”

Not everyone can be a doctor and use healing arts to restore a person’s health; not everyone can be wealthy and provide resources to help the needy, and few of us have professional skills to counsel others toward good mental health. But sometimes it doesn’t take much; just a kind word, a helping hand, or sharing a fresh batch of cookies to brighten someone’s day, someone like Pikey. 

My memories of Pikey help to remind me that I should always make the best of where I find myself and that anyone can “Brighten the corner where you are.”