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.”

Pepper Box Canyon

Some of the most memorable adventures from my teenage years come from time spent on weekend afternoons in the Pepper Box Canyon.

The canyon was just a few miles from my home and began where the mouth of Clifty Creek entered the Emory River.  Back in those days, this point was a good three miles out of town by way of an old two-lane gravel road.  To get there, we had to cross the river on the old U.S. Highway 27 bridge and start the walk up Riggs Chapel Road along the river to the canyon.  Often times, just four or five guys would go, but other times we encountered some of the boys who lived over on River Street.  On those days there would be a good group of 8 - 10 kids headed to the Pepper Box.  We were all too young to drive, so it was either walk or ride a bike.  Today, when I look at that area on Google Earth satellite imagery, I am amazed at the places and distances we walked on an afternoon and still managed to be home for church on Sunday evening.

We visited the canyon in all seasons of the year because the weather made for different types of adventures.  I don’t know the history of the canyon, but it was obvious that it had been inhabited by folks at some point in the past.  There were ruins from old houses scattered here and there on the canyon floor.  The canyon was about a quarter mile wide at some points and followed the creek a mile of so until it ended.  The canyon was bounded on either side by steep cliffs that rose as high as 100 – 150 feet.  As the Creek flowed down the canyon, it presented challenges in crossing as you worked your way back into the depths of the canyon.  So we often ended up with wet feet or wet clothing.

At the base of the cliff on one side of the canyon were the remains of what we heard were old salt peter mining operations.  Some of this was done during the civil war and perhaps other efforts were made during early mining of coal in the area.  At any rate, the dug out “cave-like” overhangs with adjacent mounds of earth were fun to explore and climb on.

At some points along the canyon, the walls had breaks in them that allowed us to scramble up to a mid-level ledge that ran a good distance along the canyon wall.  If you really worked hard you could actually climb to the very top of the canyon and perch high on a ledge.  From here you could sit and enjoy the breeze and have a good view of the main part of the canyon floor.  I can remember sitting here in the quiet of a spring day, looking out above the tree canopy, looking at the birds, the sky, listening to the creek below and thinking about far away places.  It was a great place for a teenage boy to dream.

I remember one of our trips on a cold winter afternoon with sub freezing temperatures.  Clifty Creek was running full and a frothy coating of ice covered most of the bank and stream bed.  The usual foot log we crossed at the first major crossing was ice covered and impassable.  Hoping rocks was the best bet, but that was not without risk.  The thing I remember most was my dog, Nancy, who had come along with us that day.  Nancy was an overweight “mutt” with short-legs who would normally have just jumped into or waded the creek, but not today.  All of us guys made it across the creek and called for Nancy to come on across.  She just about went crazy trying to figure out how to cross without getting wet.  Her animal instincts told her not to trust the icy froth that looked solid, but was crusty and broke through easily.  She ran up and down the creek looking for a crossing, but she finally gave up and headed back toward town.  When we got home later that afternoon, Nancy was already there; probably warmer and wiser that we had been that day.

How fortunate I was to have grown up in a small town that had such free amusement nearby.  The canyon not only amused us, but we learned a lot from those outings.  We learned that being on your own is sometimes risky, but fun.  We nearly always had a great time and enjoyed telling our families about the adventures.  On some occasions, our family members went with us.  I especially remember going on a warm summer day to swim and  play in the creek.  Another fall afternoon we walked the Pepper Box to pick ripe muscadine grapes for a friend’s Mom.  She made the best muscadine jelly you ever tasted.  Once in the fall of the year I caught a large Bass fish in one of the pot holes in the creek.  The creek flow diminished in the fall during the September & October dry season and left pot holes where fish would become trapped.  That was the biggest fish I ever caught in my life.

We not only had fun, but we learned that if you got into trouble you had to solve your own problem.  We learned that team work is a good way to cross a foot log, climb a steep cliff, and that trusting your buddies is important.  We learned that silence in winter is beautiful, that spring must have fifteen shades of green and that dogs are devoted friends.

Not all the kids in Harriman made it to the Pepper Box Canyon and they are poorer for it.  Some didn’t get to go because their parents felt it was too risky a place to let kids go.  I was fortunate to have a Grandmother and Mother who gave me just enough freedom to take some risk and occasionally “get into trouble and solve my own problem.”

Life is full of risky things.  Being aware of risk and learning to take a calculated risk is an important thing to learn in your formative years.  The paradox of this is that in order to learn how to handle risk, you must first take some risk.  It is interesting to me that although I was given virtually unlimited freedom as a pre-teen and teenager, I became a fairly conservative “risk-taker” as an adult.  I think those early lessons on taking risk helped me develop a “can do” attitude.  I learned that you can attempt most anything you want to try, but do it with forethought and caution.  And if you should fail, so what, failure is not the end of the world, but a lesson learned.

Apparently my Grandmother and Mother thought the risks associated with trips to the canyon were small and they trusted me to be a responsible risk-taker.  I’m grateful for their trust and for those opportunities to experience Pepper Box Canyon.  Because of their trust and those canyon experiences,  I learned a lot about nature, about people and about life. 

Those youthful experiences made an indelible imprint on my mind and they will always be a part of me.  Today, some 60 years later, I can travel to Pepper Box Canyon any time I wish and I don’t even have to leave my recliner.

Sharing Boyhood Memories......Walden's Ridge

Walden's Ridge

I was born and raised at the foot of Walden’s Ridge in the small town of Harriman.  The East Tennessee Land Company’s original incorporation document states, “It was ordained by nature that a town should be,” and so it was that in 1890 the town was founded.  The town was built in a wonderful natural topographic niche, carved into the landscape by a large crescent in the Emory River and bounded by Walden’s Ridge rising several hundred feet on the city’s northern border.  Walden’s Ridge extends some seventy-nine miles as it forms the southern and eastern edges of the Cumberland Plateau in its drop to meet the greater Tennessee River Valley.

From the time I was about twelve years old, Walden’s Ridge took on a special appeal for me and my buddies.  It became a mountain we could conquer on an easy Saturday or Sunday hike.  In the years of my youth, the mountain was basically undeveloped and uninhabited and even today only three homes, cell phone towers and a water tank sit atop the ridge.  From my home in the middle of town it was only a short hike to the top, but the ridge provided a feeling of remoteness, isolation and independence.  It provided just enough challenge and danger to fulfill the adventuresome spirit of young boys.   Sitting atop the ridge, a twelve year old boy’s imagination could take flight and you could well have been in some remote and unexplored forest of the early American frontier. 

You could reach the crest of the ridge by an old road that passed the city’s concrete water reservoir or you could hike straight up the mountain over the rocks, boulders, scrubby vegetation and trees.  From the top you had excellent views of all of downtown Harriman and views beyond toward Kingston and Oak Ridge.  As you walked a short distance west along the ridge, the elevation dropped quickly to a natural gap formed by the Emory River.  From Walden Ridge’s western edge, the view of the river was especially enjoyable and you could hear the sounds of cars far below as they climbed through the gap on the Oakdale Highway, U.S. Highway 27.  You could also see the Louisville & Nashville railroad tracks as they followed the river north and the trestle as it carried the rails across the river toward the west.

One of our favorite destinations on this end of the ridge was an outcropping of massive boulders called “Balance Rock.”  One massive boulder appeared to be “balanced” on other smaller rocks and in the imagination of young minds, it might be possible to dislodge this boulder and send it rolling down the mountain to the river.  I think there were times when we used large pieces of downed trees and limbs to try and pry the rock off its base.  What a catastrophe it would have been if we’d succeeded.  The rock is still unmoved and sets there today.   I’ve passed a considerable amount of time sitting atop “Balance Rock” watching the river, the railroad, and enjoying the sounds rolling up from the gap below.

My buddies and I were born during the years of WW II and remember the Korean conflict as well.  The Saturday movies were often accompanied by newsreel shorts of American soldiers in distant lands.  Combat themed movies were common in the 1950s and American soldiers such as Audie Murphy were portrayed as hero figures.  We also knew men in the community who were veterans from WW II.  They sometimes shared stories of their travel and adventures as combat veterans.  Thus, it was natural for us to play war games and “do combat” as we climbed the slopes of Walden’s Ridge.  Some of us would be the “enemy” and others would be the “American” good guys.  The object would be to scatter into the rocks and woods, take positions and then try to capture the other side.  We didn’t have paintball guns or other toy weapons, but used sticks and made vocal sound effects for the gun shots and lobbed a pine cone or stick as a hand grenade.  All this sounds primitive in light of today’s high tech toys, but it worked for us.  As we got older, we began carrying BB and pellet guns with us and used them for plinking at cans and bottles found along the way.  In later teen years we had 22 caliber single shot rifles that were used for target practice.  I never recall having any problems and no one ever “got shot.”

Hiking east along Walden’s Ridge provided other adventures.  There were a few long abandoned mines that had collapsed and caved in.  And we were always finding interesting metal objects, cables and other remnants of logging operations from years past. There were small springs at various points down to one side or other of the ridge.  These provided a cool drink of fresh water on a hot summer day.  I can never remember carrying a canteen back then and bottled water was not yet common place. 

Another favorite destination was to hike the approximate three miles to the state fire tower.  The tower was only manned during the fall “fire season” and access to the stairs was generally blocked by a locked wooden door and fencing.  Once or twice I made the climb to the top when a fire warden was present and looked out from the small lookout box with windows that housed the map and Osborne azimuth for spotting “smokes,” as the fire warden called them.  At other times when the tower was unmanned, boys are prone to taking risk and someone would climb around the gate and make their way to the stairs and climb to the base of the lookout box.  The trap door giving access to the box was always padlocked, but the view from the top of the stairs was still better than one from the ground.

Sometimes on the hike back toward town we’d split up with one or two boys going ahead and setting up an ambush for those who followed.  What made the whole thing fun for those who came second was to be alert and try to identify where the ambush might take place and try to avoid it.  Better yet, you could drop off the side of the crest, skirt around and surprise those who were hidden and awaiting your arrival on the trail.   Sometimes we’d jog or run the entire three miles back to town to see how fast we could make it or simply to meet a time deadline if we’d spent too much time playing and exploring along the ridge top.

One of my buddies who I’ve known all my life remained in Harriman, worked at nearby Oak Ridge and built his home on the crest of Walden’s Ridge. His is one of the three homes that exist there today and he has a splendid view of Harriman and the entire area.  Whenever I return to Harriman I make it a point to drive up to his home for a visit with him and his wife.  In all honesty, I’d have to admit that the visit also gives me a chance to revive old memories of youthful days spent on Walden’s Ridge.  Today, even with three houses and cell towers, you still get a sense of remoteness and isolation when you're atop Walden's Ridge.

 

The challenge, danger and mystery experienced by a teenage boy on Walden's Ridge are long gone.  But I have to admit, every time I drive the paved road to the top, the urge to hike out to Balance Rock or to hike along the ridge trail still pricks at my seventy something bones.  Those boyhood days spent on Walden's Ridge will always remain some of my fondest memories.

Sharing Boyhood Memories...My Hometown

My Hometown

 Many fond memories are stored in my mind from my growing up years during the late  40's, 50's and early 60's in the small town of Harriman, Tennessee.  With hindsight, I attribute a lot of those memories to my hometown's geographic location, its unique origins, its well designed grid of city blocks and it homogeneous social structure.  When I read the City of Ember a while back, the compactness and tight knit city of Ember reminded me much of the secure and somewhat limited boundaries I experienced in my hometown in those formative years.

Harriman was built on the banks of the Emory River, a free flowing river coming out of the Cumberland Mountains.  The River formed a natural boundary to the west and south and was passable by an old two lane bridge to the south and a railroad trestle to the west.  Walden’s Ridge bordered the city to the northwest and ran in an east to west direction toward the river.  It was said that Henry Ford considered Harriman as the sight for building his Model-T Fords, but for some reason he didn’t.  Henry Ford didn’t come, but Meade Paper Company and a couple of hosiery mills were mainstays for our labor force. The temperance activists who founded Harriman established it on the social doctrine of temperance.  No alcoholic beverages were legally sold there during my growing up years and the city didn’t actually permit legal liquor sales until around 1992, almost one hundred years after its founding.  Although no legal whiskey was sold, I do remember a few bootleggers who operated in town and I even delivered the newspaper to one of them for a number of years.

My family lived two and a half city blocks from Roane Street, the main route through town.  It was then and still is U.S. Highway 27, the major North-South Highway in the days before I-75 was built.  You could always stand on Roane Street and see lots of cars from Ohio, Michigan and Canada as they headed south on vacation.  Roane Street had virtually all the businesses located on or near it.  A bakery, grocery stores, hardware stores, dress shops, the Five & Dime Variety stores, the post office, car dealers, city hall, police & fire departments, water, gas and electric utility company, the Southern Bell phone company, the public library, banks, a pool hall, drug stores, furniture stores, jewelry stores, two hotels, two or three restaurants, a lumber company, a shoe shop, our hospital and the most popular places on Saturdays, three movie theaters, the Webo, Princess and Roxie.  Roane Street was even the location of Norris Creamery that produced bottled milk and dairy products for the general area.  It is hard to believe, but all of these centers of business and social activities were within easy walking distance, located along a five block area of downtown.

All of the city schools were located at the east end of town, about a mile from my house.  I walked to elementary, junior high and high school.  A city park was about one block from our house.  The park had swings, a slide, clay tennis courts, horseshoe pits and eventually a swimming pool.  We also had a little league baseball field and a larger ball field for older boys.  Both fields were located at the west side of town down in the flats, near the river.  There were also a couple of junk yards in the same vicinity.  Our church was only one block from our house.  I often walked to church from home or to youth choir after school.

In the 1950’s a kid just about had free run in town.  Most parents felt free to let kids walk or ride bikes to school and just about any location.  I can’t remember a time when I was not able to go anywhere in town.  My grandmother’s rules were simple.  She'd always ask, "Where are you going?  When will you be home?"  Although I didn’t have a watch you could always know the general time by listening for the twelve o’clock noon "whistles."  Every day at exactly high noon the fire department in the middle of town would crank the big siren and the paper mill down by the river also sounded a big steam whistle.  You could hear either from anyplace in town.  I’m told that I was born at high noon.  The doctor told my mom that I exited the womb exactly as the twelve o’clock whistle sounded.

There were few locations that were technically “off limits.”  One was crossing the railroad trestle over the river.  Some years before I began roaming on my own, six boys had hiked to Pepper Box Canyon to spend the day.  Pepper Box canyon was across the river and about a three mile hike north where Clifty Creek entered the river.  As the boys returned home, they decided to take a short-cut to cross the river back to Harriman.  They used the railroad trestle rather than the regular bridge.  One of the boys was killed on the trestle when he got caught by a freight train mid-way across and was knocked into the river as the train  passed over the trestle.  The other five boys made it to safety and survived.  After that, every parent in town had the trestle identified as a definite “off limits” place.  My friends and I never got on top of the trestle.  Another “off limits” area was an old warehouse located down by the river in an old industrial site close to the Mead Paper Mill.  I will have to admit that as a teenager we did violate that particular limit.  The old warehouse was used to store huge bundles of cardboard that was recycled at the paper mill.  It was a great place to hide, climb and chase each other.  There is no doubt we were trespassing and that it was probably dangerous, but it was a neat place to play.

One of my favorite places to explore was the ridge to the north of town called Walden’s Ridge.  You could easily walk to the area where houses stopped and the mountain began.  There were trails and old dirt roads that climbed the mountain.  There were places that had names like “Balance Rock” where several big rocks seemed to balance on each other.  It made a great place to climb or just sit and look off down toward the river.  Another interesting place was some old ruins of a long abandoned structure atop the ridge.  If you wanted to hike about three miles along the ridge top you could reach the fire tower and climb it for a good view of the valley.  On the way to the tower was a good spring and if you knew where to look you could find some caved-in abandoned coal mines from past efforts to extract coal.  My friends and I have spent many hours climbing, shooting rifles, exploring, playing fox and hound, and testing our strength against the mountain.

The Emory River begins on the slopes of Frozen Head and Bird Mountains north of Harriman, then is joined by the Obed River as it makes its way to join the Tennessee  River.  Although the Emory's flow is somewhat diminished by the back waters of TVA's Watts Bar Dam, the Emory is still a sizable free flowing, deep, green river as it forms the bow around Harriman.  The river was always an attractive feature for us kids.  On hot summer days some of the boys would go swimming “jay bird” just below the bridge.  The thing I remember being the most fun was to go to the railroad trestle and climb out on the wooden supporting structure that spanned out into the water.  At certain times of the year you could see shad swarming in the water.  We’d try to spear them, catch them with hooks or just watch in amazement at the hundreds of fish swimming around the pilings.   Simply climbing on the wooden crossbeams was a challenging and fun adventure.  I can remember one winter the river froze over with ice several inches thick.  Walking on the frozen river was a special event and happened only once that I can remember.

During those growing up years I didn’t realize what a wonderful place our small town really was.  It provided so many growth opportunities to challenge growing minds and bodies within a fairly small geographic space.  The trust of parents and the security of the community social structure afforded kids unusual freedom to test their limits and attempt new things.  I believe it was a unique time and will most likely not be captured again.  I regret that my own children did not have such a "small town" opportunity and for sure my grandchildren will never get to experience it.  

 But instead of regrets, I just have to keep reminding myself that life is a journey, not a destination.  We never fully arrive at a point where we can stay for a long time.  We just keep traveling on and the scenery changes.  It is impossible to recapture a place or an event to share with those who come after us.  The best we can do is to remember the journey and share our memories.

Thoughts on Freedom & Risk

Well, it’s been in the news again ….. more shootings of innocent people in the good old United States of America.  Even if you’re just a casual news observer, during the last twelve months, you’ve heard news clips of people saying things like, “We need tougher gun laws to get rid of those guns.” Or “Guns don’t kill people, people kill people don’t they?”  Or, “It’s just one of those crazy demon possessed persons.” And you always hear someone say, “Where was God in all this….doesn’t God care?”

To me, the bottom line is pretty simple; we live in a world that is full of risk.  Anywhere in the world life carries risk, but in America the risk factors are sometimes magnified because Americans believe in freedom for everyone.   So, ramble with me for a few pages and let’s think about “Freedom” and the “Risk” that comes with freedom.

 In America we believe in and for the most part we have

    Freedom of religion,

    Freedom to speak our own opinion in most settings,

    Freedom to keep and bear arms, for hunting, for protection, for hobbies,

    Freedom to feel secure in your own home, free from unreasonable search & seizure

    Freedom to travel almost anywhere we choose,

    And the list goes on.

So how is it if we believe in freedom for everyone, how do we stop a few CRAZY people from using their FREEDOM to harm other people?  Well, that’s a good question and as you know, we’ve been dealing with this quandary for a long time. Some of our best political, theological, and intellectual minds have been working to solve this problem.  Apparently there is not an easy answer or we’d have found it; perhaps there is no answer. 

So now this line of thought prompts me to ask, “Is it possible that FREEDOM and RISK are inseparable and exist in a state of tension that can tilt in either direction; order or chaos, safety or danger, tranquility or tragedy?”

History gives testimony that the founders of this nation took great personal risk to establish the freedoms that most of us take for granted today.  Many of the original immigrants, who first grubbed out a living on the eastern shores, left their European homelands because they were at risk for their lives, wanted to escape oppression, own property, or simply gain more control over their lifestyle.  Others came for exploration and discovery; some were seeking riches.  Of all the types of people who came, risk seems to have always shared a role in the lives of those seeking more freedom and personal autonomy.  It seems that almost every freedom carries the risk that someone may use their freedom to harm others.  History is dotted with accounts of CRAZY or unscrupulous individuals who have twisted freedom to do bad things to their fellowman.  Two of our freedoms that have been abused come quickly to mind. 

Freedom of religion has allowed a significant number of crazy men to “lead” others to their death or to endure an abusive lifestyle.  Look at recent history, remember Jim Jones, (Jonestown Guyana), David Karesh (Branch Davidians), Stewart Traill (The Church of Bible Understanding), Charles Manson, Joseph Di Mambro (The Order of the Solar Temple aka Ordre du Temple Solaire), Marshall Heff Applewhit (Heaven’s Gate), and Warren Jeffs (polygamist leader).  What stands out about these individuals is that they were all pathologically narcissistic personalities who operated under their right to freedom of religion and used it to abuse others physically, emotionally, or financially.

Freedom to Own Guns has allowed a significant number of crazy men to shoot and kill innocent men, women and children.  The mass murder at a movie theater in Colorado, another at a Sikh temple in Wisconsin , another at a manufacturer in Minneapolis — and then the unthinkable nightmare at a Connecticut elementary school on a December day—are some of the more recent acts of gun violence over the last three decades. Since 1982, there have been at least sixty-two mass shootings across the country, with the killings unfolding in thirty states from Massachusetts to Hawaii. Twenty-five of these mass shootings have occurred since 2006, and seven  7) of them took place in 2012.  Forty-nine of the sixty-two shooters obtained their weapons legally, twelve did not, and one is unknown.  Twelve of the shootings involved schools and twenty were workplace shootings; the other thirty cases took place in locations including shopping malls, restaurants, and religious and government buildings.  Even though most of these shooters were probably mentally ill, they were able to own or possess an assortment of weapons because in America we believe in the “right to bear arms.”

One could cite examples of how most “Freedoms’ have been used to abuse the rights and freedoms of others.  So in my mind, it seems that to have “freedom for all” brings with it, “risk for all.”  Choice always brings consequences.  If we choose to have a “freedom” we get the personal liberty that goes with it, but with it we also choose “risk.”  As of this writing, I don’t think anyone has found a “fix” that would eliminate the “risk” or consequences of our choices.

There is no doubt that society has taken actions to make life less risky and perhaps could take additional steps that would increase our security in some settings or minimize our vulnerability to those who would abuse freedom.  But, we know from experience that such actions will in turn “take away” some of everyone’s freedom as well.  I doubt there is an earthly solution to our “freedom and risk” problem.  In the political arena of life “freedom and risk” are like conjoined twins with vital organs linking them together.  To do something to one, impacts the other as well. Because of this relationship, most folks are unwilling to make the personal sacrifice or hard choices that would change the “freedom and risk” dynamic.

Did you know there is a freedom greater than those afforded by our Constitution?  It is the freedom that comes in committing your life to follow Christ Jesus.  Followers of Christ can enjoy a freedom that can liberate them from fear, doubt, and uncertainty.  For those who are disciples in the Christian faith, the Bible tells them to “Trust in the Lord with all our heart.  Don’t depend on your own understanding.  In all of your ways, acknowledge Christ and He will direct your life journey.”  We also know that even when life is difficult and we “walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we ought not to fear evil: for God is with us; he will comfort us.” “If the Son therefore makes you free, ye shall be free indeed.”

Although the constitutional structure of our Republic affords Americans many lifestyle freedoms, spiritual freedom is found only in the heart and mind of each person.  The devil is constantly seeking to bring fear, doubt and bondage to each individual, but God is constantly seeking to bring freedom and peace to every heart that will accept him.

Are the freedoms of our Republic worth the risk?  I think so, but I’m not putting all my hopes on political freedoms alone.  I am also counting on the freedom that comes from a heart commitment to Jesus Christ.  When political freedoms show their faults and imperfections I can find peace of mind, comfort and hope in my spiritual freedom.

 

Still on the trail and still rambling.

Five Smooth Stones

It matters little whether you were raised a Baptist, Catholic, Presbyterian, Episcopalian or you are on an agnostic pilgrimage of your own; you know the story from I Samuel.  It is the story of David and Goliath, a favorite Biblical story known for its exciting and fast-paced action plot.  It is know by almost everyone as a classic story of good winning over evil, a young boy’s triumphant victory over a giant ogre; and not least, God’s intervention in human affairs.

About a year ago, my pastor’s sermon was based on the I Samuel text.  It is an exciting story and I’ve heard it many times, but as he read the entire text that Sunday, my mind began taking a detour from the pastor’s focus the moment he read the text, “He….chose five smooth stones from the stream and put them in the pouch of his shepherd’s bag, and with his sling in his hand, approached the Philistine.” 

 

Of course, we all know the rest of the story.  David confronts Goliath, fires a stone from his sling and strikes the giant in the forehead.  Goliath falls to the ground either dead or immobilized; David gets Goliath’s sword, cuts off the giant’s head and claims victory for God and the army of Israel.

That day, the phrase “five smooth stones,” caught my attention and I began to wonder why David selected five stones; why not just one stone or maybe three, or even ten?  What other factors were at work that insured David’s victory that day?  As I followed my own thoughts and let the pastor preach his own words, I jotted down five points and personal thoughts in the margin of my bulletin that impressed me.  I recently dug out those notes, polished them a bit and they are the basis for this blog.

First, perhaps David picked up five stones that day because he’d learned that when using his sling, he did not always strike the target with the first stone.  If the first stone did not hit the bull’s eye, he better be ready with additional ammunition for a second or third try.  In David’s case,  if he couldn’t get it in five, it would probably be too late anyway.  I think David had learned that in life, you need to be prepared and ready for more than one try at success.  Don’t give up if your first attempt misses the mark.  Not everything you attempt has life or death consequences as did David’s confrontation with Goliath, but sometimes we give up after only the first attempt.  Should I do any less when facing adversity?

Second, David had experience in confronting threats and enemies using the equipment he was familiar with and comfortable using.  As a Sheppard, he only used his staff and sling in hunting and protecting his sheep.  He had confronted lions and bears in his wilderness experience as a sheep herder and had killed both animals with his sling.  King Saul offered David his own protective heavy armor and weapons, but with their weight and stiffness he quickly opted to discard the armor and stick with his staff and sling.  When faced with adversity or threatening people or situations should I try to emulate the threat, or face adversity using my own skills and equipment?  I think David’s example speaks to the best option.

Third, David had confidence in God’s ability to protect him from the enemy.  He referenced his encounters with the lion and bear, telling King Saul that, “The Lord who delivered me from the paw of the lion and bear will deliver me from the hand of this Philistine.”  David was not facing the giant in his own power and confidence, but in the faith that God would be with him and deliver him from danger.  Should I do anything less than this when I face life’s challenges and dangers?

Fourth, David did not piddle around trying to second-guess what action Goliath would take or perhaps hoping for some other intervention.  After a heated confrontational dialogue between the two, Goliath moved toward David with the deadly intent.  At that point, the scripture says that “David ran quickly toward the battle line to meet him.”  How many times have I sat wavering, waiting, or procrastinating when I should have been moving forward?  If I believe in God and trust his Holy Spirit to always be with me, why should I wait?  Like David, should I not be moving quickly to confront whatever it is that is blocking my path to a fuller life and dynamic relationship with God?

Finally, even before David slays Goliath, he gives God the praise and credit for victory.  As David ends his heated dialogue with Goliath, he says, “All those gathered here will know that it is not by sword or spear that the Lord saves; for the battle is the Lord’s, and he will give you into our hands.”   When facing adversity and evil that opposes God’s Kingdom, how often have I failed to understand the concept that for the Christian, the battle is already won?  To actualize victory in my life, God only requires that I take action upon my faith in him.

Nuggets from David & Goliath

·         Be prepared to take more than one shot to succeed in a task.
·         Use your own skills and talents, don’t mimic the other guy.
·         Absolutely believe in God’s power and protection.
·         To experience victory requires action on my part.
·         Give God the praise and credit for victories in life.

 

My apologies to Pastor Gene for taking a mental detour during his sermon,

but his text prompted me to explore the truths in a familiar story  once again.