History tells us celebrations of motherhood have been part of cultures at least as far back as the Ancient Greeks and the Romans. Originally they were celebrations of goddesses and of the earth herself. Later they were celebrations of the church, but the modern celebration of mothers as we know it today was born a little bit later.
Anna Jarvis
In the United States, the birth pangs of Mother’s Day can be said to have had influence from a mother, social activist, and community organizer by the name of Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis, but the Mother of Mother’s Day is considered to be her daughter, Anna Marie Jarvis, The elder Jarvis, daughter of a Methodist minister, married Granville Jarvis, the son of a Baptist minister, and moved with her husband to Webster, an unincorporated town in Taylor County West Virginia. As a merchant in the Appalachian area, he operated a mercantile store.
Man, oh, man. I sit here listening to the conversations on the scanner. And I hear our Fire Command use words like Brotherhood, Family, Friends at the end of a hard fought battle, and send out a call of heartfelt thanks to those who have come to their aide. I, as — so many others, have watched acts of heroism, self-sacrifice, bravery, and commitment from those fighting the flames for days on end. We’ve seen an outpouring of emotion – love, thoughtfulness, thankfulness, appreciation, and prayerful consideration from the community towards our first responders. As I listen, I hear names of units announced over the radio, from towns and cities that have come to help — units from all around Oklahoma, Texas, and Kansas. Churches, city halls, and community centers have been turned into buffets for the men and women out there fighting for us all. Tankers, yes, tankers with an “s”–tankers, and tankers, and tankers of water and fuel being sent in to help them keep going, much of it being donated from places outside our county. Acts of kindness, feats of valor, desire to help – all swirling around in the air as thick as the smoke.
The way our people, our communities, our towns, cities, and businesses come together is just Absolutely Amazing. I’ve been on the receiving end of that generosity and I can tell you it is overwhelming. We all know tragedy has a tendency to pull us together, but to see such positive spirit during a crisis like this is almost beyond words.
Crazy thing is this isn’t the first time we’ve seen this. This happens over and over. The Starbuck Fire. The 412 Fire. I’m not an emotional guy, but if you just sit and draw it all in for a second– let yourself feel it — realize what is going on around you — absorb all those acts and emotions — it can’t help but put a frog in your throat.
And one more thing — If you aren’t incredibly proud of the leadership and organizational talent we have among those who serve our communities, you just aren’t paying attention. They are some incredible folks. Thank you. Thank you for all you do. Thank you for stepping up. Thank you for sacrificing – time, family, self. Thank you for working so hard to know what you are doing and to know how best to serve.
He was born September 28, 1926 at Route 4, Liberty, Mississippi (Population 765), and if you ever heard one of his albums, you already knew that. He mentioned it somewhere on nearly every recording. He was known to tell stories about life in rural Mississippi, about hunting coons, and about the Ledbetter family. He was a big man, and boisterous, but well liked. He was known as a joker and a story teller. He was a man of faith and of family. He always claimed he could tell his stories in the East Fork Baptist Church.
I’ve spoken about it before. Maybe it’s in my blood. I was a Navy kid. We moved from the East Coast to the West Coast and back; from New Jersey to Florida and Virginia. I loved learning about the history of the US, and Virginia, visiting Jamestown and Williamsburg, or St. Augustine in Florida, and other places throughout the country. Exploring beaches, battlefields, and beyond excited me.
One of my favorite points of interest is Route 66. The highway has many names – Highway 66, the Will Rogers Highway, the Mother Road, Main Street of America. As part of the US Highway system, the road signs went up on her shoulders in 1927. A 2,448 mile stretch of Americana, she crossed eight state lines and three time zones. Along the sides of her pathway from Chicago, Illinois to Santa Monica, California, landmarks like the Cozy Dog Drive-In in Springfield, IL, the giant red rocking chair in Fanning, MO, the Cadillac Ranch in Amarillo, TX, the Wigwam Motel in Holbrook, AZ, the Santa Monica Pier in California, and many, many more gave her an identity of her own. A ribbon of concrete and asphalt which came alive spiced and flavored in different stages by the portions of the country through which it passed.
Recently I passed another spin around the sun. A year older. A little closer to the big six-o. Man that spin went fast. Seems like they get faster each year.
You might have seen it on Facebook if you follow. Maybe not. There were a bunch of other folks that got older at the same time. Funny how that works. My dad’s was the next day, but he wasn’t here to celebrate it. Of course, he didn’t really celebrate it when he was here among us. It was generally another day of work for him.
We’ve been watching 1883, the prequel to Yellowstone which was created by Taylor Sheridan. The show follows the Dutton Family as they travel from Texas to Montana, by joining a wagon train headed to Oregon. Leading the wagon train is Captain Shea Brennan, played by Sam Elliot. In Episode Four, there is a scene in which Sam’s character addresses the pioneers he is leading.
Brennan is angry. Charged with the task of getting these people, ignorant to the dangers ahead, to Oregon alive, he tries to get them to realize what waits ahead. They have brought all of their worldly possessions with them on the journey and many of those items are too heavy to make the trip. These possessions are important to the individuals, they represent who they are, what they hope to become, how they will make a life in their new home. Instruments and a finely crafted piano for a musician, tools and a forge for a blacksmith, cast iron stoves for kitchens – all important, but too much weight for wagons crossing prairies, canyons, mountains, rivers and streams. In just a few powerful words, Brennan sets the stage of the entire journey.
I sometimes fancy myself a novelist. Other times I feel I fall short of the title. No Nicholas Sparks. No Hemingway. No Jane Austen. Mostly I just write what comes to mind. I use gallons of words to tell a story; on average 40,000 – 65,000. As far as whether I fit the bill of an author, I’ll let the readers decide.
As a reader, I like stories with heart; a tale that tugs at you, and bubbles up some kind of emotion. I like characters who become so real you develop a connection and you almost feel you’ve become friends with them. To me a good book is one that makes me feel a little hollow after I finish, because I know I’m going to miss the people inside once I close the cover. So, those are the stories I strive the hardest to write.
Don’t look back, ooh, a new day is breakin’ It’s been too long since I felt this way I don’t mind, ooh, where I get taken The road is callin’, today is the day
I can see, it took so long just to realize I’m much too strong not to compromise Now I see what I am is holding me down I’ll turn it around Oh, yes, I will
Forever one of my favorite albums. This cover song works for both a Monday morning pump up and a windows down, volume cranked, get-out-of-town exit after work on Friday. But, for this post, it’s all about the end of 2021.
‘Twas year before last
On Christmas Eve night,
Out here on the prairie,
It all looked to be right.
I was ridin’ with Moe,
Or he was ridin’ with me.
I get all confused
About which it should be.
Them stars up yonder
Was puttin’ off a shine.
“Yessir,” I says
“Night’s looking real fine.”
“Shut yer dern mouth,”
Moe tosses my way.
“You’ll jinx us fer sure
With them words that ya say."
“I ain’t callin’ on trouble.
I just made a observation.
It’s Christmas eve night,
You need some jollification”
It seemed near evr’ year
We spent our Christmas Eves
Buried deep in trouble
Clean up over our sleeves.
So, we’d went out to search,
It only made sense,
To head off our problems,
Looking from water to fence.
On a night of peace
‘n joy ‘n all such stuff
A smart cowhand knows,
Don’t all-in on a bluff.
We’d mounted on up,
And started castin’ about,
Lookin’ for our trials
Afore they sought us out.
“Them cows are all huddled
In the southwest pasture;
Seems to me they foretell
Of a coming disaster.”
He turned in his saddle,
His stubbled face twisted up,
His dander all stirred,
Like I done kicked his pup.
“There ya go again,”
Moe said shakin’ his head.
“Just button yer lips;
Quit spreadin’ your dread.”
“I ain’t hopin’ for bad,
If that’s what you mean.
I was just state’n the obvious
That both of us seen.”
“Well there such a thing
As too much bad news.
And whenever yer around
It just comes in twos.”
“Luck runs both ways,”
I grouched back at Moe.
“You ain’t no four-leaf clover,
Ner a white buffalo.”
“You got your own luck,
And it’s just bad as me.
Ain’t no sense complainin’
‘Bout somethin’ I see.”
We rode out the fence,
Countin’ all five,
Looking for a break,
A stretch, or a drive.
The sky was all gray,
Like dread hanging low.
The kind of ol’ sky
What might rain or might snow.
We counted their heads.
We counted them all.
Found one a missin’,
As her calf began to bawl.
I looked at Moe,
He nodded at me.
It was that mangy one horn,
None as stubborn as she.
It had to be her.
Well, of all the darn luck.
Ain’t no tellin’ just where,
She might get herself stuck.
We rode on along,
Checkin’ all that darn fence,
Lookin’ for any old sign,
Of that cow with no sense.
The sky began to change.
The wind began to rush,
As we headed for the river,
To search out the brush.
We dared not be caught,
Searchin’ there in a storm,
Or hours it might be
Afore a bedroll we’d warm.
We searched them all out,
Evr’ bramble, brush, n’ scrub.
But we couldn’t find a sign,
Of her nor her rub.
Back to the north,
We made our way slow;
Our hats pushed on down,
Faces slapped by the snow.
I hollered above the wind,
“I’ve found my Christmas wish.
A shack with a fire,
An’ hot beans in a dish."
No longer were those stars
As bright as could be.
Truth be on told,
Snow was all we could see.
Moe shouted out,
“We’ll do well to get home.
It’s best we go on in,
And let that lone cow roam.”
Up ahead, there was movement.
It just might be her.
But the way that snow was swirlin’
It was only a blur.
That shadowy figure,
Well, it got closer each step.
From down at my side,
I heard a growl from ol’ Shep.
We moved with caution,
Not sure what we’d find.
Them swirlin’ white flakes
Had left us near blind.
Then we both got a start,
When we looked up ahead,
And we saw this old man
A drivin’ a sled.
“Thought you two boys
Could sure use a hand.
I’m used to this stuff,
For me it’s just grand."
He had ol’ one horn
Tied to the back of that sleigh.
She was foller'n long
Like he was showin’ the way.
They moved right past,
Headin’ straight for the herd,
And we both foller'd on
Neither sayin’ a word.
Oh, we were mighty thankful,
And we planned to say so,
But he held up his hand,
And said, “I’ve gotta go.”
“The shack is warmed up,
And there’s beans in a pot.
Now you boys hurry along,
While your supper’s still hot.”
“And boys don’t forget
What began this here season,
T’was a little baby boy,
Born for only one reason.”
“So, when life’s storms stir,
Causing you to lose your way,
Just stop that old mare,
And take a second to pray.”
Most cowhands would consider,
That old man’s words to be true.
Though, I guess it might surprise,
Just under a few.
Livin’ on the land,
A man develops some relation,
With the One who’s in charge
Of all this here creation.
From the sky and the land,
To the wind and the rain,
From the calves and the cows,
To the grass on the plain.
Though we grumble and grouch
We all know the same,
When it all goes to the south,
We call on His name.
We watched as that sleigh
Cut through the snow,
Then lifted in air,
And off it did go.
I looked at Moe,
Or Moe looked at me.
We both shook our heads,
Thinking, “How can it be?”
Back in the shack,
Beans and biscuit on each plate,
We both did agree,
“We’ll never convince ol’ Nate.”
“It’s a story we could tell,
A thousand darn times,
And he’d call us both liars,
Reminding of our crimes.”
Spoons ‘ginst the plates,
The blow of the wind,
The crackle of the fire,
Quiet sounds began to blend.
Time passed slowly,
Our thoughts all tangled,
Wore out from the day,
Like a bull we’d just wrangled.
Flakes swirlin' out the window,
Moe voiced the question we both did ponder.
“You Reckon that old feller,
Really likes all the snow he gets up yonder?”
-- C.E. Lemieux, Jr.
Though nothing like the three misfit young men of the 1985 movie who find a way to travel through space, in our youth many of us were explorers. It seemed life has always been about exploring for me, and though I don’t get to do it as much as I used to, I do enjoy some exploring as an old guy.
As a kindergartner in San Diego, I had the habit of wandering off to the neighbors . Our neighborhood was dominated by older, retired individuals. The few kids who lived there were older than us. We lived in a cul-de-sac, and I liked to visit the folks out beyond the back gate, Mr and Mrs. Horn, or the Andersons. My wanderings earned a lock on the back gate, but they also got me a gig as a Ring Bearer in an Anderson wedding. The first time I wore a tux was at age five. There in that little court, even my three year old brother was a bit of an explorer, although he did most of his traveling by loading his belongings in the back of the pedal car and cruising around the yard.
In Kentucky, we followed along behind my grandfather as he took us down to the creek to eat peanuts, watching the shells float away as we tossed them over the side of the bridge. They appeared as little ships traveling upon the water. A ride in his dark blue LTD down to the company store for ice cream sandwiches offered a glimpse of the mining community. Sitting on the front porch listening to the stories and tales of uncles, friends, and neighbors expanded our minds and taught us the feel of fellowship.
When we moved to Jacksonville, my exploring continued. Though we weren’t supposed to migrate from our walk along the sidewalk to school, my best friend and I often wandered through the woods on our way home. It was on one of those treks that we stumbled — and I mean that in the true sense of the word, — stumbled upon something buried in the ground. As we examined the object in more detail, we found it was a walkie-talkie. Not one of these little one’s you see in the store these days, but one of those massive things you see in old war movies. Dang! We’re we excited. We couldn’t wait to get it home and mount it on our wooden go-cart.
When we got home, my mom gave what should have been an expected response, “Get that thing out of my house!” His mom gave a bit more thought to the situation and reported it to the police. Turns out it was used in a robbery, and we ended up going to court to testify as to our discovery, missing doughnut day at school Hey, at least we got the $40 bucks they paid for spending the day in court, along with some publicity in the local paper, a Cub Scout medal, and recognition by the Soroptimist Club.
In Virginia, nearly every day was an adventure. We lived just off the Elizabeth River which ran into the Chesapeake Bay. A little channel ran off the river behind our house. From a small dock, about 6ft square, we watched the tide roll in and out. When it pulled away, the tide left a muddy bottom where we watched crabs of different kinds, stranded minnows, and grass shrimp navigate over the glossy wet surface of the mud. Sometimes treasures were revealed as the water receded, washing away some of the surface dirt. Lost fishing lures, their blades twinkling in the sun, and discarded items which had floated off the bay captured and fueled childhood imagination.
The true delivery of treasures, many beyond our expectations, came upon the returning tide. As the water reclaimed the surface of the channel, it carried unexpected deposits. Wood of all kinds – plywood, timbers, framing wood, and driftwood of different sizes – would make its way to us floating upon the surface, getting captured among water grass, branches and cattails. Sheets, blocks, and chunks of foam washed in amongst the other debris. One of the most exciting discoveries was a bowling pin, though from this side of it I’m not sure why we were so thrilled to find it. I suppose it was something we never thought we’d own.
We’d gather the wood and foam, pilfer nails and hammers from dad’s garage, and assemble makeshift rafts; fooling ourselves into believing that one day we’d float off like Huck Finn and Jim. Instead we’d watch our creations float out with the tide and disappear down the river toward the bay, fortunately never brave enough to climb aboard.
In the wilds of No Man’s land, we explored on our bikes. My brother and his friends built huts and tree houses from spare lumber they gathered, creating adventures of their own. Sometimes we’d all hike to the dump to plink cans with the pellet gun, the 22 rifle or a pistol (of course, today seeing a group of kids with guns would set the town on fire). I and my friends followed the old railroad grade looking for spikes and timber nails, or walked along the highway picking up bottles to return for the deposit money. We’d ride out to the cemetery and read the inscriptions on the tombstones. Exploration and discovery were always at the core of our efforts.
As high school students, our travels expanded to dirt roads, lakes, ghost towns, museums, and eventually the mountains. We hiked trails, visited abandoned mines and rock quarries, fished, and panned for gold. We climbed up to the mountain tops and scanned the countryside where we could see for miles. We probably went some places that would scare me today.
As we moved out on our own, our trips took on longer travels, and deeper adventure. Trekking back into the mouth of an old silver mine, ice cold water up to our waists, turning off the flashlight and finding a darkness which was so thick you could cut it with a knife, and hearing our whispers echoing off the chiselled rock walls, will forever be a memory which remains anchored in my mind. Standing in the open of the marble quarry where they cut out the blocks of stone for the Lincoln Memorial, staring up into the openness and realizing there was still a mountain of rock above me, fills another slot in my memory bank. Backpacking to a crystal clear lake, camping and fishing for a week with an incredible group of young men and their Scout Master remains an honor and a fond recollection.
Charles Goodnight
Today, my explorations are a bit less exerting, but I enjoy them just the same. Visiting historic places, being able to say I was there, following the trails of other explorers, or visiting their monuments and graves are just a few of the ways I get to explore. Traveling to places I’ve never been, and seeking out some important piece of history expands my experiences.
Intersection from Castaway
Sometimes my wife gets to laugh or roll her eyes at where my curiosity takes us, like this trip down to an intersection in the middle of nowhere just north of Wheeler, TX where the ending of Castaway was filmed.
,Jesse Chisholm
Other times she either finds interest in, or at least reason to tolerate, my discoveries. Like when we visited the grave of Western Pioneer, Jesse Chisholm down a series of roads just north of Geary, OK. Where we were both amazed that out of all the inscriptions they could have put on the tombstone of the Father of the Chisholm trail they chose “No one left his home cold or hungry.”
I enjoy the side-trips. They make me feel like I’m still learning and discovering. I hope I never lose that desire to see new things and share experiences. It’s a big world out there. You never know what you’ll find.
