Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

The above Latin phrase, made famous by the American movie Dead Poet’s Society, was first used by the poet Horace. Its use by Horace is most accurately translated as “Pluck the day,” and after the movie it became popular in American culture and before long it was printed on tee shirts, caps, and mugs. However, the word “pluck”, for whatever reason, proved too much for American sensibilities and the phrase became translated as “Seize the day.” (Such a refinement) Given a coffee mug with that inscription by the head of school where I worked, like the other administrators, I understood the phrase, as a rising professional, to mean that I was to grab each day and shake it out making the most of it as opportunities arose. If opportunities did not arise to pluck, then I was to create them, then pluck.  Seizing the day meant that I, in my mid-40’s, was in charge. Anything that was accomplished in my realm of the school was directly related to either my ideas or actions or both. It was all up to  me, and I lived several years following that belief in my personal and  professional  life.

Thinking of the two interpretations of Horace’s phrase, I recall the saying attributed to  Mark Twain, that the difference  between the right word and almost the right word, is the difference between lightening and the lightening bug. Pluck and seize when viewed as verbs are much alike, but are they the same?  When we seize do we pluck?

One of my mother’s favorite “chores” was to  sweep the front porch, steps, and sidewalk of her mill house. She did  not rush to arrive to this or rush in its doing. She would sweep the  wooden porch some, stop and look around her front yard, sweep some more and adjust the chairs and plants. Satisfied with the porch’s condition, she moved on to the three concrete steps and stepping down carefully, she cleaned each below her as she went. Stopping at the juncture of the steps and sidewalk, she would survey the goings-on of Juniper Street and then begin sweeping the private sidewalk that led to public one. Arriving at that junction, she turned, chatted with any neighbor near or a passer-bye, then carrying her broom like a proud knight, she went back inside of her house to finish any cleaning left undone. My mother, a girl of the South Carolina Sandhills, grew up in a time when front yards of sand were swept of their loose sand to make a  clean place to entertain company under a large shade tree. Sometimes, as Maggie did in Alice Walker’s short story, Everyday Use, people would make a design using the loose sand on the edge of the cleared area. Thus, a “living room” space was created for the company. There was no sand on my mother’s sidewalk, steps, or porch, but her daily sweeping of it made certain that no visitor would trip on a acorn or small limb, and its cleanliness invited folks to come on in.

Today we have leaf blowers, those noisy machines that will clean the area that took my mother thirty minutes or so to  sweep in just a few minutes. Time saved, and all that dirt blown away into the yard or gutter. Time saved to be used inside cleaning or to be used on another household chore. Time saved is money saved. If my mother had had a leaf blower to use out front, she would have been more efficient and more productive. If my mother had had a leaf blower, she would have been “seizing the day” and producing more.

Yet, even had my mother been given a leaf blower, one she could have used, I know that she would have just left it gathering dust in her garage. She, like so many of her peers, was not interested in being more productive or efficient or cost effective. She swept her front porch, steps, and sidewalk with her straw broom because she enjoyed the doing of that act. She enjoyed observing the activity on her street and its people. She enjoyed the result of her labor. In my mind, she was plucking. Not the day but a small piece of it. She understood that one cannot grab and hold an entire day, but one could pluck a moment. She plucked it, enjoyed it, and continued on. Like so many, she had faith in the words, “Give us this day….”

A lesson I finally learned at half-past fifty.

By Roger Barbee

This morning’s ride on the stationary bike began earlier than usual. When I had uncovered the bike and adjusted every detail to begin my five-mile workout, the small grove of 14 pine trees between our road and me were still shrouded in soft, morning shadows. Because of the crisp December wind, I hurried to get moving in order to create some warmth because the sun had yet to clear the horizon of Lake Norman.

Before too long, my rotations on the stationary bike began to create a stronger blood flow, and I sensed a rise of my temperature. While no sweat dripped from my brow, the steady wind was not now causing as much discomfort as it was just a few minutes before. The rhythm of the ride steadied, and as my arms flowed into it my entire body joined. It was then that I noticed a small movement in the pine tree grove next to me. Then I saw another and another and another.

I watched as I cranked the bike. Small sparrows were busy looking for a morsel or more on the ground under the 14 pine trees. Because of the morning shadows I could not see the sparrows as clearly as I wished, but by the small bodies and action, I think that I was seeing a morning flock of chipping sparrows. It seemed that when I saw one, I saw another. Their constant movement along the ground prevented any accurate count, but I was more interested in how they were almost indistinguishable from a pine needle or piece of pine bark or a fallen leaf from one of the dogwood trees. When I thought I was seeing a chipping sparrow, the breeze would blow the leaf across the ground. But I saw many as they flurried across the ground in search for food. Then they quietly disappeared, leaving me to now have time to notice the first sun rays grace the grove’s shadows.

 I have watched many sunrises from this postage stamp of earth where I ride each morning. All of them are the same, but all are different. They are like people in that way. But no matter, I watched this one as I shifted to a higher gear for more resistance. I wanted the heat created by the harder riding, but I also wanted the warmth the sun would give. And I also needed to observe it, aware that the rotating earth and nature’s way would not wait. Aware of the moment,  I watched as the sunlight first graced the tree tops across the road in Ken’s yard and, clearing the housetops on our side of the lake, cast shadows of morning on the pine forest floor where the chipping sparrows had just been. Soon the shadows under the pine grove disappeared,   its needle covered floor revealed by soft, early morning sunlight. Deep shadows, chipping sparrows, and a morning moment replaced by another as the day, like all days, made its offer.

I began my warm down, but I still took notice as the day began. Watching the sun rise, seeing its rays break the grip of night, and feeling its warmth, I applauded its promise and the hope of that promise. A new day that would resemble yesterday and tomorrow, but one that had its own personality and potential. Its own hope. The Pharisee turned Christian, St. Paul, writes in Romans—“we are saved by hope.”

Indeed.

By Roger Barbee

Growing up in North Carolina, we seemed to always have a dog for a family pet, but I was not a hunter of any kind, so I never trained or owned hunting dogs. Some uncles had beagles and coon hounds, and as a young boy I shivered around many campfires as they talked about which dog was leading the pack. A few duck hunting relatives used retrievers such as the golden, the Labrador, and the Chesapeake Bay on their duck hunts, so this is my knowledge of retrievers.  Therefore, when I met Manny after his family moved from the rocky Atlantic coast of Rhode Island to Lake Norman, N.C. I was unfamiliar with his breed—the Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever. That’s quite a breed name for a dog weighing in at about fifty pounds.

Curious about Manny and his breed, I conducted a simple Internet search and discovered the interesting heritage of Manny. His long, roan colored hair, similar to that of the Irish Setter, not only protected him in the cold waters of Nova Scotia but caused him to appear like a fox. The hunters/breeders in Nova Scotia had discovered that ducks were fascinated by foxes, so they would come close to shore if they saw one. Thus, Manny and his kind, all energetic dogs, were bred to run along the shore looking like a fox and the curious ducks would be lured within gunshot range of the hunter. Then the strong swimmer would retrieve the shot ducks. The luring action explains their name because tollen is derived from Middle English which means, among other things, “to summon.” They literally summoned the ducks for their masters.

Unfortunately,  I did not get to know Manny that well or long because he was already thirteen when I met him. I missed his young days of swimming in the cold waters of Rhode Island while playing with his young owners. I like to think that he thought nothing of jumping into the northeast waters of the Atlantic when he was lured to it by one of them. I missed those vibrant days of his youth, but I would see him moseying along on an early morning walk in his front yard. Sometimes he would “slip away” from his human companion and walk in his cul-de-sac and sometimes try to make it all the way to our shared road. But better than the yard or road, he liked the lake. After all, that is what he was bred for. Water.

While I did not get to know Manny that well, I have gotten to know the middle child of the family. Gabby is in her mid-twenties and works in Boston. She is an independent, strong young female who carries herself well. She has a fire that I greatly admire and holds her family, boyfriend, and Manny close. So when her parents told her that Manny was fading, she and her boyfriend flew from Boston to the lake to be with her family, and she cherished Manny. 

My wife Mary Ann holds that no pet’s last day should be its worst, and Manny’s masters had watched him closely to ensure that he was now just old, not suffering, but fading in body but not spirt. This week they decided that it was time because he was losing control of his bowel and bladder; he slept most of the time, and his days of swimming in the wild Atlantic had passed. The preacher writes in Ecclesiastes that “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” It was Manny’s season.

Manny’s last day was definitely not his worst. His family fed him his favorites, they cuddled him in his blanket, and as for the past fifteen years, they unconditionally loved him. Gabby, the grown middle child,  honored him and his breed by taking him for a last swim in the lake. After all, Manny was a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever who was bred for the water. It was her last gift to a cherished member of their family.

By Roger Barbee

            This past weekend Mary Ann and I were in my hometown to visit my elderly mother, and I was to give a short speech for my high school wrestling coach who (unknown to him) was receiving North Carolina’s highest civilian award: The Order of the Long-Leaf Pine. Well over two hundred people showed to honor Coach Bob Mauldin for his years of community service, teaching and coaching in the public schools, active in his church, serving as a principal, and wrestling official. In prior years, Coach Mauldin had been honored as principal of the year in Kannapolis, inducted into the National Wrestling Hall of Fame,  and now this, the highest award North Carolina  could bestow on a civilian. After the speeches lauding him and the presentation of the award, Coach Mauldin spoke. He shared a great deal with us, thanking us all, but one story he told I had not known—he failed the 7^th grade and had to repeat it. Coach Mauldin had flunked.

            David Halberstram, in his classic study of the Vietnam War, The Best and the Brightest, writes a great deal concerning the “boy wonders” who were an influential part of the Kennedy cabinet. The young men that President Kennedy brought to Washington had impeccable academic credentials, training,  and academic backgrounds. They were, as the title suggests, the best and the brightest.  Halberstram writes honestly of them and their obvious talents, but he concludes that their collective lack of real life experience, especially in the political area, was  one reason for our involvement in Vietnam and its deep cost to our nation.  Recounting the origins of that costly war, Halberstram observes that what these well-meaning “boy wonders” lacked was “true wisdom..the product of hard-won, often bitter experience.”

            One of the requirements for Coach Mauldin’s 7^th grade English class with Mrs. Howard was an oral book report. Up to his 7^th grade year, Coach Mauldin had received a pin for perfect attendance each year, but in the 7^th grade, in order to “dodge” giving that oral book report, Coach Mauldin missed some days. As he explained it to his gathered admirers, he was too shy to get up in front of the class and talk. He dodged the dates until he finally ran out of days, so he failed English, thus the 7^th grade. One more school year with Mrs. Howard.

            Now, I understand that not everything concerning public education in “the good ol’ days” was good or even policy that we should be following. For instance, in the time that Coach Mauldin failed Mrs. Howard’s class, a student could be paddled—that, in my mind, is a policy that needed to be gotten rid of. However, there is a dimension of a student failing a grade that is worthy of consideration. It seems to this writer that in some degree we have gone too far the other way in  many facets of modern day life and how we educate our children. For instance, in Shenandoah County, the lowest numerical grade a student can receive in the first marking period of a new semester is a 60 no matter how little work was done or how poorly the work was done.. This policy was instituted so that a student will not be discouraged and quit working over the course of a semester and eventually pass the course. That is a noble thought, but I question its value.

            It seems to me that we have given our children the idea that life is like a railroad track. We lead them to believe that they can get on the track of life and pick a destination. The trip will be without obstacles such as steep hills, sharp turns, and the crossing of any troubled waters will be made easier and safer by a sturdy bridge. Instead of letting our children make their way, often by trial and error, we have leveled the trip and removed all obstacles. In our desire for their succeeding, we have done too much for them. We have removed failure from their lives.

            I can imagine the difficulties a teacher would encounter today if he or she wanted to hold a student back. If the issue were an oral book report as in Coach Mauldin’s case, the teacher may be asked to alter the requirement in some way to make it more conducive to the student’s learning style. Perhaps an administrator would point out that the student needed to pass because of class size, or that in failing the grade his or her self esteem would be damaged.

            A child knows whether she or he has made an honest effort to do required work. Any child knows when she or he has not met a reasonable expectation. When we allow less than the best from each child in our schools, we cheat that child and our society. Failure can be a great teacher.

By Roger Barbee

This morning before the early church service began, another member was telling me about his years of playing college football before joining the Army, then continuing his education after the Korean War. Another fellow joined the conversation, and I, the youngest of the group at 73, commented how today’s antics of many athletes irritated me, and the football player said, “I never had to play with ‘em, so it wasn’t a problem in my day. If we’d acted that way our  coaches would have gotten on us.” The other man then shared how he had been a teacher and coach until he saw that the looming integration of our schools would not work, so he quit education and went into another profession. I said that the problem was not one of race, and integration was not the issue. With that, the service began, and we chose our seats.

 I have had many individual conversations with both men at church, and I have always been impressed by their manners and pleasant personalities. But they are racist members of my church. Their comments prove it. Later when I shared the conversation with my Sunday School class, which expressed disagreement with the racist comments, a member reminded me that church is a place for sinners, so I should not be as upset by the conversation as I was.  But I am upset and here is why.

I doubt that either man would publicly take the Lord’s name in vain in church in a conversation. In fact, I doubt that either would break that Commandment in private. I also think that both follow other Commandments and beliefs of Christ because they see themselves as good Christians, or at least as individuals who try to be Christ followers. And I doubt that either would see his words as violating any tenet of Christianity. But their belief concerning integration and blacks as expressed in their words, casually spoken to me in church, demonstrate a deep-seated and denied racism which goes against all that the Bible teaches because their words express a vile feeling against fellow creations of God. Both men, and others in our church and the world, need to, in the words of Dr. Clarence Jordan, “… choose whether you are going to look upon things through the eyes of Christ or the eyes of the world.”

When the new Apostle Philip goes to tell Nathanael, “We have found him, of whom Moses in the law and the prophets, did write, Jesus of Nazareth, the son of Joseph.” Nathanael responds, “Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth?” To that racist remark, Philip gives what I think is a perfect response: “Come and see.” What a fine response to a mean question. No attacking or preaching, just an invitation, just like the invitation each of us is given. “Come and see” and be changed. See all people through “the eyes of Christ.”

By Roger Barbee

                                                What’s Your Fuel

In reading Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians this morning, I read this verse: “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth.” (1 Cor. 3:6, RSV) Paul is writing to explain to the Corinthians that they must mature as Christians and understand that all power comes from God. While he and Apollos and others may bring God’s message of salvation, they are merely servants like all humans.

The verse reminds me of a poem by Marcie Han titled Fueled

            By a million

            man-made

            wings of fire-

            the rocket torn a tunnel

                        through the sky-

                        and everybody cheered.

                                    Fueled

                        Only by a thought from God-

                        The seedling urged its way

                        Through the thickness of black

                        And as it pierced

                        The heavy ceiling of the soil-

                        And launched itself up into outer

                                    Space-

                                                No

                                                One

                                                Even

                                                Clapped.

By Roger Barbee

            In May 1968 I graduated from college with a degree in English. I went home that summer to work in Cannon Mills, Plant 1, but as soon as August came, and Uncle Grant sold me that two-toned green rambler, I headed to what I viewed as the “promised land” of the North, which for me was Washington, D.C. I remember on the long drive to my apartment in Maryland seeing a “Wallace for President” sign somewhere in N.C., and thinking, “No more of that.”

            During my college years I became good friends with William MacPherson, who had grown up in Arlington, Va. I visited his home and thus, D.C., over the four years of gaining an education. I came to think of the area as the “land of milk and honey” for such a fired-up, young radical as I. The time of my graduation was the time of George Wallace and “Clean” Gene, who were candidates for President. It was also the time of Dr. King, Jr.’s assassination and the subsequent riots. It was the time of protests. It was the time of Howard Zinn and nightly newscasts of battles in Vietnam, complete with the day’s body count. It was an exciting time to be twenty-one years old and beginning a teaching career in a rural county of Maryland’s Eastern Shore.

            Or so I thought until I recently ran across a reference to a man named Clarence Jordon. Jordon was a strong believer in the Sermon on the Mount, and in the fall of 1941 when he met a gentle missionary named Martin England who believed as he, they began dreaming of establishing Koinonia Farm as a way of countering the plight of farmers.  Life on Koinonia Farm would follow Scripture, especially the Sermon on the Mount. In 1942 they purchased a run-down farm southwest of Americus, Georgia, and the work to establish a community of all people began. But, the local population objected to the Koinonians eating together because some were white and some black, and just wages were paid to black workers which went against the rules of Jim Crow. Violence was not long in coming and until his death of a heart attack in 1969, Jordon peacefully followed the tenets of the Sermon on the Mount as angry whites burned down buildings of the farm, stole from it, destroyed its equipment, shot at its members, and local merchants refused to sell seeds and fertilizer to the farm. In describing the personalities warped by hate that tried to kill the farm, Jordon said, “We have too many enemies to leave them [without hope].”  I am indebted to Joyce Hollyday for some of this information.

Since reading the reference to Jordon and the Koinonia Farm, I have read his Cotton Patch Version of Luke and Acts, a brief sketch of his life by Joyce Hollyday, and have begun his commentary on the Sermon on the Mount. I am captured by his faith, adherence to Scripture, and his legacy of Koinonia Farm. And I can’t help but go back to my years of college in the 1960’s and my mistaken belief that everything I desired was in a large, northern city.

A son of the South, I highly anticipated the time I could move to a world more suited to my beliefs—equality for men and women, peace, honest work, learning, in brief, everyone coming together to make the world better. I saw my dream in D.C. and went there. But, now, all these years later in 2018, I “discover” a man and a place that had everything I desired. Now, I am not fool enough to think that, going back these fifty years, everything would be peachy. Perhaps Jordon would not have appreciated me or my ways; maybe I not his. So be that. Yet, I am intrigued by my not seeing what was almost right in front of me and held all that my radical heart desired in 1968.   

By Roger Barbee

Since my wife Mary Ann had an entry for the annual Chili-Cookoff, we arrived early  at the Family Life Center in order to set up the crockpot of her sure-fire winner. But when I entered the FLC before 5:30 for an event scheduled to begin at 6 P.M., I was surprised to see 10-12 round tables, each fully decorated and set with napkins and spoons, gracing the center of the room. Over to one side another table was loaded with condiments to enhance each bowel of chili. In short, long before the big event, the room had been prepared in style and substance. All we participants would need to do was sample from the 16 entries, listen to the music–alas, no Willie Nelson or Trisha Yearwood– talk with table mates, and combine with them to give answers for the trivia quiz. (By the way, did you know that grapes are the most produced fruit in America?)

As I talked with others at our table, tried to answer Pastor Vern’s trivia questions, and sampled bowls of chili, I kept thinking of stewardship, the incredible first gift that God gives us in Genesis 1:28. And somewhere between the Cowboy Chili and the No Gas Chili, I realized that what was on display in the FLC was stewardship at its best.

When the topic of stewardship comes up, we tend to think: Money. However, in the era of Genesis 1:28, there was no currency, so God must have had a view of being good stewards that did not include dollars and cents. Yes, later in the Bible the topic of a tithe is mentioned, but that is only one dime out of every dollar, and it is an undeniable need in today’s world. But being good stewards entails more than monies, and the work that took place in order for the chili cook-off to happen so well, is a great example of stewardship: Time, perhaps each person’s most precious possession, was given by some folks so that we all could enjoy the event —time to purchase goods, time to plan the room, time to set up the room, time to clean up, and more time.

There are many needs at St. Mark’s but fortunately many talents. Please examine your gifts and find a way(s) in which you can be a good steward of our church. As my Granny Susie was fond of saying, “If you want to get, you have to give.”

BY Roger Barbee

                                                                        A Life

            All left of our boyhood friendship

            is this folded obituary clipped from the newspaper.

            It tells of your thirty-three years in the mill,

            memberships in a lodge and Baptist church,

            and it list names of immediate family.

            Not mentioned are

            our long bicycle rides to Coddle Creek

            taken to escape summer heat

            under its canopy of wet green           

            wading through the water and day;

            nor does it mention

            those early Sunday mornings

            when we sped through dark, town streets

            racing to circles of yellow light

            as you helped me deliver papers

            to sleeping customers;

            or the way you would appear at our door,

            a wrinkled shirt flung over one shoulder

            asking for a sister and iron

            because your masculine house had neither.

            It states your given name that we ignored

            in favor of your favorite wrestler’s,

            and it gives your dates on earth,

            but omits that you were left handed,

            had a lop-sided grin of a thousand suns,

            and your pearl to the world-a kind spirit.

            After all, it is only a piece of newsprint,

            not a life,

            like yours.

            For William Query, whom we called Moto

By Roger Barbee

My first Frederick Buechner arrived this week;  Speak What We Feel (Not What We Ought to Say)  is his reflections on literature and faith.

Now, I have always been a reader. Not a good student, it is my reading that helped me salvage my academic and intellectual self. Because of my reading I managed to attend college and even read through to obtain an MA. My modest library contains books about literature, biographies of writers and other leaders, examinations of religion, political studies, investigations of nature, and more. As a life-long learner, I subscribe to the words of Abigail Adams quoted by David McCullough in his 2008 speech at Boston College’s commencement: “Learning is not attained by chance. It must be sought with ardor and attended with diligence.” McCullough goes on to tell the graduates to “Read! Read, read…. Read for pleasure, to be sure. But take seriously-read closely-books that have stood the test of time.” Those are words I followed, taught my students, and still follow in my retirement. And I especially like Adams’ use of ardor and diligence. However, I share my reading history not out of arrogance, but so that the reader can better appreciate my feelings when a good friend recently asked me had I read Buechner. My friend, also a retired educator with whom I worked, shared with me how Buchner had influenced his teaching, faith, and life. Interested, I later typed in Frederick Buechner on the Internet search engine only to read that he had died a few days before. I read of  his peaceful death at an advanced age, but I was swept away by the tributes to and the deeply felt appreciations of such a writer/thinker that I only had not read, but one of whom I had never heard. I wondered, as I read, exactly where had I been while Frederick Buechner was being such an influencer of all kinds of folks. Feeling ignorant and a bit self-cheated, I ordered two books—the one mentioned above and my friend’s favorite, Wishful Thinking: A Theological ABC.

          To the present, I have only read the first two writers Buechner reflects on in Speak, Gerard Manley Hopkins and Mark Twain. His reflections of the writers at first encouraged me to rush on into this thinker’s words. Yet, reading a sentence such as the following one he writes to describe Hopkins cautions me: “Again and again Hopkins chooses words open to so many interpretations that, like prisms when the light touches them, they cast across the page a whole spectrum of possible meanings.” That is a sentence to chew, taste, and savor for what it says and how it says it. If you doubt Buechner’s insight, read The Windhover and then wonder at his depth of compassion that leads to  his deep understanding for Hopkins and Twain.

I look forward to reading and studying Buechner in the same manner that Abigail Adams advises to approach learning–with ardor and diligence.