Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

 This morning, as if to announce the arrival of March, the temperature invited my wife and me to have our coffee on the screen porch.

Early risers because our aged hound, Nolan, wanted to eat, we drank our first cup of coffee in the fading dark of last night. No birds called yet because of the lack of light, but a soft breeze blew through the tall pines, sending a song of early spring.

We knew the morning was a brief gift of nature because, as the weather woman had promised last night, the soft breeze soon became a harsh wind that blew in colder air. We stayed and finished our first cup of coffee, but then moved back inside to the breakfast table. Even the cats came in with us.

However brief the time had been this morning,  it was a signal of porch mornings to come. On those mornings,  my wife and I will speak softly to each other, listen for and then watch the morning’s arrival, drink coffee, all the while sharing the blessings of our home. Cats will sit on our laps, the dogs will come and go, and life on the planet earth will happen on its scale of the unexplained.

Later in the morning, when I was wrapped up in its busyness, I thought of the monk Thomas Merton and his words, “Nothing has ever been said about God that hasn’t already been said better by the wind in the pine trees” realizing of what he knew about God and man’s thirst for an explanation of all things.

By Roger Barbee

Recently I shared with a friend how I disagreed with a well-known economic expert and his views concerning the economy and pandemic. My friend listened to my rant and then told me that he knew the man, had worked with him, and admired him. While my friend valued the expert’s opinions, he admired mostly how the fellow had overcome a chemical dependency after years of struggle. All of a sudden for me, the person who had previously been only a one-dimensional figure who appeared in the news, became a human being. While I still disagreed with his economic views, I appreciated and honored his struggle and his success.

I have been thinking about that conversation and how public figures are too often judged by what we see of them in the media. While we are free, as I did, to reach conclusions about the political or other philosophies of public figures, we should be careful about forming any opinions  concerning their character.

According to my on-line etymology dictionary our word character is explained as “The meaning of Greek kharaktēr meant an “engraved mark” and was extended in Hellenistic times by metaphor to mean “a defining quality, individual feature.”

Certainly the economic adviser had led “a secret life” while suffering addiction. Perhaps like many addicts he was successful as “a functional addict” who led two lives. And when he  began battling his addiction that few folks were aware of, they would never know of his battle against it. His, like all who seek freedom from a chemical dependency, was a lonely battle, but he faced his demons and began to understand them. His character is defined by his success at overcoming his addiction, not by it.

I am not a trained economist, but like many citizens, I have opinions concerning that field and others. Fine. But opinions become dangerous when they lead to character assessment and that was my error concerning the economic adviser. I allowed my opposition to his economic views to become a judgement of the person, not just his philosophy. But when I learned of his struggles with addiction, his humanity became more important than his philosophy.

The American poet Longfellow writes, “Every heart has its secret sorrows which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad.” The economic adviser is now freed of his sadness, and I hope to free myself of cold assessments of the character of another.

By Roger Barbee

The television advertisement shows a green plant with its leaves wet from a gentle rain that is the over sound. It is a pleasant and calm scene in which the viewer is asked to do nothing  for  fifteen seconds as a circle winds down the time. The viewer is told that she can download the Calm app for free. When I pulled the Calm,com app up on my phone I read the following: “Calm is The #1 App For Mental Fitness, Designed To Help You Manage Stress. Sleep Better And Live A Happier, Healthier Life. Try Calm For Free Today.”

Wow. All that in capital letters promising a better and happier and healthier life.

Now, I did not load the app onto my phone. My decision is not against an app that promises to calm me and help me manage the stress in my life. It is not, simply put, something that would be of use because I can walk out into our front yard or back garden and be calmed by the sounds of nature.

For instance, during my morning stationary ride  on the screened porch I was gifted enough calming sights and sounds to last the day. A red-bellied woodpecker repeatedly flew from one of the dogwood trees to a feeder returning each time with a sunflower seed to crack open in a crevice of  dogwood bark; the camellia bush held its first deep red bloom in its rich, green foliage; nuthatches scampered up and down the dogwood in a search for grubs or the rights of mating; a high breeze caressed the pine tops; cawing crows glided above us all on a mission known only to them; and  much more. As I rode my five miles, I registered all of this and more because I accepted nature’s gift of the morning, knowing that I may need it later during my day as a reminder of things larger than my life and me.

Modern technologies amaze me, and I use one right now as I type this on my computer. My computer program will correct much of my poor spelling, make suggestions for grammar, and automatically store all these words in whatever folder I  choose. That is convenient and truly awe inspiring. However, all of this cannot compare with the wind passing through the high reaches of the pines or that woodpecker gliding from tree to feeder and back. No machine, “intelligent” or not, can compete with the nuthatches that live in or visit  our back garden.

Yet our culture has evolved into one that is constantly searching for and creating mechanical ways to improve our lives. Our culture is one in which many folks while exercising supply themselves with mechanical means to shut out the world as they walk, ride, or run. It is as if the sounds of nature are invasive, so a chosen man-noise is deemed better than the sounds of nature; even when exercising in an urban area nature is present but will never be heard while captured in a man-made system of noise.

Calm is good, and the Calm.com app is pleasing. Who would not like the rain falling on leaves or more. But we do not need to create it or record it. We just need to walk outside and look for it. Nature is all around for us.

By Roger Barbee

The six-board blanket chest offered by Laughlin’s Auctions appealed to my wife, Mary Ann. After the preview, she thought about the green painted chest with its flora design painted on front, and the stars, fish, and sailing ship skillfully decorating the top. She was especially captivated by the name and date around the escutcheon: Winifred Byrd, 1945. Since the auction was close to her birthday, she decided to place a bid, and after finding the perfect place for it in our morning room, she became a serious bidder. She won.

The chest would barely fit in our van, where it sat a few days until two strong men could carry it into our home. After some gentle cleaning with a damp cloth to remove years of grime, Mary Ann was pleased with her gift for herself and liked the chest even more as she studied it in our morning room; but she remained mystified by the name and date painted on the chest’s front. Perhaps it had been a gift for a young woman before her marriage.

The intrigue of the name and date swayed Mary Ann to begin a Google search. Since Byrd is an old Virginia family surname, she anticipated a quick result. As often happens, the result came quickly, but not how she had expected.

She found a 1947 birth notice of a boy born in Birmingham, Alabama, and his mother was named Winifred Byrd. Searching further, she found Winifred’s obituary which mentioned her divorce from Mr. Byrd and remarriage. That information led to an obituary for a man with Winifred’s new surname, which named a surviving brother, born in 1947, who had also changed his last name from Byrd to that of their beloved stepfather. Hoping he was related to Winifred Byrd; Mary Ann emailed him. He responded that yes, Winifred was his mother, and the man who had just died was his brother.

Robert, Winifred’s son,  told Mary Ann how his grandmother had had a blanket chest made for her two daughters. One, which had been made for his aunt, was stolen while he was a student at Auburn University. He had no knowledge of what had happened to his mother’s blanket chest until Mary Ann’s email. After their initial email exchanges, Mary Ann and he had several phone conversations.

He shared much about his life growing up and working in Birmingham, and Mary Ann told him about her maternal grandparents and their daughters who lived there before the war. Often, as dialogue on a plane or train ride reveals, two strangers discover how much they have in common. So with Robert and Mary Ann.

Too often family heirlooms are purchased by strangers because no surviving family member wants them, money disputes rattle the family, or something else rises. Fortunately for Robert, Mary Ann had won the bidding for his mother’s chest.

  Later this year Robert will come to visit,  and when he leaves Winifred’s blanket chest will return home with him.

By Roger Barbee

Many years ago when our oldest granddaughter spent a weekend with us, she took a bath one evening before bedtime. When my wife walked in to check on her, my “scrubby gloves” were lying on the floor. Asked what happened, our seven-year-old granddaughter answered, “They itched me.”  A perfectly fine, and passive, excuse for such an age. She could not accept responsibility for the gloves being on the floor, so the source of the trouble had to be those pesky gloves.

The passive voice is the bane of any serious writer and teacher of composition because it expresses a lifeless, whiney, irresponsible, and dishonest voice. While not grammatically incorrect, the subject in a passive-voiced sentence accepts no responsibility and thus is dishonest.  For example, in such a sentence as, “I was allowed to believe things that weren’t true, and I would ask questions about them and talk about them. And that is absolutely what I regret,”  is a good example of the speaker placing blame for an action onto someone or something else in her first clause. What the speaker is saying is, I was not responsible, it was not my fault.  If the sentence was uttered by a child, such as our granddaughter, it would be accepted, but that quoted sentences comes from Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene while explaining a few of her actions. What she is asking us to believe is that she was “allowed” by some force to believe and support such dangerous bunk. She lies to herself and by extension to us.

I have recently “discovered” the Nebraska philosopher and writer, H. B. Alexander who wrote during the early part of the 20^th Century. In his 1919 book, Letters to Teachers, he examines the role of public education in order for our democracy to flourish. His words, written in the shadow of the Spanish Flu Epidemic and The Great War still resonate:

 “Here [in his book] I shall but seek to give a broad conception of what qualities in the man a liberal education must cultivate. And these, I should say, are a love and understanding of truth and virtue and beauty. Love of truth means honesty with one’s self….”

Alexander’s language is archaic; however, we all could benefit from a deep understanding of his thoughts. Representative Greene is just one of many people in the public view who use passive-voiced language to sidestep honest responsibility. If we are not honest with ourselves, we cannot be honest with others, so true discourse, which is so needed now, is lost.

Think of the words Alexander uses in the above quotation: Truth. Virtue. Beauty. One may criticize those values as dated, but I suggest that they are timeless and a culture that turns from them will severely suffer.

Yet to have “a love and understanding of truth and virtue and beauty” we must begin with honesty to ourselves and others. Perhaps our public schools, including those at the secondary level, will begin teaching what we need instead of what we want. A poor diet leads to poor health.

By Roger Barbee

Yesterday my wife and I drove slowly through a line that snaked around the Bank of America Stadium in Charlotte, NC. We were there to receive our first vaccine for COVID.

As we moved slowly in the line of cars, I was able to examine the imposing stadium dominating our sight; the new buildings signifying economic growth; the re-furbished buildings that signified gentrification; the construction workers in jeans and muddy boots; cranes and lifts that dotted the skyline; the polite police who directed traffic (and answered questions of mis-guided drivers like me); many, many folks briskly moving to the walk-in clinic; and all the medical workers standing out in the cold giving out forms and shots and aid. It truly was an example of efficiency and the opportunities of  affluence.

According to its website, our health-care provider decided to use the stadium area for a shot distribution site because it is accessible to public transportation. That was, I believe, a just decision because more of us need to be vaccinated in order to be effective against this common enemy. However, in the time we spent moving along in the line, I noticed few people of color either in vehicles or walking to the walk-in clinic. But that is just my observations.

However, I question the overall availability of the vaccine, even when offered at such a convenient site as the stadium. While I applaud the Atrium management and its planning of such a successful event,  it seems we need to do more to vaccinate our more vulnerable citizens by taking the vaccine directly to the disenfranchised areas.

After we received our shot, we sat in three lines of cars, all occupants being required to wait fifteen minutes in case of any adverse reaction. Many health-care workers walked through the lines, ready to help in case of need. Signs were posted directing anyone who felt ill to honk his or her horn and put on the hazard button. Not only was care provided, but preventative care was also present and a comfort. What a good experience, still in the shadow of the stadium and the wealth and affluence it represents. Our wait-time over, we drove out, under the underpass, feeling fortunate.

Then we saw him when we stopped for the red light at Morehead Street while exiting the site. Waiting under the Mint Street Bridge, we saw him just outside our car window. He lay on his back, asleep it seemed even though it was high noon. Only his face was visible, but it was a face of hard days on the streets. His prone, invisible body, covered by filthy rags and blankets, rested on the cold concrete, suggesting his being accustomed to such a bed. Either he or someone else had placed a “Jesus Saves” sign near him. As we waited for the light to change, we looked at him, and then, unlike him and so many other disenfranchised citizens, we were given a green light to leave. Turning  right, we headed to I-77 and home.

By Roger Barbee

If you exited I-81 and drove on Stoney Creek Road towards Edinburg, VA you would be forgiven for not noticing his garage, a non-descript two-bay one with its back wall built on the bank of Stoney Creek. Its plain and  hidden presence defined him, but not his work.

For years I had lived in the Shenandoah Valley before I noticed the two-word sign stating the presence of his garage. An entrance door next to the two bay doors opened to a small, cluttered office from where he operated the garage. Opposite the door sat his desk on which his computer competed for space with parts catalogues and his ever-present coffee cup. The well-used coffee maker sat on a shelf behind him– always ready to serve anyone who asked. One or two chairs sat for the customers who wanted to wait and read the Daily, but since he was always between shop and computer, it was best to stay moving with him. That way you could gather information about the problem with you car and if you sat you may miss a comment of his about life and its challenges. For instance,  had his son not told me once when I asked where his father was, I never would have known of the prostate cancer. He was, his son told me,  just doing what must be done with another challenge of life. His strong faith gave him that type of serenity, even in the face of cancer.

He and his son worked in the bays making repairs, and the father had the confidence to hire a young high school graduate to help with the work of their busy garage. He believed in the boy, but he also trusted his son and himself to be teachers of what vocational school had left out of the boy’s education. The novice is now a mechanic, and like all of us, he benefitted from time spent with the master of engines and life.

No television was mounted on a wall, but one had a display of his grandchildren in 4-H competition at the county fair.  A hall tree in the corner behind the door was full of hanging, clean uniforms for the three workers.  However, the office was warm and inviting if you wanted function over form. It was designed for work and conversation. If you wanted glitter, you would have been better served elsewhere.

An educator, not a mechanic, I know enough of my cars to  know when I needed someone like him.  Whenever I called for an appointment, he would get me in quickly if I sounded frantic, but if not he would ask, “Can you come over at….” making it sound as if I were doing him a favor by coming by. Every time he serviced a car of mine, I went away feeling great about the work but most of all about the conversation we had shared. It also seemed that any vehicle could be repaired there. Once when I went,  a large John Deere tractor was parked in front of one of the doors. Too large to fit in one of the bays, it was being repaired outside.  But no matter, good, honest work could be performed anywhere.

He and I are almost identical ages, close to three-quarters of a century old. But I never called him by his given first name. For a multitude of reasons, Mr. seemed the best address for him. It was a deference that I made out of respect for such a Christian and craftsman. As our relationship grew, he came to accept my referring to him as Mr., and it was an unspoken understanding between two older men.

It’s been over three years since we moved from the Shenandoah Valley, but I still can see him behind his cluttered desk checking his computer to order a part. I still hear the gentleness in his voice and its belief that if he does not know how to correct a problem in a car, his son  will sort it out and find the solution. His confidence was not arrogance, but belief in something larger than himself.

A few days ago a friend told me of his being in Winchester Hospital with COVID-19. This morning, January 25, 2021 at appropriately 7 AM he died as his wife and two children  loved and comforted him.

The American poet H. B. Alexander writes, “In beauty there is an eternity of promise which death cannot subdue,…”  Mr. (Gary) Markley’s beauty and promise is a gift that COVID cannot erase.

By Roger Barbee

Our small mill house in south central North Carolina had a large kitchen that was the hub of our lives. We cooked there, watched television there, ate there, napped there, and socialized there.  It was a well-used room especially during the cold months because the clunky oil stove provided the only heat and comfort.  On the south wall was a large cabinet with a sink,  a white porcelain one that was part drainboard. Above the sink was a double window that looked over our back yard and the chinaberry tree that grew next to the back alley. I spent hours in that tree, climbing and exploring it and life–a haven of sorts for a boy. But it is that window facing south that is etched in my memory.

Not much snow fell in that part of the world, but one year during the mid 1950’s, when I was ten or twelve years old, a southern, wet snow blanketed our world. No school was one benefit, but also the snow offered a  chance to earn some money by shoveling walkways.

Putting on as much clothing as possible and grabbing some old shocks to use as gloves, I told my mother that I was going to my friend Michael’s house because he had shovels we could use to move snow. Having her approval to go, I ignored her other command: Not to let my small, white dog go with me.

Sergeant was a medium sized mixed breed. He and I travelled our town together and we played in our back yard. He was all a  growing boy needed on such a day, so off we trampled to Mike’s house only two streets away. Sergeant played as we navigated the deep snow, and Mike was outside waiting for me. Giving me a shovel, he had already gotten us our first customer at a mill house just across the street from his. Sergeant came along, but as we began shoveling the walkway, he lost interest in our labor and explored for something of more interest. Intent on the work and the excitement of earning some money, I forgot him until I heard his painful yelp. Looking down Chestnut Street, I saw his body lying in the middle of tracks in the snow left by the oil truck that had run over him.

Michael helped me put Sergeant in a small wagon of his  I pulled the wagon holding my mangled dog across ruts and slush the two long blocks to my home, all the way wishing so much for the load to lighten. As I neared our house, I looked up to see my mother standing on the porch. She did not scold me but helped me bury Sergeant behind the garage. I built a cross from discarded lumber, painted it a green, and mis-spelled his name when I wrote it in white.

The day that had begun so promising was now dark. Even the exciting and rare white snow now seemed dirty to me. All of it my fault for not obeying my mother. But the grief of that day was only the beginning. For the next two or three days, until the southern sun melted the snow, I would stand at the kitchen window looking out towards the chinaberry tree that held a cruel reminder for me: Around its base were Sergeant’s tracks in the snow telling of where he had played and the price he had paid for my disobedience and lack of responsibility.

Rick Bragg describes some memory as being like a “dark room full of razor blades.” That window is my darkened room. Even years later, if I looked out that window toward where the chinaberry tree had stood, my failure to Sergeant would arrive like a darkened room.

Just a kitchen window opened to the south, but a window revealing a costly shortcoming.

“What is Truth?”

The above question posed by Pontius Pilate to Jesus is well known and often used to counter or support various points of view.  However, when we examine the actions of Pilate concerning the “trial” of Jesus before he asked his famous question, we see that Pilate knew: The charges of the Jews against Jesus were lies and knew that Jesus was innocent; he was deeply impressed with Jesus; and that he did not want to condemn Him to death (even though he did). Pilate tries various means to remove himself from the “trial”, and in John 18:38 we are told how Pilate poses his question to Jesus “Pilate said unto him, What is truth? And when he had said this, he went out again unto the Jews and saith unto them, I find in him no fault at all.” How Pilate later acquiesced to the crowd is well known, but just examine his action after he asked that question of Jesus. John tells us that Pilate asked the question, then without waiting for an answer, he leaves Jesus to address the crowd.

Jesus’ answer to Pilate will never be known, and we can only offer conjectures. However, what I want to question is the action of Pilate as he asks such a question from a man that he admittedly admired. Also, we can only guess at why Pilate did not wait for an answer to his question. Was it his well-known arrogance? Was he cynical? John does not offer any information, but for us during the times we face today, we can draw at least one conclusion from Pilate’s action.

Truth! Yours, mine, theirs? While we may be presented with various thoughts, only one truth can exist. To quote Senator Moynihan , “You are entitled to your opinion, but not your facts.”  

As mentioned, Pilate was impressed with Jesus and looked forward to meeting him and talking with him, which he did. Conversation and debate are healthy. Questions directed to ourselves and others force reconsideration of a particular stance, and may lead to new or stronger positions. Yet, here is a Roman governor who fails to take advantage of an opportunity to learn from Jesus. Pilate asks the question but does not wait around for the answer. What did he miss? What does his exit cost us? We will never know, but we can learn from Pilate one important fact.

If we are genuine when asking a question, we will stay to hear the answer. Pilate did not, and my guess is he was using his power against Jesus, allowing his arrogance to over-ride his judgement. At that moment he was in charge and wanted all to know it. He asked an honest question and missed the answer.

Truth is an absolute. We cannot survive as Christians if we all have our individual truths. We may have different opinions, but we cannot all have our individual truth. For example, it is a list of Ten Commandments, not ten suggestions. Also, we may have opinions regarding the action of Pilate, but we cannot deny his decision to murder Jesus.

Ask questions of each other, knowing that “iron sharpens iron.” But hang around to hear the answer. It matters.

By Roger Barbee

 Here we are again! Our news is full of reviews of the past year. We have reviews of “the best” of many parts of our lives. Lists of “the best” books, movies, photographs, and more are being written about. And the end of year 2020, the one of the COVID-19 pandemic, is being rightfully celebrated more than usual. But that is not going to correct the misery of 2020.

As I type these words, two grey squirrels are in our back garden under the dogwood tree. One is under the birdfeeder searching for fallen black sunflower seeds. The other runs up the trunk of the tree, rushes down,  rolls in the mulch, sits erect, jumps about and turns somersaults, then pauses to eat a morsel before repeating its acrobatic routine. The one is acting as we expect a squirrel to act while the other’s conduct causes a mix of questions or even concern. Is the flipping squirrel rabid? Is it simply happy to be out and alive? Why is it acting in such an unusual manner while the other acts so normal? The answer is that it has parasites which are causing irritation and itch. It is trying, in its only way, to relieve its discomfort. Unfortunately, it cannot come in to our veterinarian’s hospital to have the parasites eradicated and the awful itch cured. An animal in the wild, it will continue living as it is with the parasites and their itch continuing to be a part of its life.

We are much like that squirrel with the parasites. While it is understandable that we celebrate the end of this awful year,  we will continue to live with the cause of so many of our problems such as massive deaths, a poor economy, and loss of social contacts until we fully contain  the virus. The vaccines are to be celebrated and taken when made available. However, until then we should continue to do what our school children are instructed to do. Its that simple, and it must be done, and done by all of us. If we do not, we will be like that squirrel living as best as possible with its parasites as it tries to  run, bounce, and scratch its way from them.

One of my favorite passages in the Bible is Proverbs 27:17 in which it is written that “Iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend.” That is wisdom for any person, and it seems especially good in our time. We need to sharpen each other by sharing this load we have. It is not a time to squabble and move apart. Let us be the iron that our neighbor needs instead of being the squirrel under the feeder carrying on as usual while the other suffers it misery.