Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee 

Bob Graham

Mr. Graham’s obituary was printed yesterday which is not a surprise because, as a 97-year-old Lake Norman business leader, John Robert Graham, Sr. had planned everything. The obituary told of his long marriage with Louise; the names of their five children and their families; and of his business successes. It told of his church memberships and his civic involvements and his enjoyment in playing golf.  His service in the U.S. Navy during WW II was also mentioned.

Mr. Graham and I met about five years ago when he stopped me as my wife and I were leaving a local restaurant. Noticing my wheelchair, he asked how I had been injured, and during our first of many long conversations we discovered we lived on the same street. Just like that, a friendship formed.

Over the next years Mr. Graham would stop by our house whenever his caregiver Marilyn and he ran errands. When he became less mobile and moved into an assisted living apartment, they stopped when they checked on his home. Our conversations, always on our driveway, were lively as we argued politics and religion. He would say, “Let me ask you a question.” After my answer, he would offer his explanation of why I was mistaken. Only a strong friendship can weather such discussions, and ours grew stronger and stronger after each of his visits.

But we discussed other topics. One advantage or disadvantage of meeting someone later in life is that much shared experiences are missed by both parties, but we worked to cover that lost time. Once when I asked, “Tell me about Mrs. Graham,” he settled himself into the car seat, looked up to the tallest pine trees, and said, “I miss Louise,”  as his eyes became moist. He also shared on occasion that he regretted not being much of a reader over his lifetime, and more than once he bemoaned ever having smoked cigarettes, as he became more and more dependent on a portable oxygen tank. “That was a stupid mistake,” he often pronounced.

But, most of all, I cherish Mr. Graham for his service- during WW II and afterwards. Like so many of his generation, he explained that “I did what I had to do” when after high school graduation he joined the Navy. In one of our driveway conferences he asked me what I thought of Truman’s decision to use the atomic bomb. He then shared what he and all his buddies felt about that as they shipped across the Pacific—on their way to invade Japan. “We felt bad for the Japanese,” he confessed, “but were happy for ourselves. It was awful, but we wanted to live.”

An obituary is just printed words, and none, no matter how well crafted, can capture a life. Yet Mr. Graham’s well lived life was founded on his generation’s belief in doing what was asked.  His generation has been called “the greatest,” but those mere words cannot describe their courageous responsibility.

By Roger Barbee

The World Cup needs a John Carlos and a Tommy Smith.

Football teams for seven European nations announced on November 21, 2022 that their captains will not wear LGBTQ armbands in host country Qatar. The captains for England, Wales, Belgium, Denmark, Germany, the Netherlands, and Switzerland originally intended to wear the OneLove rainbow armband to promote diversity and inclusion. Then the FIFA stepped in to threaten penalties for any captain or other player who wore the armband. The football association said in a joint statement, “We were prepared to pay fines that would normally apply to breaches of kit regulations and had a strong commitment to wearing the armband. However, we cannot put our players in the situation where they might be booked or even forced to leave the field of play. We are very frustrated by the FIFA decision which we believe is unprecedented. As national federations, we can’t put our players in a position where they could face sporting sanctions including bookings.”  But the teams promised to show support for “inclusion” in other ways.

Opposition to any displays of LGBTQ has happened off the football pitches, too. Homosexuality is a crime in Qatar, and public displays of it are heavily fought against. Some patrons report being harassed in public spaces such as streets, and others tell of having their LGBTQ hats confiscated when they tried to enter stadiums. Football fans are being asked to respect the culture of  the host country.

For the October 16, 1968, awards ceremony honoring the three medal winners in the 200-meter sprint, two young American, Black sprinters, who had won gold and bronze medals, stood and  protested world-wide racism as they accepted their Olympic medals. Tommie Smith and John Carlos wore beads and scarves to oppose lynching and black socks with no shoes to publicize poverty. During the American national anthem they each raised a black-gloved fist and bowed their heads. The American IOC immediately expelled the two college students from the Olympic village and sent them back to America where they were threatened and vilified by the public and the press. Yet their protest is still to be found in pictures and articles, and over 50 years later their act is seen as what is was—heroic.

So, the federations of seven European nations say,  “As national federations, we can’t put our players in a position where they could face sporting sanctions including bookings.” 

Those managers, coaches, and players should read about Smith and Carlos and perhaps derive some spunk from their act of bravery. After all, how bad can a booking or removal from the pitch be when compared to what LGBTQ folks experience every day.

By Roger Barbee

A beautiful poem by Roger….

Snowbirds and Deacons

                                                A white scarf,

                                                wrapped about the neck of the world,

                                                muffles all sound

                                                but for the fall

                                                of  birds’ feet;

                                                as they move

                                                like church deacons

                                                from place to spot

                                                searching for some morsel

                                                of salvation.

By Roger Barbee

                                                            Election Day, 2022

On election day morning, 2022, I went out to ride my stationary handcycle as I do most mornings. The day was warm, even in the early sunlight, and as I rode the forty-two pine trees in our front yard showered the grass, the cars, the driveway, the roof, and me with pine needles. At each puff of the morning breeze they would fall, slicing through the morning air; each a thin, three-pronged mark on the calendar, a hallmark signifying the ever-present cycling of life. I cranked the cycle, watched for walkers coming by, and thought of the day’s importance for America.

Later that day, in the early dark of standard time, my wife and I were watching the news when we both saw it—a massive, full moon appeared over our lake cove. It was not the blood moon of the night before, but a bright and reassuring symbol of eternal change, much like the pine needles of the same morning.

Pine needles. Full moons. Morning breezes. Fall sunrises. All of that I have seen during my blessed life, and I bet you have, too.  Nothing new here for you or me; yet is there something of this day for us to grab hold of like we would a glass of cold water on a hot day?

November 08, 2022 was an important day for our country because it was the day when all citizens have the privilege of voting. Think of that! Some of those who came before us died so that we could go to a polling place and voice individual opinions, and we each got to help  decide on our government. So I, and many others, carried a bit of excitement or even anxiety yesterday.

However, I offer that everything from the falling needles to the massive moon, to more not seen in yesterday’s cycle,  offers us a lesson. In his short book, the disciple James writes about life and how to live it. He asks the question: “For what is your life? It is  even a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.” (KJV)

Our government and our leaders matter. Our lives also matter and are affected by the leaders we elect on election day. But it all is but a vapor that lives briefly. To paraphrase Dr. Clarence Jordan, don’t get all tangled up. Watch the moon rise or hear the wind travel through the pine trees or follow a falling pine needle and don’t take our comings and goings too seriously.

By Roger Barbee

We all like, use, recognize, and value symbols. Every team has a symbol, usually called a mascot, and every organization has its unique symbol that conveys an idea or philosophy in a visual representation. But can a symbol be a reality or is each one destined to be just a graphic depiction of a firm, team, philosophy, or whatever?

For example, there are many types of crosses. However, the type that interests me is the Latin cross, the one derived from the Latin word crux, which means stake/cross and was an instrument of torture for the Romans.  The Latin cross is used by Christians to symbolize the Crucifixion and their belief in Christ and a representation is mounted on every Christian church steeple, will be found throughout such churches, and is worn around the neck of many Christians. It has also evolved into an ornamental piece of jewelry worn by many folk.

The Romans most likely learned the art of crucifixion from the Carthaginians, but they perfected it. It was a gruesome death caused by asphyxiation when the weight of the condemned prevented breathing. It was used as a public means of control and only the worst criminals suffered it. The Roman politician Cicero describes it as “the most cruel and hideous of tortures.”

Yet the Christian crosses seen today are neat and tidy. Their metal shines and there is no blood, sweat, excrement, or skin left on the vertical or horizontal wood pieces. I have even heard discussions in Sunday Schools centered around what method of killing would be used today that is comparable to what Jesus suffered. Can any method of execution compare to crucifixion except perhaps a lynching as done during Jim Crow?

Small, gold crosses are often worn by various folk, and when I see one adorning the neck of a person I assume that that person is a Christian, a Christ follower. No problem with that as long as the person realizes that when he or she places that tidy cross around the neck, they are cloaking themselves with Jesus Christ and that cloaking, if being sincerely done, has demands. Or, like so often done, the small, gold cross can be a symbol, making it an empty gesture.

However, a short conversation with such a wearer will reveal if the cross worn is a symbol. When a wearer speaks for discord and supports lies and is rude and espouses vile beliefs of other persons, it is likely that the cross is just a symbol. Their words and subsequent actions show that they are not true Christ followers, just opportunists who wear the cross for show. And this person likely wears the cross on the outside of clothing in such a manner that everyone can see it—a public display.

Oswald Chambers, the Scottish theologian, wrote in 1911, “The Cross is a Reality, not a symbol.” For a Christ follower, the reality of the cross on which our Savior suffered is so honest that such a believer would not make it a prop. The truth of the cross is too painful and while it must be held close and maybe used in places of worship, we must be truthful and not allow it to become a mere symbol.  In so doing it becomes about us and not Him.

By Roger Barbee

As a youth growing up in a south-central North Carolina textile town during the 1950’s, I attended a Baptist church with my siblings and mother. In that church I sang songs like “Jesus Loves Me This I Know,” was taught Bible stories such as Noah and his ark, memorized Bible verses like the 23^rd Psalm, and was taught about the Ten Commandments. Some of the lessons I took away from those Sunday School classes and sermons have butted heads with my adult reading and learning. For instance, I was taught that Jesus worked as a carpenter in his father’s shop when in fact both were most likely skilled handymen who were competent workers in several areas of building. Another misconception that I have lived with concerns the 3^rd Commandment, the one about taking the Lord’s name in vain. For a variety of reasons, mostly my own ignorance, I have always viewed the breaking of this rule as a verbal one, such as the all-too popular exclamation, “Oh, my God…,” or when President #45 repeated three times the words GD in a North Carolina speech. A recent reading of Pastor Clarence Jordan showed how wrong I have been.

If you are unfamiliar with the writing of Pastor Jordan, I caution you. If you read a collection of his writings, such as The Inconvenient Gospel, your understandings of Christian doctrine likely will be confronted. A Christian scholar of Greek who lived The Sermon on the Mount, Dr. Jordan will challenge any staid Christian learning you may carry with you. So when I began reading the new collection of his speeches, I noticed one chapter titled The Ten Commandments and thought that I may as well skip that chapter because I knew them; not in order mind you, but I knew that they were commands, not suggestions, and I tried to obey each one. To paraphrase: Oh, ye of little understanding.

This chapter, like each one, is actually a speech given by Pastor Jordan. The Ten Commandments is one he gave at Goshen College in May 1965, in which he concentrates on the commands concerning our relationship with God, so only the first four are discussed; but in his explication of number 3, Pastor Jordan rattles my shallow understanding because he shows how actions, not just words, can take the Lord’s name in vain.

Pastor Jordan says, “A person who has never come within the Christian fold can’t take the name of Christ in vain. He’s never taken it. A Buddhist can’t take the name of Christ in vain,  no matter what one says. Only those who come within the church, who take on the name of Christ, can take his name in vain.”

If Pastor Jordan is correct, and I think he is, every Christ follower becomes bound to keep the name Christ clean. Keeping the name of our Lord above reproach means that we are not free to express our anger at that other driver by flipping her off. Taking on the mantle of Christ means that we cannot cast a vote for a person who tells lie after lie. Becoming a Christ follower means that we must actively refute any combining of our religion with our country. If we are serious about the 3^rd Commandment then we will shelter the sojourners. Being a Christ follower demands that I support justice not injustice. Wearing that name requires me to love not hate.

I took on the name of Christ when I was baptized and now realize the enormity of that decision. Words, like all I was taught in that Baptist church, are nice. But actions, as St. Paul writes, are what matter and our acts show how serious we are about being a Christ follower.

By Roger Barbee

Old Wrestlers

Soon following our move to Lake Norman  five years ago, my wife Mary Ann looked for a representative for a particular beauty product she used. Scanning a long list of saleswomen, she randomly chose one and called her. After their long conversation had finished, Mary Ann came to the library to tell me how pleasant Terri the saleswoman was and how much she looked forward to working with her. It was then that her phone rang, and Terri asked, “Did you say your husband’s name was Roger?”

In 1823 the English Romantic poet, Lord Byron, wrote his poem, Don Juan, in which he writes: “‘ Tis strange – but true; for truth is always strange; /Stranger than fiction; if it could be told,…” Over the years many other writers have expressed the same idea in various words, but no matter what version is written, all readers eventually learn the truth of Byron’s words.

There it was for me: Strange but True;  Life not Fiction.  The husband of Terri and I had wrestled against each other in high school. Mike wrestled for Mooresville High School, and I for A.L. Brown in Kannapolis. We competed in the same weight class for two years over fifty years ago and now we meet again, just not on a wrestling mat.

We four had the obligatory lunch to meet and talk and explore. Mike and I then continued sharing lunches, coffee in my shop, and he guided me around our new home, Lake Norman, which he knew well because his career was with the power company that built the Lake.  We soon discovered that we had much in common.: Both of our hometowns had been textile towns when we were wrestling against each other; our parents had worked in the mills; we lived in mill houses, and both of those houses are still family occupied. So much, besides wrestling, shared.

Each week he would call and ask, “Want a coffee?” then in a few minutes he would appear with a soda for himself and the promised coffee for me. Each weekly visit found Mike helping me with some project in the yard or my shop. He is most responsible for the deck that expanded my small shop– giving me much needed work space. A trained engineer, he made certain it was correct and safe. Exact, even. He would rake the abundant pine needles fallen from the 42 pine trees in our yard to use for mulch in his gardens.  Our weekly visit often included lunch, and when we ate at his favorite fast-food eatery, he would pull a rash of coupons from a pocket before paying and say, “A poor man spends money like he is rich, but a rich man spends it like he is poor.”  Then as we ate, some finer points of theology or politics would be discussed. I will always remember how he once looked at me during one of these “discussions” and asked, “Are you that naïve?”

When I work with a project on the deck that Mike more or less built or move in my wheelchair around the yard gleaning pine cones, I see his presence. The bluebird nesting-box with the red roof still graces the pine tree where he fastened it after I “mentioned” to him how it needed to be there. When I admired a long row of irises in a neighbor’s yard, I asked Mike one day as we returned from a road trip to knock on the unreachable (for my wheelchair) door to inquire if I could have some. The kind, elderly lady must of approved of Mike because she gave me permission to take any irises I wanted, and now next to the back garden gate is a small, varied-colored growth of purple irises that Mike and I planted; and, like our friendship, it grows and thickens and blooms.

Both our lives, like all lives, have had their dips and twists and failures and mountaintops. But for two boys from the mill hills of small, textile towns, we have been blessed and have done well. And as I share life with Mike long after our competitive days, I appreciate more and more the odd, interesting, and fulfilling paths that we all travel, whether planned or not. Mary Ann and I moved to Lake Norman not knowing that the “Stranger than fiction” of Byron would happen, and that a friendship would be forged out of a time long ago when two scrappy, mill-hill boys competed against each other. Byron also writes that “…truth is always strange.”  He’s right, of course, but not always in the way it may appear. It’s not strange that Mike and I respected each other as wrestlers. Nor is it strange that there is something deeper now.

By Roger Barbee

The other morning I was scratching the grey-haired head of Nolan, my wife’s hound dog who found her twelve years ago at the county animal shelter. I  talked to him as we humans like to do and scratched his head and behind his large hound dog ears, and something about the time caused me to remember Fred, a cocker type black dog that I found wounded under the house in which I lived while a sophomore in college. He had been hit by a car and his left back leg was damaged. After coaxing him out from under the house, I took him  to a local veterinarian who repaired the long-ago damaged leg as best as possible. However, for the rest of his life Fred walked with a distinctive limp, but his damaged leg never kept him from living a full, rich, and loving life. As I remember, I kept him for the rest of that school year, and he went home with me for the summer. After those few months living with my younger sister and mother, he decided not to return to the college, but to stay with them and live their way. While he and I shared times together when I came  home on vacations after that, he was now their dog, and when I  left my hometown to begin a career, he remained where he had chosen to be. So, when I thought of him on that recent morning, I  asked my sister to fill in the gaps of his life with them.

“You know,” she said, “after you went back to school, Fred became my dog. Yes, he and mother liked each other, but until I enrolled in Western Carolina, he was mine. But, after I went to college, he and mother formed a special bond because they both were now alone. She worked the second shift then, but they shared each day, and he stayed awake until she got home after her shift in the mill. He would ride with us when she drove me back to Western, and  when he heard the mailman step  onto the porch, he thought it was me coming home for a visit and would run to the front door. But, the most remarkable thing about mother and Fred was his leaving.

“He was not blind, but he could see only shapes. For instance, often he would mistake the white bathtub for the storm-glassed door and wanting out, he  would  walk into it, mistaking the white porcelain for the light of the door. Like us all, he aged, and mother sensed that his life was ending. For three nights she stayed home from work, but eventually had to return to her shift. But each night of that time, when she got home, she would sit on the floor and hold him  in her lap, they loving each other as they had for their years. But, he grew worse, and one morning when she let him out the back door, he would  pause on each step and look back towards her, then step to the next and look back. Finally, out of steps, he looked back one last time to her, hearing her tell him  it was okay,  before he crawled under those steps to die. Later that morning she called the mill refuge department telling the man who answered how there was a dead dog under her back steps. Could he come and remove it?

“You may not understand, brother, but I see mother’s act of letting her beloved Fred go the way he wanted as a courageous and loving act. As she had always done in her life, mother knew that she had done her best with Fred over the years and even now, so she had no regrets. He wanted to go his way, and she let him, no matter her pain with his choice.

“That’s what happened to Fred, and I hope when Nolan’s time comes, he will be given as much grace as was Fred. No dog’s last day should be his worse.”

By Roger Barbee

Mill Workers

                                    They emerge from the mist of cotton spun,

                                    pale cheeked, hungry eyed souls staring ahead.

                                    Spent men in mended bibs and misshaped shoes

                                    rushing from what was, not to what should be,

                                    followed by women in worn-thin dresses,

                                    too tired to rush for what waited at home.

                                    All carry the burden of too little

                                    and the responsibility of too much

                                    as they trudge from their lint-filled stations

                                    only to return in two-thirds of day

                                    to burden the owner’s load like his mule,

                                    each breath filled with fibers of work and death.

By Roger Barbee

We all have ways that we remember dear folks who have died: Photographs of the deceased may sit on a piece of furniture or shelf or hang from a wall;  a cut flower or other small object may be placed in a book; a plant may occupy a place in a garden; the ways to remember someone are only limited by the griever’s need and imagination.

Yesterday I heard of a Carolyn’s death, and the person sharing that news asked that well-used question/statement, “You know Donnie (her husband) died from COVID this past January?, a full eight month ago. Not much news from the Valley reaches us since we moved to Lake Norman five years ago, but some does, just not news of his dying. So when I was told of his death, I went to my shop and opened a particular drawer just to check. The bone with a place where a small piece had been cut away was still there. I held the porkchop bone in my hand and remembered.

Donnie and I met when my wife and I began attending Antioch Church of the Brethren. Over time I learned much about Donnie, such as his devotion to his family, but before long I was also exposed to his musical gifts. I don’t think he could read music, but he sure could play and sing it, especially his fiddle and mandolin. Once he asked me if I could  help him with some repairs with his violin because he had been told that I worked with wood. I told him that while I had a small woodshop, I was in no way a luthier. He said that didn’t matter, and we agreed on a day for him to come to our house.

He came early on the chosen day, and he left after lunch, but before supper. The pace of the  day was easy as we talked, getting to know one another better, and he showed me a few soft repairs that he wanted to do on his violin. I honestly don’t remember the repairs we made, but he guided me and walked me through each. At best, they were cosmetic ones because I was not qualified to do any major repairs to such an instrument.  But I vividly remember the sound post.

We had shared lunch, talked a great deal, done a bit of the repairs when Donnie said, “Now we need a sound post.” I asked what that was, and he explained the sound post, its function, and showed me where it was to go. He looked around my shop and commented that he saw lots of wood, but did I have any bone because bone was best for that part of a violin. I motioned to the large yard outside the double shop doors and said, “We have three hounds, there must be a bone out there somewhere.” Donnie walked out to the yard and started looking. Soon he returned with a pork chop bone and said,  “This’ll work.”

I cleaned the bone and under his patient guidance I cut a piece from it to his specifications. We then inserted the bone sound post,  and he picked up his fiddle and tuned it.

Most days in my shop were good ones, but that day was one of the best as I learned about violins. But best of all was that a new friendship was formed, and Donnie picked up his violin, saying, “Let’s see how we did.”

My shop was just a wood shop, but for the next few minutes it was a grand concert hall as Donnie played his fiddle. Few songs have seldom sounded so sweet.