Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

In the first round of the 1925 U.S. Open of golf, Bob Jones prepared to hit a wedge shot out of the 11^th hole rough. He inadvertently touched his ball with the wedge, causing it to move slightly. He penalized himself one stroke. The officials could not verify that the ball had moved, so they left the one-stroke penalty assessment up to Jones, who was adamant that his ball moved. A one-stroke penalty that no one, but Jones, had witnessed. After regulation play Jones was tied with Willie Macfarlane, and he lost the 18-hole playoff to him. When folks congratulated Jones on his honesty he replied, “You might as well congratulate me for not robbing a bank.”

In today’s climate, I think of Jones often because I read or hear of so many people wanting to glorify a person for doing his or her job, to perform the job as is in the job description. No person should be given extra applause for doing what is required or needed. That is why he or she is there in the position—to perform by overcoming obstacles and difficulties encountered in doing the prescribed work,

As a wrestling coach, I reminded my charges that iron sharpens iron, a paraphrase of Proverbs 27:17. Those three words were printed on the back of our team tee-shirts. The wrestlers understood that the best way to help a teammate become a better person and wrestler was to be a hard surface on which to sharpen. In so doing, both became better.

All cultures need heroes, folks to admire for their integrity and courage and grit. However, let’s not set the bar too low. After all, if we do we might as well congratulate someone for not robbing a bank.

By Roger Barbee

As my wife Mary Ann and  I watched the black mass move in from the northwest, we realized that the meteorologist had been correct: A large storm brewed in the eerie late afternoon quiet of a hot summer day. The black mass continued to roll over the land and the lake and soon its wind came. Each sudden and violent gust removed leaves and limbs from trees, made big sways in the tall pines, and caused the wind chimes to rattle. At times a lull came as if the wind was resting before the next blast of fierce wind. We watched, hoping that rain would come with the dark wind to bathe our dry garden. We watched and turned on lamps earlier than usual because the coming storm had  shut daylight out with its roiling mass. But soon enough our hope was fulfilled, and we saw the rain, then smelled its richness as it covered trees, shrubs, flowers, every thing.

This is my fourth week of another storm in my life. After twenty careful years of life in my wheelchair, I developed a pressure sore because, very ill with COVID, I sat in the same position on a sofa for over a day. Boom! A massive pressure sore on my tailbone and buttocks. A  pressure sore, like so many situations in life, is easy to get into, but difficult to get out of. And, like some of those things in life that, as Dr. Clarence Jordan writes, “tangle us all up”, they can be deadly. However, Mary Ann and I have treated it with diligence and respect: For the past four weeks I have been in bed on one side or the other except for three short sitting breaks each day. The sore heals, but slowly, through medical care and a releasing of any pressure.

After we ate dinner last night, we watched the storm and smelled the rain’s fresh scent. Leaving lamps lit, we went to our bed to watch a movie, a ritual begun to pass the bedtime caused by the pressure sore. During the movie the storm raged-its rain, thunder, and lightening reminding us of its presence. But after we had watched the movie and were letting the dog out, we noticed a red-orange glow in our front yard. Looking westward, we saw the sky aflame as if it and the lake were on fire. We watched nature’s show, realizing our insignificance compared to what we were seeing. Then, as the bright sky faded into the dark of night, we went to sleep. The next morning we received a photograph from our neighbor Doug in which he shared a photograph he had taken while we were watching the western sky: A double rainbow suspended in the same type of red-orange glow, but this one was  in the east sky, over our split of the lake. We had seen one but not the other.

There are many epic stories of floods that destroy ancient civilizations. However, my favorite is the story of a solitary man who built a boat while being ridiculed by his peers. However, after the flood destroyed all but what  he had taken on his boat, he is made a covenant. And as a reminder of that promise, a “bow” will appear in the clouds.

Storms bring good and bad, but I like to remember that after storms come “bows” and that is a promise in which I have faith. Like the double rainbow Doug photographed, we have been promised, and that will not be broken

By Roger Barbee

For over twenty years I have lived life with my wheelchair. I was 55 when I had the  accident that made me a T 5-6 paraplegic, and as expected and required, over those years I have adapted. Adaption is easier written than done, but with the help of family, friends, and medical professionals, I have matured into my life from a wheelchair. However, I would be dishonest if I do not confess to certain feelings—such as pining for the days when I raced everything from 400 meters to the marathon; or the ability to bound up a flight of stairs two at a time;  or my day-long hikes on The Ridgeway in England each July; or taking a walk with a loved one on a cool evening. While I learned to manage the new life, I did miss aspects of my old one and at times, I admit, to wallowing in a self-dug pity-pit. But I always remembered the words of Tom Oberdorfer, my counselor, “It’s alright to go there, just don’t stay.” So, whenever I fell into the pit I always crawled out-usually after a good wallow. However, a recent happening has changed my view of my life and what I can’t do.

I got COVID! I had had two shots and one booster, but the horrific infection made me extremely ill for three days. To breathe I sat on a sofa for over 24 hours with my feet propped in my wheelchair. When I was finally able to transfer out of the sofa onto my wheelchair, I had developed my first pressure sore-right on my tailbone. Still feeling the issues from COVID, I went to the ER to have the sore examined. Home again, my wife and I had directions and the name of a local wound-care doctor. Two weeks and two appointments later and after great care by my wife Mary Ann, the sore has lessened a bit. But like all pressure sores, it will only be cured by not applying pressure in any way, which is simple in one aspect–don’t sit. Yet how to do that when a wheelchair is my only way to move? The remedy is to lay in bed to reduce the pressure on the sore. A pile of good books and bandages and butt cream make the hours and curing go faster and better; but it represents lost hours of living as I knew them-wheeling about, living  life in my wheelchair. The pit Tom warned me of looms larger and deadlier.

However, I have concentrated on the things that I used to be able to do—all during my last twenty years. I remember how good it felt to vacuum the downstairs and screen porch and to pick-up pines cones in the front yard and to ride my stationary bike and to and to and to.

Like all good lessons learned by living, my appreciation of the many things I did just a few weeks ago is being  re-taught to me by this experience. I knew that my life was rich and full these past twenty years, but not being able to do those things just now has made them more attractive and appreciated. They become like the old English proverb that describes stolen fruit as the sweetest. There may some wisdom in that proverb because once on the Thames Towpath my friend Druin and I stopped our run to pick delicious cherries from a garden tree overhanging the towpath. We stood stuffing ourselves until a stern voice on the garden side of the wall reminded us that those were not our cherries. Correct. But they were so good.

Soon the cancelled life I led so brief a time ago will return, and I shall celebrate it by vacuuming the downstairs and picking up pinecones. Until then, however, I will read and appreciate my good care.

By Roger Barbee

Two weeks ago, if you had walked through our back garden gate, the gardenia would have made you take notice of it because its full blooming filled the garden with sweet fragrance. And over in a neighbor’s yard, a large Ligustrum would be adding to the scents of early summer. The gardenia is only three years old, but its rich green leaves and its full bright white blooms add to what was a corner of the garden before we moved the fence to the far back, and the Ligustrum’s blooming scent sent waves of sweetness across the yards.

Now all that remains are dull brown blooms on both plants. No more does a visitor smell them before seeing them. But the abelia next to the screened porch has blossomed and its small white flowers not only attract bees but sends a soft scent more subtle than the others and powerful in the way its summons the bees. The going of one leads to the arrival of another, and that is the pleasure of gardens.

Yesterday folks gathered in various ways around the world to mark the summer solstice, but I marked the beginning of the season by observing the gardenia, Ligustrum, and abelia. Their life cycle and fading blooms are my Stonehenge sunrise, my notice that another season has arrived.

By Roger Barbee

            “… for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men….But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret;…” Matthew 6:5,6 (KJV)

            There are news reports of a move in South Carolina by some state representatives to require prayer to be held in South Carolina public school classrooms. I don’t question the sincerity of any lawmaker who wishes that prayer was allowed in public schools. However, I do question that lawmaker’s knowledge of federal laws and theology and education.

            First, the easy one: The Supreme Court, for better or worse, deemed required prayer in public schools unconstitutional. Settled.

            Secondly, the verses I quote from the book of Matthew are the words of Jesus when he rebuked religious ostentation in His Sermon on the Mount. We are instructed not to make our prayers a performance for others, but a talk with His Father, a private conversation. If prayer was required in public schools, would the South Carolina government write a prayer to be used in each classroom? Would the government trust each teacher to say her own prayer? Would the prayer be required to be Christian? Could a student lead a classroom prayer? But, all these questions are already answered: any student or teacher can pray in a classroom anytime. If a student is worried about an approaching test, he can pray. Any teacher faced with an unruly student can pray to her god for guidance. Prayer, of a private and non-required kind, is allowed and practiced in classrooms all over America. Each day. Often. To require a prayer of any religion would make that type of prayer rote and trivial. Sincere prayer is private and heart-felt, not required. Honest prayer, whether of the Christian faith or some other religion, is best taught at home, where deep instruction can be given by the parents.

            And last, our teachers have more than enough to do. They do not need one more interruption to the classrooms. They are teachers of math, English, history, physics, and so many other disciplines. To burden them with one more item would not help them or our children.

By Roger Barbee

          An art dealer in Florida has been charged by federal agents with wire fraud, money laundering, and mail fraud. It seems he sold fake art works by Jean-Michel Basquiat, Andy Warhol and other well-known artists for millions of dollars. The dealer supposedly purchased one fake work by Basquiat on a website for $495 and sold it to an undercover agent for $12 million. His extensive fraud was uncovered after technology revealed the signatures on the art were false and examinations by art experts collaborated that the works were not originals. However, the dealer assured purchasers that he stood behind the work in his gallery 100 percent and that each purchase was a fabulous deal.

Forgeries have been with us, but the Internet gives the cheater easier access to those who may not have the knowledge to determine if an item is authentic.  However, what if the offering is not a concrete item like a work of art? What if the offering is a promise formed out of words from a respected community member like a teacher or religious leader? How does one not believe someone that is so revered?

In my career as a teacher of literature and writing, I would at times deliberately lie or make an outlandish claim to my students.(For instance: Romeo was too old for Juliet.)  I did this in order to teach them that a teacher was not infallible, and they should not accept as a cardinal truth everything a teacher said. In that small way, I was hoping to teach them that they were responsible for their educations. They had the text and were required to read it and draw their own conclusions based on the text.

Like teachers, religious leaders have influence, even power, over people. They can sway the way people think and act. Just as I did with Shakespeare, a religious leader can use a holy text to teach. However, what if that teaching is that all infidels should be killed, or the holy city of Jerusalem should be rid of all non-Christians. What if a religious leader taught that homosexuals deserve to lose civil rights or that only one political leader deserves a vote?

Christians have the Bible and its teachings. We can read and study the Gospels to guide us. We have the examples of Jesus. The written words of James, Paul, and other writers can instruct. We should read and study those lessons and upon hearing some “pastor” tell us that anyone not in agreement with what he or she shouts from the pulpit is to be despised and shunned, we should go to John 4 and read Jesus talking with the woman who was such an outcast that she had to go to  the village well at noon, in the heat of the day. But she, the Samaritan woman, encountered a Jewish man who spoke to her with kind words.

The Text is our expert guiding us in what we believe and how we act. That Text will reveal any forgery blabbering from a pulpit of lies and misinformation.

By Roger Barbee

The loud voices from every side that are involved in the oft referred to culture wars give me pause, and I remember the experience of my mother.

My mother was a divorced woman of six children in Kannapolis, North Carolina during the 1940’, 1950’s, and 1960’s. She hemmed washcloths in Cannon Plant #1 and attended a local Baptist church. It is that Baptist church during the 1950’s and its treatment of my mother that caused me to remember. While I was only a boy of only eight or so, I was old enough to hear adult talk and old enough to sense something was wrong.

A devout Christian, my mother took her six children to church twice each Sunday and every Wednesday night. She Believed and worked to make sure that her children Believed. The church we then attended accepted our presence in Sunday School and “preaching” and Training Union, and all else. However, my mother was told by church deacons that she would not be allowed to teach children Sunday School because she was a divorced woman. And, as one deacon strongly pointed out, the Bible taught against divorce, and it did not matter that my father was an abusive alcoholic who had deserted his wife and children. She was divorced, so no teaching children for her.

A few years after this ugliness, we moved to an in-town mill-hill house and began attending a Baptist church a few blocks from our new home. My mother confessed that she felt uncomfortable in a woman’s Sunday School class because she was the only divorced woman in the class, and she was often reminded of that either directly or indirectly. However, before long the church announced that an adult was needed to teach the children’s Sunday School and my mother stepped up.  Perhaps she was the only adult who volunteered to teach the class, but no matter, she began teaching the class and for the next fifty years she taught “her children” the Bible. When she retired from teaching the class, the church named the Children’s Sunday School wing in honor of her—the divorced woman who at one time was considered “unfit” to teach in her Baptist church.

All of this occurred over sixty years ago, and now, a divorced man, I have been a deacon and Sunday School teacher in a Baptist church. Some Baptist churches even have pastors who are divorced. There has been a cosmic shift and our culture survives. The issue of “divorcement” is not the only cultural change in these years, but it is the one I am most familiar with, and it demonstrates that things do change, and our culture can and does change as well. And we are no worse off for the cultural change.

For instance, many church attendees are quick to point out the sins of homosexuals. These church goers, while admitting “we are all sinners”, seem to condemn homosexuals because, as I am often told by church goers, “They continue their sinning life style.” Yet, the same church goers will admit  that every church is “Full of sinners”. But perhaps those sinners have a different favored sin than the homosexual– if one’s sexuality is a sin. In fact, I suggest we all have a favored sin, a breaking of a Commandment that we seem to gravitate to. Me? I’ve never met a woman that I have not liked, and I work at controlling that part of me, even at the advanced age of almost 75.  I once saw a church sign that read: “Don’t judge the other person because they sin differently than you do.” Amen to that.

What I find wrong in my mother’s ordeal with her first church and what she initially experienced at her second one is not what the Bible teaches, but how some deacons and church members interrupted its teachings. The Bible is a complex book that teaches simple truths such as “Love one another as I have loved you.”

All of this noise surrounding CRT, LGBT, BLM, and more will pass, but it will take its toll just as the “good deacons” did with my mother. But my mother knew that the battle was not about her, but one within each of the church leaders who were searching for an external enemy instead of looking inward, where the  greater threat stirred. Their names do not appear anywhere honoring their service to either chuch. But the divorced woman’s does.

By Roger Barbee

In 1955 when the body of 14-year-old Emmett Till arrived home to Chicago, the only thing that identified him was a ring. His swollen body was missing teeth, an ear was severed, and an eye hung out after he had been kidnapped, tortured, shot, wrapped in barbed wire attached to a heavy fan, and dumped into the Tallahatchie River by two white men in Money, Mississippi.

His mother, Ms. Elizabeth Till-Mobley, saw the body of her only child and made a courageous decision. She told the mortician to leave her son as he was and insisted on an open casket so that all the world could see the horrific acts committed against her son by white men.

            Now, here we are all these years later and more children and their teachers have again been brutally murdered. Young, small, precious bodies in Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas so mangled by bullets that DNA is needed to identify some of them. Mutilated like the body of Emmett Till.

            The photographs we see of the victims are ones made in happier times like when a 10-year-old holds a certificate for making his school’s honor roll. Or a photograph of a smiling teacher likely taken for the school web page. Happy faces. Clean clothes. Life at its fullest. No photographs of mutilated bodies, body parts separated from their body, blood, and gore.

            Open caskets! Awful and even grotesque when they show the result of the carnage caused  against a 75-pound body by an AR-15 rifle.

            Perhaps it is time for another brave decision such as the one made by Ms. Till.

By Roger Barbee

For five years we have endured the bumps in our driveway caused by,what we thought, were pine tree roots growing beneath the asphalt. One bump in particular was “admired” by neighbors and us as we watched it expand and begin to open at its top. It had expanded so much that, if I was not careful when driving in, my van’s frame would rub against it. However, yesterday the old driveway was removed by a skilled man using a Bobcat, and I eagerly asked him about what I suspected was a massive knot of pine tree roots heaving the asphalt. He said, “I didn’t have a bucket’s worth of roots. I’ve seen that before,” he continued, “when some little roots cause a lot of pressure in clay dirt where water collects. It’s the mix of water and clay that pushes up caused by a small root growing. Ain’t that something. Not even a bucket’s worth.”

Since that conversation with the Bobcat operator, I’ve been thinking about all the years my wife and I had adjusted to the bumps in our driveway, and how we even began referring to them as our speed bumps. We warned visitors about them because they were so large, and when we contracted for the new driveway, we hoped that the excavation did not kill any of our beloved pine trees by removing their roots. Yesterday’s conversation with the Bobcat operator calmed that worry, but the root’s reminded me of what I had known but forgotten.

The roots are a metaphor for evil. While the ones beneath the heaved-up driveway were smaller than anticipated, they had pressured the wet clay which in turn pushed against the asphalt, causing our speed bumps. They, like evil, had done their work: Slow and steady growth, often hidden from view, but persistently working to cause upheaval and damage in our lives.

By Roger Barbee

 Near my stationary bike is a bird box which is fastened to one of the 42 pines trees in our front yard. In years past the nesting box has been occupied by titmice, but this year a brown-headed nuthatch pair claimed it. The small birds are busy with their brood, and I marvel as I watch the parents come and go with morsels in their beaks. As I ride for my morning workout, I watch them and listen as they call to each other.

Yet the front yard with its many tall pine trees is not all life. After last weekend’s storm, I have found five robin hatchlings under various trees that had been blown out of their nests high in the pines. This is a yearly result of spring storms, but even after my fifth season of finding small bodies on the ground, it still saddens me. However, during such times I find that the words of Qoheleth ease the sorrow: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”

Riding and watching the nuthatches feed their hatchings, I see a robin fly into a tree under which I found one small robin body. Curiously I watch it and  try to locate its nest high in the pine tree, but I lose sight of it in the green needles. But wait, there is more life on the ground under the same tree.

A red-bellied woodpecker attacks the ground. It pecks furiously and tuffs of dirt arch into the air to land nearby. The searcher stands in one place and pecks, then hops to another spot and pecks again and again. It assaults the ground, puffs of dirt fly about, and I resolve to later inspect that postage stamp of yard under a pine tree. But as suddenly as it appeared the woodpecker leaves to search for some morsel in other earth or dead wood.

Robins. Woodpeckers. Brown-headed nuthatches. So much living wrapped in the sweet, spring fragrance of the Ligustrum across our road. From its topmost branches a mockingbird proves Atticus Finch correct, and during my morning workout I am privileged to observe so much life in the pine forest we call our front yard.