Roger Barbee

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.

By Roger Barbee

Take a moment and consider these stress-causing issues: Russia’s invasion of Ukraine; The Supreme Court leak; Abortion; Political primaries for everything from the United States Senate to county commissioner; Hunter Biden; COVID variants; A seasoned deputy aiding a criminal to escape; Personal problems that affect us all; and feel free to add to my list.

Stress! We live in a world where we are constantly told by headlines “What you need to know.” I don’t know about you, but I resent that statement and avoid reading anything in a newspaper that professes to know what I need to know. The constant clatter of print and talking head news confirms that William A. Percy was correct.

Recently I re-read his autobiography Lanterns on the Levee. While I take issue with certain parts of his story (such as his racist paternalism), his writing is exquisite and a joy to read as it is chock-full of literary allusions. Published in 1941, it is dated in a way, but like all good literature, it carries a message for us these 80 years later. For instance, in writing about his years at Harvard Law school, he tells how students during the early years of the 20^th century were restricted in having parties and social evenings. Thus, he writes, “Our chief dissipation was conversation.”  Each night at eleven after studying was finished, a coffee percolator was started in someone’s room and a night of superior talk about various topics was begun. However, Percy writes, “I wonder if this most civilized form of entertainment is fated for extinction by man’s effective mental opiate, the radio?” (italics mine)

Our world, it seems to me, is full of mental opiates: If a television is not blaring so called news that we must know, a machine pipes in unwanted music in public spaces such as airports. Many runners and walkers have the white plugs in their ears that carry music or other clatter directly to their brain. It is all, as someone observed, “A clattering of cymbals.”

Ours is not the first to have problems of a plague, wars, famine, and more. Yet, ours is the first to be able to watch these monsters as they consume us. Instead of taking months for  news to cross the Atlantic it arrives via social media immediately. That marvel causes stress like has never existed. Instead of reading about a death weeks later, we see it happen on a screen as it is played over and over. Stressful for sure, and that stress takes a toll on individuals and cultures. But what to do?

Unplug! Percy and other sages have warned us. Our parents knew of and told us of the dangers of hearing too much. Unplug from the mental opiate machines at least for a while. Stop the noise whether it be something we need to know, a game of snooker or football, a realism show that is likely pre-programed, and more. Stop the noise and sit under a tree or on a bank of a creek or anywhere that has as its “noise” the sound of nature. Let the wind going thorough a tree tell you about its trip to you or hear a bird announce its news or just sit and give yourself permission to not know what is happening in the secular world. Sit with a neighbor and hear about his or her joys. Converse with nature and the dear ones in your life.

Unplug! Even Wordsworth told us that “The world is too much with us; late and soon,”

In the end there is little that we need to know about the secular world for it, too, will pass. But we need to take care of each other and have stimulating, common discussions. After all, we were told to be good stewards of our world, and that includes each other, not just the trees, birds, and such.

By Roger Barbee

Readers often respond to the writer of an article or essay they have read. Recently one such reader wrote to a writer about an article printed in the Washington Post Magazine. Printed below is the email as shared by the writer.

                                    Hi Damon:

I like your pieces in the WP magazine but I really stumbled reading your article in tomorrow’s edition.

Specifically:

…although it ain’s a perfect analogy: ain’t? Really poor choice.

…some of them white boys: them? How about ‘those’?

You do good work; don’t try to  sound like you are still in the street.

Regards,

            The writer shares the reader’s email in which he or she rails about the use of “ain’t” and whips to death that old horse. That is a choice any of us can make, but I see that specific complaint like a charge against a windmill. However, what I find most distressing in the reader’s email is its tone and subtle racism. 

The reader has some knowledge of grammar and punctuation-the correct use of the semi-colon in the last sentence shows this, but he missed a comma in his opening sentence. However, the condescending tone and subtle racist attitude expressed in the reader’s last sentence is startling. The reader might as well have written, “You do good work, boy; don’t try to sound like you are still in the street.”  For one thing, who is the  reader to pronounce to the writer that, “You do good work;”. The writer knows that his work is good, or he wouldn’t be doing it. This clause is pure arrogance on the part of the reader because he or she assumes a superior position and passes a judgement, not an opinion on the work of the writer. But it is the veiled prejudice that steals the show. The last clause exposes the racist attitude of a reader commenting on the written words of a Black writer. The reader shows that he or she thinks that every Black writer must have, at one time, been “in the street.” In other words, if  you are Black you come from an inferior environment, even if, by now, you do good work. How is a writer to respond to such a tone and words?  Shuffle as he looks down and says, “Thank’ ya, Massa.”

But the writer, like any writer, is free to sound any way he or she wishes. However, in doing so, the writer must be willing to suffer any just and fair consequences—such as having a helpful editor make a change or changes. But a racist attack is  never warranted, and this email demonstrates another way of expressing racism, in a sly and sinister manner.

However, the writer does err in one regard. He writes in his splendid and controlled response this: “If you were better at this than I am, you would know, as I do, that the rules of grammar are mostly suggestions. Guardrails to help us corral and curate the mess in our heads into something cohesive.”

I suggest that rules—grammar or otherwise—are rules, not guidelines. In the usage of them or those, the rule concerns case; the difference between nominative and objective case. However, this rule’s distinction, like so many others in our grammar, is being lost through careless writing or editing or both. However, does it matter if the writer gets his message to the reader? Consider this example of the lowly comma and it use: “Let’s eat Grandma.” Let’s eat, Grandma.” Grammar and its cousin punctuation matter for the sole purpose to facilitate effective communication. They are rules to be followed as closely and respectfully as possible so that all readers will find the writing to be a road map to a destination or conclusion.

But the arrogant tone and subtle racism of the reader’s email far outpace the writer’s misuse of case. The use of case is the type of error which is easy to correct, but the ugly tone derived from privilege and its cousin racism is a choice, not a mistake. But unlike the mistakes we make in grammar, it lives and breathes and hurts us all like COVID.

Now, ain’t that the truth.

By Roger Barbee

Kevin’s last email to me arrived nine days ago. It followed a brief text exchange in which he admitted that his health was deteriorating because of his struggle with COVID. He died this week, but his email is still on my computer screen, not tucked away in a folder or tossed into the trash. But more on that later.

Kevin Gaghan wrestled for the Bishop Ireton teams that I coached in the early 1970’s. He was a good wrestler and placed high in every tournament he entered. Opponents may have scored more points in a match against Kevin, but none of them defeated him. But one of his matches is still remembered by his teammates, by his opponent, and by me.

Bishop McNamara was the visiting team for an afternoon dual meet. It promised to be an exciting one between two all-boy’s Catholic schools that were members of the athletic Metro League in Washington, DC.  Ireton was favored to win, but McNamara had several good wrestlers, so some exciting individual matches were anticipated. One of those was Kevin’s match against his opponent, also named Kevin. My memory of the match is that our Kevin took control and had a comfortable, but not large, lead. However, he twisted an ankle causing him much pain. He knew that his ankle was badly injured, but he told me that he wanted to continue the match because he did not want to forfeit to the McNamara wrestler. The two scrappy wrestlers continued their match, while the McNamara coach all the while screamed for his charge to “Grab the ankle, Grab the ankle”, but the McNamara Kevin won a close match without touching the injured ankle.  After the dual meet he told me that he had not wanted to beat Kevin Gaghan by taking advantage of the injured ankle, which is a testament to the character of them both—one forged ahead in the heat of adversity and the other exhibited sportsmanship.

As an adult Kevin Gaghan used the exemplary character he showed in a high school wrestling match to build a successful business. He married, shared life with his wife and two sons, and gave generously to many people and programs such as the ailing high school wrestling program that I coached after retiring. He even donated to a wrestling program here in North Carolina after I asked him for support. Kevin was a caring benefactor to a wide assortment of schools, hospitals, individuals, and programs.

The last time I saw Kevin, he had stopped to see my wife and me during a road trip he was making to see his siblings in various places, and an older brother lives in the same town as us, so he came by to share a fine afternoon before he went on to eastern North Carolina to visit one more brother before returning to his immediate family. “Just tooling around to see everybody,” he said. I admire that in Kevin, the man who took the time to visit and talk and share with loved ones.

But back to Kevin’s last email to sixteen of us. His words are italicized.

 Kevin Gaghan Thu, Apr 7, 3:37 PM (9 days ago)

The power of words!!  If you like music after seeing the video, click on the you tube link of the tenors singing halleluha (or however it is spelled)

The Palindrome Video

A palindrome reads the same backwards as forward. This video reads the exact opposite backwards as forward.  Not only does it read the opposite, the meaning is the exact opposite.

I don’t know if Kevin knew this would be his last email to folks. But in his match against the McNamara wrestler, young Kevin showed us what a wrestler should aspire to be. A few days before his death, through the email, Kevin Gaghan shared with us a message that shows what we should aspire to be. That is his life-long lesson to us.

By Roger Barbee

Today’s morning ride was a cold one which is all-too common in many springs. The sun was just clearing the spit of Lake Norman we live by, and planes busily passed overhead on their way to Charlotte Douglas International Airport. The landing traffic here is steady, but not heavy, and I enjoy watching the massive machines seemingly float across our part of the world as they glide into the airport southwest of us. The planes come in from the east at about 1,000 feet and some bank for their landing and others directly approach it, but I enjoy watching them all, especially the larger international planes which, at first glance, appear not to be moving but hovering above in the golden hued morning light. While my view of the air traffic is a relaxed one, I’m sure the workers in the airports and control stations must be hard at work to keep up with all the coming and going. So much technology and human work is involved in accomplishing what I leisurely watch on many morning rides.

But the man-made flights are not the only ones this morning. Across the street is a flock of crows, their rich blackness almost too large for the landscape. They fly from pine top to pine top while telling each other some morning news. Lower to the ground are the robins who, after having established territory, busily build nests made of mud and pine needles which are almost perfect circles.  Behind me the resident mocking bird, named Atticus, announces its presence from the holly tree while the smaller Carolina wren challenges with its own high and melodious volume.

But my attention is held by the bird box attached to a tree directly in front of me. In the past nesting seasons it has been the home of titmice; however, this year its tenants are brown-headed nuthatches or bluebirds. I can’t decide which because there is a dispute going on over who has rights to the bird box. I watch as I ride and note that the small nuthatch seems to have the upper hand because one of the pair occupies the box-its small brown head protrudes from the entry hole and its mate calls from a near-by tree. But the usually timid bluebirds are not giving up and one of them flies from the roof of the box to a tree and back again to scold the brown-headed nuthatch in the box. It is a back and forth with much bird communication between each pair and harsher notes aimed at the opposing pair. I ride and watch. Eventually the bluebirds leave, the one nuthatch remains in the box, and the other glides over from its perch on the tree to take dominion over the box as it sits on the roof.

And while I have watched this dispute in nature, planes continued their approach for landing  at the airport over thirty miles from where I ride. Certainly the speed, the size, the noise, and more features of the planes overshadow those of the crow, the mockingbird, the nuthatch, the blue bird, and the other birds in every way.  The planes provide a service as does the lake I live on with its shoreline of 520 miles. It provides power for citizens of this state, and most civic leaders and other people extol the lakes economic benefits. In 1959 Duke Power began the damming of the Catawba River just northwest of Charlotte and the flooding began–all the way to the 760-elevation line when the lake is at full pond. All this and more for progress we are told, and some of that argument has merit, but not all.

The 42 pine trees in our front yard prohibit us from having a manicured lawn like our neighbors. More than once we have been advised that, if we removed the trees, we could have an overly sculpted, sprayed, and un-natural shade of green grass. That may be true, but we then would be trading the birds, the shade in summer’s hot western sun, the butterflies, and all the other abundant life that, along with us, call this spit of land home.

I have ridden in planes. I enjoy seeing the piece of Lake Norman we live by. But most of all, I cherish the life under, in, and by the pine trees. All 42.

By Roger Barbee

Pastor Clarence Jordan showed us how.

In November 1942 he and Martin England, a Baptist missionary to Burma, placed a $2,500 down payment on a run-down farm eight miles southwest of Americus, Georgia. They named the scarred and eroded acres Koinonia Farm and began living the Sermon on the Mount as they worked to turn their purchase into a place guided by Jesus’ message in Matthew 5-7.

As a doctoral student in Greek at Louisville Seminary, Jordan did not just read the words of Jesus, but he began to use them as his guide for living each day. It was his firm  belief in those words that guided him to begin Koinonia Farm as a place for justice and equality during the days of a world war, the Ku Klux Klan, Senator Joe McCarthy, the Korean and Vietnam Wars, civil rights struggles, and more. His world, like ours, was divided. However, he remained loyal to the best sermon ever spoken and withstood attacks by the KKK and harassment by the FBI and local churches. In fact, because he brought a black man to a Christmas Eve service at his own Baptist church, the church told him not to return.

Pastor Jordan lived the words of Matthew 5:44 that tell us to love our enemies and at Koinonia Farm he showed us that it is not only possible, but better for us, to follow the Sermon on the Mount.

Koinonia Farm still operates today, and many scrumptious food items may be ordered from its website. I recommend Clarence Jordan, Essential Writings, edited by Joyce Hollyday, (Orbis publication) as a good primer on this man who showed us how to live during difficult times.

By Roger Barbee

            This last day of March 2022 arrives clothed in a delightful mix of warm, wet wrappings of flowering trees, grasses, and flowers. The dogwood trees in the back garden hold not yet fully opened blooms of their soft white petals as if not wanting to release them to onlookers. Cardinals, nuthatches, doves, Carolina Chickadees, and many more birds take residence as they build nests or hunt for food in the azaleas and grass. A small gathering of the boat-tailed grackles visit the ground beneath one of the feeders which encourages a grey squirrel to move away, but only for a moment because the grackles find the offerings lacking, so they flew away in a flush of black purple sheen towards the lake and the tall pine trees. Next to the white fence the gardenia spreads its deep green leaves which, in its time, will grace the garden with a sweetness of scent unlike any other save the Ligustrum. Next to it are the three Lyda roses which will bloom in concert with each other to add a blush of pink to all the color.

So much life in such a small space. Yes, more birds, flowers, bushes, trees, and grasses would be found in a larger space. But here, in this small back garden, a visitor can hear the wind travel through the tall pine trees near the lake and feel the brush of air as a bird flies by. The fragrance of gardenia is captured here in this air as if held for ransom, and even the scent of freshly cut grass lingers long after the mower has finished his work.

Hours later another day has passed, and the rain travels to other lands. A bright spring-blue sky hovers above and Nick the beagle puppy sleeps on one bed of pine needles. To paraphrase the town crier, “Late afternoon and all is well.”

By Roger Barbee

Death is all around us, but the death happening as I type these lowly words this early spring morning is unnecessary. It is happening because a neighbor is inconvenienced and has the power to create a patio with fire pit and grill less troubled by the roots and seed pods and leaves of a magnificent red maple tree. The man high in the bucket cuts with his chain saw and drops limbs that have taken perhaps thirty or more years to grow, and the modern machine grinds them into a mulch that will leave no history of their shade and vibrant fall colors. As Hopkins wrote of the Binsey Poplars-“Felled, all felled….” The crew of men will be gone in a few hours after removing what took years to become, but no matter-the tree, as my neighbor said, was messy and in the way. In our modern Lake Norman manner, we remove any in our way because we have the resources.

I understand that there are times that trees must be removed because, for instance, they pose a danger to a house foundation or septic system. However, it seems to me that on Isle of Pines Road, many owners are willing to cut any bush or tree that is, in their eyes, a hinderance of some sort. And, the reader may say, the tree belongs to the homeowner, and that is true, but in some way, if we are community, each tree belongs to all of us. In a community, what I do on my little postage stamp of land affects the community, and since that is true, I have an obligation to honor that commitment.

But for me, there is another commitment besides the one to my community on Isle of Pines Road. In my favorite story of creation, it is written: “And the Lord God took the man, and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and keep it.” No words such as cut, remove, destroy are here, but words that imply stewardship are.

In 1879 Hopkins wrote these words in his poem Binsey Poplars,  “ O if we but knew what we do/ When we delve or hew —/Hack and rack the growing green!”

To answer Hopkins, yes we think we know what we are doing because in our short sighted decisions, we are believing in the myth that man is in and can control.

By Roger Barbee

Having recently re-read the autobiography of Loren Eiseley, I decided to read a biography of the 20^th century eminent writer and scientist. Soon a copy of Gale Christianson’s Fox at the Wood’s Edge arrived, and I eagerly opened the package only to find an ex-library copy that the seller had not advised, so I requested a refund. Now, I own several copies of ex-library books and have no issue with them. In fact, I have read of collectors and book readers who prefer them for several reasons. However, I requested a refund because the particular copy I received had not been so advertised. The dealer refunded the money and instructed me to keep or donate the book to a charity, which is standard practice.

The book had been in the collection of the large public library system of Fresno, California, and it  had the usual stamps of all public libraries. All ex-library copies that I know of have a prominent stamp in them stating in some way that the particular book has been withdrawn or discarded. The Christianson was a bit different for on its front flyleaf page was stamped in the usual, large, black letters:   WITHDRAWN, Worn, Soiled, Obsolete.

If a librarian wishes to determine that a book is too worn and soiled to remain in the collection, I will not argue with that evaluation. Being worn and soiled is in the eyes of the observer, after all, and to make such assessments is, I think, one of the duties of a librarian. I also understand that a public library collection needs culling of its holdings and some books that are not checked out by readers occupy space that could be used for new acquisitions. So, without knowing the use history of Christianson’s biography, I must assume (ouch) that the book was seldom checked out or a duplicate, thus making it “Obsolete”.

This reflection is being written on a lap top, but I learned the keyboard in a high school typing class during the early 1960’s, using an Underwood typewriter. The first telephone I used was a rotary dial one that had finger holes corresponding to a particular number; it was dull black, plugged into a telephone line outlet, and had a receiver for talking and listening that rested in it cradle, There was a time when the television had only three channels and to change from one to another, I had to get out of my chair and turn a dial. To raise or lower a car window, I had to turn a hand crank. As a beginning teacher in 1968 I learned to make multiple copies of handouts for my students by hand-cranking a Mimeograph machine in which I had placed the master copy. In order to conduct academic research, I had to go into a library and sit at a large table to read because the “Reserved Books” could not be checked out. All of this is a short list of things in my lifetime that have, thank goodness, become obsolete because a better way or better product was thought of or invented. Innovation is a great thing, and one that I benefit from and appreciate.

However, there was a time that in any row of stores in an American town could be found a repair shop. The one I favored long ago was Appliance Fix-It, and the owner and “fixer” ,whose name I wish I could recall, would and did fix, it seemed, anything. There were also shoe repair shops where a favorite pair of shoes or other leather item, whether out of adoration or to save money, could be repaired, granting new life to a worn favorite. These fixtures of a past America have, sadly, become obsolete because it is now easier and cheaper to just discard an iron or lawn mower or lamp or any other commonly found items in and around our homes and buy a new one.

 Products and items become obsolete. I understand that, but what I can’t comprehend is the idea that a well-regarded biography of such a writer and thinker as Eiseley can and was determined to be obsolete. Worn and soiled is possible. But like the fixer and the shoe repairman such books should never be thought of as obsolete.

By Roger Barbee

When younger, I never paused long enough to re-read a book because, charged by my youthful ignorance, I felt the need to rush on in an attempt to learn as much as possible. After all, as a child from the Mill Hills of North Carolina, I was a late starter and felt a strong need to catch up;  but recently I decided, for some unknown reason,  to re-visit some of my earlier, favorite reads. The first one that I removed from my library shelf holding special books was, All the Strange Hours, The Excavation of a Life, the autobiography of Loren Eiseley.  I was not disappointed in my re-reading and found much that I had forgotten and late in the book I read  Eiseley’s words that caused me to feel better about my decision. He writes in Chapter 23, The Coming of the Giant Wasps, “I  was getting old enough to want to rethink what I had learned when I was younger,” and “I have come to believe that in the world there is nothing to explain the world.” Perhaps those words resonate because they are late in the book, as I write, but nevertheless, I felt a bit of validation, and no less from such an intellect.

Having finished Eiseley’s great book, I must choose my next re-discovery. The  paperback copy of Parallel Lives, Phyllis Rose’s grand examination of five Victorian marriages draws my attention, and I note that this copy is one purchased to replace the fine hardback that has gone the way of several books-given away or loaned to a forgetful friend. It carries no marks of mine, so it sits, waiting to be read as a new copy and studied.

However, because a sister and dear friend are engulfed in their own choice—how to live as they fight their personal cancers- I wonder if I should explore once more a well-worn hard back, Intoxicated by my Illness, which was published two years after the death of its author, Anatole Broyard. I thumb through the copy, seeing my margin tics and underlining and wonder if examining Broyard’s words will enable me better help my sister and friend? I think it may when I read this un-marked sentence of Broyard: “The important thing is the patient, not the treatment.” I may not re-read the book just now, but I’ll remember his wisdom as I try to form feeble words for her and him as poison cocktails are pumped into their bodies.

While Broyard writes of life and its shared end, Patrick Lane in What the Stones Remember, writes in this memoir how he, at the age of sixty,  spent his first sober year in his British Columbia garden. It would be easy to write that Lane’s garden is simply metaphor, but he writes, “My garden is a living place, not just a showroom for flowers and plants.” His memoir offers a poet’s prose examining life and how it should be lived. A good re-read for sure.

Yet across the room are two shelves from which several books, fiction and non-fiction, call. One that I used to teach to high school juniors and seniors is A Gathering of Old Men, by Ernest Gaines. The novel recounts the story of a sheriff who, upon arriving at the murder of a white farmer at his father’s Louisiana sugar plantation, encounters a young white girl, over a dozen old, Black men holding ancient shotguns, and a murder to solve. Over the course of the novel the reader hears the story of each of those old men that explains why he is the one who shot the young overseer. In an era when White Privilege is denied, it seems like a good time to re-visit Gaines’ searing story.

Not wanting to seem like a literary prize that publishes a long or short list, I will cease my ramble around my modest shelves. However, this musing has helped my decision. Eiseley gives good advice, and I will heed his words. I will, for the first time in my reading life, read two books simultaneously—one an old favorite and a few ones that are unexplored. Well, simultaneously is not quite correct: I will spend most of my time with the favorites and sprinkle in the new ones. After all, Eiseley warns that no explanation is to be found here, but I will enjoy the journey into what Rufus Jones describes as “the awe and the wonder of the beyond.”