Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

                        Not too many evenings ago, Mary Ann and I went on a walk through our neighborhood. After talking with Brenda, whose planting we interrupted, we passed the corner where the Isle of Pines sign is. Mary Ann pointed to a huge, overgrown bush that occupied all the space behind and around the stone sign. Asking me what it was, I looked at its dark, green leaves that shone in the waning sun and told her that it looked like a Ligustrum or privet, but its size suggested something else. I had to admit not knowing what the large bush was for certain, but that I could only wager an educated guess.

                        I have been reading Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis and in one latter chapter he writes about our duality—what we are and what we do. He writes, “Surely what pops out before the man has time to put on a disguise is the truth?” If I understand Lewis correctly, he argues that as we mature in our Christian faith, we come to realize that, while we can seemingly manage our outward actions and appearances, only God can change our interior-our core. If, he argues, “what we do matters chiefly as evidence of what we are,” even our good actions, then we need to surrender ourselves to God because it is He who does everything. In Proverbs 16:2, Solomon writes, “All the ways of a man are clean in his own eyes; but the Lord weigheth the spirits.”

                        For the past few days, especially in the early mornings and late evenings, we have smelled a delightful scent of May’s madness, when the world is bursting with vigor and new life. It is a marvelous time for living, and Mary Ann and I have rejoiced in the blessings of this season. However, we could not find the source of the delightful scent. Mary Ann even walked from bush to flower to bush in our garden to find the source, but no success until her walk to the paper box this morning. Coming into the house, she announced, “It’s the privet bush across the road!” When I went out to ride my stationary bike I looked to see it full of white clusters that confirmed part of its duality.

                        Created by God, the Ligustrum is like mankind. It is a plant that is, but also a plant that does.  When I looked at it those days ago, its outward characteristics suggested what it was and could be, but only until it produced its aromatic blooms did its true self emerge. With its blooming, a good thing, its does (a verb) revealed its is (a noun). Now, we have free will, unlike other creations of His, but we can follow His will if we choose That way and not ours.

By Roger Barbee

Yesterday, the first Tuesday of May 2023, was the last lunch date that Mary Ann and I would share with the A.L. Brown class of 1964. We began attending the monthly gatherings six years ago when we returned to North Carolina, but the Wonders had been sharing food and friendship long before our joining. Under the leadership of Gail, about two dozen high school classmates and some spouses arrive in China Grove at noon once a month and gather round a long table to talk, listen, share, and remember.

The word used for these lunches-gather- is chosen carefully. The folks do not meet because to meet implies an order or an agenda. They do not assemble because to assemble has the connotation of purpose or intent. The folks gather, much like a flock or herd does, and for some of the same reasons.

Yesterday as I drove us along state Route 152 towards China Grove, I commented to Mary Ann on how the world had suddenly come alive and how fresh and green the earth was. The bright green of spring complimented the blue of sky. It was a wonderful time to be alive and I looked forward to the last lunch. Over my many years of springs and summers and falls, I have glanced back and wondered about my “last” of some things. I vividly remember my last marathon in Big Sur but can’t find in my memory my last training run.  Was it a long one, a short, easy one, or a workout on a track, I wonder. While I know the facts about many of my classes I instructed, I have no knowledge of the last class I taught. But I hope it was a good one for my students and for me.  It seems as if certain events important in my life were not marked in my memory, and while not a monumental part of my life, I ponder that and wonder why I have no memory of certain times in my life. I surmise that I did not mark some of those “lasts” because I did not know it was the last one of any number of activities.

But yesterday, May 02, 2023 was, in a way, a significant day because I was ready to, as much as possible, mark the lunch gathering, cutting it into my memory much like a stonemason scores a stone in order to shape it for something bigger. And this last luncheon gathering was larger than food, news, laughter, and friendships.

As I sat waiting for our places to be readied, I watched as classmates arrived in the familiar waiting room. One came using his cane; one’s wheelchair pushed by a spouse; one when asked about his gleaming Corvette that we all watched him park said, “It’s just a Chevrolet”; most walking with purpose and varying paunches of weight that long since had become a permanent resident of the bodies; and all chattering like members of a flock just happy to be present with others of their kind. It was a gathering that supported the words of Dickens in A Tale of Two Cities, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.” As I watched my classmates, I saw a tide of humanity with the range of human experiences mentioned by Dickens. Everything was present in that waiting room, but they all as individuals and as a gathering had persisted and will persevere against things to come.

Our long table ready, we entered and laughed and listened and shared and ate and remembered those absent and those no longer able to attend. “It was the best of times….”

By Roger Barbee

Moving is a knot of conflict.

Six years ago my wife and I moved from the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia to Lake Norman in North Carolina. Despite being only a five-hour drive south, our new home on LKN to be our la was thought to be our last, but as a thought may do, it dissolved into change. Now for various reasons we are moving back to the community we left.

Years ago in one of my frequent phone chats with my mother, she said, “It’s already Wednesday.” Then in my forties, I thought her remark just one more of an elderly person who lived alone. Now, about the age she was when she spoke those words, I see what she understood and shared with me in her way.

I remember Saturday mornings or other bits of days that seemed to be made of eternal time. However, those hours-long packages did not bore but were, instead, full of activity and life, and each was wrapped in one long envelope of a time slot that appeared not to move but when it did, it moved like the waters of a wide river and just rolled along. The foolish lament uttered by all children, “There’s nothing to do,” tells how the young and unknowing view time and its passing. The youthful, and not just children, should, because of their age, see a long and wide horizon of time packed with opportunities and possibilities; and I, a 76-year-old man, should see my horizon narrowed by my years. That is not, by itself, bad, but is just the reality of having more in the rear-view mirror than through the windshield.

So our return move is one looking forward through that windshield because we are going to a community in which we lived for eleven years. It is one of friends; it is one closer to grown children and older grandchildren; it is one of our previous church; it is one of home.

But our LKN house is all of the above, too. It, too, is one of our church. It, too, is one of friends. It, too, is one close to family. It, too, is one of home. During our six years on Isle of Pines we have formed friendships, have shared monthly lunch with high school friends, have received wonderful and warm medical care, have worshiped in a great church, have created flower gardens, and have witnessed many beautiful sunrises over our slice of LKN.  The years have not dragged but have been a rich, blessed bundle of time.

And there lies the knot of conflict.

For the past few weeks, after I cleaned out my workshop by giving away or selling its contents, I have emotionally worked to separate myself from parts of this life, such as the forest of forty-two pine trees that is our front yard. Sure, they are just trees for strangers, but for me they are part of our home and home for a variety of animal life.  A separation also had to be made for the small back garden and our view of the lake, but that is easier because we will have an open view of sunrises over Massanutten Mountain and much space for planting flowers and bushes. But it is still an emotional separation that requires time.

In his essay about Time in This I Believe, An A to Z of Life, Carlos Fuentes writes, “The past occurs today, when we remember. And the future occurs today, too, when we desire.”

So as I marvel at the blooming purple irises next to our back garden gate, I remember how my friend Mike helped me plant them; but I am also planning where I will plant them next to one of the back garden gates of our new Valley home. Caught in that present time of Fuentes I remember, and I desire. One pulls the other pushes. Both are part of my present time and of my conflict, and I realize that “It’s already Wednesday.”

By Roger Barbee

            My mother years ago told me about the little boy who at times would not be in his bed when she awoke. Searching for him, she would sometimes find him sitting on the small, front porch stoop of the house at 709 Applewood Street, and sometimes he would be in the large, cool, hand-dug, dirt cellar playing. Once, he was nowhere to be found and in a panic she looked up and down streets, then walked to a small knoll called Red Hill where she saw his tow-head peeking above the red clay. She described him as the only child of hers who would get out of bed to watch the sun rise or the morning to come or to take a walk in the first cool of the day.

            Each of us has an internal rhythm clock. I’ve had friends who would not sleep past seven in a morning if they could and others who never saw a sunrise unless during an emergency. Some people sleep behind heavy curtains during daylight and some are asleep by the darkening of day. Of course, some of us are forced to adjust our internal clocks by our work. While technology has altered the hours we can profitably work, many occupations, such as agriculture, are still mostly controlled by daylight hours and what can be accomplished during that time. Yet, since Thomas Edison, our work hours have been expanded and productivity can be had continuously, if the machines function properly. While in college, I worked summer jobs in Cannon Mills, in weave rooms three or five.  One summer I worked the 2^nd shift, 3-11 P.M., and for two summers I worked the 3^rd shift, from 11 P.M.-7 A.M., all from the benefit of Thomas Edison and the refinements of his invention. I recall my angst I felt because of the hours of that 2^nd shift when I washed long, florescent bulbs from weave room 3 with Ron, a newly graduated classmate of mine. The pain from the 3-11 shift was caused because the work forced me to miss the night activities of my small town. I was missing time to hang-out at the What-A-Burger # 5 and possibly see the then-flame of my life, Elaine. The man-forced hours on day’s activities continued to interfere with my internal rhythm when I went to college and was assigned an 8 A.M. English class three days a week.  Gasp! However, the professor, Mrs. Lewis, who we affectionally called “The Blond Bomber”, would send a classmate for me when I overslept. But, any early morning class for the next three years I viewed as unfair, as only the immature can reason.  My roommate and best friend from those days, Charlie, convinced me that any sleep after first sleep, was a waste of time that could be better spent in other activities, but I can’t remember him attending any early morning classes.

            In At Day’s Close, A. Roger Ekirch, examines “the history of nighttime in Western society before the advent of the  Industrial Revolution.” He keenly shows how the coming of lights, from lanterns to gas lights to vast electric bulbs changed our activities. Ekrich quotes Edison’s dictum, “Put an undeveloped human being into an environment where there is artificial light and he will improve.” We have put most of the human race in an environment of artificial light, and in so many ways that has been an improvement. One advantage I am aware of is illustrated by my friend Jay. When he was a young, single and struggling father of two small boys, he took advantage of the local Food Lion grocery story being open twenty-four hours a day. Because of the store’s schedule, he could grocery shop at 3 or 4 A.M. while his boys slept in their secured home. Colleges offer courses through long-distance learning (an oxymoron for sure) so a student may work at her or his own preferred schedule, which can be a great advantage for full-time workers or busy parents. And, of course, Edison’s dictum is in ways supported by our improved quality of life and productivity.

            However, is it all good? Is the culture produced by artificial light beneficial? We now live in a time when the Milky Way in all its grandeur can’t be seen by one-third of America’s children. We now live in a culture that proudly exclaims “24/7” announcing that our activities are no longer controlled by the cycle of light and dark. We now live in a society that has altered the age-old patterns of night-time migrating birds. We now live in a mind-set that tells us we now are above the words, “darkness was upon the face of the deep… And God said, let there be light.” One does not need to be a Christian to realize that if we lose our natural rhythms, we lose part of ourselves, our being. The dark is a time for rest from the labors of the light. We need both. We are in danger of losing, as Marilynne Robinson writes, our “spangled heavens” because we can seldom see them in all their glory.

            The young boy my mother told me about has now re-cycled to his old rhythm of being an “early bird,” who then was described by a relative as going to bed with the chickens and getting up with the rooster.  I know because he is I.

By Roger Barbee

Going out our front door, my wife encountered the rat snake on our stoop, at the hinge side of our entrance. She, being an admirer of snakes, quietly closed the door and came to share his presence with me. Every muscle under its black skin was tense from her presence, and there seemed to be a bulge in his middle that suggested a recent meal. We watch it move across our threshold and climb a corner of our house.

Next to the front door in a corner is a plant stand holding a bright red geranium. It is such a well-tended and full plant that a pair of Carolina wrens have taken residency of it. But the presence of the rat snake brought them out immediately and a Savannah sparrow helped as it held a position near the plant like a Kestrel hunting over a field. One of the wrens held a morsel in its beak and darted near the nest then out of reach. The other flew in circles above the scene, and the snake held its ground in the corner of our house. My wife and I, believers in the rules of nature, left the scene, knowing that “Nature’s beautiful way” would prevail. But as I  went inside our house, I was hopeful for the wrens and that the rat snake was just passing through.

As much as my wife and I  enjoy our garden, many pine trees, and the birds and other animals that share them with us, we accept death as part of this life. We realize that we will sometimes find a fledgling that has fallen from its nest high in one of our pine trees—especially after a storm. Some plants that we hope to see bloom do not do well and die or just limp along like the clematis planted two years ago. The bright and cheerful winter pansies will wilt under the June sun. But no matter of all the lessons I have learned in the garden, I wanted the wrens’ nest to remain intact.

For the remainder of the day after the snake appeared, I would wander out to the front door area. I stayed far away but best positioned myself to see if the snake was in the plant. I did not see or hear the birds, nor did I see the snake in the plant or anywhere in our yard. Because of the lack of animals, I assumed that the nest had been violated, the snake and wrens leaving it to compost and feed the geranium; another death/life cycle in a garden. Our front entrance held the silence of a grave.

Gardens can be plotted on paper or in the brain, with the location of various plants thought out for a variety of reasons. Plants can be planted, nourished, and even pampered. Most will thrive, some will not. However, the outcome of the planned garden’s flowering will offer a home to a variety of animals. Most, like the birds, will be seen and heard. Some, like the snakes, will not be seen often. But all will be present and contributors to their local ecology.

This morning when I went to the front yard to ride my stationary handcycle, I was thinking of other things as I turned the corner from our back garden. But regardless of my other thoughts, the notes of the Carolina wren sitting on the back of a garden chair near our front door cheered my spirits. The pair were here. The loud notes announced their territorial presence.

I did not venture toward our front door area, but paused and listened to the morning concert of one small bird telling the world that this morning it was here like its ancestors and for the moment, what else mattered?

By Roger Barbee

Palm Sunday on Lake Norman

The appearance of the morning from inside belied the truth of this Palm Sunday, the last in our Lake Norman home. Before letting the dog out for his morning romp, I had seen the intense sunrise held in a blue sky that lit the white dogwood petals; but upon opening the door I was reminded of Eliot’s words about April.

The morning held not a spring chill but instead a sharp coldness that speaks to the falsity in the naming of seasons. Spring. Easter. Solstice. Passover. Full moon. All suggest an end to cold months and the emergence of blossoms and buds and new life. But nature does not work that way, on a paper schedule created by man. Instead, nature wanes, its seasonal faces fading smaller then growing larger, never remaining the same during its transition from one season to the other. But we know that it will change, even when jolted by the cold upon opening a door for a thirteen-inch beagle to venture out.

The cold of this morning quickly drove me back inside, and I left the beagle on his own to navigate the day’s arrival. However, before long he clawed at the screen door, announcing both his dissatisfaction with the spring morning and his empty stomach. Eating breakfast, I watched the day come; he watched my toast, each of us wanting what will only come in small bits. His want is filled before mine because I share tidbits of my peanut buttered toast, but I will have to wait until early afternoon for the rawness of the day to fade.

It is not that the morning was so cold, but that the sight of blooming dogwoods and azaleas bursting in spring arrival and so many more signs of newness deceive us into thinking that warmth is here. Some folks, as I did above, will describe such a morning as “raw”, but it is not. Raw is a wet January day that carries a wind; the morning I ventured out into is only a surprise to the system, but one that will be gone in a day or less. By calling such a day as “raw” it is almost as if we are blaming the weather for not meeting our selfish expectations.

However, the day did change as anticipated and by early afternoon the sun had heated our patch of earth. More birdlife glided onto and under the three feeders and would perch on one of the three birdbaths for a drink or bath. The boattailed grackles dominated the limbs of the middle dogwood tree, their blackish and purple plumage gleaming in the midst of white petals. Some returning brown thrashers ate dropped sunflower seeds and picked dried grass for their nests. And smaller birds like finches, brown-headed nuthatches, and Carolina chickadees milled on the sidelines waiting their turn. And the beagle went forth into his garden to chase squirrels and then nap on the warm pine straw next to the brown St. Francis of Assisi statue. 

In 1922 when The Waste Land  was first published, the horrors and destruction of WW I were still fresh memories, and Eliot begins the poem with “April is the cruellest month, breeding/Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing/Memory and desire, stirring/Dull roots with spring rain.” While Eliot was describing the aftermath of “the war to end all wars,” his use of April is perfect because it is the month of breeding and mixing and stirring of rebirth. Yet, it can also have raw, freezing days and wet snows and too much rain. It is unpredictable; thus the poet sees it as the cruelest because it has the capacity to tease us.

Palm Sunday 2023, over one hundred years after The Great War that redefined modern life. But the earth, here in our back garden and elsewhere, still breeds and mixes and stirs winter dullness to fresh life on its schedule, not man’s. And in spite of our destruction across our only planet, we await, and even seem to expect this miracle each year. Like the Man who rose from the dead all those years ago.

By Roger Barbee

Last night’s wind left dogwood blossoms covering the walkway of our back garden. When I exited the screen porch, I tread on a blanket of still-white petals from the tree next to the walkway. None of the other dogwood trees had lost their petals, and this one particular tree still had many of them left on its limbs, but for whatever reason, it had showered a spring dusting that caused me to think about death. Especially the death that Christians celebrate this time of the year.

Crucifixion most likely began with the Assyrians and Babylonians who tied their victims to a tree or post, leaving their feet to dangle. The Romans, after learning of the punishment during the Punic Wars,  began using crosses to perfect the punishment. The Roman Empire used it especially in the Holy Land, and in 4 B.C E. the Roman general Varus crucified 2,000 Jews, and the historian Josephus writes that there were mass crucifixions during the first century A.C.E.

 The victim was scourged, forced to carry the horizontal beam to the upright post, stripped, then either tied or nailed through the wrist to the cross beam before it was attached to the upright post. The victim’s name and crime was posted above his or her head. It was a slow, painful, and public death. Viewed as a shameful way of death, it was reserved for only the worst of criminals, and no Roman citizen would be executed in this manner.

Christians wear crosses, churches attach them to high steeples, and the symbol is used in a myriad of other ways that represent our belief. Yet, the crosses we use are sanitized images of what was used to kill. The Christian crosses have no representation of blood, mucus, pieces of torn flesh, urine, feces, or hair. Nothing that is evident from such a brutal death is on any part of the gold cross worn around the neck of many Christians or on the silver crosses that are present in all Christian churches. They are pristine, and I suggest that is where we delude ourselves concerning His death.

Through our art, music, architecture, jewelry, and more, we have created a false image of what His death was. While we read and say the words of it, we deny its reality by our accepted images of what His execution was. What I am suggesting is that we can be honest of its brutality by our language of His ordeal and the images we use for it. Each of us, for instance, can discard the neat, golden cross worn around our necks and wear a small, rough, and irregular wooden one that would be more representative of the cross on which our Savior tasted death for us. I appreciate that houses of worship will not and perhaps can not remove their crosses. But we individual Christians can make a small change to remind us of His death on a tree and the brutal pain He endured.

By Roger Barbee

As an amateur watcher and feeder of birds, I have had my disagreements with squirrels, the rodents that many folks, unlike me, enjoy. However, after years of battle I have reached a reluctant peace with the varmints. Our bird feeders are as much “squirrel proof” as possible, and I begrudge any squirrel the seeds on the ground under the feeders. A tree rodent, in my view, the squirrels have their place in nature. Just not in my garden hogging the bird seed.

But last evening in the back garden was special, and not just because it was one of those early spring ones when budding life emerged from every shoot, limb, and blade. The dogwoods in our back garden offered early buds that would soon be white petals, and Carolina chickadees, blue jays, nuthatches, and titmice fed at the three feeders while the rufous-sided towhee shared ground morsels with the brown thrashers and a lone, grey squirrel. The returning pair of chickadees had already established a nest in their bird box fastened to the far dogwood, and we had seen the thrashers bringing nesting material to the large azalea beside the back gate. The camellia in the berm had been taken by a pair of cardinals for season residency; and we sat on our screen porch enjoying the end of a grand spring day watching the fading sunlight rest on the far shore and the animals eating from the three feeders.

Then every bird was gone. An uncomfortable silence descended on the garden, covering it like a shroud. Every bird had flown to a safe limb or rushed into one of the two azaleas for refuge. The squirrel hopped to the dogwood truck, alert with its head erect, but near the ground and observant-poised like a statue. Following the stare of the squirrel, I saw the invader. The resident Cooper’s hawk had lit in a dogwood in the berm, about thirty feet from the back feeder, bird bath, and poised squirrel. Not even the blue jays, who will attack a snake, stayed to battle with this intruder.

We watched the hawk, one who is a frequent visitor because of the bird feeders. It was a beautiful animal to us, but the birds had fled because their view of the hawk was different from ours. They saw death while we saw primeval beauty. We watched the squirrel, almost frozen to the tree trunk with its head erect, watching the cooper’s hawk across the fence. We witnessed a scene of nature’s way as the hawk glided to the top fence rail within a few feet of the squirrel who then wisely bounded into the thick foliage of the azalea. The hawk bounded to the ground and began hopping in the bird awkward walk toward the thick bush as if to peer inside it for a meal. It was then that the squirrel came out of the azalea and took a stance next to the dogwood.

If you watch nature enough, even in a small back garden like ours, you will soon enough see death. It may come from a predator, an accidental falling from a nest, or any other result that I have come to realize is “Nature’s beautiful way.” We sat frozen in the safety of our screen porch as the squirrel faced the attacker. Then, as if scripted, the squirrel lept at the cooper’s hawk, who made one hop backward. The squirrel lunged again, and the death threat turned and flew away to other hunting grounds.

All the grey squirrels that frequent our back garden look alike, so the brave heart one will remain anonymous. However, since witnessing such an act—whether foolish or brave—I have become more tolerant of them. While I still have some issues with their antics, even I cannot deny the act of that lone, grey squirrel against the Cooper’s hawk.  

In nature, death happens so that life may continue. Even a dead limb of one of our longleaf pine trees provides food and shelter for all kinds of creatures. In nature death is part of life. But many humans seem unable to come to any type of accord with death. That, in itself, is a form of early death because a fear or denial of the way of all living things, to paraphrase King David, is death at an early age. One should always strive to see things as they are, even if it means acknowledging having underestimated the spirit of squirrels.

By Roger Barbee

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

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

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

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

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

A lesson I finally learned at half-past fifty.

By Roger Barbee

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

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

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

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

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

Indeed.