Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

Garden Enigma

Early evening and suddenly every bird at or near one of the three bird feeders in our back garden disappears. No bird song. Only the silent flutter of wings as the quiet before the storm passes, and the storm settles on a limb of a dogwood tree.

The resident Cooper’s Hawk perches, facing the house. Its roan-tinted chest plumage reflects late sunlight as the eyes study every piece of the small garden. Its flat crown reminds me, in a silly way, of the flat-top hair style some boys paraded during my youth. But this flat top half crowns two dark, piercing eyes that  search for a meal in our garden, the one where we feed its potential prey for our pleasure, not for its food.

The head moves from side to side and soon the body of death turns and faces the wider, back expanse of garden, perhaps hoping to find food in the larger area. But, when none presents itself, the grey-shoulder hungry one drops to the ground and peers into the thick, green foliage of the gardenia. One hop of grey death flushes a male cardinal that flies low to the ground before escaping to the safety of the rhododendron.

Unruffled, the Cooper’s Hawk takes dominion over our side garden and Doug’s large front yard by perching on the white fence dividing our properties. Unruffled, but obviously hungry, it sits there for some moments before gliding away to expand its search. Within moments of its departure, a fat squirrel appears on the ground below one of the dogwood trees, and birds return to the feeders.

The small, back garden returns to another cycle, one that is an enigma of sorts since we humans attract the birds and squirrels for our pleasure by feeding them, not to provide for the fearsome but beautiful Cooper’s Hawk.

By Roger Barbee

                                                The Better Way

My high school class has a “mini-reunion” each month. The class of 1964 is now, as Jimmy my classmate says, “Leveled out by life.” He means that we are now equal in ways we were not in the early days of the 60’s. I attend those first Tuesday meetings and enjoy the time with two dozen or so classmates and spouses. I  also eagerly await out 55^th reunion in a few weeks. But it was not always so.

As a man in my early 70s, I think of my earlier years often, but especially when I read my local papers. What I read is what you read: crime, guns, drugs, inequality, and pleas for governmental aid in areas of individual apartments to exit ramps for a sports complex.  What I miss reading are accounts of personal responsibility and integrity and, well, grit. 

An unintended consequence of our well-meaning programs spanning from individuals to huge corporations, a government-dependent attitude has sprouted and threatens to overtake us all. I once saw  a photograph in a newspaper of a person holding a sign reading, “Housing insecure.” I don’t know the person or the circumstances of the situation, but I do remember living in the back two rooms of a dilapidated house with my brother, two sisters, and  mother while two older sisters lived with a friend of our mother’s. I know hunger and the want for the things that my schoolmates had.

My world then had the same opportunities of today’s culture. School was available as was work in the mill or elsewhere, and dark ways to earn quick money existed. But our mother demanded that we “get an education” and she modeled right living. She followed the words of the Preacher: “Better is little with righteousness than great revenues without right.”

It seems to me that, as a culture, we are lost. Desire now rules, but it is not a desire for  righteousness, but a desire to satisfy self. And when we reach the dead-end that self-service always leads to, we cry for help, floundering in self-made misery. But even as we cry for help, we seek help at the wrong door.

Instead of self-reliance based on a higher power, we ask a secular god to provide. But that god is man-made, doomed to fail. Yet, there is a  better way, one of righteous living, the one that will lead to joy and contentment.  

By Roger Barbee

            In the epic poem,  The Odyssey, Odysseus returns to his home island after being absent for twenty years. Because the suitors have taken possession of his home, he must return unrecognized in order to attack them by surprise. He arrives home disguised by Athena as a beggar, and he goes to the hut of Eumaios, the keeper of pigs, in order to plan his attack on the suitors. Not knowing who the beggar is, Eumaios treats him with courtesy and feeds him and gives him a place to sleep. When the disguised master thanks his servant for being kind, Eumaios responds, “…rudeness to a stranger is not decency.”

            During the years that I taught Homer’s great poem, I required my students to memorize such lines as that of Eumaios and those of other characters from the poem.  The students then had to relate the chosen quotation to their lives by demonstrating a basic understanding of the quotation and explaining how it was still relevant in their post 2000 world. However, my students and I not only discussed what Homer had to say about hospitality to the sojourner, but also what other ancient writers such as Paul meant when they told followers to  “practice hospitality.” In the ancient world, sojourners needed safe and clean places to spend the nights because the few available inns were full of bandits, prostitutes, and vermin. So, for safety, a traveler looked for a kind person such as Eumaios to share the long, dark night. I suppose, as my students will attest,  in some ways we are all sojourners at times. At various moments in our lives, we have been that traveler looking for a haven for a night, a day, an hour even. And, oftentimes, we have looked for that friendly face to offer us warmth and kindness and understanding about our travels.

            Homer’s use of the lowly swineherd as one of two servants to help his long absent master is, I think, a choice of genius. As many readers may know, a pig parlor is not the most elegant place there is. Raven’s Rock, the home of Eumaios, was a smelly and rather vile place a long distance from the manor house. The swineherd undoubtedly would have smelled much like his charges. And, because of his position he would have held a low rung in the social order of his time. Yet, this low-ranking citizen, like the widow in the Gospels, gives out of his poverty, not his wealth. This seemingly low citizen is the one of the two servants who had remained loyal to his master and helps him rid the manor of the selfish suitors.

            All of this and more has been on my mind as I watch many concerned citizens try to build support in our country to help those in the caravan.  These last few days of damp, cold wind have, for me, been a reminder of the need to help. However, I worry that too many church attendees will choose to turn away from this need. I know that some church groups have stepped up and offered to help by word or deed or both.  I appreciate that some church groups are helping the hungry and homeless in other ways. What I can’t understand is how some church groups find reasons not to help.

            Practicing hospitality causes inconvenience. It means changing routines. It means inviting strangers who may be downtrodden into our spaces. It means being empathetic. Practicing hospitality means sharing time and talk with people who are in need of a hand up. Practicing hospitality can cause you to, as I heard a pastor say last June, “think of what you can give instead of what you don’t have.” Practicing hospitality is an opportunity for personal growth in a faith walk. Practicing hospitality means that we Christians step up and take care of the less fortunate. To do otherwise means that we are just “pew sitters” who attend service to feel better about ourselves. Are you the Christian more worried about the new floor in the fellowship hall or the one who cares about some homeless child?

            Early in The Odyssey, the sage Mentor speaks to the citizens of Ithaca (Odysseus’ home island) about the suitors taking over the manor of Odysseus and the injustice of their action. Mentor laments

the violent plundering of the great leader’s home, but he then goes on to say, “What sickens me is to see the whole community/sitting still, and never a voice … raised.” 

            There is a need in our community. If you choose, you can find many reasons not to help end that need. However, I offer you one good reason to step up and help. Again, the answer comes from ancient literature written by a tax collector turned disciple: go read Matthew 25:35-40. Then ask why you should not step up and help.

By Roger Barbee

The innumerable ways that things have been done in the past, like during the 1950’s of Charlotte, will make sense if examined and thought about instead of criticized.

For instance, in 1957 Charlotte, citizens desired convenience just as they do in 2022. So,  in order to keep fathers from having to find a safe means of disposing of the double edged, still sharp razor blades, manufacturers of metal medicine cabinets provided an easy fix.

Since the metal medicine cabinets were recessed between wall studs, the makers of up-scale bathroom fixtures placed a small, downward pointed slit in the upper middle back of each cabinet. The slit was just large enough for one of those used, double-edged razor blades. Since the space between the studs and back-to-back sheets of  drywall was large and the blades small but still potentially dangerous for a child or unsuspecting adult, it was a good solution. Shave with it, then drop it in the slot preventing any finger from being harmed by it.

However, it must have been a slow news day in Charlotte on January 28, 2022, because our local paper ran a story of a realtor making the discovery of such a medicine cabinet. It seems the realtor was assessing a partially renovated home when the electrician told him about what was sticking out of a wall. He rushed to see what had been found and then researched the phenomenon (on Google?) and learned something: Things were done differently, often for a sound reason, in the past.

But it seems the Charlotte realtor is a late comer to making this discovery of what he describes as a “weird” way of the disposal of used razor blades. In 2020 it seems a Los Angeles woman made the same discovery in her home and posted it on TikTok. Her post had 3.8 million views and almost 3,000 comments.

Now, I understand that not everyone is knowledgeable of residential life during the 1950’s, especially knowing about such details as bathroom medicine cabinets. I applaud the Charlotte realtor for conducting what passes for research in today’s Internet world. I am also pleased that he has the character for admitting that he had learned something. However, what I object to is the Charlotte realtor saying/thinking about the way of disposing of razor blades, “It’s just weird, and we would never think of doing it at all today, at least I hope not.”  All I can say in response to him is that patients at one time were bled as a cure for illness. And as far as the Los Angeles woman, all I wonder is: Are we such a bored society that over 3.8 million folks are entertained on TikTok by a tiny slot in a medicine cabinet?

Sometime in my expanding tenure as a teacher as I aged, I realized how many years began separating me from my students. Aware of my own experiences and sensibilities, I began each new year searching the events of my students’ birth year. In that small way, thinking of the year they were born, I was more aware of their experiences and their exposures. This small knowledge helped me be more sensitive to the time that had helped form my students. From that hallmark, we moved forward as I taught them to fill in any gaps in their historical knowledge and to think critically of their time and times past.

These episodes concerning the renovation of a Charlotte and a Los Angeles home  and the attention they bring should serve as a “real-life example” of the importance for teaching critical thinking skills and history because it matters that our children be made aware that the world has not always been as it is for them. And that looking something up on the Internet is not research, just exploration.

By Roger Barbee

For the past week I have been housebound because the heavy snow storm and its wind left a pile of snow on the back ramp, which I use to enter and exit our house. Over the past eight days of freezing temperatures the pile became a large ice mass. But my friend Shawn came yesterday and cut it into pieces that now jam an unused corner of our yard. This morning the sun shines on our back garden across a bright winter-blue sky, and when the warmth of day increases just a bit, I will venture out with Nick the beagle and ramble about the garden.

It may seem odd to think of warm weather when ice blocks occupy one part of my world, but I saw a reminder of it yesterday out a back window—a pair of doves sat together on a limb of the center dogwood tree before one mounted the other. It’s the middle of January, so I  don’t know for sure about their act, but it is a fresh reminder that, yes, the days are getting longer and warmer. But I remind myself that, no matter what the doves were doing, Shawn’s labor freed me from my housebound sentence, so Nick and I will shortly roam about our back garden.

Even in morning cold, the garden is busy with bird life. A blue bird inspects the entry hole of the birdbox on the center dogwood tree before realizing that the hole is too small, and a brown headed nuthatch moves about the tree trunk looking for day’s first offering. On a high branch a Carolina chickadee basks in morning’s sunlight filtering through the pine canopy.

However, my “play date” with Nick did not materialize because Mary Ann and I decided to get out of the house and go to a favorite flea market. We enjoyed the shared outing and returned in time to take a long walk with Nick on which he met and impressed some neighbors we did not know.

The day did not go as I had planned; but it proved to be an adventure of sorts and that is what matters at its end. That is one of the many sweet spots of life—there are the possibilities for the coming day and for tomorrow and for the next day and so on. After all, Mary Ann, Nick, and I shared parts of the day and we will tomorrow. It’s the way our days go since we were adopted by this beagle. And in the sharing is the joy.

By Roger Barbee

On January 20, 2011, Reynolds Price died from complications of a heart attack. He was 77.

In April 1997 Price received a letter from Jim Fox who had read Price’s memoir, A Whole New Life, his story of the 1984 diagnosis of spinal cord cancer, which caused paralysis of his legs, placing him in a wheelchair. Jim Fox, a young medical student who experienced his own cancer diagnosis, read the memoir, and asked Price, “Does God exist, and does he care?” Their correspondence was brief because Fox died soon after, but Price’s answer to him was published as Letter to a Man in the Fire.

            In August of 2001 I suffered an injury that, like Price, caused paralysis of my legs. During my rehab I experienced a myriad of emotions and a deep sense of loss. I suffered, but received great care from  the hospital staff, family, and friends. But, I had so much to learn at the age of 55: Incontinence. How to manage the purple wheelchair. Dependency for many matters. The loss of long, morning runs with Jay and Caleb. Loss loomed and frightened me. However, one night I woke to a warm, calming light that appeared at my face and out of it a sweet, kind voice told me not to worry, that everything would be okay.

            In his answer to Fox, Price writes: “Starting on a warm afternoon in the summer of 1939, …I’ve experienced moments of sustained calm awareness that subsequent questioning has never discounted. Those moments, which recurred at unpredictable and widely space intervals till some thirteen years ago, still seem to me undeniable manifestations of the Creator’s benign or patiently watchful interest in particular stretches of my life, though perhaps not all of it.”

            The light and voice was not, I knew, a dream. It was real, but I kept my experience close, and only shared it with Reynolds Price in a phone call. His response was, “Why, Roger, you had a visitation.” Shortly after our conversation, I received a copy of Letters in which Price had inscribed, “Persist, my friend.”

            Price– the North Carolina novelist, poet, scholar of Milton, teacher at Duke, Rhodes Scholar, cancer victim, had used the best word, a simple verb that expressed the perfect attitude that only a good writer who was surviving a cancer, could. His choice of persist came out of his struggle with cancer,  but also out of his experiences like that of the summer day in 1939.

            Price, a student of religions, especially the Gospels, draws on literature, several religions and beliefs, and his own faith to answer Jim Fox’s question concerning God and His involvement in our lives. Yet, and perhaps of my own experience from the fall of 2001, I return over and over to Price’s words,” I’ve experienced moments of sustained calm awareness that subsequent questioning has never discounted….”

            That is, for me, a complete explanation of God’s presence in our lives. If we believe and listen we will persist.

By Roger Barbee

Soon following our move to Lake Norman almost 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

(This is a book review by Roger. This is a topic that needs our prayer.)

The Face of Addiction: Stories of Loss and Recovery

Joshua Lawson

Quoir,  $7.95 softcover

A dozen voices from southern Ohio along the Ohio River reveal the humanity behind addiction. These dozen daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, and others speak honestly to Joshua Lawson. In their sharing, they show that they are not to be shunned, but to be loved and valued because what they have is an illness, a disease like any other.

As a culture, we too often agree with a sheriff’s words that the only cure for an addict is “a tall tree and a short rope.” In making the users of the “opioid crisis” invisible faces, we make them enemies and losers and worse. But they are, as shown in these interviews, victims of sexual abuse, parental mistreatment, emotional trauma, and other ills. Being addicted to any drug, we learn over and over from these interviews, is not a choice but a result.

Lawson brief book is a testament to St. Paul’s words in Romans 7:19 and because of those words, we need to love the addict and help each of the many of them in our midst realize that they, too, are a child of God. Blaming is not a cure, but validating is.

By Roger Barbee

Morning rides on my stationary handcycle have led to many friendships.  On one of those rides just after our move here four years ago, a man walked up and asked me, “How much of that [the riding on the handcycle] do you do?” As another friend says about our chance encounter, “A beautiful way it happened.”

Mr. John Davidson lives near us,  and after his four years of naval service during the Korean War,  he taught math in Statesville High School.  Once when I inquired if he had taught algebra or geometry or calculus, he responded, “No, math! You know, like six times six equals thirty-six.” Math! A discipline too often ignored in today’s educational world. His wife also taught, and they moved to the lake in the early 1980’s  and reared three children. Their home and yard reflects the disciplined order of his appreciation for math. While not stuffy or overly ordered, the yard, home, and outbuildings reflect attention to detail, such as the many stones carefully placed around trees, plantings, and the driveway. All is ordered but not rigid. You know! Six times six.

Mr. John, as I know him, recently sold his last sailboat. He first sailed on a Japanese lake while on R&R during the Korean War. His joy of sailing grew from that brief experience, and he was, until recently, an active sailor on Lake Norman. However, that great equalizer–age– made it necessary to sell his last sailboat, but his passion for the simple beauty of sailing still lives, and he is fond of telling stories of his sailing adventures. During one of my morning rides he walked by and upon meeting Ken, another neighbor who moved here from Rhode Island, he discovered their shared love for boating and that they had boated on the same New England lakes. The chatter that morning around the stationary bike was more than I could compete with, so I listened and enjoyed their talk.

While age has curbed his sailing, Mr. John’s age has not affected his operation of the ham radio, and each morning, very early, he is busy talking with his many friends across the globe. More than once he has tried to get me involved in this hobby by joyfully sharing the fun he gains from it. But that is what Mr. John does: He shares the joy he has gained from life.

So many events and encounters in life happen by chance. And as I age, I realize more and more how often we come to understand that whatever happens by chance is often a “beautiful thing.” At the moment whatever “it” was probably did not appear special, but as “it”  moved with that great equalizer time, the beauty of “it” blossomed like a Christmas cactus that we can hold dear and, like young Mary, ponder in our hearts.

So, Mr. John, on your 92 birthday, know that I hold your friendship, wisdom, and keen sense of humor close. Your walking by that morning years ago did happen in a beautiful way.

By Roger Barbee

He was one of the many young Americans who was part of the planned invasion force of Japan in 1945. Because of the fierce defenses shown by the Japanese on Iwo Jima and Okinawa, the  United States military leaders rightly anticipated a similar defense of the Japanese homeland. The young American soldiers assembled for the invading force stoically faced death. One of those young soldiers on the Liberty ships sailing across the Pacific Ocean, Mr. Graham, was all of 20 years old.

Mr. Graham and I met at a local restaurant shortly after  my wife and I moved to Mooresville. We had gone exploring for a good restaurant and found one that we liked. We had a good meal, and as I passed his table at which he was sharing dinner with his daughter, he reached out and asked me had I served in the military. Had I been in Vietnam? When I told him no, he apologized for bothering me, but explained that my wheelchair had caused him to think that I was perhaps a veteran. My wife continued her walk to our car, but I was struck by his manners and grace, so I stayed in the isle chatting with the dignified gentleman as his patient daughter looked on. Before I left to join my wife, we discovered that he lived at the end of our road. With that “sign” our friendship was born.

Because of his age, Mr. Graham has moved into an assisted living complex. But each week his caregiver Marilyn drives him to his house at the end of our road to check on it,  and he always stops to see me. If I am not outside in the yard or shop, he calls to inquire of my health and location. He never stays long, but his visits are packed with news, street chatter, and complaints of my religion and politics, all in good humor but loaded with a bit of salt. Over the four years during such visits, Mr. Graham and I have shared much. I know about his oil business here in Mooresville, how much he paid for his house in the early 1980’s, his religious beliefs, his four sons and one daughter, how he wishes he had been a better reader, and more. When he first told me about his wife of seventy years, Louise, a moist longing came to his eyes, and he grew silent after telling me her name. But my friendship with this 96-year-old man is also held close because he is one of the many, unnamed heroes of our country.

Mr. Graham, regretfully not a reader, probably has never heard of Wiglaf or the poem in which he demonstrates characteristics shared with Mr. Graham and his generation. In the epic poem Beowulf, the great king of that name grows old, and his kingdom is threatened by a fierce, fire-breathing dragon. He and his followers enter the lair of the dragon, but no longer the warrior he was, Beowulf suffers a mortal wound. All but one of his followers flee the lair, but Wiglaf remains to fight by his king’s side, and he slays the beast as Beowulf dies.

Because of President Truman, Mr. Graham and the other young men would not have to invade Japan. But all the other soldiers on Liberty ships along with him, willed themselves to do what was being asked.  They were prepared to invade Japan, but as is written in Beowulf, “Fate goes as Fate must” and they were spared that peril.

At an age in 1945 that today causes parents to worry if a child drives on an interstate, Mr. Graham and his generation walked into the lair of the enemy, just as did Wiglaf. Not because they wanted to, but because duty to a cause larger than they demanded it.