Roger Barbee

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

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

Every morning when I ride the stationary bike, I used a worn, blue belt to hold my knees together. The belt keeps my paraplegic legs from flopping about and being hit by my hands as I crank the wheel. The belt belonged to Bill Foley, who I had the honor of coaching when he wrestled at Bishop Ireton in Alexandria, VA. in the early 1970’s.

Today his brother Ward called to tell me that Bill had died earlier in the morning in his Mt. Crawford home.

Bill Foley was an outstanding wrestler who won both major tournaments his senior year for which he was eligible . In the St. Albans finals he defeated a defending champion and in the Virginia Independent State Tournament, a week later, he defeated the defending national prep champion.. Those two tournaments personified Bill as a wrestler

But Bill was so much more than a wrestler who worked to achieve success on the mat. He was a gentle, kind young man who studied academics and wrestling. He cared about his peers and teammates. He helped coach younger wrestlers in our room, setting an example. After graduating from James Madison University he, not surprisingly, became a counselor. He continued helping others.

After Bill graduated from BI our paths separated, but years later when his baby brother and he were inducted into the BI Athletic Hall of Fame, he asked me to introduce him. Wrestling, once again, connected us, and at the induction we discovered that we lived a few miles apart in the Shenandoah Valley. By then the Parkinson’s was present in Bill’s body, but not obvious. He and I, however, determined to stay in touch this time; we did.

During those years, Bill not only learned how to live with Parkinson’s, but his wife, Cecilia, died of cancer. Bill continued living as he had wrestled: Dedicated to his children and grandchildren and a right-way life. One day he phoned me to tell me that he wanted to purchase some summer clothes;  I drove to his home, and we went shopping. I enjoyed advising him of colors and styles- feeling much like I had done as his coach, knowing all along that he knew what to do, but was allowing me to speak.  After choosing new shorts and shirts, he chose a new belt, and his old, blue belt ended up in my car. When I discovered it some days later I told Bill, but he said he  didn’t want it. That is how I began using it for my stationary rides. But as odd as it seems to me, on the morning of Bill Foley’s death, I  felt puny, out of sorts, and decided not to ride, not to have Bill Foley’s Belt around my knees, helping me in my workout.

In 1896 A.E. Housman’s tribute to a village athlete, To an Athlete Dying Young, was published. The young man celebrated in the poem ran a race that Housman describes as “The time you won your town the race”, and Bill, like the athlete in the poem, won championships for his family, his school, and finally for himself. However, this morning, Bill, like the young runner of Housman, came to “the road all runners come.”  Now, we honor Bill like the young athlete who was celebrated in Housman’s words, “Shoulder-high we bring you home.” For years you carried us; now we do the same for you.

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

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.