Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

If you travel our lake front street early on some mornings, you may see two old men between a small building and the street. One is riding a stationary handcycle while the other sits in his chair and participates, not in the riding, but in the conversation—which covers a variety of topics.

 Ken is the riding buddy. I am the hand cycler. I knew him before I met him. I liked him then, more now.

Ken and his wife Cheryl were moving here from Rhode Island, and I first met her when she was here to check on the renovations of their new home which is across the street from ours.   I saw her checking for mail on such a visit, and I introduced myself, and as we chatted she told me that her husband was a cancer survivor and organ recipient.

After our encounter, I kept thinking of the man I had never met. I kept thinking of the man who, like my friend Mike, was a transplant survivor. I kept thinking of a man and his wife who were moving to live near a daughter. I kept thinking of cancer and its horrors. I kept think of an organ transplant. I respected and admired him before I met him because of all that he had done, none of it witnessed by me.

The moving van arrived on a day of rain. The renovated house was becoming a home for the woman I had chatted with and the man I had never met. But one day while driving home I passed a man I thought was he. After parking my car in our driveway, I went to the street to talk with the walker. It was Ken. He stood on the side of our street, and we talked about everything but nothing. It all mattered but was mostly of little significance. Yet what is important is that the man I had admired from a distance was now present.

Some mornings he walks across our street and sits in his chair as I ride. We talk and in that loose, relaxed chatter and banter we relate. We have learned each other, and I wonder sometimes if we would have ever met in our previous lives. But I doubt that because we led different lives then, but not now. Now he and I are here, two retired men sharing life lived well.

I knew Ken before I met him, and when he walks across the street to sit with me, we share more and more of this life as it is reflected from our past lives with its scars.

The mystic William Blake wrote, “ The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.” Like the bird and spider of Blake, I have been gifted by the man I knew and admired before I met him. He’s my riding buddy.

By Roger Barbee

On a recent evening, my wife and I were sitting on our screened porch watching another hot, summer day simmer to an end over Lake Norman. A CD of the number one songs by Johnny Cash helped our mood as the worn disc moved from favorite song to favorite song .  However, like many things we think we know, I was surprised by a line in one of the songs, a song I know the “history” of and have enjoyed. The line that I seemed to fully comprehend for the first time and that engendered my thinking is, “’Cause there’s something in a Sunday/ Makes a body feel alone…”

In his mournful song, Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down, Kris Kristofferson writes of a  Sunday morning in which a man suffering a hangover tries to make sense of the world. Drinking two beers to help his hangover, he puts on his “cleanest dirty shirt” and goes outside to witnesses the world begin another Sunday—all with him as observer, not participant. Crossing an empty street he smells chicken being fried and laments, “And it took me back to somethin’/ That I’d lost somehow, somewhere along the way.” He continues on his journey to nowhere and with no one by his side.

 Perhaps the song is a memory of Merton College in Oxford where Kristofferson studied as a Rhodes Scholar; maybe it is a story of one of the long nights/mornings he spent as a struggling artist in Nashville during the late 1960’s; or it could be just an anecdote he heard. Whatever! the narrative captures the misery of a life ill spent in whole or parts, but still resulting in regret.

In Thoughts in Solitude Thomas Merton writes, “Violence is not completely fatal until it ceases to disturb us.” Now, we all know (or should) that violence comes in many packages, but no matter how it is wrapped, violence leaves wounds. And the fatal violence Merton writes of is often the result of uncontrolled anger, an addiction, or some other evil cause. Kristofferson is writing of alcoholism and when that violence in a bottle becomes the ordinary of a life it ceases to disturb because it is what has become normal. Then, often too late, the addict becomes like the narrator in the song who smells frying chicken and remembers something lost along the way. That “something” is likely a person or persons and on a Sunday morning all the narrator can do is to numb himself with alcohol and suffer through another day of regret.

On my desk sits a black and white photograph taken in the front yard of my paternal grandparents. The poplar trees in the background are bare, but I know it is Easter Sunday because two cousins knelling in front of the photograph hold their Easter baskets.  My younger brother and sister stand with me and an older sister. Behind my brother is our father who wears a suit jacket, opened-collared shirt, and is looking toward the camera, but his face is full of shadow. The photograph is important for me because our father seldom shared Sundays with us and my two older sisters who are not in the photograph. Years before he had deserted us and our mother, but he is present this day because his parents and siblings had gathered for Easter Sunday. And for whatever reason he posed for the photograph, a stranger standing with his children.

The father in the photograph would understand Kristofferson’s song because he was like the narrator—a man trying to make sense of the world as seen through the violent haze of alcohol. He would keenly understand how a familiar smell could trigger a memory of something that he had lost “somehow, somewhere along the way.” He would intimately know the loneliness of Sundays,  even a special one like this Easter Sunday. But I wonder if the shadow covering his face in the photograph is not a forewarning of the shadow he would feel later after his children had walked to their mother’s home, and he returned to “somewhere along the way.”

By Roger Barbee

According to a Google search I recently conducted, as many adults regularly play chess as are users of Facebook. That is a large number of the world’s population, and while I am not a user of  the latter, I play the former. My rating is about 725, which means that I am far from being a good player. But that is okay because my rating cannot gauge the satisfaction I receive from playing on-line chess: I have won a few more games than I have lost; I have had some draws; I have lost to women; I have lost to younger players; I have played players who live in a range of countries; I have been checkmated by a player waiting for a flight in an airport; I have learned about COVID in other countries through the message board; and I have been gifted by a player in India.

Recently I logged in and requested to play. The machinery spun and a player’s user name, national flag, and rating appeared on the screen. The player’s rating was about fifty points higher than mine, so I would be awarded ten points for a win, two points for a draw, and six points for a loss. I was excited because I would rather lose to a superior player than beat a lesser one; plus, sometimes I play poorer against lower rated players. So I moved my white pawn and waited for his response with a dark piece.

By my fourth or fifth move, his superior skill was causing me trouble. I could find no way to penetrate his wall of pawns, and he was beginning to advance his major pieces. I had a sinking feeling, but I continued looking for some way to gain some foothold. Yet it seemed the harder I tried, the more perilous my position was. My big blunder in losing my queen did not help my cause, and soon, mercifully, my doom was imminent. I had several pawns, one lonely king, and a rook to my opponent’s  array of powerful pieces. Then his queen captured my rook. Done! Kaput! Fried! But—wait. The result screen showed that my opponent had resigned, and I was awarded ten points for the win. I messaged him and asked why. He responded, “I am rated higher than you, and the game was not fair.” He had required me to play while not patronizing me by “letting” me win.

Fair? The game was more than fair; it was just. I was whopped by a superior player, and I wonder if he is not a superior person as well? I mean, would I resign a game I had clearly won because I was rated higher than my opponent? Do I have the character required to freely give away ten points of my rating?

He required me to play then he gave me the gift, and I do not mean the ten points. When he resigned he created a moment of kindness and gentleness. When he resigned, he demonstrated that chess on my level is more than points in a rating. When he resigned, he acted like the champion he is.

By Roger Barbee

An internet server in the Charlotte area airs a commercial touting the advantages it offers consumers. After the usual hype with an attractive person talking, the over voice says (to paraphrase), “It’s time to get what you deserve.” My hardback dictionary states that “deserve”  means “to be worth of” or “merit.” That first meaning has two connotations: to gain something positive, such as an award; or to receive a negative response to a particular action. Thus, a studious student may be awarded with academic accolades while a spiteful person may be ill-treated by another person. So in general, we use “deserve” to denote being awarded for hard work, courage, or other such positive acts.

Now, I know that language changes over the course of years because of our usage of it. In fact, several academics will argue that it must change in order for us to communicate effectively. Thus, the verb “quote” is now used to designate the noun “quotation”, and the longer form seems to have suffered a slow death. But my favorite new grammar usage, used by even the best of written sources, is “went missing.” A sentence such as, “The toddler went missing over the weekend” is as common as the sin of lying. I do not know why writers use two words when one, such as “disappeared”, would suffice, but “went missing” is here to stay. Furthermore, the verb “went” is a transitive which means that if it has a direct object, that object must be a noun or pronoun. However, that may be too complex, so let us just suggest we all use one simple word for the awkward phrase “went missing” because “missing” is not a place but a modifier.

It is no surprise that a television commercial maligns our language since its purpose is to communicate to the consumer. But I think we are headed down that “slippery slope” of misunderstanding each other if we continue on the path we are following. For example, I am old enough to remember the flap over a popular cigarette advertisement that stated, “… taste good like a cigarette should.” Our world has survived that confusion between like and as, but I  wonder at what price.

Not too many years ago, I was teaching 12^th grade English in a school in Woodstock, VA. The position was provisional for that spring semester, but would become full time the following fall, so I applied for the full-time position. During the interview, the principal asked me why I was requiring my classes to read Macbeth in the original and not in a translation. Shocked by her ignorance, I answered that we read Shakespeare for many reasons, but especially for the language. More recently when I shared with a friend one more article by an English teacher arguing that there was no need to teach Shakespeare, he responded, “Soon Shakespeare may be offered as a way to satisfy a foreign language requirement.”

Language matters and if we shift too much in its use, we will create confusion instead of clarity. To defend incorrect usage by, “Well, you know what I meant,” is a lazy excuse. As a reader and/or listener, all I know is what I read and/or hear. Anything else is a guess and if you don’t want my attention to go missing, then be precise. We both deserve it.

By Roger Barbee

        Seasons and Sadie

            Sometime last week I first noticed the seasonal changes on the mountain. Working in the raised flower garden, I went to the shop for some pruning shears and on the way back, I glanced to the saddle just south of Edinburg Gap. Yep, there was a light touch of yellow, gold, and specks of red. Since that day last week, the change has spread along the ridge, causing the mountain to take on an array of colors like those of an artist’s palette.

            However, before the cold and snow of another winter arrives,  we have weeks of sharp, vibrant colors to enjoy. Not only have leaves begun to turn on the ridge of the mountain, but I have seen some sugar maple leaves turning.  It is indeed a magical season that seems to have arrived unannounced, but I know that lack of awareness  is about me and not the seasonal cycle. Yet, we all are often taken aback by how quickly the change of seasons happens. On the last day of September, while working on a doll house in the shop, I opened the large doors that face the mountain so I could see the same saddle from last week.  I glanced up often to marvel at  how the colors had increased. Not only had the ridge taken on more color, but also the base shone with a dull orange tinge that announced the coming change. Sanding and painting the intricate parts of the doll house, I thought how as this seasonal change has come  many of us in the valley have continued on with our daily lives—the joys, the sorrows, the squabbles, and the mundane, without taking heed of the dramatic change happening on the mountain and around us. Then I thought of Sadie and her words to Mary Ann, my wife.

                        When Mary Ann and I first met, one of the first people in her life about whom she told me was her long-time friend, Sadie, who now lives in Gettysburg. Attending the same church, Sadie and Mary Ann had shared much in their lives until Sadie was called to counsel violent, male prisoners in the Pennsylvania state system. Over the years of her prison counseling, Sadie came to realize that, until she became an ordained minister, she would be limited by the restraints of the state prison system. So, this  spunky lady in her late fifties enrolled in the Lutheran Seminary in Gettysburg so that she could do more for “her” violent prisoners. After years of hearing about her and her work in the prisons with the men that she said had been forgotten, I was finally going to meet her.

                        Sadie and Mike, her husband, invited family and friends to her ordination. It was a lovely service in an old Lutheran Church near Gettysburg. However, what struck me was how much energy flowed from the small frame of Sadie. Like many celebrations, her ordination was over a weekend, but her glass-framed, smiling face seemed to be in all places with all her family and friends. With her ordination, her prison outreach expanded, and we began regular trips to Gettysburg to race the local marathon, see the historical sights, and share time with Sadie and Mike.

                        Sometimes we would share time with both, but on occasion  Mike would be out of town, so we had Sadie to ourselves. She showed us interesting, seemingly unknown parts of her hometown, she shared with us her work in the prison system, and her work as an assistant pastor. She told us how the men she ministered to had done horrible, unspeakable things, but also how they were human beings who had suffered abuse. She could sit over a meal and tell of these men without  judging; she acknowledged their horrific crimes and their humanity. And always, she was cheerful, bright, wise, and kind. Then  three years ago she shared, over a light salad, how she was having discomfort and could not eat much. That discomfort progressed into cancer.

                        Tears. Treatments. Pain. Fears. All of it and more, she and her family have gone through  much. Yet, like some people, Sadie has somehow continued to smile and radiate energy—until this week when she told Mary Ann, “I knew this would happen (her decline). Do what you have to do…it happens so fast.” The vibrant, loving lady who went to seminary late in life in order to serve humanity now has only about an hour of energy each day.

                        Change is happening on the mountain and in our lives. In the midst of all that change,  we are occupied with the ordinary concerns of life. But, are we living or just going through the motions? Perhaps we should heed Sadie’s words-”it happens so fast”-and do what really matters.

By Roger Barbee

                                                Pleasuring Herself

In his fine memoir, The Old Man and the Boy, Robert Ruark recounts his grandfather’s explanation of aging: “ A man don’t start to learn until he’s about forty; and when he hits fifty, he’s learned all he’s going to learn. After that he can sort of lay back and enjoy what he’s learned, and maybe pass a little bit of it on. His appetites have thinned down, and he’s done most of his suffering, and yet he still got plenty of time to pleasure himself before he peters out entirely. That’s why I like November. November is a man past fifty who reckons he’ll live to be seventy or so, which is old enough for anybody….”       An admirer of Ruark and his two books about the older men in his life, I am reluctant to disagree with his grandfather, but I must because of Florence (not her real name).

The first time I met Florence was when my wife introduced us. She was a new member of a support group for widows in which my wife assisted. When we were introduced, Florence held her Bible close to her chest but could not hide the hollowness in her eyes. Her soft voice and softer demeanor caused me to think that she was having a most difficult time concerning her husband’s recent death. Her disheveled dress spoke of her emotional state. Over time, however, as Florence and I established our own friendship through church and our writing group, she shared much of her earlier life and of her marriage to her deceased husband, who was highly regarded in our small community.  She had lived in his shadow, known as “Lou’s wife.” (not his name) I watched as she struggled with the issues concerning a spouse’s death and admired her grit as she sold the house they had shared, donated his tools and clothes, and all the other things that must be done following a death. My wife and I were elated when she found an apartment in a modern complex of homes, restaurants, shops, and that was near her children and us. Florence settled into her life, but she did not stop growing. In fact, she bloomed.

According to the web site Grammarist, the phrase time heals all wounds may be first attributed to the Greek poet Menander, who lived around 300 B.C. and said, “Time is the healer of all necessary evils.” Geoffrey Chaucer’s poem, Troilus and Criseyde, written in the 1380s contains the phrase: “As tyme hem hurt, a tyme doth hem cure.” However, no matter how the sentiment is expressed, the pain of a deep wound never disappears, but time and life may lessen the sadness of past pain. And Florence, as she embraced her new surroundings to create a new, full life, contradicted  Ruark’s grandfather’s observation about being seventy.

Florence is no longer any man’s wife, pushed back into the shadows. She is known in her community through her part time work in a shop, for being encountered during her early morning walks around the complex, for her group that meets weekly to share conversation on a veranda, and her patronage to a cigar bar. Into her seventh decade, she is now herself. Yes, she is still a mother and grandmother, but she also has a life in her community that is hers, and not one that she shares with her family. Her family knows of that life’s existence, but Florence denies them entry because it is hers and not one to be shared with them.

Florence shares her new life with my wife and me, and we are happy for her. She told us not long ago how she was planning to smoke a cigar in the near future in the cigar bar and might even get a small tattoo. Not bad for a past seventy-year-old grandmother whose hands still bear the creases from work as a young girl on a North Carolina tobacco farm.

Florence, like all of us, carries certain sadness. But unlike so many folks, she took stock of where she found herself and decided for life. Much like the Phoenix, Florence rose from the ashes of her former life– to smoke a cigar, to get a tattoo, to build her own nest.

By Roger Barbee

The phrase “Doubting Thomas” is an all-too familiar one used to describe one of The Twelve. It has even evolved to be used to describe a person who is skeptical concerning a fact. To be thus described is a negative comment against one’s judgement or belief. But, this is where I think Biblical tradition has maligned the Disciple Thomas. After all, in John 11:16, he is the Disciple who says to the other Disciples when Jesus is preparing to go to Bethany because of Lazarus’ death, “Let us also go, that we may die with him” [Jesus]. Lazarus lived in Bethany and it was a dangerous place for Jesus. However, in this scene set by John, we see the courage of Thomas, The Twin. There is affirmation in his words, but through mis-teaching and tradition, Thomas is all-too remembered as a doubter.

Through tradition, we have come to teach that there were three wise men who visited the newborn Jesus because three gifts are mentioned. Tradition teaches through Bible classes that Jesus was a carpenter, but he was the equivalent of a modern-day handyman working with wood and stone, a more plentiful source for building in 1^st Century Israel. Every image of The Last Supper is based on a late 15^th Century mural by Da Vinci, which is Biblically wrong. And one more example of tradition taking over fact is the symbol for Christianity—the cross. What we show and wear is not historically accurate, but we teach it still.

However, in my recent readings of Genesis, I have been struck by how we have treated Esau. Yes, he traded his birthright for a bowl of lentil soup. (By the way, why was his brother cooking, a woman’s job in that society?) And, he was cheated by his mother and twin brother. Yep, to spite his parents, he married two heathen women. Then, his brother the sneak, leaves to be safe from his rage. Gone for twenty years, Jacob returns with his wealth. Frightened still of Esau, he sends his concubines and children out first, then Leah and her children, then Rachel (his favorite) with her children. A nice pecking order in case Esau had plans for vengeance. But, accompanied by four hundred of his best fighters, according to Genesis 33: 4, “And Esau ran to meet him, and embraced him, and fell on his neck, and kissed him: and they wept.” I see no revenge here, but Dr. Vernon J. McGehee writes that Esau possibly tried to bite the neck of his brother, thus killing him. But, during the exchanges between the brothers, Esau refers to Jacob as “my brother” while Jacob uses the distant “My lord.” When Jacob offers many gifts to Esau, the red warrior says in Genesis 33:9, “I have enough, my brother; keep that thou hast unto thyself.”

I am aware of the oft-quoted verses from Malachi and that Esau is the patriarch of Edom, the nation that helped the Babylonians destroy Jerusalem. But, what we know of Esau from the Bible, besides the sad tale of twin brothers in  Genesis, is that he helped Jacob bury their father. What else we know is from non-Biblical sources. So, why the vilification?

Tradition! And that is dangerous. When I worked in a school outside New Orleans, I would often be told, in explaining why some action was followed, “It’s our tradition, Mr. Barbee.” The chaplain would say as an aside to me, “Tradition or examined habit?”

I think we have too many examined habits of belief in our Christianity and we should follow the Bible and use what it gives us, along with accurate histories. If we follow a tradition, we begin to believe it, then we teach it as gospel. Then, when the ones we have wrongly taught learn the truth, they may see us as liars or worse. Teach truth.

By Roger Barbee

In September, 1968 I left my hometown in North Carolina and traveled to Maryland where I began teaching in a rural county on its Eastern Shore.  Like most recent college graduates, I was eager and knew I was ready to “change the world.” I had four years of learning behind me that I felt had given me all that was necessary to conquer any hurdle that presented itself. I had, as Mark Twain observed, “the confidence of a Christian holding four aces.”  When I arrived to my assigned junior high school, I was not fazed by the number of students assigned for my two 7^th grade classes of Language Arts/Social Studies, the poverty of my students, and all the problems their poverty would present. After all, I had my degree, and one of my sisters had helped me carefully choose a small, but versatile wardrobe fitting for a young educator. 

Because this was early in the integration of the county’s schools, the tracking system was used.  In such a system students were placed in classes based on academic scores. My two classes of Language Arts/Social Studies were sections 7-14 and 7-4, one the lowest academic class, and the other near the top of the academic ladder. My 7-14 section met in the morning in the main building, and after lunch 7-4 met in the National Guard Armory directly behind the school.  The racial make-up of the fourteen sections was not surprising—the lower sections were all black and the highest sections were white, and in the middle sections there was some balance of blacks and whites. However, as I mentioned, I was ready to take on any problem of education and to correct it. I do not remember myself as being arrogant, but I was confident.

Many of my sixty odd students were mired in poverty. Before too long I learned how to ignore the odor of clothes worn too often without being washed, or the breath from a mouth that knew no oral hygiene, or the sour stench of urine. I learned how to smile when I gave my Chap Stick to a student who had asked to borrow mine. If returned, I later would drop it into the trash can. I became accustomed to “loaning” lunch money. I learned to deal with any discipline problems in my room and not to send any unruly student to the school office because that short trip would likely result in a paddling of a black student by the white principal or his white assistant. I learned to make two lesson plans for my classes—one that I turned in to the principal, and the one that I used in my room. I learned the value of keeping my classroom door closed to the outside world of the school.

An 8^th grade girl that I remember as Joyce taught me a valuable lesson about the influence of parents. One day walking down the main hall, I saw a girl at the water fountain. A substitute teacher was calling for her to return quickly to class, and the girl said, “I will when I am ready, God ….” I took the girl to the office and she was suspended. Two days later I was called to the Guidance Counselor’s office of Mr. Jim Robinson. In his office sat Joyce and a woman with disheveled hair and a loose dress covering her amble frame. I noticed that her shoes were well worn like her dress, and that they did not properly fit her calloused feet. Mr. Robinson informed me that Joyce would be allowed to return to school as soon as she apologized to me. The four of us sat in the small office and Mr. Robinson gently told Joyce to apologize to me so that she could return to school, but she just sat looking down at the floor. Mr. Robinson repeated his request a few times with the same result. Finally, Joyce’s mother reached across the sofa they shared, shook her daughter, and said, “God…., Joyce, apologize to this man.”  I looked to Mr. Robinson and said, “I accept Joyce’s apology” and walked out—never to forget that lesson.

Before September was over, I became aware that, although I had knowledge and skills to offer my students and fellow educators, they had offerings that I needed to accept willingly and with grace. One student named Jerry began calling me only by my last name, but he pronounced it as “Baabe”. However, he said it with affection and respect, so I went with it. I became aware that the more I gave my students, especially the less gifted ones, the more they gave me. The words of my Granny Susie resonated in my ears: “Sugar draws more flies than vinegar,” and I learned that for many of my students, kindness was the most important thing I had to offer them. English and social studies could follow.

Four of my colleagues took me under their care and guided me in how to teach and sometimes more. Irvin and his wife Doris, both teachers a bit older than I, fed me good meals since a young single man would not cook or eat healthy. They also offered me social outlets with their friends, and they tolerated my immature actions by always being a safe harbor where I could lick the wounds that only a young man could inflict on himself.  Frank taught me how to live and enjoy each day as if it were a song or other gift involving music. He was, after all, a music teacher. His attitude concerning life was not trivial, he was old enough to be my father, but he had learned that most events in life were not to be taken too seriously.  Fred, too, was old enough to be my father, and he had a “lazy eye” that took me some time to become accustomed to. A large, imposing man, he was an assistant principal, but his office was down the main hallway away from the main office. He taught me how to politically navigate a school and how to avoid conflicts with the administration. He was wise in the way of schools and men. He shared with me all the wisdom of his that I could absorb. But Jim Robinson, the guidance counselor, taught me the biggest lesson of all.

Somewhere in my early months, and for some unknown reason, I began carrying a yard stick. I would use it as a pointer to the chalkboard, tap it on the floor to gain the attention of my students, lean on it when stressing a point or correcting a student’s behavior, or just carry it in my hand as if it were a sword and I a young officer. I don’t remember how long I carried the yard stick, but I will never forget Jim Robinson asking me to come into his office one day during my free period.

After we had settled, Jim asked me about the yard stick and why I carried it. I gave him the best reasons that I could, some of which I have mentioned. He then went on to tell me that my 7-14 students, the ones who had class with me in the main building, came from extremely poor homes. I told him that I was aware of that, but what was his point. He then explained to me how the poverty of their homes meant that their parents were usually uneducated, frustrated by their life circumstances, and sometimes heavy drinkers. He went on to explain that many of the fathers and some mothers were crude and that my students had grown up in brutal environments. Parents like these, he went on to explain, thought little of beating one of my students with a limb or stick or hand. For so many of my students, he said, life at home could be mean, and often the safest place for them was school. I asked Jim what that had to do with me, and he looked at me and said, “The yard stick, Roger. Your students see it as a weapon in your hand. It will make them fear you.” Stunned, I sat for quite a while with Jim in his office, and having taken in all his words and their importance, I thanked him and went to my classroom down the hall and put the yard stick in the room closet. Then Jim surprised me again when a few days later he came into my room and thanked me for listening and explained that our conversation was a rare in his experience.

In The Odyssey, the young Telemakhos, the son of Odysseus, has Mentor, a comrade of his father, to guide him. I, too, had my Mentors who were black and they took a young, idealistic white man in their care and worked to help him understand things about living and teaching. And as I look back over these near fifty years since that fall of 1968 and write about them, I thank them for their patience, wisdom, and willingness to share their craft with a young man. They taught me much, but most of all they taught me, as we say in teaching literature, the point-of-view–to see every “yard stick” through the eyes of a child.

Thank you, Irvin and Doris, Frank, Fred, and Jim.

By Roger Barbee

We moved to Lake Norman three years ago and are now comfortably settled in our home and neighborhood. We know people. They know us. Each day someone stops for a visit in the shop and a myriad of topics are discussed: Children, grandchildren, religion, politics, sports, reading, and so much more. Our life here on LKN is made richer by these friendships formed late in our lives and the lives of our new friends.

However, friendship is usually thought of as something from childhood or college or a time when folks were younger, such as when rearing children. Those friendships formed during the struggles of youth and learning are invaluable as we travel through the paths of later life; we depend on those people because they have, over the years, become permanent posts in our lives on which we lean. They are now part of our root system because they, years ago, helped form us. But since retirement, my wife and I have discovered new friends in our late years. These new friends are retired as we, and they are intricate parts of our lives whether individually or as a couple. Yet, I sometimes wonder what these newfound friends were like thirty or forty years ago. I wonder if, had we met at age forty, would we have been friends. But I do not wonder too much, I just cherish the friendship because those types of questions never can be answered. To wonder about such things is as useless as holding onto regrets of a past action. Although each new friend late in life has a past, as do I, the present is what I know unless I learn when the friend shares some of his  or her past.

But one new friend is different, however, because she was in a writing group with me. She, at the bidding of her two children, was writing her life’s story. So each week during writing group, she shared parts of her life. All of it: The despair when the custom-built home that she and her husband had built burned to the ground. The shock of her divorce. The early life on a southern Georgia farm. Her love of classical music. Being the wife of a medical student in Washington, DC. Life as a single mother for her son and daughter. Her sister’s schizophrenia. Her love of literature and painting. And more.

Yvonne’s rich life from a Georgia farm to New York City to D.C. to Florida and finally to Mooresville interested the writing group and me. Her’s was quite a story, but I was most impressed by her late life, when she, my wife Mary Ann, and I became friends.  Every Sunday she sang in the church choir. Each Wednesday she shared the communal meal before joining the writing group before going to choir practice. Her life revolved around family, music, painting, reading, and telling her story. All as she battled her cancers. But if one did not notice her dry mouth as she read or sang or spoke, her cancer did not show itself, yet it presented itself in many ways, and she gracefully stiffed armed it like Thurber’s Rex: Her resolve is legendary with those who know her and she is not to be defeated except on her terms, which have now arrived.

            In 1^st Kings, at the end of his life, King David says to his son Solomon, “I go the way of all the earth.” Yvonne’s journey is now where that kings was, and she has asked her daughter to move her from Levine in Concord to her home-to her library. A simple request that will offer dignified death surrounded by family, cherished books, her two loving cats, her paintings, and the last revision of her word-processed story that her children and grandchildren will read, and through which come to know and appreciate her well-lived life.

By Roger Barbee

            Our house on Lake Norman was built in 1996 and is as modern as the date states. Since it is of the newer era, there is a sixty-foot long berm between it and the house of our neighbor. There is no need to complain about such matters because that is the way things were done, just like all eras of any culture. However, ….

            The landscaper that built and planted the berm must have believed that “more is better.” In the sixty feet are three crepe myrtles, two hollies, five azaleas, two dogwoods, one unknown species of evergreen bush, and one camellia. That is what remains after we had two hollies removed and all plants professionally pruned. We did not commit “crepe murder”, so they have tall, strong limbs that are about to bloom, giving the berm an umbrellaed look, and one large gap where a holly grew gives a view to and from our neighbor. Yet, the berm plants still need thinning so that all its plants can get light and fill out into their natural selves., especially the ageing azaleas that struggle under the canopy of dogwoods, crepe myrtles, and the holly.

             When it was planted, all the trees, shrubs, and plants were small, so the berm was pleasing to look see. The black, landscape matting gave a false promise of no weeds growing in the berm, and the top layer of mulch gave it all an appearance of controlled, natural beauty. Then the plants did what they do, they grew in height and size. They spread their limbs reaching for sunlight. They sent out roots in search for water. They became competitors, and some won more than others, but the fight was so fierce that there was no winner, just sixty feet of exhausted warriors. Because of poor foresight or just not caring, the once fine-looking berm had expanded into a frightful mess. For the sake of the berm, some plants had to be removed, killed.  The berm has been a constant reminder for Mary Ann and me since we moved here nine months ago. As we plant our flower gardens, we are conscious of not planting too much. The temptations of Brawley’s Garden Center are many, but we remind ourselves that everything we plant will require space, water, and attention.  In years hence, we do not want our flower gardens to look like the berm did, but to be a joy to share and see.

            So many modern lives are like our berm—overplanted. We accumulate items in the belief that the wealth of our lives is stated in how much stuff we have. We commit to more and more charities, committees, luncheons, and such as if our worth as a person is tallied in how busy we are. We purchase houses and automobiles beyond our means to stay in the running of the race to financial ruin. The landscaping fabric of our lives, cheap credit and empty promises and beliefs, will not keep out weeds, but eventually be covered by dirt and seeds that will sprout into unwanted growth.

            Like any gift giver, God does not dictate what each of us does with His precious gift of life. Our free will allows us to spend our years on earth as we wish. But the life overfilled with things, commitments of all types, and desires of the world is like an over-planted berm that will  one day be too crowded to bloom as it should and full of unwanted growth.