Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

The Covid-19 virus has ruined many small businesses, and local restaurants in and around our town of Mooresville, NC are suffering. My wife and I have several local eateries we like, but we especially enjoy two. When the mandate came that closed them to only take out, we discussed our role in helping them stay open, and decided to make a conscious effort to order some meals from each, realizing that, while take out is not the same as dining in their warm, relaxing atmospheres, they needed our business. If we wanted to enjoy them later, we had to support them now. So,  recently we ordered a take-out supper from one, Blu Star, and at the correct time we drove to pick up our waiting dinner.

Usually if we drove to Blu Star’s location during the dinner hour, traffic would be heavy and parking tight. Not this evening of the pandemic. Boom! Pulled up right in front, and Mary Ann hopped out to get our meal. While I waited, I counted cars in the shopping center—seven parked, but one soon left when its driver came out of the juice bar with her cup of cold, multi-colored liquid. One driver of a huge, black truck parked it deftly and getting out walked towards two  restaurants behind me. Waiting for Mary Ann, I recalled the adage that seemed appropriate for so many businesses in the current situation—any port in a storm. While only one customer, the driver was a person who would spend money, I hoped, at one of the restaurants behind me. He was part of the port so needed right now.

Mary Ann returned to the car and as soon as she sat in her seat, said, “You won’t believe what Nelson [the owner] was doing.” She buckled her seat belt and as we drove out of the forlorn shopping center, she told me how Nelson and a worker were busily packing Styrofoam containers with spaghetti meals for Charlotte homeless. When she asked him about what he was doing, he explained that his church was participating in a program to get good meals to homeless folks, and his restaurant was providing nourishing dinners-spaghetti piled high with yummy sauce, garlic bread, and salad.

Before we had left our home to pick up our dinner, we had discussed how much to tip the manager, who we have known since we moved here. Mary Ann suggested a good sum and when she paid our bill, she gave Stephanie the twenty. Yet, driving home and hearing that story, I realized that no tip was large enough for what was happening in Blu Star, one of the many businesses feeling the crunch of this epidemic. There, in the midst of such a need for income, Nelson and his staff were giving to others who had less than he and them.

Arriving home, I enjoyed my dinner, even if not eaten in the cozy confines of Blu Star. But the more I think of what Mary Ann witnessed, the more I realize that there, on the spread-out tables of Blu Star, was the Sermon on the Mount being played out in real time. Right there.

(for Gail who asked how we are)

By Roger Barbee

Several flowering plants form new blooms from the dead wood of a previous season’s cycle. Next to our screened-in porch is one such plant—a dwarf, lime hydrangea which we planted two years ago. Since I have yet to move my stationary bike out to the elements and continue to ride in the dry of the porch, I have been watching this shrub for several weeks and it has, like all plants, taught me a lesson.

Although the browned and dead flowers from last summer are not attractive, Mary Ann prefers to leave them attached to the stems even though they could be snipped off. Thus, as I have been riding each morning, I sort of wished that she had removed the unsightly, spent blooms. However, I now understand that her decision has helped me see the cycle of nature.

The lime hydrangea does what it is designed to do. It grows by feeding from the past cycles of its life. As I look each morning at the brown and dead blooms, I also can see small, green leaves emerging on the stems that hold those dead blooms. Soon those small green leaves will be in full splendor and new, deliciously lime colored blooms will emerge. The old will be gone, and the new celebrated. Soon.

Living under self-quarantine because of the COVID-19 virus, I think of the lime hydrangea and it’s gaining the new from the old. So often in our belief that we, mere humans, are in control because of our 401k’s, our superhighways with fast cars, our 10,000 square foot houses, and more, we lose our way. We lose sight of how frail we really are- think of the TB sanitariums of the 1930’s, and other examples besides this virus which is just beginning for us.

Yet if we accept the fact that we need to come together and “be our brother’s keeper”, we will continue.  Like the simple plant that makes new by using all its parts and history, we need to band, to do what is best for the tribe, not any individual. This is not the time to think individually, but the time to think together. And when we think of the tribe, we each will give up some things or many things. So be it. To bloom again. Gloriously.

By Roger Barbee

While the NCAA, NBA, MLB, and NHL have suspended all activities, the National Collegiate Wrestling Association held its tournament this past weekend in Allen, Texas. It seemed no matter that Dallas closed all recreation centers, libraries, and cultural centers; five UT Southwestern faculty were in quarantine after exposure to coronavirus; the mayor of Dallas banned gatherings of 500 or more people; Texas Governor Greg Abbott declared a “state of disaster”; and this is just to mention a few reactions to the coronavirus. “I think a lot of this is driven by fear,” the NCWA executive director, Jim Giunta, said Friday on why he didn’t cancel the event. “We’re going to do everything in our power to create an environment that’s more than safe for our athletes. But after we do everything we can do, we’re going to operate on faith rather than fear.”

The event, not sanctioned by the NCAA, hosted 84 colleges as varied as The Apprentice School and Richland College and had over 600 wrestlers. University of Texas at Arlington coach Collin Stoner said, “I think when we start to cancel these events, the actual athlete and the hard work kind of fades away from them,” and that for him the virus was “on the back burner”, and that he was really proud that the tournament was not cancelled.

The tournament director, Giunta said that precautions such as posted signs about best practices to prevent the virus were placed around the venue, and he went on to state that any wrestler with a temperature higher than 100.4 was disqualified. But perhaps the best argument for having the tournament came from Jesse Castro, the Liberty University coach. He pontificated, “From a philosophical perspective, do I think it’s [reaction to the coronavirus] overhyped? Yes, I do,… “You know the talking points. We’ve dealt with this kind of stuff before. … We’re vigilant and we use common sense, but I refuse to live in fear. I’m not gonna do that.” He went on to say that he believes, as does Jerry Falwell, Jr., that the virus was being used by Democrats to impeach the president. Castro had 19 wrestlers in the tournament.

Every college and university owes its students and athletes wise decisions concerning their welfare. The administrators and coaches who allowed their wrestlers to participate in the NCWA tournament have shown poor judgement and a high disregard for the well-being of their wrestlers. For someone like Coach Castro to say that we have dealt with “this kind of stuff before” demonstrates that he has no grasp of the danger in which he placed his wrestlers, his college, and himself.  I can only hope that none of the people involved become carriers or victims of this virus.

By Roger Barbee

Grapefruit is a 14-year-old tabby cat. He spends his days now walking and moaning as he searches the house on Rodman Street that he shared with Joy, his life-long mistress. He knows that something is wrong because she is not there to love him and to care for him.  He searches for what he misses, but for what he will not find because Joy N. Kraus– poet, mother, caretaker, lover of us all, died the morning of March 3, 2020.

When I read the email telling of Joy’s death, I sent it  to Druin, a friend of hers who lives in Oxfordshire, England. Below is his worthy response:

Oh, I am sorry to hear of it. I think the poem below was the last email of hers I had.

BUTTERFLY

    In a small death I’ll hang

    a thought unspoken, a song unsung,

    awaiting the tap that tells me

    all is ready, gives me leave

    to stage my Easter Day.

    If I may choose a way to signal you

    from other worlds, it will be

    as a yellow butterfly.         JNK 1995

Joy was many personalities: The lady never met a piece of chocolate she did not like; a lover of animals who placed a bowl of water on her sidewalk for those who thirsted and treats in her back garden every night for the foragers; she appreciated and enjoyed her children; she appreciated a well-turned phrase; the trips to Spain with her children gave her pleasure (as did the young Spanish men in their tight pants); her poetry allowed her expression; riding her Razor scooter to NCS made her free; and so much more that only we who loved her know, for Joy was that friend who carried separate relationships for each of us.  

Now, if I sent this essay to Joy for editing, she would jump on me for the repeating of the word appreciated in the above paragraph. She would continue to gently correct any grammar errors and slips in construction. Joy expected us to use our language correctly. As she did. (oops, As did she.)

So many of us had our life with Joy Kraus. She and I shared family, love of language and literature, emails with Druin, her poems, and my ramblings that she always edited. Robert Graves wrote a handbook for writers titled The Reader Over Your Shoulder in which he shares wisdom concerning the written word. Joy was my reader over my shoulder. No more will I read her sharp remarks concerning my errors, but saddest of all is that the folder on my computer marked Kraus’ Poems will not grow.

The spoken voice of Butterfly is stilled. Her songs of living, loving, laughing, and so much more are now but words on a page, yet don’t be surprised if we hear reports this spring from The Close that a yellow butterfly was seen as if admiring the ginkgo tree near North Circle or of one fluttering in dance as it enjoyed the Bishop’s Garden.

            By Roger Barbee

Tucked in the driver’s door of my van is a small CD case. Most of the CD’s in it are commercially made, but a few were made by friends. Last week I removed one from the back  of the case that had written on it “Good ones” in the precise black ink penmanship of Connor, a deceased brother-in-law who had complied many CD’s for me before he died. After his funeral, I gave the ones I had to his  granddaughter, but this one had somehow remained with me, tucked away.

The note on it is correct: The jazz, soul, rock, and blues songs are by various artists and all are good. It is a soulful and restful gathering of vocals and instrumentals, but none of the songs or the musicians are identified. Yet, I put it in the slot and listened as I drove around on errands. The ninth song on the CD grabbed me: A rendition of Bob Dylan’s song from the 60’s, I Will Be Released. Driving about town I would push the repeat button each time the song finished, listening to the voice that I could not identify but liking the way the unknown woman had arranged the song of injustice. After about a week of driving and listening, I came into the modern world and typed the song title into the search engine of my computer. Mercy! This old dog finally found Nina Simone singing the version that Connor copied for the CD.

When you have 4:21 to spare, go to: https://youtu.be/w-du8MDE8nk and treat yourself. You will hear Simone’s  great voice and the fabulous musicians give life to Dylan’s song. But as much as I like the rendition, it is the first fifteen seconds that cause me to remember Connor.

Listening carefully, you will hear the musicians beginning, but something goes wrong and Simone says to them,  “Y’all pushin’, you’re pushin’ it, you’re pushin’ it!  Just relax, relax. You’re pushing it. It’ll go up by itself! Don’t put nothin’ in it unless ya feel it! Let’s do it again, please.”

Relax she says and it will go up by itself. While Simone is speaking about the cutting of  the song, her words carry way over into living. I like to think that she knew that, and I  know that Connor did. He lived that. He never pushed because he  knew that it would go up by itself. He was not indifferent or lazy. In fact, he was quite successful. But he enjoyed living. He loved people. Being around him was relaxing and fun and it required nothing but feeling life: The good living he modeled by feeling it.

What a chance for me on removing the gold CD from the back of the case. While Connor comes to me through the music on the CD, he especially does through cut number 9 and Simone’s charge not to push it, but to relax and feel it. It will go up by itself.

By Roger Barbee

The ride on the stationary bike was damp and chilly this mid-February morning. However, what I saw in the world of birds on and around the feeders in our back yard confirmed a suspicion of mine formed last week.

Riding along, I saw more than one bird fussing with another, and not always for the sunflower seeds in the feeders and on the ground underneath them. It seemed that everywhere in the back-yard birds were glaring at each other or chasing another of the same breed or carrying on in a frenzy of, yes, spring. Perhaps the most dramatic display was by two brown thrashers: One would chase the other until the chased thrasher turned as if to scold the chaser who retreated a few paces. Then they would individually hunt for seeds, then the chase would begin anew. I finally lost sight of them when they disappeared into one of the large azaleas. The morning ride was easier because I watched the birds instead of the bike odometer, and the time of exercise was past.

However, as I later thought of the birds’ display of early mating, I thought of how the important cycles of the world go on, often without our noticing. We get so captivated by secular happenings we lose sight of the ageless cycles of life of our only planet. But the words of Solomon should be remembered and appreciated each day: “To everything there is a season….”

The natural world has much to offer. Yes, it is violent and harsh at times. Yes, it is beautiful and refreshing at times. But we are to be its stewards “to dress it and to keep it.” Yet, when we get too obsessed with the secular world we have made, such as the political one, we lose sight and appreciation of the natural world that surrounds us. When we become too self-important, we forget that we are just one of the many creations of Him. We are made in His image, yes, but if we allow that fact to “go to our heads” we run the risk of losing sight of our place in the totality of life.

All the birds are doing it—preparing for a new cycle of life. They, like the lily of the field, do what they do. Perhaps if we each got out more, leaving the cell phone in the house, and walk around our block, seeing the world as it is and not as some news channel reports it, we would see that we only have each other, all of us made by Him, who does not make trash.

By Roger Barbee

            This morning as I prepared my stationary bike for my ride in the damp, dark morning, I noticed our front spot light was still on and made a mental note to turn it off after my ride. Mounting the bike, I hoped that I would remember.

            Growing up in the 1950s of the South, all the mill houses, like ours at 312, had front porches that ran the width of the house. Chairs of various types would always be available for relaxing, and often porch swings hung by their chains from brackets in the porch ceiling, comfortably accommodated two adults or four playful children. Always painted white, the swings waited for a family member or members to “sit a spell” and rest or visit with a neighbor who happened by. After dark, they sometimes held young lovers who pushed gently back and forth whispering, snuggling, and maybe kissing—until a parent in the house turned the porch light on as a signal that it was time for the boy to leave and the girl to come into the house.

            The porch light of 312, where I grew up, was a bare bulb screwed into a white, porcelain fixture. Usually white, the 25 or maybe 40-watt bulb, would be replaced by a yellow one during the hot months because mosquitoes and other unwanted bugs would not be as attracted to it as the white ones. Because the houses had no air conditioning the front porch became an extension of sorts for the family or living room where the cooler temperature of a hot summer day could be enjoyed. The dim, porch lights were turned on at dusk and turned off at dawn. Not as majestic as a lighthouse beacon, they served the same purpose- to guide sojourners by their 25-watt bulbs.  Those bare bulbs led family and visitors through the dark and into the house.

            I did, for once, remember to turn the front spot-light off following my ride. The back one, which illuminates the kitchen area, was turned off earlier. Our house, like all in our neighborhood and most neighborhoods today, has no front porch or, at best, has an outside vestibule large enough to stand while unlocking the front door. Modern homes are mostly built far from roads making contact with passers-by impossible, and the climate controlling system in each makes the desire for outside cooler air during hot, humid Southern nights obsolete. But modern homes have improved on the dim porch lights of post WWII America. Like ours, all or most, have spot-lights that come in several models, wattage, and other choices. Ours are operated by a switch in the house, but we could have ones that are motion detector controlled, dawn to dusk controlled, cell phone controlled, or with other systems. But the porch lights of today are installed for other reasons than the types I grew up with.

            The modern porch light is designed to repel. It is a beacon, but one that shouts, “Go away, or the house alarms will signal the police to quickly come.” It does not invite the sojourner but is a Maginot line sold to make us feel safer.

            There was a time in our lives that such home defenses were not needed, but those days slipped away. We now live in a culture of home invasion, purse snatching, and more. I do not fault homeowners for protecting their homes and family, but I question why our society has fallen to such a level that some are so brazen to invade a home or snatch the purse of an elderly woman in broad daylight. What bred in some people such bitterness that led to desperation then vile action? 

            Just as with the outside lights, I am like many people. But instead of lights, I am thinking about The Sermon on the Mount, which before this week I would have assured you that I had a solid understanding of, until I began reading Clarence Jordon’s explication. In Matthew 5:22, Jesus says, “ Whereas I say to you that everyone who becomes angry with his brother shall be liable to judgment; and whoever says ‘Raca’ to his brother shall be liable to the Council.; and whoever says ‘worthless reprobate’ shall be liable to enter Hinnon’s Vale of fire.” (Hart)

            These are strong words that cause me to wonder if one reason we feel a need for stronger porch lights and such, is, as Christians (individually or collectively), we have shouted “Raca” to many of our citizens? Have we and do we look at Christian brothers/sisters and think “worthless reprobate”?  If so, then we have marginalized our fellow Christians and are in danger of being cast into Gehenna, regardless of our porch lights and alarm systems.

                                                            By Roger Barbee

            The hand-mixed concrete sidewalk at the front of our past Edinburg  house leads to a gently sloped bank that ends at the road. At the top of the bank is a row of large boxwoods. One does not need to be an archeologist to surmise that at one time the sidewalk met the old road, which was of gravel, and the boxwoods were a border between it and the front yard. But in the 1950’s the gravel road was modernized at the request of its property owners and asphalt replaced the gravel; however, some owners were not fully aware of what modernization was bringing, according to my friend Gordon.

            Mr. Wolf, who farmed at the end of the country road next to the North Fork, had the habit, according to his daughters, of stepping on his “lucky rock” each time he would walk to town. His “rock” was a piece of limestone that protruded above the gravel where the country road met Route 11. When the state paved the road, his lucky rock was scrapped away, and the bed of the road no longer followed the contours of the land. Small rises were cut out and dips were filled in to make the road more level. So, the bank in front of our house was cut lower, causing the sidewalk to lead to a small cliff, and other modern engineered changes to the land altered the contour of Old Bethel Road. What had been a sort of safe, old path for feet, hooves, wheels, and the occasional tire was now a road of modern means.

            Wendell Berry describes a path as “…little more than a habit that comes with knowledge of a place. It is a sort of ritual of familiarity.  As a form, it is a form of contact with a known landscape. It is not destructive. It is the perfect adaptation, through experience and familiarity, of movement to place; it obeys the natural contours; such obstacles as it meets it goes around.” The new road does not follow the landscape, but altered it. The new road, which allows much higher speed than the old one, so people may not see the landscape. The new road covered Mr. Wolf’s lucky rock and other familiar objects created from experience. However, many people will see the paved road as cleaner, safer, and easier to maintain. Those are good reasons to pave a gravel road, but I want to see the old and new road as a metaphor for our present culture.

            Recently I read an interview with a cancer survivor who decided to create a new line sympathy cards. Emily McDowell wanted to create cards for people who “did not know what to say” to a friend who was recovering from a serious illness such as cancer or just going through one of life’s tough times. She received good feedback concerning her honest cards, and she soon teamed with Kelsey Crowe, an empathy scholar who founded an organization called Help Each Other Out where she teaches people how to empathize in times of illness or difficult times. My question: Have we become, as a culture, so void of valid emotions that we need a book to guide us on how to feel for each other and how to express that feeling? 

            I argue that we need more paths in our lives. It seems to me that we have literally and figuratively built so many roads in our lives that we do longer see the landscape and have lost familiarity with its intricate features, such as a projecting piece of limestone that becomes a “lucky stone.” We move so quickly and are so busy that we have forgotten how to express sincere empathy for our fellow humans. We have such a need for so called success that we pack the lives of our children with too many activities thinking that more is better, but they may not see the landscape of their childhoods. We even pave our walking trials as if packed dirt is to be avoided at all costs.

            Of course roads fill a need in our modern world, but can we not create literal and figurative paths in our lives that show us our landscapes while offering us a chance to become familiar with our physical surroundings and neighbors. A path will slow us down on occasion, and that will help us know how to relate better with our surroundings.

By Roger Barbee

            Non-public schools reserve the right to expel a student for a rule infraction, be it one of a discipline or honor violation, or both. Also, poor academic performance may lead to a student being expelled. It is hoped that all such schools print a clear and simple set of expectations and possible consequences for their breaking in some forms for students and parents to follow. As difficult as it is for a student and school, sometimes the best action is for a student to be expelled. But, in my opinion and experience as an independent educator, expulsion should be the last recourse.

            Earlier today when I read the following in an ABC on-line article, I was disappointed: “A Christian school in Kentucky is accused of expelling a freshman student after seeing an image of her celebrating her 15th birthday with a rainbow cake and multi-colored sweater. Kimberly Alford said officials at Whitefield Academy in Louisville sent her an email last week with the image of her daughter, Kayla, and informed her that Kayla was no longer a student.”

            Whitefield Academy, like all non-public schools, maintain its right to expel a student as mentioned earlier. Fine. Yet what I cannot understand, if the mother is correct, why did the head of school notify the student and parent via an email? I understand that the photograph of a student can cause alarm for a school when the school sees the picture as going against one or more of its core beliefs. Alford says that the head of school told her when she called that the cake and sweater represented gay pride, not a core belief of Whitefield.

            On its web page, Whitfield lists its Core Values. Two of them are: Compassion and respect for all people. Whitefield Academy believes each individual is uniquely created by God and endowed with specific gifts and abilities. These gifts and abilities, encourage mutual respect, promote Christian love and provide motivation to resolve conflict in a peaceable and Biblical manner (Matthew 18:15-35). Commitment to family values. Whitefield Academy exists to serve Christian families in the process of education. As such, the school is supportive of family issues and concerns. We exist to strengthen the family through a balanced educational program that considers the academic and relational needs of the family (Psalm 127).

            As a Christ follower, I am aware of the Bible’s teachings on homosexuality. I am also a reader of the Gospels, and as I understand them, especially Luke, I appreciate the two Core Values of Whitfield that I quoted. But, how can the head of school believe in them, if a student is expelled via an email. What kind of compassion/respect and commitment to family values does that demonstrate? Shame on that type of Christianity.

The question is not the policy of Whitfield, but the procedure it followed in expelling its student. I hope it will look at its Core Values and follow them the next time a student breaks a rule.

By Roger Barbee

            In May 1968 I graduated from college with a degree in English. I went home that summer to work in Cannon Mills, Plant 1, but as soon as August came, and Uncle Grant sold me that two-toned green rambler, I headed to what I viewed as the “promised land” of the North, which for me was Washington, D.C. I remember on the long drive to my apartment in Maryland seeing a “Wallace for President” sign somewhere in N.C., and thinking, “No more of that.”

            During my college years I became good friends with William MacPherson, who had grown up in Arlington, Va. I visited his home and thus, D.C., over the four years of gaining an education. I came to think of the area as the “land of milk and honey” for such a fired-up, young radical as I. The time of my graduation was the time of George Wallace and “Clean” Gene, who were candidates for President. It was also the time of Dr. King, Jr.’s assassination and the subsequent riots. It was the time of protests. It was the time of Howard Zinn and nightly newscasts of battles in Vietnam, complete with the day’s body count. It was an exciting time to be twenty-one years old and beginning a teaching career in a rural county of Maryland’s Eastern Shore.

            Or so I thought until I recently ran across a reference to a man named Clarence Jordon. Jordon was a strong believer in the Sermon on the Mount, and in the fall of 1941 when he met a gentle missionary named Martin England who believed as he, they began dreaming of establishing Koinonia Farm as a way of countering the plight of farmers.  Life on Koinonia Farm would follow Scripture, especially the Sermon on the Mount. In 1942 they purchased a run-down farm southwest of Americus, Georgia, and the work to establish a community of all people began. But, the local population objected to the Koinonians eating together because some were white and some black, and just wages were paid to black workers which went against the rules of Jim Crow. Violence was not long in coming and until his death of a heart attack in 1969, Jordon peacefully followed the tenets of the Sermon on the Mount as angry whites burned down buildings of the farm, stole from it, destroyed its equipment, shot at its members, and local merchants refused to sell seeds and fertilizer to the farm. In describing the personalities warped by hate that tried to kill the farm, Jordon said, “We have too many enemies to leave them without hope.” I am indebted to Joyce Hollyday for some of this information.

Since reading the reference to Jordon and the Koinonia Farm, I have read his Cotton Patch Version of Luke and Acts, a brief sketch of his life by Joyce Hollyday, and have begun his commentary on the Sermon on the Mount. I am captured by his faith, adherence to Scripture, and his legacy of Koinonia Farm. And I can’t help but go back to my years of college in the 1960’s and my mistaken belief that everything I desired was in a large, northern city.

A son of the South, I highly anticipated the time I could move to a world more suited to my beliefs—equality for men and women, peace, honest work, learning, in brief, everyone coming together to make the world better. I saw my dream in D.C. and went there. But, now, all these years later in 2018, I “discover” a man and a place that had everything I desired. Now, I am not fool enough to think that, going back these fifty years, everything would be peachy. Perhaps Jordon would not have appreciated me or my ways; maybe I not his. So be that. Yet, I am intrigued by my not seeing what was almost right in front of me and held all that my radical heart desired in 1968.