Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

Readers often respond to the writer of an article or essay they have read. Recently one such reader wrote to a writer about an article printed in the Washington Post Magazine. Printed below is the email as shared by the writer.

                                    Hi Damon:

I like your pieces in the WP magazine but I really stumbled reading your article in tomorrow’s edition.

Specifically:

…although it ain’s a perfect analogy: ain’t? Really poor choice.

…some of them white boys: them? How about ‘those’?

You do good work; don’t try to  sound like you are still in the street.

Regards,

            The writer shares the reader’s email in which he or she rails about the use of “ain’t” and whips to death that old horse. That is a choice any of us can make, but I see that specific complaint like a charge against a windmill. However, what I find most distressing in the reader’s email is its tone and subtle racism. 

The reader has some knowledge of grammar and punctuation-the correct use of the semi-colon in the last sentence shows this, but he missed a comma in his opening sentence. However, the condescending tone and subtle racist attitude expressed in the reader’s last sentence is startling. The reader might as well have written, “You do good work, boy; don’t try to sound like you are still in the street.”  For one thing, who is the  reader to pronounce to the writer that, “You do good work;”. The writer knows that his work is good, or he wouldn’t be doing it. This clause is pure arrogance on the part of the reader because he or she assumes a superior position and passes a judgement, not an opinion on the work of the writer. But it is the veiled prejudice that steals the show. The last clause exposes the racist attitude of a reader commenting on the written words of a Black writer. The reader shows that he or she thinks that every Black writer must have, at one time, been “in the street.” In other words, if  you are Black you come from an inferior environment, even if, by now, you do good work. How is a writer to respond to such a tone and words?  Shuffle as he looks down and says, “Thank’ ya, Massa.”

But the writer, like any writer, is free to sound any way he or she wishes. However, in doing so, the writer must be willing to suffer any just and fair consequences—such as having a helpful editor make a change or changes. But a racist attack is  never warranted, and this email demonstrates another way of expressing racism, in a sly and sinister manner.

However, the writer does err in one regard. He writes in his splendid and controlled response this: “If you were better at this than I am, you would know, as I do, that the rules of grammar are mostly suggestions. Guardrails to help us corral and curate the mess in our heads into something cohesive.”

I suggest that rules—grammar or otherwise—are rules, not guidelines. In the usage of them or those, the rule concerns case; the difference between nominative and objective case. However, this rule’s distinction, like so many others in our grammar, is being lost through careless writing or editing or both. However, does it matter if the writer gets his message to the reader? Consider this example of the lowly comma and it use: “Let’s eat Grandma.” Let’s eat, Grandma.” Grammar and its cousin punctuation matter for the sole purpose to facilitate effective communication. They are rules to be followed as closely and respectfully as possible so that all readers will find the writing to be a road map to a destination or conclusion.

But the arrogant tone and subtle racism of the reader’s email far outpace the writer’s misuse of case. The use of case is the type of error which is easy to correct, but the ugly tone derived from privilege and its cousin racism is a choice, not a mistake. But unlike the mistakes we make in grammar, it lives and breathes and hurts us all like COVID.

Now, ain’t that the truth.

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

            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

                                                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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Roger Barbee

A road trip to the Sandhills of South Carolina is required. Unlike most requirements, this one is given freely because of the summer days I spent with Aunt Lynn and her husband Uncle Gene when I was a young boy. 

The year 1928 was not the best of times to be born, but Aunt Lynn’s parents and nine children managed through the Great Depression, even using it like a fire to temper their strength and resolve. She grew and married a local boy, Eugene Burch. They, too, farmed– cotton, corn, soy beans, corn, timber, wheat, and what ever else would bring them a profit. They also had chicken houses and that is how I experienced some wonderful summer days as their egg gatherer, cleaner, grader, and packer. But most of all, I remember those summer days as ones where I was given the responsible for me: The accountability of how I performed my egg duties, how I chopped my two rows of cotton as Uncle Gene chopped his four, and how I managed the other given tasks that, when done correctly, contributed to the farm’s success.

Aunt Lynn allowed me to grow during those hot summer days by giving me freedom that her older sister, my mother, could not. She shepherded me so that any decision I made seemingly was mine, but they were mostly hers. Her stern hand guided me as she fed me great meals that never seemed to lack anything a young boy wanted.

But every great summer day ended, and a ride for me with some local farmers who worked the 2^nd shift in Plant 1, Cannon Mills, was found, and I returned home: A boy rich with memories of many achievements and adventures on a small, Sandhill farm.

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.