Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

This morning’s ride on the stationary bike began earlier than usual. When I had uncovered the bike and adjusted every detail to begin my five-mile workout, the small grove of 14 pine trees between our road and me were still shrouded in soft, morning shadows. Because of the crisp December wind, I hurried to get moving in order to create some warmth because the sun had yet cleared the horizon of Lake Norman.

Before too long, my rotations on the stationary bike began to create a stronger blood flow, and I sensed a rise of temperature. While no sweat dripped from my brow, the steady wind was not now causing as much discomfort as it was just a few minutes before. The rhythm of the ride steadied, and as my arms flowed into it my entire body joined. It was then that I noticed a small movement in the pine tree grove next to me. Then I saw another and another and another.

I watched as I cranked the bike. The small sparrows were busy looking for a morsel or more on the ground under the 14 pine trees. Because of the morning shadows I could not see the sparrows as clearly as I wished, but by the small bodies and action, I think that I was seeing a morning flock of chipping sparrows. It seemed that when I saw one, I saw another. Their constant movement along the ground prevented any accurate count, but I was more interested in how they were almost indistinguishable from a pine needle or piece of pine bark or a fallen leaf from one of the dogwood trees. When I thought I was seeing a chipping sparrow, the breeze would blow the leaf across the ground. But I saw many as they flurried across the ground in search for food. Then they quietly disappeared, leaving me to now have time to notice the first sun rays grace the grove’s shadows.

 I have watched many sunrises from this postage stamp of earth where I ride each morning. All of them are the same, but all are different. They are like people in that way. But no matter, I watched this one as I shifted to a higher gear for more resistance. I wanted the heat created by the harder riding, but I also wanted the warmth the sun would give. And I also needed to observe it, aware that the rotating earth and nature’s way would not wait. Aware of the moment,  I watched as the sunlight first graced the tree tops across the road in Ken’s yard and, clearing the housetops on our side of the lake, cast shadows of morning on the pine forest floor where the chipping sparrows had just been. Soon the shadows under the pine grove disappeared,   its needle covered floor revealed by soft, early morning sunlight. Deep shadows, chipping sparrows, and a morning moment replaced by another as the day, like all days, made its offer.

I began my warm down, but I still looked at the day begin. Watching the sun rise, seeing its rays break the grip of night, and feeling its warmth, I applauded its promise and the hope of that promise. A new day that would resemble yesterday and tomorrow, but one that had its own personality and potential. Its own hope. The Pharisee turned Christian, St. Paul, writes in Romans—“we are saved by hope.”

During this time of pandemic, shrill voices, and violence, , let us all remember those words of St. Paul. We have and are saved by hope. Hold to that and do not let it flit away like that flock of chipping sparrows. Hold hope. Better is coming.

By Roger Barbee

 In many situations being first is desired. Athletes train to be first in order to stand alone. Explorers take risks to be the first to reach an objective, such as a mountain peak, which will likely be named in the explorer’s honor. Students study to be first in their class to reap scholastic rewards. The winners in professional sports are richly rewarded by fan adulation and huge salaries.  In our culture, to be the first is to be special and successful. Being first is associated with being a winner, and the rewards for that will be vast.

However, there is one first that I wonder about, and that is being the first child. I wonder what it is like being the child on which parents work to perfect their parenting skills? What is it like being the child who is expected to help after the younger siblings arrive? How does the first child react to expectations that he or she had but that are not later made of the younger ones?  Does the pressure of being the yardstick for all children in a family ever lessen? How old does the first child have to be before the remark, “You’re too old,” stops hurting or stinging? How damaging is the mantle of adulthood placed too soon on young shoulders, and does it sometimes cause them to sag?

            As I type these words, all six children of my mother cover the range of the 70 aged group. But in a few days, the oldest, a girl, turns 80. Once again, she will lead us into a novel age decade. Yet she has led us before because she is the oldest: Into Marriage: On being the first parent;  She would be the first college graduate; She led us into and through many life experiences. In many ways, she showed us how to navigate life’s water.

            At one time the seven years between my older sister and me was a chasm too deep and wide to cross. But as we aged, that space between us grew smaller, and we developed a kinship that was not possible when, for instance, I was thirteen and she was twenty. The family baby is ten years younger than the girl who soon turns eighty, but those ten years are now nothing more than dates on a calendar. Life and aging have a way of closing such gaps, reducing the space that once seemed insurmountable.

            Our mother, a divorced mother of six children, worked hemming washcloths in Plant 1, Cannon Mills. Her life was hard, but her unconditional love covered us. Later after she retired and needed help to live in her mill house on South Juniper Street, my four sisters took turns spending a week at a time with her. Each Tuesday at Noon one sister would arrive, and one would leave. This rotations was done in their birth order, so for this loving gift, the oldest child was once again the first. Many observations and stories came out of the ten years my sisters cared for our mother. One often repeated story is how they all heard our mother walking through her three-bedroom mill house softly repeating over and over, “Just me and my six little children.” Each sister would share feelings about her time with our mother, and the oldest told me more than once, “Those days brought me peace with our mother.”

            Tobie now lives in the same neighborhood with her closest sibling, a girl two years younger. While that younger sister will soon enough turn eighty, the best thing of all is that they again share much of living just as they did when they shared the front bedroom of our mill house with another sister. Ponder that: Three adolescent girls sharing one bedroom!

            Life lived and shared, and Tobie was and is the first in so many ways. Some of those ways undoubtedly were difficult. Some were joyous. But all along the path she traveled, she left blazes–marks easy for her younger siblings to find and follow.

By Roger Barbee

The 26-degree temperature and frozen bird baths announce this morning’s cold, the first hard chill of 2022. In fact, (“I think to myself, what a wonderful world”) that it is the first one of this winter season as I watch robins, cardinals, chickadees, and thrashers trying to create just a crack in the cruel ice of the birdbaths. All they accomplish, however, is a slide across the unfamiliar frozen circles or a sideways hopping along each edge. They quickly realize the futility involved here and adapt—and gracefully fly to other sources. Above all this life the almost harsh winter sunlight penetrates the scene, but it comes from a slightly more northernly track; proof of the lasting rotation which announces, if one is observant, winter season’s end began on December 21, at 21:48 UTC because that is when the winter solstice occurred in 2022.

Despite the occasional winter cold, I watch the sun rise each day to mark its position over the lake and note that each day’s light is a bit longer before sunset. In this way the gloom of raw, winter days is lessened and hope for warm, light filled days is sustained. For instance, as I type these words the next morning, one patch of the back garden is abruptly filled with red-winged blackbirds that gather at the non-frozen bird bath like members of a dunking sect. They drink, then hop to the turf under the feeder that hangs from the bare dogwood tree. Life, even on such a morning, swarms here and across the whole earth.

In 1967 Louis Armstrong recorded “What a Wonderful World”, the well-known song written and arranged by George David Weiss and Bob Thiele. I quote from it in the first paragraph because it is a fine reminder of what we are given in this “wonderful world.”

Once, when I was a young man struggling with my first heartache, my mother said to me, “Son, sometimes this ol’ world is hard.” She, the mother who reared six children alone, certainly knew how true her words were. But she also shared her love of trees and birds and flowers. One memory I hold close is of her standing at her kitchen window, looking out at her back yard that was full of maple trees that we had planted. Today, all these years later, my wife and I enjoy birds visiting a birdbath that adorned her yard beneath those maples. She found solace where she could and used it as one of her shields against the hardness that life sometimes showed.

Yes, the January cold has arrived. Ice. Snow. Short, dark days. All of it raw and real. But even these days hold the promise of better ones coming as marked by the winter solstice that happened a few days ago.  Look out, find the beauty in a cold morning, then share it with a friend.

By Roger Barbee

The baby-faced boy walked past me as I watched the wrestling on Mat 1. As he skirted between me and the action on Mat 1, his headgear with his school’s logo slipped from his hand. An older teammate strode to him.

I was attending a fourteen-team wrestling tournament in Alumni Hall of a Maryland independent school last Saturday. It was the first competition for the new season of 2023-24 and the Hall was packed with wrestlers of all sizes and ages and both sexes, coaches, parents, trainers, host school staff, four mats, officials, and me– all in Alumni Hall.

Folkstyle wrestling in high school has changed since I practiced it over fifty years ago. Yet it is the same. While we never had a tournament with fourteen teams, while we never wore headgear, while we never had wrestling shoes, we did have matches of three two-minute periods, and each wrestler tried to defeat the opposition.

Some fans of sports enjoy comparing today’s athletes with those of the past, but that seems to me like comparing an orange with an apple. They have some likenesses but are two different fruits. I wrestled in the 1960’s much like those boys and girls did in the Hall, but in my opinion any other comparison is fruitless. The wrestlers today, even the average ones, know and can execute and counter so many more moves than those of us who wore tennis shoes for matches and practiced on canvas mats. But there is still one similarity.

While the skill of those boys and girls on Saturday was not that good, their desire and determination was outstanding. Yes, there were wrestling moves that were not executed correctly and countermoves that were, well, just wrong. There were glaring errors in the correct starting positions, and the officials had to “coach” a wrestler more than once. However, those students were on the mats and trying. To paraphrase President Roosevelt from his The Man in the Ring speech, no one outside the ring has a right to criticize he who is in the ring.

As I kept watching, I thought of some great American wrestlers and wondered if Dan Gable or John Smith or Kyle Snyder or so many other great wrestlers ever competed in a tournament like this one. Of course they did because everybody starts somewhere and that is usually by just trying, by being present, and by going on to become better, maybe not great, but just better. To be, as Ohio State’s Coach Tom Ryan says, “Authentic.”

And this: When the older teammate strode to the baby-faced boy who had dropped his  headgear, he showed him how to fasten the headgear chin strap through the lowered shoulder strap of his wrestling singlet to allow it to dangle next to his hip. When the younger boy had done it correctly, the more experienced boy patted him on the shoulder and said, “Now you’re a wrestler.”

A wrestler, indeed.

By Roger Barbee

My wife Mary Ann and I drove to Raleigh on Sunday and picked up Nick at his foster home. Because our return ride was close to three hours long, Mary Ann sat with him in the back seat of our van. By the time we parked in our driveway, I knew that a bond had formed between my wife and Nick, the two-year-old beagle with a taste of dachshund, we think.

Much has happened in Nick’s life since October 09, 2021, when he was “seized as a stray” in Reidsville, NC. Taken to the local animal shelter, he was later rescued by Triangle Beagle Rescue. Under its care, he received his first medical evaluation and soon was administered the required medical procedures, such as the rabies shot, before being placed with Melanie and Art, his foster parents. Life began to look better for the eighteen-pound stray who had been seized.

In the two full days of sharing our home with Nick, we have re-discovered what life is like when lived with an energetic youngster. His black, brown, and white form is seldom still;  he is mostly obedient, but just a package of curiosity coupled with energy, like all young animals –even the human ones. He sees our four cats as novelties to be sniffed, but their view of him is as an intruder on their turf. We all work on that relationship. However, he has already proven to be a good guard dog and a foe of any squirrel that ventures into his yard. He has yet to figure out the flyers who visit the bird feeders, but his antics with them entertain us, and he enjoys a chew on any pine cone he finds.

Nick is our fourth hound. He comes after Nolan the black and tan hound and Mickey and Callie, the beagles, died. Those three shared life with us for fifteen years and cannot, like a broken plate, be replaced. What they gave us during those years is a treasure that Mary Ann and I hold close, but we are now building a new bond with a bundle of beagle.

After all, what good is a life not shared!

By Roger Barbee

The other day my wife Mary Ann and I were planning our Thanksgiving meal. She asked me some questions concerning what I wanted and also made statements about the meal-such as this year she would purchase the cranberry sauce instead of making it from scratch. It is our yearly discussion in which I mostly listen, but this year, for some reasons, it stirred a memory.

Life on the mill hill in a 1950’s North Carolina textile town was sparse. My mother worked on the second shift hemming washcloths in Plant 1, and in this way she provided for her six children. Our life, while not harsh, did not have extras. We had a clean, safe home that had enough furniture but not too much, and we had access to the small, independent store just a short walk through our back yard. It was there that we charged to our mother’s account a package of honey buns for breakfast along with a half-gallon of milk. Or some bologna and loaf bread for supper sandwiches. (I liked to fry my bologna and curl its edge.)

Working on the second shift meant that our mother was not at home from 3-11 PM. We lived close to Plant 1, so she could walk to her work, but she was not  present when we came home from school and not there to prepare an evening’s meal, which we called supper. So, each of us individually “made do” with what was in the rather bare Frigidaire. If nothing suitable was found, one of us would make a quick run to the small store behind our house. Loaf bread, milk, peanut butter, jelly, and other staples went a long way for us. However, sometimes our mother managed somehow to leave us a treat before she trod to the sewing machine in Plant 1.

Language of the mid-South textile towns was always interesting. Ours was a mixture of many cultures and we used terms and words that I now recognize as archaic and sometimes just wrong. Yes, we called the water hose a  “hose pipe” and the wool hats worn over the entire head in winter “toboggans”, and a tow truck was referred to as a “wrecker.”  But our language also carried a rhythm and lyrical history from our ancestors. For instance, a passel (late 14^th century) of land meant a small piece but a passel of folks meant a large crowd such as “We had a passel of folks at the reunion.” If someone was “tickled” that usually meant the speaker was pleased. So when our mother managed with her meager resources to prepare “a mess of beans” for our school-day supper it was a treat because “a mess of beans”, straight from Middle English,  meant an abundance of good food.

While we were at school on such a day, Mother would have washed, soaked, then placed on the electric stove to cook our “mess of beans”, which were usually pinto ones. She had a well-worn pot that in a past life had been a pressure cooker, but was now just a dull-colored, silver container with a wooden handle. By supper time, the beans in it were tender, warm, and nutritious for our hungry bodies. A bowl of them (I smothered mine with chopped, white onion) with a wedge of the cornbread from the oven and a jelly glass of cold milk was a special gift that our mother had prepared and left for us.

All of this happened over sixty years ago, but our Mother’s gift of pinto beans, cornbread, and milk is more than a memory. Like the poor widow and her two mites in Mark 12, our Mother gave us, her six children, all that she had. Unlike Mary Ann and me and our approaching Thanksgiving meal, our mother had little, but she gave us all she had.

And that is a blessing for which to give thanks.

By Roger Barbee

On most mornings I ride my stationary handcycle for thirty minutes. The bike is placed in a corner of our driveway and close to our residential road. The scene of the neighborhood is great, and I can see all the houses that friends have turned into homes. The view of golden poplars,  unmurdered crepe myrtles, and  maple trees full in their multiple shades of red is one that I have learned to expect and appreciate. All of this as a precursor of the looming cold front blew softly through the tall pines, telling of the change to come. Yet, for me, this lovely scene is not the most interesting or important part of my morning rides.

In 1883 Life on the Mississippi was published and available by subscription. The book is part fiction but mostly memoir by Mark Twain. It is, to a degree, a biography of that great river and the people who live on it or near it. I have come to see our little road as a river. Not one like the mighty Mississippi, but a river that each morning offers new experiences and exposures: To people moving up and down our little road much like the steamboats of Mark Twain. And like a person on the Mississippi River in the mid-19^th century, I have come to enjoy the approach of each steamboat, but in my case it is not a large paddle-wheeler, but a cyclist, walker, jogger, or neighbor driving to work or on an early morning errand. The drivers pass swiftly with a mere wave or horn honk from their shell. The cyclist pass as well, but some can be heard as they shout “Morning!” But it’s the walkers or joggers who offer the  most because they move slower and are more prone to be enticed to slow or even stop for a chat. Over the years of riding near the road, I have enjoyed these opportunities to talk with travelers on our residential road. Some of them are well-known neighbors who often stop to share news of their lives; some are vacationers who talk of their pleasant visit to Lake Norman; and some are the regulars who I often see and who sometimes stop and visit for a while. No matter: Each is an opportunity to connect with another human being; Each is an opportunity to hear of events in a life separate from mine; Each is an opportunity to learn; Each is an opportunity.

I am reading Revelations on the River (Healing a Nation, Healing Ourselves) by Matthew Dowd. In his chapter titled Fears and Trauma he writes, “The greatest impediment to true, full love-…are our fears and trauma that we have accumulated throughout our life. It is these fears and trauma, whether profoundly real or perceived, that create scars and, as a consequence, walls within us that can prevent our hearts, minds, and souls from unifying in such a way that allows us to go outward from a place of love.”

Now, I do not profess to being a great healer or writer or Matthew Dowd. Yet, I do think that by merely acknowledging a person passing along on our little road, I make a type of connection and by that validate their humanity. Besides, I enjoy getting to know them, the name of their dog, their family plans for Thanksgiving, all of it matters and if we all do enough of “hailing the steamboat” to come ashore then we just may remove some of the walls that divide us.

By Roger Barbee

Although I went to Saint Stephen’s School for Boys in 1976 to teach English and coach wrestling,  I also became a student of several veteran educators in the school, but especially Jim Osuna.

A teacher, the dean of discipline, and coach of cross country and track, Jim Osuna taught young men by demanding that each of them arrive on time, be fully prepared, and perform at their best. He coached in an all-boys’ school where other sports were revered, but he developed IAC champions in cross country and track and field. He modernized the old asphalt track and founded the Draper Invitational Track Meet that had as its stellar race the steeplechase, an unusual event for high schools.  In those days if you came to a track practice you may have seen him driving his red Karma Gia down the track straightaway with a runner frantically holding onto the T-bar that he had fashioned to its rear bumper. In this way he trained the runner to “stretch his legs”  and realize that he could take three steps between those imposing high hurdles.

Jim built confidence in his runners. At an IAC track and field championship held at Bullis School in the late 1970’s I was shocked to see our star two-mile runner,. Greg, to immediately break away from his main competitors from Georgetown Prep in the championship race. Running to Jim, I told him our runner needed to be slowed, but he just said, “It’s okay, we know what we are doing.” Unknown to me, Jim had convinced Greg that he was so well-trained and disciplined that he could sprint out early and break contact with the two runners from Prep. He did and before anyone could react, he was too far ahead to be caught. That two-mile championship was an early example for me of  Jim’s skill at training a boy’s body and mind.

When I asked Jim why the classrooms in the upper school had slate blackboards on three of their  walls, he told me how he and other teachers used them for a week’s lesson. His three boards were covered with information for a week. Those boards, with their different colored chalk lessons, were the precursor of copy machines, and every student of his quickly learned the discipline demanded for the classes’ required notebook. In his required exactness for the history notebook, Jim taught his students the discipline needed for scholarship showing them that they could succeed.

Walking around Jim’s classroom, you would have seen many objects concerned with his world history class. In his youth he had travelled the Nile River Valley on a red Harley Davidson motorcycle and had many examples of ancient civilizations displayed. One object was a stone with Sanskrit carved into it. That is fitting because not only was it a history lesson for his students, but it was also a language that may give us our word mentor. While the Ancient Greek in the Odyssey gives us the trusted adviser of young Telemachus, Mentor, the Sanskrit gives us “man-tar” which means “one who thinks.”

For various reasons,  many of us went to Saint Stephens School for Boys. I went as a teacher and coach, but because of my encounter with Jim Osuna, I gained a mentor, “one who thinks”, and an educator to whom I am indebted to and grateful for.

By Roger Barbee

Standing on my work bench is a short section of a limb cut from a cherry tree. Since the horseshoes were last hung on it by Big PaPa, the limb has grown over the horseshoes, capturing them in a capsule of a time that is now only a memory.

At one time, not  too long ago, parents would take their children to a grandparent’s house for a “get together.” Grown siblings and adults talked with each other, sharing news and gossip while cousins played in the yard and house. Heaps of food were placed on the kitchen table and in less time than it took to prepare the food, the empty pots, pans, and plates needed washing. In some families the adults then scattered about the house or if the weather was good they went out to sit under a canopy of deep shade. Children ran about, adults talked still, or some napped.

But some grandparents, like Craig’s Big PaPa, had built a horseshoe pit, and after the meal the matches between family members was on. The pitching was competitive, but fun. While winners and losers were tallied, it was the doing that counted most.  After day’s light ended the pitching and everyone was talked out,  each family gathered itself to return home and Big PaPa gathered the iron horseshoes and hung them on the cherry limb until the next pitching. But too soon Big PaPa, like King David, went the “way of all the earth” and eventually died. In due time his family members chose from his estate, and some wanted furniture, some gun(s), or other items. Craig chose nothing but went out and sawed the horseshoe limb from the tree and took it home. That was Big PaPa’s gift to him.

Craig told me about it a few weeks ago, and I persuaded him to trust me with it. I stripped the bark, cut one end to square it, and wire brushed the rusty horseshoes, After hand sanding the wood of the limb I applied two coats of lacquer and it is ready for two more and then will be mounted on a natural cedar board. (The red cedar resembles a clay pit). Next week Craig will come to get his Big PaPa’s memory gift.

Families have scattered across the land and even if some live close together few travel on a weekend afternoon to share time. Soccer games, football contest, dance recitals, and other overly scheduled youth activities fill the time that was once reserved for large gatherings of families where plentiful homecooked food, naps, cousin play, and horseshoes with Big PaPa was shared. That is the way of modern families, but nothing learned in a youth activity can rival what a grandchild can learn pitching “shoes” with Big PaPa.

By Roger Barbee

The 1989 movie Field of Dreams tells the story of a farmer who one night hears the whisper, “If you build it he will come” while walking in his cornfield.

For the past three days, I have been reminded of that movie.

My wife Mary Ann and I enjoy birds, but for the past month since returning to the Valley, we have been busy with opening boxes, positioning furniture, and other requirements of a move. However, one of our sons visited this past week, and since we were feeding him well, we decided to use his younger muscles. We got him to spread mulch and place our honest-to-goodness squirrel-proof bird feeder next to the back patio. After all was done Matthew filled the bird feeder with sunflower seed and left the next morning.

Patience is a desirable trait, and I like to think that I possess it; however, as the first day closed with no bird visiting the feeder, I began to question its placement–was it too exposed since birds, like all things, seek security. Would it be better placed nearer the trees in our back garden? As day two came and closed, I threatened to move it closer to some bird cover. However, Mary Ann, full of patience, cautioned me, “Just wait.” During the evening of day three we sat in our morning room watching the last of a hot day fade. As the shadows climbed Massanutten Mountain, I grumbled about the lack of birds on the feeder. My grousing attitude even began to grate on Mary Ann’s patience, and she told me to stop complaining.

While sitting that evening in the Morning Room we chatted about our accomplishments in our new home and shared plans for its future. Then one of us saw it—a male house finch settled on the curve of the shepherd’s hook holding the feeder. We watched it, eagerly wanting it to go to the feeder and eat its seeds. We whispered as if believing our voices would frighten it away. Then a blue jay sailed by the feeder, alighting on the ground beneath it. Perhaps it, too, thought the house finch would eat from the feeder, scattering seeds to the ground.  Instantly the house finch bolted to the far maple tree. An expletive flew from me, and as usual it improved nothing, only showing my lack of vocabulary. We then waited as darkness descended before accepting that the house finch would not return.

Over coffee the next morning we talked, but I held everything in anticipation—would the finch return, perhaps bringing other birds. Then it was atop the shepherd’s hook before making its way to the seeds. In a short time, other finches enjoyed the feast, and soon a variety of birds joined as well.

 A small bird reminded me to remember the message of the movie, or of St. Paul, or of Terry Tempest Williams, or of Mary Ann—impatience and weak faith will cloud any experience.