Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

The cardboard box is marked “Southern Peaches” and made to hold ten ripening peaches.  Now empty of  its delicious fruit, it sits on the floor below a side table holding whichever of our five cats gets in it to sleep, a purpose for which it was not intended, but our cats do not know that, nor did any of them savor the sweetness of its contents.

I waited. Each morning I surveyed the ten in the bowl where Mary Ann my wife had placed them. My patience weakened as the peaches turned redder and softer. After a few days my wait ended, and I removed one from its resting place. I washed it and carried it to the round oak breakfast table in a paper towel. Setting it on the table, style down, I removed the peduncle and using my thumbs opened it to reveal a seed coat surrounded by pink mesocarp overflowing with sweet juice. The seed and its coat came out easily, and I  took my first summer’s taste of a South Carolina  peach. Only a peach, with its juice flowing between my fingers and onto the paper towel, it stirred memory.

We lived poor but for our mother. The little, green house where our mother reared my five siblings and me had an outhouse at the end of its long, sloping yard. It was a bare house. Mother’s wage hemming washcloths in the local cotton mill was not enough for many things, but she persevered, and we learned in her shadow.

By the time I began to eat the second half of that sweet peach, I was hearing mother’s voice over sixty years ago as she would almost sing to her six, young children, “Just wait, the South Carolina peaches will be here soon. We’ll get some.” She then would explain how she had arranged for a coworker in the mill to bring us a bushel basket of fresh peaches.  Then for days on end she would tell us to be patient, that soon the peaches would  arrive. And they did, almost like the manna from heaven. Finishing the second half of the peach, I sorrowfully wiped the juice from my hands and threw the seed away. Washing my hands, I thought of my mother’s struggle in rearing us six. No car. Living away from town. Low wages. A divorced woman during the 1950’s in a southern town. Religious. Aware.

Finished, I sat quietly and tried to image, once again,  my mother’s life. But that, as I had discovered numerous times before, was not possible. Her struggles and accomplishments were above me, but some things, like the soon-to-arrive peaches, I finally came to understand in my adult years, or least I thought I had. You  see, our mother knew the bareness of our life, but she gave us hope every chance she could. And she taught us to anticipate the good from life. South Carolina peaches were one way that she had to give us something special, and she did. Somehow.

By Roger Barbee

Hope “for one of the least”

The pandemic, forest fires, and racial unrest seem to be consuming us and affects us in many ways. At times it is as if we live under a constant sky of grey (in the West the sky is grey from the fires) but we do not suffer the clinical disease of Depression; it is just that the situation we now live under is depressing. We suffer “doom and gloom.” A bit of good news and sunshine improves our mood and outlook, and today’s paper brought a bright ray of light.

I have no idea what it must be like to be a well-known professional athlete. I cannot imagine their salaries, fame, and lives: The adoring fans, the gobs of money, the temptations, the hard work, the groveling coaches from middle school through college, and more. While I have no reference for these parts of their live, I know from experience one thing about their lives: The sound of the bottom when one of them hits it. And there are too many documented stories of the sad rise and fall of a boy or girl who is gifted with certain skills in athletics.

When the pandemic first washed over us, I read an article about this man, Mark Cuban, who owned a professional basketball team. While I had never heard of him, I found as many articles as I  could to read about his “reaching out” to all of the workers in his arena to pay them for lost revenue during the pandemic. Now, today, he reaches out again to a human being in need. Mr. Cuban hears that an ex-NBA star is homeless. He arranges to meet him at a gas station in Dallas. Cuban, a wealthy man, does not send someone to pick up the downtrodden basketball player, but drives himself. Yes, he has someone filming the event, but he, Mark Cuban, is there. Involved. And helping to rescue a life that has been shattered because of bipolar disease. Sure, the man could shoot three-pointers all day long, but he suffered from an insidious disease that could only stay masked so long.

Homeless. Standing on the street with a cardboard sign. No relationship with family. Embarrassed by his fall. But another heard of his trouble and worked to meet and bring him in for help. Mark Cuban did that. And his riches do not, in my mind, matter. What Mark Cuban did was an act done “for one of the least”. That is righteous and a ray of sunshine through these cloudy days.

By Roger Barbee

A slight breeze blew in from the southwest, the first sunlight streaked through the pines at Kenny’s house giving sparkle to the dew, two cups of coffee sat on the yellow table in the screened porch, four of our five cats lay about on shelves or in boxes watching robins and doves on the driveway, and three dogs slumbered. A fine morning was breaking at Red Hill, and all was peaceful, not even the interstate roar shattered the calm. As Mary Ann and I sat, looking towards Short Mountain as if expecting something to happen, it did. But not on the mist-filled mountain.

            Some years ago, Mary Ann purchased a small (4×6 inches) birdhouse that was built and painted to look like a washing machine. Because of its theme, clean clothes, the only logical place for it was on one of the clothes line posts. I fastened it to the post under the aged sugar maple tree and faced it to the screened porch so that we could observe its occupants. Each season since its hanging, it has housed some pair of nester’s, usually chipping sparrows, but one year a pair of Carolina Chickadees raised a brood. Each fall it has been taken down, cleaned out, and given any needed repairs. Mary Ann’s inexpensive purchase has provided us many mornings of watching and learning, and this morning we both witnessed something neither of us had ever seen.

            Our gaze was moved from the mountain to the birdhouse by a movement. As we sat sipping coffee, we saw one of the adult sparrows light on top of the post and lean into the box. A small, fledgling head appeared in the hole. The adult flew up into the sugar maple. The small head disappeared back into the box. Then reappeared. Then disappeared. This cycle happened many times, but each time it appeared, the small body ventured further out of the hole. Then suddenly it fluttered on its fledging wings into the tree’s foliage. Then another head appeared in the hole, repeating the same process, but when this one left, it sailed into the grass, then fluttered just above ground to the weeping cherry.  As if it had learned by the first two, the third did not need as many looks out of the hole.  It

peeked out a few times, disappeared, then fluttered all the way to the weeping cherry. With its departure, we thought all had made their maiden flight. After all, the box was small, so three fledglings and two adults seemed quite a house full. But wait, an adult perched on the post and went into the box. Soon, a fourth, small beak appeared and it surveyed the territory. After much prodding by the adult, we thought, it flew in a haphazard pattern to a post near the tree. We waited, wondering if another would emerge, but the adult exited and flew to the weeping cherry, “the runt” of the brood having been pushed out of the nest. Neither of us had ever witnessed fledglings on their first flight, and we marveled at the small wings propelling the just as small bodies about our yard as the two adults guided. We watched, drinking coffee, and discussed in a limited manner, the odds for all 4 fledglings’ survival. We also talked of the adult and it going into the box for the seemingly purpose of forcing the last out. What a parent, we decided, for on that morning, after all care and grooming was complete, the adults knew that it was time–time for those babes to fly into the world and learn its ways.

            Now, I know there is a difference between sparrows and students. However, there is the obvious similarity this time of the year. Across this nation, students in high school and college are ready to fly into the world and learn its ways. Just like the 4 small fledglings, these students will soar in different ways, and, just like the fledglings, some will encounter difficulties. But my hope is that our students, at whatever level of graduation, will have been as well prepared as the fledglings. I hope for them determination, courage, wisdom, patience, and a sense of justice. Oh, and a good set of wings will help, too.

By Roger Barbee

Holy Week during the COVID-19 virus has been difficult. For safety of others and ourselves, we Christians cannot celebrate His victory over death as we usually have. Passover is also affected in the same way. But because we cannot be together does not prohibit us from worshipping.

As I was riding this morning, the wind blew the many pine trees in our front yard. Riding on the stationary I saw their tops whipping around as pinecones fell. The dogwood next to me showered the ground with bright, white flowers. Their blanketing of the area stirred the memory of the myth I was taught which claimed that the four petals formed the shape of the Cross and the roan color at the end of each symbolized the blood of Jesus. A sweet memory of a harmless myth taught to many children.

That memory of long-past Easters moved me to think of the Twelve, for whatever reason. Riding the stationary, gusts blowing pollen about, I thought of that group of varied men. They carry such importance for Christians, yet we know so little of them. And what we do know, would not be inspiring if we did not know the conclusion of their collected and individual stories. They each, even the traitor, have profiles, which like all profiles, may or may not be accurate.

One, Thomas, is sometimes thought of as being “doubting” because of words he spoke when not present in the Upper Room. Be that as you  wish, I  like to remember John’s words of Thomas in his Gospel, 11:16. The brother apostle writes: “Then said Thomas, which is called Didymus, unto his fellow-disciples, Let us also go, that we may die with him [Jesus].,

Knowing that Jesus faced certain death by walking to Bethany, which was two miles east of Jerusalem, Thomas spoke to the other disciples, telling them that they, and he, should go with their Master to die. William Barclay writes that Thomas’ words show his courage and loyalty, even if he were afraid. That is the Thomas I revere.

By my ride’s conclusion, I realized that we need to be more like Thomas. We all are chosen by God, but we must have the needed courage to follow His path. On this Good Friday during the COVID-19 virus, let us all have the strength of Thomas. 

  By Roger Barbee

Yesterday our pastor said in his sermon, “When in trouble, have faith.”

While I heard some of his remaining words, I admit to thinking mostly of those five words during the remainder of his sermon; and I keep thinking of those two words, “trouble” and “faith” because, even though they were spoken in the context of a sermon, there are many types of trouble and faith. I know in what term our pastor spoke them, but what of other understandings?

Most of us of a certain age have been warned of “troubles” by our mothers and/or  other adults during our growing years.  Most of those problems we were warned of were results from wrongdoing, such as being dishonest or greedy. We were taught to avoid such errors  because we would be “in a heap of trouble.”

But trouble comes in other forms, too. Think of the trouble that may result in having to make a choice because one is found in a precarious position—such as the first time one climbs a tall tree, then must navigate down it. Or, when one follows older children onto the garage roof to jump off, but teeters on the edge before deciding to jump or climb back down. For a six-year-old, both examples are “a heap of trouble.”

Athletics offer the possibility of trouble all the time. It is real trouble when a team or individual are faced with “being in a hole”—behind in points. The team or individual must choose an action, but the trouble of being down in points requires some act—either quit or battle back. As an athlete and coach, I have experienced trouble like that, sometimes with success, sometimes not.

While being in trouble is usually thought of as serious, it is not always so. Sometimes the trouble we face is really nothing more than an inconvenience, like an unruly child. However, when we think of trouble as adults, we usually think of it as serious, something that demands we contact a lawyer or doctor-the seeking of professional help of some type.  

Trouble comes in a variety, sometimes of our own making or not. But no matter its shape, color, reason, or size, all trouble requires that other word used by pastor-faith. For instance, if a runner finds herself behind in a race,  she can trust that her training has prepared her for what she must do: To increase her pace by raising her tempo and racing harder in order to catch her opponent(s). That trust is a form of faith in her preparation for the race, her work done for that moment. If she does not have faith in her training, she will not catch anyone but just cruise alone, content on running but not racing. But I think when any runner laces on her racing shoes, she should commit to running her best, pushing herself to her physical and mental limits. To do that takes faith.

S Christ follower is like the runner who, upon donning the shoes, is committing to not being content at just being present, but willfully giving every ounce of being for the “race”. Like the runner, a true Christ follower has trained by study and prayer. That’s what Paul did for three years, before he lined up on the starting line. And we are just as required to prepare for the trouble we will face. By that training we will gain the faith necessary for any race we face.

Trust in one’s ability is necessary many times. The child in the tree may not trust his ability to climb down the tree, but after he navigates to the safety of the ground, he knows from then on what he can manage. The same is true of the athlete who trusts in her training and her coach’s wisdom. We trust in ourselves if we have prepared. Some might even say we have faith in ourselves and our abilities. That is fine; however, faith for me is what I have in a higher authority. For me, Oswald Chambers writes it well, “The great thing about faith in God is that it keeps a man undisturbed in the midst of disturbance.”

Trust may get you out of the tree or help you improve in the race, but only faith will calm the storms of secular living.

By Roger Barbee

“Come and See” (one year ago)

Philip spoke the above three words to answer a question by Nathanael who when told of the presence of  Jesus of Nazareth  asks, “Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth?”  This is, on the surface, a fair question since the poor village of Nazareth was known for the  Roman garrison, the despised rulers of the Jews, that was stationed there. Is Nathanael prejudice or realistic?

In Latin any foreign person was labelled barbarus, and the Greek word for any person who did not speak the cultured language was barbarous. Nathanael, a learned Jew, expressed the prejudice of his culture: Nazareth was a crude and barbaric village.

Later in the Gospel of John, we are told of Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well. The hate between the Jews and Samaritans was palatable. But we are given this story and the parable of the Good Samaritan.  More prejudice.

 Recently, in Chicago, a well-known comedian and actor attempted to use our prejudices against President Trump supporters, blacks, and homosexuals to gain some kind of pathetic support for him and his floundering career.

A few days ago the main building of the historic (civil rights)  Highlander School in Tennessee was burned. A “white power” symbol was painted in the parking lot of the destroyed building.

In the just published April 1 Washington Post Magazine, is an article about the 1975 disappearance of the Lyon sisters from a Wheaton, Md. shopping center. In the article the writer Mark Bowden describes members of the Welch family, who were involved in the horrific rape and murder of the sisters as, “the clan”; coming from “mountain-hollow ways”; as having a “suspicion of outsiders”,  “an unruly contempt for authority of any kind”, “a knee-jerk resort to violence;” and “Most shocking were its [Welch family] sexual practices. Incest was notorious in the families of the hollers of Appalachia,…”

One last example. . A recent film is being touted as a “must see” for people who support abortion. All and well. However, way back in 1975-’76, the surgeon Richard Selzer wrote the essay “What I Saw at the Abortion: The doctor observed, the man saw.”  A simple internet search will bring up the essay. Read it but pay attention to its sub-title before you do.

In none of the above examples of prejudice, except the first, is the invitation to “Come and see” what is spoken against. Those three words carry power. They place the cure for prejudice on the pre-judging person. What would happen if the pre-judger sat with the woman at the well and heard her story? Can the hating burners of the Highland School not learn from its historical involvement in the civil rights movement? A talk with supporters of President Trump probably will reveal that they,  too, have their humanity and its inherent struggles. Let people who see themselves burdened with an unwanted pregnancy read what the man Richard Selzer saw while watching his first abortion.

“Come and see,” Philip says as he invites a fellow seeker to examine his own mis-conceptions. Prejudice is  real and comes in many colors and forms. But all is an evil that need not exist, if we all “Come and see.”

By Roger Barbee

            This past weekend Mary Ann and I were in my hometown to visit my elderly mother, and I was to give a short speech for my high school wrestling coach who (unknown to him) was receiving North Carolina’s highest civilian award: The Order of the Long-Leaf Pine. Well over two hundred people showed to honor Coach Bob Mauldin for his years of community service, teaching and coaching in the public schools, active in his church, serving as a principal, and wrestling official. In prior years, Coach Mauldin had been honored as principal of the year in Kannapolis, inducted into the National Wrestling Hall of Fame,  and now this, the highest award North Carolina  could bestow on a civilian. After the speeches lauding him and the presentation of the award, Coach Mauldin spoke. He shared a great deal with us, thanking us all, but one story he told I had not known—he failed the 7^th grade and had to repeat it. Coach Mauldin had flunked.

            David Halberstram, in his classic study of the Vietnam War, The Best and the Brightest, writes a great deal concerning the “boy wonders” who were an influential part of the Kennedy cabinet. The young men that President Kennedy brought to Washington had impeccable academic credentials, training,  and academic backgrounds. They were, as the title suggests, the best and the brightest.  Halberstram writes honestly of them and their obvious talents, but he concludes that their collective lack of real life experience, especially in the political area, was  one reason for our involvement in Vietnam and its deep cost to our nation.  Recounting the origins of that costly war, Halberstram observes that what these well-meaning “boy wonders” lacked was “true wisdom..the product of hard-won, often bitter experience.”

            One of the requirements for Coach Mauldin’s 7^th grade English class with Mrs. Howard was an oral book report. Up to his 7^th grade year, Coach Mauldin had received a pin for perfect attendance each year, but in the 7^th grade, in order to “dodge” giving that oral book report, Coach Mauldin missed some days. As he explained it to his gathered admirers, he was too shy to get up in front of the class and talk. He dodged the dates until he finally ran out of days, so he failed English, thus the 7^th grade. One more school year with Mrs. Howard.

            Now, I understand that not everything concerning public education in “the good ol’ days” was good or even policy that we should be following. For instance, in the time that Coach Mauldin failed Mrs. Howard’s class, a student could be paddled—that, in my mind, is a policy that needed to be gotten rid of. However, there is a dimension of a student failing a grade that is worthy of consideration. It seems to this writer that in some degree we have gone too far the other way in  many facets of modern day life and how we educate our children. For instance, in Shenandoah County, the lowest numerical grade a student can receive in the first marking period of a new semester is a 60 no matter how little work was done or how poorly the work was done.. This policy was instituted so that a student will not be discouraged and quit working over the course of a semester and eventually pass the course. That is a noble thought, but I question its value.

            It seems to me that we have given our children the idea that life is like a railroad track. We lead them to believe that they can get on the track of life and pick a destination. The trip will be without obstacles such as steep hills, sharp turns, and the crossing of any troubled waters will be made easier and safer by a sturdy bridge. Instead of letting our children make their way, often by trial and error, we have leveled the trip and removed all obstacles. In our desire for their succeeding, we have done too much for them. We have removed failure from their lives.

            I can imagine the difficulties a teacher would encounter today if he or she wanted to hold a student back. If the issue were an oral book report as in Coach Mauldin’s case, the teacher may be asked to alter the requirement in some way to make it more conducive to the student’s learning style. Perhaps an administrator would point out that the student needed to pass because of class size, or that in failing the grade his or her self esteem would be damaged.

            A child knows whether she or he has made an honest effort to do required work. Any child knows when she or he has not met a reasonable expectation. When we allow less than the best from each child in our schools, we cheat that child and our society. Failure can be a great teacher.

By Roger Barbee

            This morning, the last one of November 2013 was extremely cold when I took the hound out for his morning ramble. The sun’s rays had not yet cleared Short Mountain, but they gave the few hovering clouds a warm, pink hue. However, that was the only warmth we had, so the trip was quickly finished when the necessary duties were accomplished. Yes, I thought as we passed the new garden just planted in the fall, earth is in her winter mode, at rest. Her seasonal nap was evidenced by the heavy frost on dead grass, the browned, bent stems of the mums, the limp hostas, and the frozen water in the small bird bowl. It was so cold that not even crows or blue jays had emerged for the day.

            The Ancient Greeks explained this change in weather by the myth of Persephone who was kidnapped and made to wed Hades. Her mother, Demeter, was furious and demanded her fair daughter’s return to earth. But because Persephone had eaten some seeds in the underworld, she could not live all the time on earth. Thus, when she came to earth her arrival was marked by new growth of plants in the spring, but when she returned to spend time with her husband, the earth’s plants turned the brown and lifeless of winter. Not a scientific explanation of earth’s tilt on its axis, but a colorful one that has entertained people across the ages.

            As I scurried into the house with the hound, I was thinking of how dull everything was, even with the sheen of heavy frost reflecting light and making small diamonds on the grass and leaves. Settling in at the breakfast table with a cup of coffee and Mary Ann, I watched this last morning of November 2013 unfold into one I had not anticipated.

            Naps. I had not thought of naps in a long time, but as I watched the morning come in the dead cold of November, I saw our few acres as napping.  I can still recall as a child fighting to keep from taking a nap, doing anything to keep off that quilt pallet on the living room floor or if in the summer, spread on the cool grass under the shade of a maple tree. I recall wanting to stay awake for those few afternoon minutes because I did not want to miss anything that may happen. Now, as an adult, I take a nap at the first chance, even in some late mornings. And that is what our land is doing now—taking a nap, getting some rest, re-charging batteries, or whatever you want to call it. Yet it seems that in our modern world we have lost touch with naps and the beneficial rest they give us.

            We seem so intent on doing in our modern lives. We seem to value each day by what we have done, not by how we have done. Thinking that way, we are always doing something whether it adds value or not to our lives. We have, it seems to me, to have become a culture of doers always busy with some task. Yes, being productive is good, but a time of rest is as important as a time of work. Each compliments the other when balanced together.

            This past week at school I had a conversation with another teacher about a mutual student who was scheduled to be two places and in two activities at the same time. The other teacher asked if there was some way we could help the student do both. I explained that, in my mind, life was about choices and that the student could choose what activity to do after discussing options with his parents. It was his choice to make, but I wanted nothing to do with helping him believe that he, or any one of us, could do all we wanted. We agreed to let him choose and to support his choice. However, too often I see parents and other adults helping youngsters “do it all” by over planning each day that has no nap time.

            Often at school, I see students scurry to the cafeteria, get a tray, and rush to a classroom to do some academic work while they munch on their food. I question the quality of the work being done, and certainly the quality of the time set aside for eating. It should be a time of rest, but it has, too often, become a time to get more done.

            As I began my second cup of coffee, I considered these things. We are so busy with doing it, it seems, that we do not see the thrill of life in front of us. We rush from one thing to the other in the belief that we are accomplishing some great achievement. But I wonder.

            Maybe if we each took some time in each day to rest and reflect, we might get more done. I am re-reading the collected letters of John Keats, the poet, and marvel at the number of letters he wrote to family and friends. And he did this with a quill and little paper. Yet, we have computers and all of their technology, but do we accomplish what Keats did? It seems that we are so busy doing that we do not do.

            Take a nap. Just sit. Stop and be still. Listen to your inner self. Reflect. Perhaps you will, in the end, get more done and be better for it.

By Roger Barbee

                        Not too many evenings ago, Mary Ann and I went on a walk through our neighborhood. After talking with Brenda, whose planting we interrupted, we passed the corner where the Isle of Pines sign is. Mary Ann pointed to a huge, overgrown bush that occupied all the space behind and around the stone sign. Asking me what it was, I looked at its dark, green leaves that shone in the waning sun and told her that it looked like a Ligustrum or privet, but its size suggested something else. I had to admit not knowing what the large bush was for certain, but that I could only wager an educated guess.

                        I have been reading Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis and in one latter chapter he writes about our duality—what we are and what we do. He writes, “Surely what pops out before the man has time to put on a disguise is the truth?” If I understand Lewis correctly, he argues that as we mature in our Christian faith, we come to realize that, while we can seemingly manage our outward actions and appearances, only God can change our interior-our core. If, he argues, “what we do matters chiefly as evidence of what we are,” even our good actions, then we need to surrender ourselves to God because it is He who does everything. In Proverbs 16:2, Solomon writes, “All the ways of a man are clean in his own eyes; but the Lord weigheth the spirits.”

                        For the past few days, especially in the early mornings and late evenings, we have smelled a delightful scent of May’s madness, when the world is bursting with vigor and new life. It is a marvelous time for living, and Mary Ann and I have rejoiced in the blessings of this season. However, we could not find the source of the delightful scent. Mary Ann even walked from bush to flower to bush in our garden to find the source, but no success until her walk to the paper box this morning. Coming into the house, she announced, “It’s the privet bush across the road!” When I went out to ride my stationary bike I looked to see it full of white clusters that confirmed part of its duality.

                        Created by God, the Ligustrum is like mankind. It is a plant that is, but also a plant that does.  When I looked at it those days ago, its outward characteristics suggested what it was and could be, but only until it produced its aromatic blooms did its true self emerge. With its blooming, a good thing, its does (a verb) revealed its is (a noun). Now, we have free will, unlike other creations of His, but we can follow His will if we choose That way and not ours.

By Roger Barbee

Yesterday, the first Tuesday of May 2023, was the last lunch date that Mary Ann and I would share with the A.L. Brown class of 1964. We began attending the monthly gatherings six years ago when we returned to North Carolina, but the Wonders had been sharing food and friendship long before our joining. Under the leadership of Gail, about two dozen high school classmates and some spouses arrive in China Grove at noon once a month and gather round a long table to talk, listen, share, and remember.

The word used for these lunches-gather- is chosen carefully. The folks do not meet because to meet implies an order or an agenda. They do not assemble because to assemble has the connotation of purpose or intent. The folks gather, much like a flock or herd does, and for some of the same reasons.

Yesterday as I drove us along state Route 152 towards China Grove, I commented to Mary Ann on how the world had suddenly come alive and how fresh and green the earth was. The bright green of spring complimented the blue of sky. It was a wonderful time to be alive and I looked forward to the last lunch. Over my many years of springs and summers and falls, I have glanced back and wondered about my “last” of some things. I vividly remember my last marathon in Big Sur but can’t find in my memory my last training run.  Was it a long one, a short, easy one, or a workout on a track, I wonder. While I know the facts about many of my classes I instructed, I have no knowledge of the last class I taught. But I hope it was a good one for my students and for me.  It seems as if certain events important in my life were not marked in my memory, and while not a monumental part of my life, I ponder that and wonder why I have no memory of certain times in my life. I surmise that I did not mark some of those “lasts” because I did not know it was the last one of any number of activities.

But yesterday, May 02, 2023 was, in a way, a significant day because I was ready to, as much as possible, mark the lunch gathering, cutting it into my memory much like a stonemason scores a stone in order to shape it for something bigger. And this last luncheon gathering was larger than food, news, laughter, and friendships.

As I sat waiting for our places to be readied, I watched as classmates arrived in the familiar waiting room. One came using his cane; one’s wheelchair pushed by a spouse; one when asked about his gleaming Corvette that we all watched him park said, “It’s just a Chevrolet”; most walking with purpose and varying paunches of weight that long since had become a permanent resident of the bodies; and all chattering like members of a flock just happy to be present with others of their kind. It was a gathering that supported the words of Dickens in A Tale of Two Cities, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.” As I watched my classmates, I saw a tide of humanity with the range of human experiences mentioned by Dickens. Everything was present in that waiting room, but they all as individuals and as a gathering had persisted and will persevere against things to come.

Our long table ready, we entered and laughed and listened and shared and ate and remembered those absent and those no longer able to attend. “It was the best of times….”