Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

During these days of late August, I am watching the side garden transition slowly from summer to fall. The black-eyed Susans  (Rudbeckias hirta) are the first plants to show their change from one season to the next. Our cluster stands next to our neighbor’s white fence and most of it have lost their rich, yellow, open-faced flowers that reminded me of a wide-eyed youngster full of excitement and wonder.  The golden petals of full summer have fallen to the garden floor to rot leaving each stem holding at its top the dim center of summer now transformed to a dark cluster of seeds.   

The black-eyed Susan is an easy and pleasing plant for a garden. While there are many varieties, our is the native one of local meadows. Known by several names, we prefer the one used here. But, what an odd name that leads to question:  “Who is Susan that the plant is named for?” One internet search tells the legend that the name “originated from an Old English poem written by John Gay (1685-1732) entitled ‘Sweet William’s Farewell To Black-Eyed Susan’. True or not, it is a sweet poem of William telling Susan that her love will keep him safe while he is away fighting in a war.

Legend aside, the late-summer garden needs attention. One task of a gardener has a dreadful name: Dead heading. But the act is not as bad as it sounds since the removal of spent flowers is good for a plant because more energy for growth will be spent on the plant, not the bygone flower. And some folks will say that a plant looks better without what is left of a spent flower. We will not dead head the black-eyed Susans just yet.  

One recent evening, Mary Ann and I were watching the birds at the birdbath. She asked me did I see the slight movement of a black-eyed Susan stem? I  did, and we watched as a female American goldfinch held onto the stem while eating from the dark cluster of seeds. The tiny body barley had enough weight to cause the stem to  bob and weave as she pecked at the seed cluster. Like several female species, this finch did not have the bright colors of a male, but her dark grey and subtle brown had its own beauty, and we  enjoyed watching her finding food on what some people would see as a “dead” plant. While she has a proper name, we refer to her species as “Jo Ann” to honor Mary Ann’s deceased mother, an avid admirer of birds. Although we came late to bird watching, Mary Ann and I now realize the joy of birds, and we are fortunate that we have Jo Ann’s copy of Peterson’s Guide– complete with her  bird-list of sighted species. But the “Jo Ann” is not alone, and in fact she is joined in feasting on the seed heads of the black-eyed Susan by Carolina chickadees, brown-headed nuthatches, titmice, and others that may feed on the ground hidden by the heavy, dark green leaves of the black-eyed Susans.

However, the days slowly roll towards Labor Day, and all the Susans will soon be void of those lovely, yellow-gold petals. But we will not rush out to dead head them. The fine Canadian writer and poet, Patrick Lane, writes that “The gardener has nothing but time.”  Like Lane, all we have is time, and there is no reason to rush the dead heading or anything. In that way we allow the small side garden to be a living space in which Mary Ann and I will enjoy watching the birds feasting, especially the Jo Anns.

By Roger Barbee

Every few days, a new photograph appears on my computer sent by some server I signed with years ago. As far as I know, the service is free, and I do enjoy looking at the stunning photographs of the natural world—I decline ones of cities. The photographs of mountains, lakes, shorelines, all the usual natural views are terrific. Sometimes people are present in them, but they are secondary to the magnificent scenery. I enjoy guessing the location of the photos and have come to understand that there is, at times, little difference between a mountain view in the United Kingdom to one in France. Over the years I have realized that our world is not that different from one location to another. Now, I appreciate that The Sarah Desert and Death Valley are two different deserts with their own ecology, but even the differences do not discount how much alike our earth is in its varied locations. A field of wildflowers in Germany often resemble one in America. It seems that we are, in the natural world at least, more alike than different.

Thirty years ago, February 14, 1990, NASA engineers turned the cameras of Voyager I toward our solar system just as it was to exit it on its way to explore other solar systems. Voyager I was 3.7 billion miles from our sun when its cameras took sixty photographs of our solar system and one picture became known as the Pale Blue Dot because of a pixel sized dot sitting in a bent ray of sunlight. Scientist Carl Sagan’s book used that image in the title of his book, Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space, in which he writes, “Look again at that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us.”

Looking at that pixel recently on my computer screen caused me to close that screen and go to the most recent photograph sent to me by the unknown provider which was of a lake with mountains in the distance. In the clear and shallow water of the foreground can be seen smooth stones and on ragged, peaked mountains are evergreens that eventually thin out and gave way to bare rock. The jagged peaks look like they could be in the Rocky Mountains, but they are in Germany. (Wrong again on knowing where a photograph is taken). But being wrong about any location of a nature scene, does not upset me, and I still marvel that so many physical areas of our earth closely resemble other locations. Despite differences, it is the earth on which all of mankind lives and much alike across its rivers, lakes, mountains, deserts, forests, and more.

The KJV of The Letter to the Hebrews has in 2:7, “Thou madest him [man] a little lower than the angels; thou crownedst him with glory and honour, and didst set him over the works of thy hand:” I understand that to mean we are the stewards of this earth, and that is a task that we seem to have chosen to forget or ignore the responsibility for a myriad of excuses.

But I ask the reader to go to the computer and type in Voyager I and look at Sagan’s pale, blue dot that looks so small and isolated and alone in that beam of sunlight. But after looking at the pixel-sized dot, remember his words: “…That’s here. That’s home. That’s us.” It is all we have, so we should take care of it, that pale, blue dot.

Roger Barbee lives in Mooresville. Contact him at rogerbarbee@gmail.com

By Roger Barbee

Six years ago my wife Mary Ann and I moved from the Valley to Lake Norman, N.C. We returned two weeks ago. When we lived here before, we lived on a seven-acre plot of land in a house built in 1890. Now we live in a house built in 1990 which is located in Woodstock. In a way we have moved from the country to the city. Before our return move, we appreciated that our new home would offer more modern conveniences and accepted the fact that we no longer would enjoy the three-acres of woods, old corn crib, a fine view of Short Mountain, and open field out back. Regardless of those “losses”,  we were thrilled at having such city services as trash pick-up and sewer. But more than anything, we eagerly anticipated renewing old friendships.

Six years is not, in the annals of the world, a long time. However, we knew that the Valley we left in 2017 would not be the Valley to which we returned. Certain features such as Great North Mountain still watch over the Valley, and the North Fork continues to flow through its banks. But some, ones that I had come to regard as Valley Originals, are no longer present. I had known that Gary, the fine mechanic who repaired our vehicles, had died. And just before our return move, I learned that Robert would no longer traverse up and down The Pike in his Flintstone-looking, two-toned, brown work van as he built and repaired the buildings of the Valley. And after our move I learned that no more classic automobiles would David re-build to their original splendor. Cancer stilled his skills a few weeks ago.

Much is made, and rightly so, of the natural beauty of the Valley. It is majestic, and we are pleased to be able to enjoy its panorama. And while we have already shared time with Wendy, Brittany, Terry, Jennifer, Mike, Bill, Jess, Hank, Arnell, and more good Valley people, we are eager to begin sharing life again with so many good folks.

As we get our new home organized, we will begin to venture out to enjoy the varied Valley views. In time we will re-acquaint ourselves with the ride to Shrine Mont and other great drives through the Valley.  But as much as we enjoy the natural beauty of the Valley, we cherish its Good Valley People more. To paraphrase Mr. Rogers: People are like shuttles on a loom. They join the threads of the past with threads of the future and leave their own bright patterns as they go. We will miss those departed threads of the Valley but rejoice in the new patterns we find. Gary, Robert, David, and all those before us would want as much.

By Roger Barbee

During the weekend when Representative John Lewis was being honored in his home state of Alabama, a thirty-year-old state representative who represents a district northwest of Montgomery chose to honor another native of Alabama.

According to his Facebook post, Will Dismukes gave the opening invocation for the annual celebration of Nathan Bedford Forrest’s birthday. His post showed him standing behind the lectern surrounded by several Confederate flags at a location named Fort Dixie. He writes on his post, “Always a great time and some sure enough good eating.”

Dismukes and all the other celebrators at Fort Dixie, someone’s private property near Selma, are free to observe the birthday of a Confederate officer, a slave owner, and the first Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Kian. They are free to hang all the Confederate flags they want and to continue this annual event with  all the “good eating” present at such occasions.

It does not surprise me that some areas of America still celebrate such men as Forrest. What shocks me is that a politician so young as Dismukes would attend, participate, and share his role on Facebook, then he expresses surprise that some readers react negatively to his post. A graduate of Faulkner University and the pastor of his Baptist church, Dismukes  saw nothing wrong in honoring Forrest but not Lewis.

Senator Tom Cotton has spent a year trying to stop the use of the 1619 curriculum in public schools. He views the curriculum as biased concerning racism is America. Senator Cotton firmly believes that America is not a racist country and that slavery was “a necessary evil” that helped build our country.

While reading various newspaper accounts of Senator Cotton’s battle against the 1619 curriculum and of Dismukes’ celebration of a racist traitor to America, I kept wondering how did these men manage to graduate college and law school without gaining knowledge of slavery and its horrific effect on America? As an educator who required students to read and discuss and write about books by Richard Wright, Earnest Gaines, Alice Walker, and Gloria Naylor, to name a few, I am saddened that these men, elected leaders, have such a limited understanding of that “peculiar institution.” I wonder what they understand about the Jim Crow era and how Dr. King, Jr. used non-violence for change.

Dismukes is only thirty. I had believed that we had done a better job of educating our young people. Yet, he chooses to honor a bigot, not a hero. He chooses to go to a place named Fort Dixie, which is  ironically near Selma, where Mr. Lewis helped change our country. Does his choice to travel to Fort Dixie and not Troy, Alabama demonstrate his failure to learn our history or does it speak to our failure to educate him?

Senator Cotton writes falsehoods and pushes misinformation about the practice of human chattel. I wonder what he has read about slavery. Has he considered reading Tocqueville’s examination of slavery. If his blind loyalty to Southern heritage prevents him from reading an account by a non-American, I highly recommend Hodding Carter’s Southern Legacy, which examines the South, but does not glorify it.

My take of all this  is that we have a long way to go in educating our citizens concerning slavery, the Traitor’s War, Jim Crow, and more. But because of the influence of COVID-19 on our educational system, we have the opportunity to change our educational systems. The pandemic has given us a chance. Let’s take advantage of it by teaching the true history of our country.

By Roger Barbee

Today’s forecast called for rain, so I got out early for my stationary bike ride. Usually my ride offers many walkers on our road and lots of bird calls in the pine trees that dominate Isle of Pines Road. Today it was eerily quiet as I began my ride. No wind; not even a slight breeze moved the pines. No bird calls. Just the hum of my front tire against the resisting wheel of the stationary machine. Then, off across the road it called. Then an answer somewhere in one of  the 39 pine trees in our front yard. The two birds called to each other or answered the other or protected their turf as I warmed up during my ride.

Some months ago a neighbor asked me what the bird call was that we heard emitting from the pine trees. I listened and told her I thought it was the chickadees. However, later that week as I was going to a neighbors, I heard the same sound and then saw the bird sitting on a power line: A tufted titmouse was going hard at it—making some important announcement for all to hear. I marveled at such a strong note coming from such a small bird. Later when in the house, I checked our bird book and the recordings of the tufted titmouse to be certain. It was correct, and I sent the recording to my neighbor: “peter-peter-peter”.

If you are of a certain age, you will remember those gosh-awful, historically mistaken television shows and movies of the western frontier that we dutifully watched and believed. If you recall, many times the attacking tribes would use  bird notes (or other animal sounds) to communicate with each other before attacking the settlers. I remember the sound being a powerful, soft message of pending doom. The call of the tufted titmouse sounds like that powerful whisper from one hidden foe to another. Fortunately, as far as I know, the tufted titmouse does not attack humans, but the floating call and returned answer bring back those memories of television long ago.

In the forest of pines that I ride under, and the ones in neighboring yards, the small, tufted titmouse is impossible to see, but easily heard. The soft, powerful, fast repeated call of peter- peter-peter – seems to bounce from one pine to another then one farther down the road. It is mysterious, yet known and understood, and relaxing in a manner of sorts. This morning with the uncanny calm before the rain, and the walker empty road, the tufted titmouse calls to each other grounded me in the knowledge that no matter what is happening, nature and her ways are here as a salve for rips and tears of the world.

By Roger Barbee

The vast darkness appeared in the eastern sky in early afternoon. The weather people had been forecasting for days the hurricane Isaias, and we watched for its outer bands of rain; in fact, we even eagerly wished for the much-needed rain. So this week when the darkness arrived, my wife and I gathered on the screened porch to watch its arrival. We were not disappointed, and the rain brought relief to the heat and humidity and dry plants. We listened to the rain hitting leaves and watched the worst of the storm move south around us.

When calm returned to our area, I continued to sit on the porch to watch our small, back  garden. All matter of animals came out after the rain, and I enjoyed the presence of cardinals, titmice, nuthatches, Carolina wrens, brown thrashers, and more. The cooled air gave comfort to the watching of all the activity. One of the dogwood trees in the garden has several dead branches that we keep because they provide food for the smaller birds like the chickadees. It was on one of those branches that I noticed a small nodule, and I wondered what it could be. I kept examining it and soon realized that it was a small, resting bird. Because it was such a minuscule shape against the still dusty sky, I could not identify it, but I did notice a sharp beak and body not larger than my thumb. I concluded it to be a young brown-headed nuthatch. I watched. It rested.

Out time together lasted for several minutes, and I enjoyed the odd experience of seeing a bird so still. Birds in our garden, like in all places, are always on the move, but at a few times I had seen them resting. I have watched doves lay on the ground with wings spread, their  way of cooling off. Brown thrashers have rested on the fence rail with their beaks open to gain some relief from the heat. I had seen birds resting on a limb or fence rail between splashes of flight. But seldom had I seen a bird at rest this long. Right there, the young nuthatch resting on the dead limb of our dogwood tree, until the well-rested hummingbird zoomed away.

I had been wrong about the bird’s identity, but that was okay because the storm moved on, the lower temperature it brought to our garden gave welcome relief, and I had received a small gift. That was enough I realized as I went into the house for supper.

By Roger Barbee

In the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, we are struggling to arrive at a comprehensive plan on how to educate students, from P-K thru college/university. The most thought of plan, distance learning or MOOC, works only when all students have reliable access to the Internet, and for many students in public education, poor or non-existent internet is a fact of life.  However, we may not  need to “reinvent the wheel.”

 Sunrise Semester, a collaborative effort between CBS and NYU, began in 1957. Each morning at 6:30 am a course was offered by an NYU professor. Two courses were offered on alternating days (M-W-F and T-T-S), and Dr. Floyd Zulli, Jr. taught the first course: Comparative Literature 10: from Stendhal to Hemingway. Courses in philosophy, math, science, and more were offered, and until the program ended in 1982 it proved a huge success. According to NYU’s website, 177 students paid $25 per credit hour in the first year to take the first course by television and over 120,000 just watched the lectures for no credit.  NYU estimated that the series was seen by nearly two million viewers at its height. In 1962 Mrs. Cora Gay Carr earned her Bachelor of Science of Arts degree from NYU. She had earned 54 of the 128 credits necessary for her degree through Sunrise Semester.

As we debate how we can manage education during the pandemic, distant learning seems to be a viable alternative. But, as  mentioned earlier, Internet access is an issue, especially for the P-K thru 12^th grade students. Computers may be absent from homes, especially the homes of the  less wealthy. But all homes and dormitories have televisions. They are everywhere, so could we not explore television as a substitute for the Internet in order to educate our students?

CBS and NYU managed to work together to bring education into the homes of ordinary citizens. The essayist Phillip Lopate writes how his parents, “lowly textile clerks with no more than high school diplomas”, set their alarm early to hear Dr. Zulli’s course on Stendhal in their Brooklyn ghetto, not for credit, but “for old-fashioned enlightenment.” Surely, with all our television channels and resources, we can find a way to use some of that resource for education.

By Roger Barbee

            Imagine that you have conducted a diligent search for a qualified painter to repaint your living room, dining room, master bedroom and bath. You even ask neighbors for recommendations and interview several contractors and chose the one who impressed you most. He returns in a few days to present his contract, which is specific and thorough and impressive. You sign it, are presented your copy, and you write him  a check for twenty-five present of the total cost. Before the beginning date you and your spouse remove wall decorations and every small item from tables. You are excited and ready for the agreed-on date for his crew to show. But the crew does not show on the date, and when you call the contractor to find out why, he babbles some excuse about trouble with a truck or van. The next day the crew does show, moves furniture in the living room, spreads drop cloths over everything, and leaves for a lunch break, never to return. You make another call only to hear the owner’s voice mail message. All calls that afternoon to him go directly to voice mail, and frustration grows in your home. But the next morning, his crew appears and works a full day to finish the living room. You and your spouse breath a big sigh of relief and that night re-arrange the freshly painted and pleasing room. But your happiness ends the next morning when the crew does not come to paint the dining room, which is in disarray waiting to be painted. You get the picture; and you may have had a similar experience of deciding when to forget the time and money you have invested and find another paint contractor.  Is such a contentious time worth the price?

The above scenario is all too real, and it is important for Christ followers. Our time is much like that of the 1^st century Christians—we have contention all about us, and how are we to deal with them is easy to answer, but difficult to do: We turn to God and give it all to Him. Yet, we are so involved in the day-to-day events of our lives, like the story of the painting, that we fail to hear the answer that Scripture gives us: Avoid contentions and contentious people. While the Bible was written in the arena of early Christianity and its unrest, such as that which Paul in his two letters to Timothy points out, we should follow it and its wisdom in our modern, secular lives. The painting contractor, like so much in our secular lives,  will consume our resources and lives if we do not fully use our discernment.

Sin is like that mythical contractor because by trying to control, we will fail. Sin, like that contractor, will consume our lives and we will expend resources that will produce no useful product. The rooms may eventually be painted, but at what cost to us? Is this a battle worth the price? Has our ego taken over our senses? We Christ followers find many situations and people like this one surrounding us and we need to go to God’s word and examine what it tells us to do and how to act.  

We Christ followers are warned that His path is not an easy one, but we are re-assured that if we walk His path we will be rewarded. We are also reminded that some battles are beyond us, and we are to “shake the dust from our sandals” and move on. The situation with the painting contractor is an example of one in which we will only lose. Just like all situations involving sin. These contentious times and people  tempt us, and we think that we are in control or that we need to “stay fully informed.” But no, the sin controls, and we need to wash our hands of the situation or person and return to God.

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.