Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

            My mother years ago told me about the little boy who at times would not be in his bed when she awoke. Searching for him, she would sometimes find him sitting on the small, front porch stoop of the house at 709 Applewood Street, and sometimes he would be in the large, cool, hand-dug, dirt cellar playing. Once, he was nowhere to be found and in a panic she looked up and down streets, then walked to a small knoll called Red Hill where she saw his tow-head peeking above the red clay. She described him as the only child of hers who would get out of bed to watch the sun rise or the morning to come or to take a walk in the first cool of the day.

            Each of us has an internal rhythm clock. I’ve had friends who would not sleep past seven in a morning if they could and others who never saw a sunrise unless during an emergency. Some people sleep behind heavy curtains during daylight and some are asleep by the darkening of day. Of course, some of us are forced to adjust our internal clocks by our work. While technology has altered the hours we can profitably work, many occupations, such as agriculture, are still mostly controlled by daylight hours and what can be accomplished during that time. Yet, since Thomas Edison, our work hours have been expanded and productivity can be had continuously, if the machines function properly. While in college, I worked summer jobs in Cannon Mills, in weave rooms three or five.  One summer I worked the 2^nd shift, 3-11 P.M., and for two summers I worked the 3^rd shift, from 11 P.M.-7 A.M., all from the benefit of Thomas Edison and the refinements of his invention. I recall my angst I felt because of the hours of that 2^nd shift when I washed long, florescent bulbs from weave room 3 with Ron, a newly graduated classmate of mine. The pain from the 3-11 shift was caused because the work forced me to miss the night activities of my small town. I was missing time to hang-out at the What-A-Burger # 5 and possibly see the then-flame of my life, Elaine. The man-forced hours on day’s activities continued to interfere with my internal rhythm when I went to college and was assigned an 8 A.M. English class three days a week.  Gasp! However, the professor, Mrs. Lewis, who we affectionally called “The Blond Bomber”, would send a classmate for me when I overslept. But, any early morning class for the next three years I viewed as unfair, as only the immature can reason.  My roommate and best friend from those days, Charlie, convinced me that any sleep after first sleep, was a waste of time that could be better spent in other activities, but I can’t remember him attending any early morning classes.

            In At Day’s Close, A. Roger Ekirch, examines “the history of nighttime in Western society before the advent of the  Industrial Revolution.” He keenly shows how the coming of lights, from lanterns to gas lights to vast electric bulbs changed our activities. Ekrich quotes Edison’s dictum, “Put an undeveloped human being into an environment where there is artificial light and he will improve.” We have put most of the human race in an environment of artificial light, and in so many ways that has been an improvement. One advantage I am aware of is illustrated by my friend Jay. When he was a young, single and struggling father of two small boys, he took advantage of the local Food Lion grocery story being open twenty-four hours a day. Because of the store’s schedule, he could grocery shop at 3 or 4 A.M. while his boys slept in their secured home. Colleges offer courses through long-distance learning (an oxymoron for sure) so a student may work at her or his own preferred schedule, which can be a great advantage for full-time workers or busy parents. And, of course, Edison’s dictum is in ways supported by our improved quality of life and productivity.

            However, is it all good? Is the culture produced by artificial light beneficial? We now live in a time when the Milky Way in all its grandeur can’t be seen by one-third of America’s children. We now live in a culture that proudly exclaims “24/7” announcing that our activities are no longer controlled by the cycle of light and dark. We now live in a society that has altered the age-old patterns of night-time migrating birds. We now live in a mind-set that tells us we now are above the words, “darkness was upon the face of the deep… And God said, let there be light.” One does not need to be a Christian to realize that if we lose our natural rhythms, we lose part of ourselves, our being. The dark is a time for rest from the labors of the light. We need both. We are in danger of losing, as Marilynne Robinson writes, our “spangled heavens” because we can seldom see them in all their glory.

            The young boy my mother told me about has now re-cycled to his old rhythm of being an “early bird,” who then was described by a relative as going to bed with the chickens and getting up with the rooster.  I know because he is I.

By Roger Barbee

Going out our front door, my wife encountered the rat snake on our stoop, at the hinge side of our entrance. She, being an admirer of snakes, quietly closed the door and came to share his presence with me. Every muscle under its black skin was tense from her presence, and there seemed to be a bulge in his middle that suggested a recent meal. We watch it move across our threshold and climb a corner of our house.

Next to the front door in a corner is a plant stand holding a bright red geranium. It is such a well-tended and full plant that a pair of Carolina wrens have taken residency of it. But the presence of the rat snake brought them out immediately and a Savannah sparrow helped as it held a position near the plant like a Kestrel hunting over a field. One of the wrens held a morsel in its beak and darted near the nest then out of reach. The other flew in circles above the scene, and the snake held its ground in the corner of our house. My wife and I, believers in the rules of nature, left the scene, knowing that “Nature’s beautiful way” would prevail. But as I  went inside our house, I was hopeful for the wrens and that the rat snake was just passing through.

As much as my wife and I  enjoy our garden, many pine trees, and the birds and other animals that share them with us, we accept death as part of this life. We realize that we will sometimes find a fledgling that has fallen from its nest high in one of our pine trees—especially after a storm. Some plants that we hope to see bloom do not do well and die or just limp along like the clematis planted two years ago. The bright and cheerful winter pansies will wilt under the June sun. But no matter of all the lessons I have learned in the garden, I wanted the wrens’ nest to remain intact.

For the remainder of the day after the snake appeared, I would wander out to the front door area. I stayed far away but best positioned myself to see if the snake was in the plant. I did not see or hear the birds, nor did I see the snake in the plant or anywhere in our yard. Because of the lack of animals, I assumed that the nest had been violated, the snake and wrens leaving it to compost and feed the geranium; another death/life cycle in a garden. Our front entrance held the silence of a grave.

Gardens can be plotted on paper or in the brain, with the location of various plants thought out for a variety of reasons. Plants can be planted, nourished, and even pampered. Most will thrive, some will not. However, the outcome of the planned garden’s flowering will offer a home to a variety of animals. Most, like the birds, will be seen and heard. Some, like the snakes, will not be seen often. But all will be present and contributors to their local ecology.

This morning when I went to the front yard to ride my stationary handcycle, I was thinking of other things as I turned the corner from our back garden. But regardless of my other thoughts, the notes of the Carolina wren sitting on the back of a garden chair near our front door cheered my spirits. The pair were here. The loud notes announced their territorial presence.

I did not venture toward our front door area, but paused and listened to the morning concert of one small bird telling the world that this morning it was here like its ancestors and for the moment, what else mattered?

By Roger Barbee

Palm Sunday on Lake Norman

The appearance of the morning from inside belied the truth of this Palm Sunday, the last in our Lake Norman home. Before letting the dog out for his morning romp, I had seen the intense sunrise held in a blue sky that lit the white dogwood petals; but upon opening the door I was reminded of Eliot’s words about April.

The morning held not a spring chill but instead a sharp coldness that speaks to the falsity in the naming of seasons. Spring. Easter. Solstice. Passover. Full moon. All suggest an end to cold months and the emergence of blossoms and buds and new life. But nature does not work that way, on a paper schedule created by man. Instead, nature wanes, its seasonal faces fading smaller then growing larger, never remaining the same during its transition from one season to the other. But we know that it will change, even when jolted by the cold upon opening a door for a thirteen-inch beagle to venture out.

The cold of this morning quickly drove me back inside, and I left the beagle on his own to navigate the day’s arrival. However, before long he clawed at the screen door, announcing both his dissatisfaction with the spring morning and his empty stomach. Eating breakfast, I watched the day come; he watched my toast, each of us wanting what will only come in small bits. His want is filled before mine because I share tidbits of my peanut buttered toast, but I will have to wait until early afternoon for the rawness of the day to fade.

It is not that the morning was so cold, but that the sight of blooming dogwoods and azaleas bursting in spring arrival and so many more signs of newness deceive us into thinking that warmth is here. Some folks, as I did above, will describe such a morning as “raw”, but it is not. Raw is a wet January day that carries a wind; the morning I ventured out into is only a surprise to the system, but one that will be gone in a day or less. By calling such a day as “raw” it is almost as if we are blaming the weather for not meeting our selfish expectations.

However, the day did change as anticipated and by early afternoon the sun had heated our patch of earth. More birdlife glided onto and under the three feeders and would perch on one of the three birdbaths for a drink or bath. The boattailed grackles dominated the limbs of the middle dogwood tree, their blackish and purple plumage gleaming in the midst of white petals. Some returning brown thrashers ate dropped sunflower seeds and picked dried grass for their nests. And smaller birds like finches, brown-headed nuthatches, and Carolina chickadees milled on the sidelines waiting their turn. And the beagle went forth into his garden to chase squirrels and then nap on the warm pine straw next to the brown St. Francis of Assisi statue. 

In 1922 when The Waste Land  was first published, the horrors and destruction of WW I were still fresh memories, and Eliot begins the poem with “April is the cruellest month, breeding/Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing/Memory and desire, stirring/Dull roots with spring rain.” While Eliot was describing the aftermath of “the war to end all wars,” his use of April is perfect because it is the month of breeding and mixing and stirring of rebirth. Yet, it can also have raw, freezing days and wet snows and too much rain. It is unpredictable; thus the poet sees it as the cruelest because it has the capacity to tease us.

Palm Sunday 2023, over one hundred years after The Great War that redefined modern life. But the earth, here in our back garden and elsewhere, still breeds and mixes and stirs winter dullness to fresh life on its schedule, not man’s. And in spite of our destruction across our only planet, we await, and even seem to expect this miracle each year. Like the Man who rose from the dead all those years ago.

By Roger Barbee

Last night’s wind left dogwood blossoms covering the walkway of our back garden. When I exited the screen porch, I tread on a blanket of still-white petals from the tree next to the walkway. None of the other dogwood trees had lost their petals, and this one particular tree still had many of them left on its limbs, but for whatever reason, it had showered a spring dusting that caused me to think about death. Especially the death that Christians celebrate this time of the year.

Crucifixion most likely began with the Assyrians and Babylonians who tied their victims to a tree or post, leaving their feet to dangle. The Romans, after learning of the punishment during the Punic Wars,  began using crosses to perfect the punishment. The Roman Empire used it especially in the Holy Land, and in 4 B.C E. the Roman general Varus crucified 2,000 Jews, and the historian Josephus writes that there were mass crucifixions during the first century A.C.E.

 The victim was scourged, forced to carry the horizontal beam to the upright post, stripped, then either tied or nailed through the wrist to the cross beam before it was attached to the upright post. The victim’s name and crime was posted above his or her head. It was a slow, painful, and public death. Viewed as a shameful way of death, it was reserved for only the worst of criminals, and no Roman citizen would be executed in this manner.

Christians wear crosses, churches attach them to high steeples, and the symbol is used in a myriad of other ways that represent our belief. Yet, the crosses we use are sanitized images of what was used to kill. The Christian crosses have no representation of blood, mucus, pieces of torn flesh, urine, feces, or hair. Nothing that is evident from such a brutal death is on any part of the gold cross worn around the neck of many Christians or on the silver crosses that are present in all Christian churches. They are pristine, and I suggest that is where we delude ourselves concerning His death.

Through our art, music, architecture, jewelry, and more, we have created a false image of what His death was. While we read and say the words of it, we deny its reality by our accepted images of what His execution was. What I am suggesting is that we can be honest of its brutality by our language of His ordeal and the images we use for it. Each of us, for instance, can discard the neat, golden cross worn around our necks and wear a small, rough, and irregular wooden one that would be more representative of the cross on which our Savior tasted death for us. I appreciate that houses of worship will not and perhaps can not remove their crosses. But we individual Christians can make a small change to remind us of His death on a tree and the brutal pain He endured.

By Roger Barbee

As an amateur watcher and feeder of birds, I have had my disagreements with squirrels, the rodents that many folks, unlike me, enjoy. However, after years of battle I have reached a reluctant peace with the varmints. Our bird feeders are as much “squirrel proof” as possible, and I begrudge any squirrel the seeds on the ground under the feeders. A tree rodent, in my view, the squirrels have their place in nature. Just not in my garden hogging the bird seed.

But last evening in the back garden was special, and not just because it was one of those early spring ones when budding life emerged from every shoot, limb, and blade. The dogwoods in our back garden offered early buds that would soon be white petals, and Carolina chickadees, blue jays, nuthatches, and titmice fed at the three feeders while the rufous-sided towhee shared ground morsels with the brown thrashers and a lone, grey squirrel. The returning pair of chickadees had already established a nest in their bird box fastened to the far dogwood, and we had seen the thrashers bringing nesting material to the large azalea beside the back gate. The camellia in the berm had been taken by a pair of cardinals for season residency; and we sat on our screen porch enjoying the end of a grand spring day watching the fading sunlight rest on the far shore and the animals eating from the three feeders.

Then every bird was gone. An uncomfortable silence descended on the garden, covering it like a shroud. Every bird had flown to a safe limb or rushed into one of the two azaleas for refuge. The squirrel hopped to the dogwood truck, alert with its head erect, but near the ground and observant-poised like a statue. Following the stare of the squirrel, I saw the invader. The resident Cooper’s hawk had lit in a dogwood in the berm, about thirty feet from the back feeder, bird bath, and poised squirrel. Not even the blue jays, who will attack a snake, stayed to battle with this intruder.

We watched the hawk, one who is a frequent visitor because of the bird feeders. It was a beautiful animal to us, but the birds had fled because their view of the hawk was different from ours. They saw death while we saw primeval beauty. We watched the squirrel, almost frozen to the tree trunk with its head erect, watching the cooper’s hawk across the fence. We witnessed a scene of nature’s way as the hawk glided to the top fence rail within a few feet of the squirrel who then wisely bounded into the thick foliage of the azalea. The hawk bounded to the ground and began hopping in the bird awkward walk toward the thick bush as if to peer inside it for a meal. It was then that the squirrel came out of the azalea and took a stance next to the dogwood.

If you watch nature enough, even in a small back garden like ours, you will soon enough see death. It may come from a predator, an accidental falling from a nest, or any other result that I have come to realize is “Nature’s beautiful way.” We sat frozen in the safety of our screen porch as the squirrel faced the attacker. Then, as if scripted, the squirrel lept at the cooper’s hawk, who made one hop backward. The squirrel lunged again, and the death threat turned and flew away to other hunting grounds.

All the grey squirrels that frequent our back garden look alike, so the brave heart one will remain anonymous. However, since witnessing such an act—whether foolish or brave—I have become more tolerant of them. While I still have some issues with their antics, even I cannot deny the act of that lone, grey squirrel against the Cooper’s hawk.  

In nature, death happens so that life may continue. Even a dead limb of one of our longleaf pine trees provides food and shelter for all kinds of creatures. In nature death is part of life. But many humans seem unable to come to any type of accord with death. That, in itself, is a form of early death because a fear or denial of the way of all living things, to paraphrase King David, is death at an early age. One should always strive to see things as they are, even if it means acknowledging having underestimated the spirit of squirrels.

By Roger Barbee

The above Latin phrase, made famous by the American movie Dead Poet’s Society, was first used by the poet Horace. Its use by Horace is most accurately translated as “Pluck the day,” and after the movie it became popular in American culture and before long it was printed on tee shirts, caps, and mugs. However, the word “pluck”, for whatever reason, proved too much for American sensibilities and the phrase became translated as “Seize the day.” (Such a refinement) Given a coffee mug with that inscription by the head of school where I worked, like the other administrators, I understood the phrase, as a rising professional, to mean that I was to grab each day and shake it out making the most of it as opportunities arose. If opportunities did not arise to pluck, then I was to create them, then pluck.  Seizing the day meant that I, in my mid-40’s, was in charge. Anything that was accomplished in my realm of the school was directly related to either my ideas or actions or both. It was all up to  me, and I lived several years following that belief in my personal and  professional  life.

Thinking of the two interpretations of Horace’s phrase, I recall the saying attributed to  Mark Twain, that the difference  between the right word and almost the right word, is the difference between lightening and the lightening bug. Pluck and seize when viewed as verbs are much alike, but are they the same?  When we seize do we pluck?

One of my mother’s favorite “chores” was to  sweep the front porch, steps, and sidewalk of her mill house. She did  not rush to arrive to this or rush in its doing. She would sweep the  wooden porch some, stop and look around her front yard, sweep some more and adjust the chairs and plants. Satisfied with the porch’s condition, she moved on to the three concrete steps and stepping down carefully, she cleaned each below her as she went. Stopping at the juncture of the steps and sidewalk, she would survey the goings-on of Juniper Street and then begin sweeping the private sidewalk that led to public one. Arriving at that junction, she turned, chatted with any neighbor near or a passer-bye, then carrying her broom like a proud knight, she went back inside of her house to finish any cleaning left undone. My mother, a girl of the South Carolina Sandhills, grew up in a time when front yards of sand were swept of their loose sand to make a  clean place to entertain company under a large shade tree. Sometimes, as Maggie did in Alice Walker’s short story, Everyday Use, people would make a design using the loose sand on the edge of the cleared area. Thus, a “living room” space was created for the company. There was no sand on my mother’s sidewalk, steps, or porch, but her daily sweeping of it made certain that no visitor would trip on a acorn or small limb, and its cleanliness invited folks to come on in.

Today we have leaf blowers, those noisy machines that will clean the area that took my mother thirty minutes or so to  sweep in just a few minutes. Time saved, and all that dirt blown away into the yard or gutter. Time saved to be used inside cleaning or to be used on another household chore. Time saved is money saved. If my mother had had a leaf blower to use out front, she would have been more efficient and more productive. If my mother had had a leaf blower, she would have been “seizing the day” and producing more.

Yet, even had my mother been given a leaf blower, one she could have used, I know that she would have just left it gathering dust in her garage. She, like so many of her peers, was not interested in being more productive or efficient or cost effective. She swept her front porch, steps, and sidewalk with her straw broom because she enjoyed the doing of that act. She enjoyed observing the activity on her street and its people. She enjoyed the result of her labor. In my mind, she was plucking. Not the day but a small piece of it. She understood that one cannot grab and hold an entire day, but one could pluck a moment. She plucked it, enjoyed it, and continued on. Like so many, she had faith in the words, “Give us this day….”

A lesson I finally learned at half-past fifty.

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 to clear 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 my 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. 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 took notice as the day began. 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.”

Indeed.

By Roger Barbee

Growing up in North Carolina, we seemed to always have a dog for a family pet, but I was not a hunter of any kind, so I never trained or owned hunting dogs. Some uncles had beagles and coon hounds, and as a young boy I shivered around many campfires as they talked about which dog was leading the pack. A few duck hunting relatives used retrievers such as the golden, the Labrador, and the Chesapeake Bay on their duck hunts, so this is my knowledge of retrievers.  Therefore, when I met Manny after his family moved from the rocky Atlantic coast of Rhode Island to Lake Norman, N.C. I was unfamiliar with his breed—the Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever. That’s quite a breed name for a dog weighing in at about fifty pounds.

Curious about Manny and his breed, I conducted a simple Internet search and discovered the interesting heritage of Manny. His long, roan colored hair, similar to that of the Irish Setter, not only protected him in the cold waters of Nova Scotia but caused him to appear like a fox. The hunters/breeders in Nova Scotia had discovered that ducks were fascinated by foxes, so they would come close to shore if they saw one. Thus, Manny and his kind, all energetic dogs, were bred to run along the shore looking like a fox and the curious ducks would be lured within gunshot range of the hunter. Then the strong swimmer would retrieve the shot ducks. The luring action explains their name because tollen is derived from Middle English which means, among other things, “to summon.” They literally summoned the ducks for their masters.

Unfortunately,  I did not get to know Manny that well or long because he was already thirteen when I met him. I missed his young days of swimming in the cold waters of Rhode Island while playing with his young owners. I like to think that he thought nothing of jumping into the northeast waters of the Atlantic when he was lured to it by one of them. I missed those vibrant days of his youth, but I would see him moseying along on an early morning walk in his front yard. Sometimes he would “slip away” from his human companion and walk in his cul-de-sac and sometimes try to make it all the way to our shared road. But better than the yard or road, he liked the lake. After all, that is what he was bred for. Water.

While I did not get to know Manny that well, I have gotten to know the middle child of the family. Gabby is in her mid-twenties and works in Boston. She is an independent, strong young female who carries herself well. She has a fire that I greatly admire and holds her family, boyfriend, and Manny close. So when her parents told her that Manny was fading, she and her boyfriend flew from Boston to the lake to be with her family, and she cherished Manny. 

My wife Mary Ann holds that no pet’s last day should be its worst, and Manny’s masters had watched him closely to ensure that he was now just old, not suffering, but fading in body but not spirt. This week they decided that it was time because he was losing control of his bowel and bladder; he slept most of the time, and his days of swimming in the wild Atlantic had passed. The preacher writes in Ecclesiastes that “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” It was Manny’s season.

Manny’s last day was definitely not his worst. His family fed him his favorites, they cuddled him in his blanket, and as for the past fifteen years, they unconditionally loved him. Gabby, the grown middle child,  honored him and his breed by taking him for a last swim in the lake. After all, Manny was a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever who was bred for the water. It was her last gift to a cherished member of their family.

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 before the early church service began, another member was telling me about his years of playing college football before joining the Army, then continuing his education after the Korean War. Another fellow joined the conversation, and I, the youngest of the group at 73, commented how today’s antics of many athletes irritated me, and the football player said, “I never had to play with ‘em, so it wasn’t a problem in my day. If we’d acted that way our  coaches would have gotten on us.” The other man then shared how he had been a teacher and coach until he saw that the looming integration of our schools would not work, so he quit education and went into another profession. I said that the problem was not one of race, and integration was not the issue. With that, the service began, and we chose our seats.

 I have had many individual conversations with both men at church, and I have always been impressed by their manners and pleasant personalities. But they are racist members of my church. Their comments prove it. Later when I shared the conversation with my Sunday School class, which expressed disagreement with the racist comments, a member reminded me that church is a place for sinners, so I should not be as upset by the conversation as I was.  But I am upset and here is why.

I doubt that either man would publicly take the Lord’s name in vain in church in a conversation. In fact, I doubt that either would break that Commandment in private. I also think that both follow other Commandments and beliefs of Christ because they see themselves as good Christians, or at least as individuals who try to be Christ followers. And I doubt that either would see his words as violating any tenet of Christianity. But their belief concerning integration and blacks as expressed in their words, casually spoken to me in church, demonstrate a deep-seated and denied racism which goes against all that the Bible teaches because their words express a vile feeling against fellow creations of God. Both men, and others in our church and the world, need to, in the words of Dr. Clarence Jordan, “… choose whether you are going to look upon things through the eyes of Christ or the eyes of the world.”

When the new Apostle Philip goes to tell Nathanael, “We have found him, of whom Moses in the law and the prophets, did write, Jesus of Nazareth, the son of Joseph.” Nathanael responds, “Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth?” To that racist remark, Philip gives what I think is a perfect response: “Come and see.” What a fine response to a mean question. No attacking or preaching, just an invitation, just like the invitation each of us is given. “Come and see” and be changed. See all people through “the eyes of Christ.”