Roger Barbee

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.

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.