“Good morning starshine. The earth says hello. You twinkle above us, We twinkle below…” (1969) “Good Morning Starshine” Recorded By:: Oliver Composers: Galt MacDermot, Gerome Ragni, James Rado
It happened at 3:33am, Thursday morning, April 29. I will describe it as it was explained to me.
North Texas had been visited by a swath of severe thunderstorms overnight. As these huge thunderstorms do, spread out far and wide, delivered hail, winds, rain, thunder and lightning, but not everyone gets all of it. A couple of miles north of my street, hail beat on some windows, but not at my place. A tornado was spotted moving across the northern neighborhoods of my town, but not my neck of the woods. High straight-line winds blew down some wooden fences down the street, but not in my backyard. Oh, sure, I’ve had storm damage before, but not this time. Yet, it was enough to lose some sleep due to all the atmospheric activity. By 6:00am, all was wet, calm, with a bit of drizzle.
A couple of hours later, I called my mom, who lives a bit over an hour away, to see how she survived the April application. In case you are a visitor to my blog, I feel the need to explain what you are about to read. My mom lives alone, with her dog, in the house she grew up in. It was built in the mid 1840’s with very thin, non-insulated walls, along with single pane windows. Let me tell you, it needs mounds of work. Not long ago I wrote of her beginning struggles with cognitive issues. Thus far, she is able to care for herself, and others in her town she cares for, but her memory, and the ability to put the right words together in a sentence, is beginning to show.
When she answered the phone she had a strange edge to her voice. After the “Good morning.” and “How are you?“, she asked me if I was calling her to inquire about what took place in her area at 3:33am. I thought to myself, “Oh, no. They had another tornado.” She survived a tornado a couple of years ago which brought down two of her giant trees onto her roof.
Photo: My mom’s house after a tornado blew over her house. A cousin and friend were first on the scene to help.
When I asked what had occurred, she told me the following.
She told me it was something that she had ever experienced before. The severe thunderstorm was loud…very loud. She has an antique aluminum roof which can drown out any conversation you’re having whenever there’s a heavy rain. She also went on to describe the roar of the winds rattling her bedroom window sashes.
Then, as she and her dog, Charlie, tried to go back to sleep, the entire bedroom suddenly illuminated. It was so bright she noticed it with her eyes closed. The radiance, filling the bedroom, was not like filaments from a light bulb. She described the glow was strange, with a tint of a dull yellow. Charlie jumped off the bed and ran out of the room as if he had seen a lion. Out of the corner of her eye, hovering in midair, she observed what she called “a little star.” Instantly, I thought hallucinations may have been at play due to her mild cognitive condition. Hesitant to ask her to repeat what she just said, I asked her to describe it as best she could. She observed a little white “star”, with a bit of yellow to it, floating in the air, very slowly moving toward the other side of the room like “it had somewhere to go”, as she put it. By this time, I was scratching my noggin in dismay. She then stated that as it slowly moved toward the other side of the room, another “smaller star” came up behind it and almost “bumped into the bigger one because it didn’t want the bigger one to feel lonely”. By this addition to the story, I felt sure it was a dream she was having. But then, I remembered how Charlie high-tailed it out of the room, and stayed gone. I asked her what happened next. She said without any warning whatsoever, she witnessed an ear-zapping explosion which shook the walls of the house and lifted her off the mattress. It caused the two stars to burst into several mini stars and vanished. The picture she characterized began to come into focus. I asked her if the “explosion” was thunder. She said, “Yes, I believe that’s probably the proper word people would use”. She went on to say a few minutes later, there were people in the street talking loudly with big trucks, (probably the fire department).
Later, after discussing the scene with my wife, she reminded me of a lightning rod which sits on the edge of the roof just above her curtain-covered bedroom windows. My late uncle had installed it decades ago for my grandparents. No doubt in my mind, with the particles charged in the air, a lightning bolt was about to zoom in and strike the rod about eight feet from her bed. It’s clear that there was an arching of some kind which traveled through her window, or wall, giving her a brilliant light show. It’s a miracle there wasn’t a fire, or electrocution.
My mom has always been a selfless, servanthood champion of a person. She has cared for many an elderly person out of love and concern, including being a 24/7 caregiver for her aging parents when they were still with us. Her focus has always been comforting and assisting someone other than herself. She always looked for the “least of these”. I must say, I cannot count the multiple times this woman of faith has been protected from clear and present dangers at her doorstep, whether from would-be attackers, would-be thieves, flying bullets, car crashes, hail, tornadoes, and now lightning strikes. Until very recently her health has been phenomenal, considering she never took good physical care of herself, for the most part. A great example: When she moved in with her parents, when it became necessary to care of them, she did so for 12+ years, completely sick-free! What are the odds? Not even a common cold for that length of time. Amazing!
So many of late are living in fear because of the “charged air” we find ourselves in. Have you felt a bit of it? Racial tensions, wholesale racial accusations, political unrest, a horrific southern border crisis, rumblings of faulty foreign relations and war, COVID, mask shaming, high taxes, trillions of projected dollars being deducted from your income, riots, looting, arson, shootings…..ect. It seems we are all just waiting for the stars to explode.
When I was a little boy, I always watched for the Allstate Insurance TV commercials. In the 1960’s, when it came time to deliver the words…
“You’re in good hands with Allstate.”
It would show a set of a man’s hands, not a drawing, with palms up, cupped together as if catching rain pouring off a gutter. According to my mom, I would tell her that was God’s hands. She would chuckle, and agree with me. I bet Allstate had no idea they were creating a Sunday school lesson for little ones.
Still, in the middle all things chaotic, which fluctuates and hovers in the air for a time, one truth remains, a Solid Rock many ignore, but shouldn’t. The particles in the air may flare up and even ignite, but I also know all things are sifted through the hands of the Great I AM of Genesis. We are, my mom is, in good hands.
Never drive into a raging storm without a tank full of fuel for the race.
“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say to the LORD, ‘You are my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.’ Surely He will deliver you from the snare of the fowler, and from the deadly plague. He will cover you with His feathers; under His wings you will find refuge; His faithfulness is a shield and rampart. You will not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the calamity that destroys at noon. Though a thousand may fall at your side, and ten thousand at your right hand, no harm will come near you.” Psalm 91:1-7 (Berean Study Bible)
“You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, Cryin’ all the time. You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, Cryin’ all the time. Well, you ain’t never caught a rabbit, and you ain’t no friend of mine.” (1956) “Hound Dog” Recorded By: Elvis Presley Composers: Jerry Leiber & Mike Stoller (Originally Recorded By: Big Mama Thorton in 1952.)
What’s not to love about a hound?
Well, maybe a little less drool, and a pair of shorts would be nice. But for a country raised kid, who loves raccoon or rabbit hunting, you just can’t get any better than the amazingly instinctive radar nose of a good hound dog.
It happened around 1905, Young County, Texas. William “WR” Brown, my Grandpa Brown (From my dad’s side.) was a hunting lad with a rifle and a couple of excellent hunting hounds. Later in life, he also had champion wolf hunting hounds. If you’ve ever read the book, or saw the movie, “Where The Red Fern Grows”, then you already have the picture of kids living out in the boonies, raising pups for wild game hunting. Dinner on their mother’s table depended on it. (Sorry PETA, that’s how it was…is.) It’s difficult for me to imagine him as a young teenager. This is how I knew my Grandpa Brown during the 60’s and 70’s…
Before I move on, I must explain a bit of what life was like in west Texas in those times. My family was a pioneering clan which aided in establishing the county, about 2.5 driving hours west of Dallas, Texas. I have written about my Grandma Brown’s father who rode a mule from Georgia right after the Civil war settling in Young County, Texas. My Grandpa Brown’s folks moved to the same area not long after. Life was rugged. You lived off the land, or you starved. You carried a firearm wherever you went as the land was not tame on several levels.
They lived along the red waters of the Brazos River. In those days, a hunter had to watch his back at all times. They shared the land with bears, wolves, cougars, panthers, rattlesnakes, razorback wild hogs, etc. A boy grew up by his father’s side when roughing it through the brush hunting for the next meal. By the time a kid was 12 years old or so, he went out solo with a rifle strapped to his back. Often it would be an overnight hunt, especially when it came to chasing down raccoons. I remember well my one and only time raccoon hunting overnight with my cousins. Watching the hounds tree a raccoon was like watching a choreographer at work. It was such a learning experience.
At the age of 15, or so, my Grandpa Brown and a friend, gathered their hounds for an overnight raccoon and possum hunt starting along the banks of the Brazos on foot. The night would prove to be frustrating as the critters outsmarted the hounds a few times. The boys were trained to be persistent, never letting the word “quit” come up in their minds. Following the sounds of their barking hounds, they ate-up the clock and the miles deep into the west Texas wilderness. In fact, youth’s enthusiasm drove their steps much further than they had anticipated. To this day, the family still can’t say how far they traveled through the relentless terrain. Some estimate they must have crossed county lines, but no one can be sure.
The miles were unforgiving through the mounting hours. Calling back the hounds in a state of total irritation, the two boys realized they had gone way beyond their intentions while chasing the ever eluding varmints. Exhausted, the boys huddled with the dogs, made a campfire, and nodded on and off in the pre-dawn hours.
Just before sunrise, the two hungry hunters put their heads together to calculate how long it would take to get back to the Brazos. With a quick step, they retraced their journey among the cactus and mesquite trees.
After dawn, they caught the rich aroma of smoked venison floating through the dewy brush. Being so tired and hungry, they let the hounds guide them to the area where the meat was being prepared. Without a traveled road anywhere nearby, they came upon an old one-room shack with prairie hens pecking the ground. They could see the glow of an oil lamp through a window near the front door. Unaware of who lived there, sheer faith and boldness kicked-in as the boys decided to approach in hopes of a bite to eat. Knowing the times of that day, along with the pioneering spirit of new Texans putting down roots, I imagine the place looked something like this…
The rickety plank door opened as they approached. An old ragged man, holding a rifle, greeted the two teens and their dogs. He asked who they were. As the duo told him their names, along with their failed adventure, the old man sized them up, realizing their obvious circumstance, and generously invited them in. He told them he was just rustling up some breakfast with plenty to spare. Putting my imagination together, I can say he probably looked much like my relatives in that time, like the two gentlemen from family records show…minus the Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes.
The old man invited the hounds to enter as the boys hit a fine wall of cooking eggs and smoked venison. Inside, by the roaring fire, sat his two hunting hounds eagerly waiting for a plate of food. The small cabin was dusty, with a scent of musk competing with the pan on the iron-cast stove.
As the old man directed, the boys took a seat on a wooden bench at a table near the fireplace. As he asked them about where they were from, as well as, information about their folks, he added a few more eggs to a pan after pouring some hot coffee into a tin cup they were to share. It was clear that the old man and his two hounds lived alone with nothing but sage as a neighbor. As the food was about done, the old timer reached up to an opened shelf where he grabbed three tin plates.
The trio had a fine time sharing stories of the country, hunting and fishing spots, and the wildlife. The cabin was warm, the food was hot, and the bellies were filled.
When the plates were emptied, and the conversation began to slow, the teens wiped their hands on their pants, mentioned how terrific the food was, adding how they needed to get back to retracing their original trek. The old man nodded his head stating he sure enjoyed the unexpected company. He admitted, “Ya know, I never see a soul in these parts. Not hide, nor hair.” Just then, the old man picked up the tin plates, and the iron pan off the stove, and placed them on the creaking floor right by the table leg. Stating as a matter of fact, with a slight chuckle, “Come on hounds, have at it! They always lick the pans and plates.” As if waiting for a cue, the old timer’s hounds raced toward the pan and plates, mouths first. As the tongue-lashing began, the plates started to spin with the force of eager tongues, until the dogs instinctively put their paws on the plates to stop the circular motion. The teens laughed as they watched the licking fracas at hand, partially from the sight of it, but also because back home their mothers would’ve never allowed it. As every drop and morsel had been lapped-up, the aged hermit picked up the pan, along with the plates, and placed them back on the shelf where he retrieved them. My Grandpa Brown and his hunting buddy, never went back there again.
Are you appalled? Of course, we must put ourselves in the position of this old hermit. No doubt, this man’s habits were out of the norm, but not from his perspective. Obviously, for years, maybe decades, he allowed his dogs to clean his plate and pan. After all, a hounds tongue is long and wide, covering a lot of surface in very little time. For him, it sure saved him a lot of well water. From his viewpoint, those plates ended up looking very spotless. And I’m sure they were after the hounds had their way with it all. However, for my grandpa and his pal, they saw the opposite. They saw hunting hounds, who fetched animals in their mouths, dead or alive. These are the same country hounds who would looked forward to finding a leftover stiff carcass in the woods just for the satisfaction of something to chew on. Yes, as cute as they are, they’re the same animals who clean themselves, every part of themselves, with their tongues. Certainly, these canine tongues should not be a poor man’s dish washing machine.
How hungry are you now?
I align it to taking a black felt-tip pen and finely dotting a white poster from corner to corner. Tape it to a wall in a dark room. Go to the other end of the room, hold a flashlight, turning it on with the bulb facing away from the poster. What do you see? In the darker part of the room, you see, through the ambient glow, a blank white poster on the wall. Even taking a step or two closer to the poster, you still can observe a white poster. Yet, if you shine the flashlight on the poster, you suddenly see the speckles you made with your pen. If you dare to bring the flashlight closer, the dots become very present to the eye. What appears to be a clean white poster, is indeed flawed with black dots.
Al Capone, the notorious gangster, murderer, and bootlegger, would perform an action of goodness right after finishing up a most hideous crime. He gave mega funds, over and above to the Catholic Church. He gave away free gifts to the poor. He began soup kitchens for the homeless. Some say it was for laundering money. Yet, all of that was good, but the hound drool was all over it.
Too often, in our measly efforts, the norm to remedy sin’s guilt and shame, we work something we, and others, would see as a good deed. You might say, some see it as an attempt to build a tower to climb the levels of eternal self-insurance. In doing so, it cleans our dirty plate, or so it would seem from our fallen perspective. King David wrote something astonishing. Those who read it were dismayed. Frankly, it is still baffling to most. He wrote, “…There is no one good. Not even one…” (Psalm 53:3 – my translation) He wasn’t saying people don’t do good things, or people neglect displaying explosions of loveliness. Instead, he was showing us the misnomer of a sparkling tin plate, licked by one of the filthiest tongues created. He was pointing out that what we consider good can never rise to God’s holiness, His spotlessness, His sinlessness, His standard.
We see it all the time, even in high places. We now call evil “good”, and good is now “evil”.
I am sure the old hermit died in that shack, believing with all his heart that his plate was cleansed every night. However, two teenagers knew the truth of it.
To leave this earth spotless can only happen with a free offer of washing in fuel for the race.
“All of us have become like something unclean, and all our righteous acts are like a polluted garment; all of us wither like a leaf, and our iniquities carry us away like the wind.”Isaiah 64:6 (Holman Christian Standard Bible)
“…But you’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes Indeed you’re gonna have to serve somebody. Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord. But you’re gonna have to serve somebody…”(1979)“Gotta Serve Somebody”Written and Recorded By: Bob Dylan
Dylan had gone through a spiritual heart conversion, and with it came this song. Many scoffed at it, including John Lennon, who cruelly responded publicly with his own cut entitled, “Serve Yourself”. It was one of Lennon’s final recordings before his death.
His name was, Uncle Doss. At least that’s how I knew him. He was an intriguing, somewhat mysterious man in my early childhood. I was always trying to figure him out.
My Grandmother Swindell lived in the country, just about six miles away from my grandparent’s house in Greenville, Texas. Now, I realize that sentence looks odd, but allow me to explain.
You might be wondering how many grands did I have as the crow flies. Ella Swindell was my grandmother’s mom. Although she was my Great-Grandmother Swindell, my mom called her, “Grandmother”, so I did, too.
To describe her at all would be best done to mention Aunt Bea (Frances Bavier) from The Andy Griffith Show. Although shorter than Frances Bavier, she dressed just like her. Her hair was arranged as Aunt Bea, most of the time. And on Sunday, like Aunt Bea, she wore the little pill hat, combined with a thin netting veil over her face, white cotton dress gloves, and a small black patent leather purse with a short strap. Oh, and yes, she had the “work your fingers to the bone” ethic, with the quick on the draw attitude of Aunt Bea. She was a green-thumb, no-nonsense, get-it-done worker of the soil. My mom called her a workhorse of a woman.
Generally, a few times a year in the early to late 1960’s, we visited her little cottage, out in the east Texas farm country, during weekend visits to my grandparent’s house. (If you’re a longtime blogging friend of mine, you might recall that I have written a snippet about Ella Swindell before. However, it’s been a long while.) We would drive down the county dirt road, passing corn and cotton fields, then pull up onto her makeshift driveway of chalky white rocks. I couldn’t wait to jump out in my cowboy boots, crisp blue jeans, and straw cowboy hat, run through her pasture behind the little frame house, and explore the old, haunted barn which rattled and groaned in the Hunt County winds. This city boy truly loved the adventure.
After I was called from the house porch to sit and visit, I would bounce through her opened screen door, greeted by her little Manchester black dog called, “Little Bit”. There was always a memorable aroma wafting from her tiny kitchen as we inched our way toward lunchtime, (Dinnertime, in her vernacular.) She made the best cornmeal fried okra and fried yellow squash you can possibly imagine, all grown from her garden. After hugging my 4′-11″ish Grandmother Swindell, I would immediately ask where Uncle Doss was, if he wasn’t already sitting in his chair in the far back corner of the front living room. Usually, her reply went something like; “Awe, he’ll be along dreckly. He knows when to come eat.” Being such a young lad, I didn’t have my arms around just why Uncle Doss wasn’t always around. After all, he was not what you would call friendly, sociable, or a chatter box. In fact, he was the opposite. He was evidently born without facial expressions, complete sentences, and topical interests. Yet, I couldn’t wait to see him.
Nobody had told me just yet how older generational married couples of certain upbringing lived. A good example was the fact Uncle Doss and Grandmother Swindell had separate bedrooms. Anytime I went to the back of the house toward the back door, which opened up to the back pasture, his room was the door just prior to the back exit. The door was always shut when visiting. My curious little brain always wanted to put my ear to the door to hear if he was in there. The temptation to slowly turn the glass doorknob for a quick covert peek into his domain was great. Before I had a chance to try the door, I usually heard; “Alan, leave your Uncle Doss be!” From kindergarten through 4th grade, I spent a week with my Grandmother Swindell during summer vacation. Once I ventured toward the back of the house, while she was out picking green beans for dinner (Supper, in her vernacular.) When I turned the corner for the back door, I saw his bedroom door wide opened. I tip-toed across the creaking wooden plank floor and took a gander. He was away fishing, or down at the general store trading fishing lures with some other old men in overalls. The room looked like something from a ranch bunkhouse for hired hands. It had a vaulted ceiling, and was just big enough for a single spring bed, a small chest-of-drawers, and a closet. I remember being amazed at how tiny it was. Maybe more amazed why he closed himself up in there whenever he was home.
But there we were, visiting with my Grandmother Swindell and Little Bit as he jumped into our laps begging for scratches behind his ears. When it came time for lunch, you could always expect the back door to open and close as Uncle Doss arrived from wherever he had been that particular day. As Uncle Doss walked into the the living room, I would look up at this tall, thin elderly man with a full head of snow white straight hair, ever-present stubble on his carved handsome face with bushy eyebrows. I was always stunned at how long his nose hairs were. I regret I don’t have a photo of him, but he looked a lot like the old western movie star, Randolph Scott.
Unlike Randolph Scott, he was not dapper, or even clean most of the time. He smelled of hay, dead fish, and chewing tobacco. He wore old faded denim overalls, a farmer’s cap, and dirty old lace-up rounded toe boots. With a sparkle in my eye, my exuberance in seeing him again would blurt out like water from a spillway, “Hi, Uncle Doss!” My Grandmother Swindell was regularly and surprisingly a bit sharp with him, “Doss, you go get yourself cleaned up right now! It’s dinnertime. Be quick about it. And scrape off those boots, for Pete’s sake!” He would nod his head at us in a down-home greeting, grunt at her, and head off to the bathroom built just for him. As a kid, I thought it funny, and a bit scary, how he was clearly older than she, and yet she inflicted her husband with such a quick tongue in front of us. Frankly, it was a tad embarrassing.
After a made-from-scratch country lunch, which could win awards at the State Fair Of Texas, we would sit a bit longer in the living room, complete with sweetened iced tea, for more east Texas accented chatter. That was my cue to prepare to head out the door to have make-believe adventures in the old rickety barn, and visit a my great-aunt Madge across the dirt road for a slice of freshly baked homemade pecan or apple pie. No doubt, that woman baked all day, every day. She was invariably such a joy to spend time with, and treated me as if I were the only boy on the planet. But she knew I wouldn’t stay long. After all, there were hay stacks to jump on, and corn fields to get lost in.
Prior to my quick escape from the Swindell cottage, I would try to get Uncle Doss to talk with me. After lunch he would sit in his corner chair and light up his pipe. I would sit on the floor in front of him, next to his tobacco spittin’ can, made from a discarded coffee can, with his knees about eye level to me. My goal was to launch my usual start-up questions. “What kind of a pipe is that, Uncle Doss?” Or, “How long have you been wearing those old dirty overalls?” Or, “Can I touch your prickly whiskers?” (He would allow it. As if it were yesterday, it felt like sandpaper.) Otherwise, if he gave me answers, they were usually one or two word sentences coming from his stone face, “Yep”, “Nope”, and “Oh, a bit.” The dog, Little Bit, loved that old man. Anytime Uncle Doss planted himself in his chair, Little Bit abandoned whatever lap he was on, hopping right up on his dusty lap in one leap. By the time I got back from running around the countryside, Uncle Doss would be gone, or shut-up in his small back room. It didn’t seem like much of a marriage to me, not like the union my grandparents displayed day in and day out.
Later in my childhood, maybe third grade, I was saddened, as well as curious, when finding Uncle Doss in a bed in the front living room off in the corner where his chair would normally sit. I didn’t ask questions of him. I think my mom prepared me beforehand. Although surprised by the living room bed, she must have simply told me he was sick and needed more rest. Frankly, seeing him in that bed spooked me just a little. For some reason I was feeling a little frightened by it all.
It was one of the last times I saw Uncle Doss. However, I did find out it was only a temporary illness at the time. Later, he didn’t need the bed in the living room.
Being a tiny bit afraid of my Uncle Doss was the norm. That may be why I tried so hard to get to know him better, which never happened. While in Jr, high school, after seeing the movie, “To Kill A Mockingbird”, I recognized the feeling I had for Uncle Doss in the view of the children constantly trying to understand their spooky, mysterious neighbor, Boo Radley. I then understood, Uncle Doss was my Boo Radley.
I’m not sure how old I was when my mom finally broke the news to me. There must have come a time when she thought I could handle the unfortunate truth concerning my Uncle Doss. My Uncle Doss was my Grandmother Swindell’s oldest brother, not her husband. If memory serves me right, there were six brothers, and two sisters in that clan, my grandmother Swindell being the youngest sister, the youngest of all of her sibs. My mom also let me know why Uncle Doss was such a strange individual. Even though he was the oldest, he was like a nine year old child. He was the only one in the family who was stricken with a mental disorder. Being born in the late 1880’s, very little was known on how and why childhood illnesses often caused long-term effects. I’ve been told, Uncle Doss was left with some slight brain damage after a hard bout with a version of the measles when he was a child. Today we know, acute encephalitis can be the result of a measles infection, causing permanent brain damage.
The family was mostly poor share croppers, working the black soil of east Texas, more times than not, travelling from one cotton farm to another, wherever there was work available. Their mother, my great-great-grandmother Molly, was an invalid. The title of, “Invalid” could have various definitions back in those days to country doctors. Nevertheless, their mother was a sickly woman, and unable to take care of her kids. So, Ella, dropped out of school at 2nd grade to become the caretaker of her mom and the sibs who were too young to take care of themselves.
After their mother, Molly died, Ella became the mom of the clan. After everyone was grown and went off on their own, Ella continued to take care of her dad and her oldest brother, Doss full-time.
Sometime in the teens, Ella Tapp became Ella Swindell when she married Claude Swindell, but it was understood how life would be. So, for many years she took care of the three men in her life until her husband died in the late 1940’s. (Records for that branch of my family are scarce. I’m unsure of actual dates of some events.)
This is Ella on the far left next to her daughter & son-in-law, (my grandparents), my mom as a baby, with her two brothers in front. Ella’s husband, Claude, my Great Grandfather Swindell in the back.
A couple of years after I was born in 1960, Ella’s dad passed away, leaving her with her brother, Doss.
In 1971, Doss got out of bed in his long-johns to find the kitchen dark and quiet. He wondered why his breakfast wasn’t waiting for him. After walking to his sister’s bedroom, he saw the door was still closed. He knocked and called her name, “Ella?” Silence. He tried the glass doorknob, opened the door to find her sleeping soundly under a sheet and blanket. He spoke to her again and again. She didn’t rouse. He approached her bed, nudged her, and found her to be cold. All attempts to wake her fell short. Because she was cold, he went back to his room to fetch his patchwork quilt she had made him and covered her. Uncle Doss lit up his pipe and sat in his chair for some time. Getting a little hungry, he called to her several times without any response. At that point he began to believe Aunt Madge, across the road, might be helpful in getting Ella out of bed. He walked over to his brother’s house, still in his long-johns, where his sister-in-law, Madge was busy washing dishes after breakfast. Still wearing her apron, my Aunt Madge rushed over to the cottage to find my Grandmother Swindell had easily roused…in the arms of Jesus at about 67/68 years old.
It may come as no surprise to let you know, my Uncle Doss Tapp passed away not long after, within the following year.
In short, if my Uncle Doss were here today, with a full healthy mind, he would testify of the great and strong servanthood his sister Ella display for her entire life. Literally, she gave over 60 years of her life to serve others. Unlike John Lennon’s response to Bob Dylan’s musical statement on finding someone to serve, without demanding something in return, was about an unselfishness, putting one’s “self” last.
A hero of mine gave 33 years of service to others. He taught the servant was more valuable than a ruling king. Much like today, he served during civil unrest, crude political scandals and unlawful corruption, economic hardships, incurable diseases among the public, violence in the streets, etc. Still, he found a way NOT to say, “Every man for himself!“
In that bright “gettin’ up” early morning, when my Aunt Madge walked into her sister-in-law’s bedroom, the words could’ve well been spoken of Ella, “Here is one who emptied herself out because of unconditional, gracious love.”
About ten years ago, after many decades had passed, I chose to drive out to my Grandmother Swindell’s old place in the country. Most all expected a new parking lot over her pasture with a sprawling office complex. Rumors about the area had grown concerning new neighborhoods of expansion for new home buyers, along with zoning for business developments. I was emotionally prepared, or so I thought. Yet, not much had changed down her dirt road. It’s been crudely paved now, but that’s almost all the change. When I turned the corner to that favorite stretch of familiar road, I saw my Aunt Madge’s old house still standing next to the cornfield. Shock came over me to find the old rickety haunted barn was still erect. Her pasture was still wild and free from builder’s dreams. Before I move on, have you ever smiled and shed tears at the same time? That’s what happened to me as I pulled up in front of her cottage, or rather, where her cottage once stood. Seeing that her little humble house had been removed wasn’t the cause of my facial reaction at all. Rather, it was the arranged perennial flowers which continued to bloom, outlining where the edge of her house once was, in a rectangle just where she planted them back in the early 1960’s.
God speaks in various ways, doesn’t He? I heard Him loud and clear that day.
The greatest servant of all is highlighted and illustrated in fuel for the race.
“For I am already being poured out as a drink offering, and the time of my departure has come.” – Apostle Paul – 2 Timothy 4:6 (ESV)
“When this old world starts getting me down And people are just too much for me to face I climb way up to the top of the stars And all my cares just drift right into space
On the roof it’s peaceful as can be And there the world below can’t bother me…”
(1962) “Up On The Roof” – Originally recorded by: The Drifters (Multiple artists have covered this song.) Composers: Gerry Goffin & Carole King
In “Your Song” (1970) from Elton John, we get a hint of where his songwriting lyricist partner, Bernie Taupin liked to construct his lyrics.
“I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss. Well, a few of the verses got me quite cross…”
Lots of creativity can happen up on the roof.
It was July 4th, 2003 when I moved from Dallas, Tx to Buffalo, NY. It was one of the most difficult things I have ever done. I left my wife and three daughters to take an afternoon-drive radio show at a long-standing Buffalo radio station. It was a promising, career-healthy move which was almost impossible to refuse. I had a lengthy radio resume in Dallas and I was at a place in life where a next step was essential. The idea was to live a lean solo life while hunting for a house to purchase. After the papers for the mortgage were to be signed, then I would move the family of five to our new home, along with our Yorkie, Great Dane, a hamster, a mouse, and a gerbil, all in an Isuzu Trooper.
After my feet hit Buffalo pavement, the first couple of weeks were spent in a motel room while searching for an apartment near the radio station in the downtown area. All I had with me was a stuffed suitcase, duffel bag, and a briefcase. Within walking distance of the radio station, I landed a tiny little furnished efficiency in an old brownstone right in the artsy district. It was near perfect for my needs at the time.
Never living in a city-life efficiency before, there was a learning curve to it. No elevators. I was on the top floor, the 4th floor. The basement (five flights down) housed the laundry area for the building. I was in good physical shape at that time, but it still challenged me each trip to wash my clothes. There was no air conditioning, of course, being Western New York. For this Texas lad, I wasn’t sure I could do without an air conditioner. However, the only silver lining, to the warm humid days, was the welcomed cool constant winds coming off Lake Erie.
As you can see in the photo, my two windows gave me a view of the apartment windows of the next building just a narrow driveway’s width away. Nobody kept their blinds shut when the windows needed to be open on warm summer days. You guessed it, very little privacy. Jimmy Stewart, in “Rear Window”, never would’ve needed binoculars in my apartment. In clear view of my neighbors, from the next building, was my bed. It was vertical inside a wall of my living room, just an arm’s-length away from my kitchen mini-fridge. When bedtime hit the clock, I just opened the door, pulled down the bed to the living room floor. The springs squeaked as my body stretched out on the thin musky mattress. Yep, there was a lot of adjusting for this suburbanite boy.
It took over three months to buy a house for my family, and moved in toward mid November. So, I had plenty of time to adjust to my new temporary home in the city. The streets were loud and busy. With the windows opened throughout the summer, the sounds of yelling, sirens, and the occasional car crash bounced off the walls of our buildings on the block. It always sounded as if everything was happening right outside my window. It proved to be a struggle keeping my focus when writing letters to my family, or trying to get some shuteye. Sometimes the noise was so overbearing, it pushed me out the door for a jog down by the Niagara break wall. At dusk it was a sight to watch the Canadian side of the river light up their street lamps.
On my trips up and down the hallways, I would pass a stairwell just off the 4th floor. Knowing there wasn’t a 5th floor, I would shrug my shoulders and move on. One day, after curiosity got the best of me, I followed the stairs to a set of old partially rusted Bilco doors.
As I reached the top of the stairs I saw the double doors were latched by a bolt from the inside. When I slid the bolt back it made a loud metallic clang that echoed down the stairwell. When I pushed open the heavy metal doors, the cool Erie winds hit my face. I had just discovered a large tar-sheeted flat roof of the building. I was pleasantly surprised. Whoever the property owners were they evidently didn’t see the value of constructing a patio-style wet-bar area with outdoor furniture, complete with table umbrellas. Instead, a large wasted space. But not for me. Immediately I found the sounds of the city were faded while displaying a view filled with the downtown slope which met the harbor and the mouth of Lake Erie. I personally enjoyed seeing the rooftops of the neighborhood showcasing old world architecture from the day when horse-drawn carriages, top-hats, and bonnets were the norm.
Throughout my time there, I visited the old quietened rooftop many times. I remember signing off the air at the studio, looking forward to climbing up the stairs to my new favorite place. It’s was a get-away where I would meet with the Creator, watch the sunset over the horizon, and sit on the half-wall at the edge of the roof thinking of how our new lives would be in Western New York. One weekend, in the fall, I remember seeing The Northern Lights for the very first time. God truly knows how to put on a light show. It was a place of comfort from the days of hardship, the rowdy sounds of the streets, and the worries of relocating across the country. When I see the photo from Google, my eyes first look up toward the rooftop.
Peace, enlightenment, and healing found on rooftops shouldn’t surprise anyone. In scripture, I am reminded of how a handicapped man was carried by four of his friends to the flat rooftop of a home where Jesus was meeting with a crowd who packed a house. The entryway was not negotiable. The Miracle Worker was healing gobs of people in need all throughout the region. In a desperate move by these men, they reached the roof above where Jesus was teaching, punched a hole in the roof to lower their lame friend to Him on a mat. Up on the roof love and faith was accessed that day. In Acts 10, the Apostle Peter was praying up on the roof of a friend’s house when God got his attention concerning the issue of grace vs law, love vs religious racism. Peter found access to the truth up on the roof that day. In the book of Joshua, a woman hid two spies of Israel in Jericho from their enemies up on her housetop. For them, there was access to security up on the roof. After Solomon felt weary of domestic feuds in the home, twice in Proverbs he mentions it’s better to live in the corner of a roof than with a person (woman) of contention. (I’m trying to be kind on this one. Apparently he must’ve lost a few battles with some of his wives. LOL)
Maybe your place of solitude isn’t up on the roof. It could be your roof isn’t easily accessible, or physically safe. For you it might be in your car with the radio turned off. Possibly it’s on your bike on an open road. Maybe it’s a place in your garage, or your barn. I have an old friend who found his access under the roof of his lawn shed. For many, it’s out on a lake in a boat, a coastline of a lake, a boulder sitting by a creek. I have a cousin who finds her place of solitude up in the saddle of her horse. Scripture reads the closet is a good place.
One thing is certain, there is a way of escape. There is a stairwell to a place to be solo. You might need to “kick off the moss” first. In these times of violence, disturbance, pandemic, and masked faces, meeting with the Spirit of God can happen anywhere. When you find it, that is a place you will always be fond of.
Getting away from the news, social media, and the crashing noise of profanity, there’s always room for two up on the roof with a ample supply of fuel for the race.
“What I tell you in the darkness, speak in the light; and what you hear whispered in your ear, proclaim upon the housetops.” – Jesus – Matthew 10:27 (NAS)
“Don’t you understand what I’m sayin’, We need a god down there. A man to lead us children, Take us from the valley of fear….Get on up, look around; Can’t you feel the wind of change? Get on up, taste the air; Can’t you see the wind of change…” (1975) “Wind Of Change” Recorded By: Bee Gees Composers: Robin Gibb & Barry Gibb
She was on the phone with a friend at the time, looking out her open kitchen window over the sink. She had heard some windy commotions outside and wondered what was coming as the sky quickly turned the afternoon into a darkened dome. Before you could shout, “Run, Toto. Run.”, all the trees from her kitchen window view suddenly swayed and bent as if they were made of rubber. Just at that moment, her phone conversation was cut-off as a very loud “BOOM” caused her to jump right out of her apron. The clashing sound of calamity shook the entire house. It sounded as if a car slammed into the living room at the front of the house. She raced toward the sound of the crash. As she opened the front door, she was met by a wall of leaves, branches, and limbs on her front porch. The thicket was so massive, she couldn’t see through it all. Frankly, it left her stunned. At first she just froze trying to make sense of what she was looking at. After she was able to get a hold of herself, she heard voices coming from the street on the other side of the wall of vegetation.
“Is anyone injured? Are you okay in the there?”
At first she thought it humorous that someone would be yelling from the street asking if she was okay. Still not seeing the larger picture of her circumstances, the wonderment turned into a chuckle. She giggled and yelled back in response;
“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”
They told her she needed to find a fast way out of the residence. Thinking the comment was somewhat bizarre, she ultimately decided not to ignore the suggestion. She walked to a bedroom toward a side door of the house, which opened to the driveway, only to feel a wave of shock as she made her way outside to the front lawn. Again, a sense of frozen ice poured over her as she gazed at the green monstrosity. The last of four giant sycamore trees was uprooted and laying partially on the roof, as well as an old telephone line strung across the width of the property, keeping the full weight of the tree from damaging the house any further. (That was a God-thing.)
Photo: My mom with a cousin and a kind neighbor.
That is what happened to my mom on June 19, 2019, a little over a year ago, when a tornado made its way over her house in Greenville, Texas. She was well protected that day as the tornado touched-down in several areas leaving a wide path of destruction in its wake.
In 1955, when she was 11 years old, the family of five moved in. There, between the sidewalk and the front curb by the street, were four strategically spaced large sycamore trees which went from the east side of the front curb area, to the edge of the property on the west side. These four trees, with their over-sized leaves, ascended over the top of the telephone poles. Here in Texas, they can climb to 100 feet in height.
Photo: Sycamore – Texas A&M Forest Service
Of course, that was 1955. You can imagine how much growth there’s been throughout the following decades. However, one by one, each met the ground. Two had to be cut down many years ago, for one reason or another. Just two weeks before the tornado last year, the third gigantic sycamore was partially uprooted by powerful straight-line Texas spring winds. As it leaned on power lines, hanging over the street, the city rushed over to cut it down for safety sake. I remember my mom being somber after another old friend of lumber was hacked-up and hauled away, saying;
“Well, at least we still have one left.”
I remember not feeling optimistic at all. My mind kept going back to the uprooted tree which left its turf so easily in the wind storm. One couldn’t help but wonder if the last sycamore would show stronger roots in that small patch of ground by the curb. Alas, the tornado took advantage of the last top-heavy friendly giant.
All of my life I watched that quartet of timber grow. In the spring and summer, the shade was tremendous as it branched out much like a colossal umbrella over the lawns to the left, right, and across the street. During the fall, the 10″ golden leaves would float down like feathers, carpeting the entire property, the sidewalk, the street, and the driveway. My cousins and I would run and jump in the crunchy foliage just to listen to the loud crackling beneath us.
As I received the pictures of the downed tree, I couldn’t help but think of the loving grandparents who lived there, the countless holidays celebrated, and the sight of seeing the four sycamores greeting us as we turned the corner toward my grandparent’s house over my six decades. As a kid, I was known to jump out of the car, run up to one of the trees and shout;
“Zacchaeus, you come down!”
But, straight-line winds of hurricane force are not too unusual in Texas, and the occasional tornado will never have mercy in its path if close to the ground. They were old trees with hindered root systems, considering the narrow piece of ground they rested in between the sidewalk and the street.
Photo: The tornado pulled the old roots right out of the east Texas black clay.
You may be asking why I am writing about this event now, some 13 months after the fact. Okay, I’ll tell you.
In recent weeks America has been brutalized by COVID-19, accompanied by unnecessary brutality and murder by police officers in Minneapolis, a culture war, violence in the streets, anarchy, widespread arson, public prideful lawlessness, statues of founding fathers, and historical figures, destroyed by mobs, sacred monuments defaced, over-the-top cancel culture targeting places, people, emblems, labels, businesses (big and small), police defunded, assaulted and murdered, (even efforts to remove the police as public servants, even as violence grows). Once accomplished, who will we call when the next school mass shooting event occurs? Once accomplished, will a social worker arrive to calm the next mass church shooter as he reloads his AK-47?
!!! WHAT ARE WE DOING TO OURSELVES?
Then there are Marxists pushing their far-leftist ideology into the mainstream, tyrannical thought-judges are now in vogue, even Jesus is being attacked. Anarchists, and those who have had closet hostility toward America, seem to be free to do what they please. By the way, it’s worth noting, if you’re a small business owner, look out! Extinction is possible if they get their way. Some politicians are making excuses for it all, or looking the other way without denouncing the violence. Such politicians are not worthy to hold an office. Socialist radicals are ready to disassemble the Constitution, as well as, the Bill Of Rights this country was built on. All of this, and more, within just a few weeks.
If you are an American citizen ignoring what this nation has been going through, keep in mind, you just might be “wished away” by a mob of puppets who want to uproot and remove you, your property, your livelihood, your beliefs, and your government of liberty quicker than a Texas tornado. Once accomplished, your life, and the lives of your descendants, will never be the same. The wind of change is something the Jews in Nazi Germany can tell you about, if they were here to testify. Ancient kingdoms were written about in the Bible, along with historical records in museums, only because you no longer can visit their cultures due to the winds of change. They have been uprooted and removed. Sure, we can leave fairly impressive architecture behind us, just like the Mayans who vanished. Is that what we want? Are we inviting these mobs of unrest to crush the roof over our heads? Really?
How strong ARE our roots? Do I sound like an alarmist? Maybe I am.
Photo: A hoisting crane holding up the tree as the arborist slices from the top downward. The roots pulled up part of the sidewalk, no longer pedestrian friendly.
When I was maybe 12 years old, my grandparents gave me a patriotic album. I still have it in a box in my garage. It was highly unique in that John Wayne recorded these stirring poems about America and her citizens. (By the way, John Wayne is now under attack by the cancel culture.) It was called, “America, Why I Love Her” (1972). By today’s standards the project might sound a bit corny. It is very much red, white, and blue. Nevertheless, it is very well done, shellacked with stirring poetry, delivered perfectly by the rustic actor. One of the cuts on the album is called, “Mis Raices Estan Aqui (My Root Are Buried Here)” You can type it into Google for a quick listen. I don’t want to give it all away, but I will say something about it here. It speaks of the roots of a citizen, firmly planted in the soil of America, the America with all her bumps, bruises, and smudges. It speaks well of the love for country, property, her enduring make-up, and her documents which publishes our liberties. I would like to believe the roots are not shallow.
With all that is currently blowing upon this nation and her branches, one might ask about the depth of the roots. Could it be too many complacent ones are not seeing the forest for the trees? One might wonder if the root system has been hindered on all sides. One might even go so far as to inquire; have the recent vortex down-bursts leveled irreversible damage? When the face masks come off, will there be a sinister grin, or a look of fortitude in righteousness? Ask yourself this question….Will we fall for anything?
The value of liberty, which shades all Americans, is well spoken of in fuel for the race.
“Blessed is the man who trusts in the LORD And whose trust is the LORD. For he will be like a tree planted by the water, That extends its roots by a stream And will not fear when the heat comes; But its leaves will be green, And it will not be anxious in a year of drought Nor cease to yield fruit.” Jeremiah 17: 7-8 (NAS)
“I guess happiness was Lubbock, Texas in my rearview mirror. But now happiness was Lubock, Texas growing nearer and dearer…” Texas In My Rearview Mirror, (1974). Written and recorded by: Mac Davis.
I left Texas once to chase a dream, building on my career. It’s true what they say about never being able to go back home again. I did come back. However, my town, Dallas/Ft Worth area, had grown and changed. Among the alterations, more glass, steel, and concrete. Nevertheless, I was glad to be back.
As I mentioned in last week’s post, “A Family Affair”, I had the joy of spending lots of time with my three daughters. It’s been a celebration of hearts as my middle daughter, Megan, was visiting from New York. She brought her boyfriend with her this time. He had never been to Texas and truly wanted to get a good taste of the culture. That’s not always easy to show, as the Metroplex has grown into an international community. In Dallas we tend to demolish the old and rebuild. Feeling what he really wanted was to experience our historical side, we pulled out all the stops. Of course, he wanted to visit the grassy knoll in downtown Dallas where JFK was assassinated. For Texans, in general, it’s a tourist spot we are not proud of.
Besides treating him to Texas style Mexican food (Tex-Mex), along with some of the best Texas BBQ available, we drove him out west, so to speak.
Photo: My Grandpa and Grandma Brooks.
We visited Graham, Texas, a couple of hours west of the city, where cowboys and oil fields are the norm. My dad’s family is there where we are part of the historical landscape. My great-grandfather, Lewis Pinkney Brooks, helped to found that part of Texas. In fact, he was the second sheriff of Young County, Texas. He built a home there in the mid 1870’s where one of my cousins resides to this day.
Photo; Brooks Homestead
The homestead is registered in the Texas Historical Society. He was a pioneer, decorated Confederate soldier, builder, and cattle drover. Individuals like, Doc Holliday, Wild Bill Hickok, and Wyatt Earp were contemporaries. After the Civil War, he left Georgia on a mule to settle in the Graham, Texas area where the Comanche and the Tonkawa native Americans ruled. There are hair-raising stories concerning gunfights, grave robbers, horse-thieves, and indian wars. The old homestead was also used as a stagecoach stop for weary travelers, as well as, frontier families in covered wagons heading west. His wife was a bit of the community doctor and midwife. She tended to many who needed physical and medical aid, no matter what race or skin color. Yet, the land was wild, rough, and untamed. The gun turrets he built in the attic walls helps to tell the tale. It’s a rich history and heritage I hold dear to my heart. It’s never a chore to drive out to spend time in the old homestead. Frankly, it’s like a museum, with a great deal of love sown into its lintels. We were honored to share it with our younger generation.
The following day, we drove our New York friend to the famous Ft Worth Stockyards before touring the red waters of the Brazos River, along with Ft. Belknap, just outside of Graham, Texas.
A wealth of Texas history feeds this area of Ft Worth. Just to the north of the modern downtown high-rises, the old west is almost unchanged. Throngs of tourists flood the Stockyard District of the city each year.
Photo: Our friend took this shot from his cell phone.
As early as the late 1850’s, cattle drovers drove their cattle up from many areas including, southern Texas and Mexico, then down Exchange Street to the Ft Worth corrals and railroad. There the herds were prepared for auctioning, or loading onto outbound cattle cars on trains headed north for places like, Kansas City, Chicago, and Denver. The unique Texas Longhorn breed was, and is, a high commodity. The top of their hips are almost six feet high. There’s no other sound exactly like hooves pounding the antique bricked streets.
Although the Stockyards are family friendly today, it wasn’t always that way. Just like in the movies, saloons, whiskey bottles, and skimpy-clad women eager to take your money were the order of a cowboy’s day. It was here where outlaws like, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Sam Bass, and the James brothers frequented the streets. Also, Bonnie and Clyde found a temporary refuge in the Stockyard Hotel, now a luxury hotel displaying a Texas historical marker. In fact, the infamous cowboy outlaw from Texas, John Wesley Hardin, didn’t do well in hotels in the late 1800’s. He once shot a cowboy through the hotel room wall. It seems the man was snoring too loudly.
Twice a day, cowboys drive Longhorns across the tracks, down Exchange Street, while onlookers gather with cameras in hand. It was a stampede of Texas history for our friend from New York.
Photo: Sarah Hetrick
May I get real and ask you some hard questions which might offend you? Either way, I’ll love you. Okay, here goes.
In an age when a selective younger generation feels empowered by destroying statues representing our history, whether good or bad, I can’t help but feel a mistake is being made. We saw ISIS doing the same thing to monuments, ancient ruins, and antiquities from the biblical days of Nineveh. Hear me out before you judge me too harshly.
Sure, one can ask if all of Texas history is good. Quickly I would be the first to answer in the negative. On the other hand, I would point out the overwhelming majority of Texas history is positive and inspiring. In order to appreciate where one lives, it should be understood where one comes from, warts and all. It’s all about what makes us who we are, and where we are going. After all, if we, as individuals, take it upon ourselves to burn all things we personally do not like, what does that make us? What does it say about us? In this scenario, I dare say, nothing would be left to remember, or observe. If we succeed in the attempt to erase history, where does that take us? How does that enrich us? How do we educate ourselves, or avoid repeating mistakes from the past? Better yet, how does that serve future generations? Do we truly want museums to be eradicated, along with the Library of Congress, free speech, free press, etc.? Something, somewhere will offend someone, somewhere. Only cows belong in cattle train-cars.
Ancient Egypt declared all historical characters and events were not to be recorded, if they put Egypt’s kingdom in a bad light. Even certain pharaohs, queens, and races of people were removed from their hieroglyphic records. If not for archaeological efforts, as well as, other historical documents, we would be unaware of much of Egypt’s history. It’s a shame. Their future generations were stiff-armed to learn more of their own culture.
One of the commands in the Bible, from Genesis and onward, is one simple word spoken by God. Numerous sentences begin with the word, “Remember…” The word erupts often in the scrolls, especially in the Torah. It is filled with God urging Israel to “Remember”, or to “Recall”where they had been, what they had gone through, and Who brought them out of harm and slavery, etc. He wanted them to remember not only the victories, but also the pain of racism, suffering, defeats, and famines. There’s value in documenting the sourness of our times. As we enter the Passover and Easter season, it’s a significant light bulb for us to recall how Jesus broke the bread, then poured the wine and said, (Paraphrased for modern emphasis) “Do this often to remember me and my sacrifice for you.” Remembering is an important element in the growth, the thanksgiving, and the psychology of a society.
It’s no wonder why in Texas battles for independence it was shouted, “Remember the Alamo!”
Dismantling the rearview mirror isn’t a wise thing. The road ahead is at stake.
Happy trails begins with fuel for the race.
“Remember the former things of old; for I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like me, declaring the end from the beginning and from ancient times things not yet done, saying, ‘My counsel shall stand, and I will accomplish all my purpose’…” Isaiah 46:9-10 (ESV)
“When you walk through the door hang on to your senses. At best you must assume it’s a house of many rooms.” – A House of many Rooms (1995). Recorded by: Mike & The Mechanics. Composers K/A B A Robertson, Brian Alexander, P. Robertson & Michael Rutherford.
Here in north Texas, it’s a terrific time of year for a garage sale. We plan on making it happen. However, our friends, who live next door, are selling their entire house.
No, not that one!
They are a kind, young couple with two toddlers in tow and twins on the way. They MUST move out.
Our neighborhood is in a historical district. In fact, the Dallas, Texas suburb, where we live, was founded in our neck of the woods. So, most of the homes on our street are older, frame-pier & beam style houses with large windows. Their house is particularly small. For only being there for about 3 years, they have put loads of work into the place, refurbishing and repairing. They are very creative, as well. They have built back-porch stairs, a store house and a nice garden of veggies. Just in the short time they have resided there, the upgrades have lifted the value of the home to a nice rate any realtor would be proud of. As of last night, they have had a parade of prospective buyers tour the place, drawing a few offers. Relatively quick for a brand new realtor sign by the curb.
One of the first people who took advantage of the open house tour, said out-loud, “This is MY home! I’ll give them an offer today!” He obviously liked what he saw. Ironically, he mentioned he and his wife live in a newer part of town where they raised a family in a multi-bedroom & bath home that would dwarf the house of interest. He went on to say they are wanting to retire and scale-down now that they are empty-nesters. I hear that! There have been many who have chosen to go the same route.
As I’ve mentioned, our neighbor’s house is old, but solid and well worth the price. We will miss the family.
Yet, sometimes, window-dressing can be deceptive. In 2003, I bought a great house in Williamsville, NY (Buffalo area). It was beautiful, stoutly built by hand from a team of Mennonite contractors in 1968. I was astonished it only had one owner.
As the buying process moved slowly on, a home inspector looked the place over with a fine tooth comb. I walked alongside him, as he almost wore out the batteries of his flashlight, inspecting every nook and cranny. Thirty minutes later, with his stamp of approval, he took my money and off he went. Fast forward to our first week in the house, the furnace died. It was the beginning of November in Buffalo, NY!!!! Need I say more? Yes, it was a big problem. In the end, we found out the inside of the furnace had rusted out. It was the original furnace from 1968. The rust could clearly be seen with a flashlight through the vent on the casing of the old furnace. As it turns out, the home inspector worked closely, almost exclusively, with my realtor. They shared a wallet. ARG! BING! “That’ll be $3,500.00 please.” AND, by law, they had to cut off our gas line until the new one could be installed, no matter how much snow covered our roof. It took another two weeks with nothing but a fireplace, along with loaned-out space heaters. Be careful, deception is often in the list of ingredients to wheeling and dealing.
“The eyes are the window to your soul…” – William Shakespeare –
I guess I can’t judge the realtor and inspector too harshly. In life, I have had to sell myself over and over again with certain temptations. You probably have too. Right? Sure, you give someone the truth in an interview for that job of a lifetime, but maybe there’s a bit of fudge in that cake of a resume’. Or, you are introduced to prospective in-laws for a dinner and you found you smiled way too much for no good reason. Maybe, you oversold while writing a blog. If you’re a politician running a campaign for an upcoming election, well…yeah. Possibly, in efforts to encourage your non-athletic child, who is about to try-out for the soccer team, you just couldn’t help but say, “You’ll be the best! You’re gonna slay ’em big-time today! Go get ’em!” Sure, it’s an oversell, in efforts to let him/her know you believe in them. Yet, you knew in your heart it wasn’t going to happen. In retrospect, you realized there was another, more truthful way, to cheer him/her onward as they display their best. The opposite is also suspect. In love, my mom tried to use reverse psychology on me just before a musical audition, recital, or a karate tournament. It went something like, “Okay, Alan. If you mess-up, don’t come cryin’ when you get home. Just suck it up.” Later in life, she admitted that wasn’t the greatest way to encourage me. Of course, I agreed with her, but I didn’t admit that I also held a grudge for decades. Not good. Oh, the things we learn.
Window dressing is fine, unless the outfit on the mannequin isn’t on the rack inside the store. When on a date, you might find you change yourself, in some way, to make the most impact. You were selling. After the future wedding is over, the newlywed spouse sees you for who you really are. OUCH! Deception, no matter how small, can have a large price. It’s better to calculate, analyze and reveal than to barter a shady soul. Otherwise, the future relationship may come to a dead end when concealed rust is found in the core of what turns you to the right or left.
Last weekend I attended my high school reunion. It was a wonderful time of reuniting old relationships, memories and tons of hugs and kisses. One of my closer friends went to a small after-party that went into the wee hours. I was not too shocked of how she described the afterglow gathering. She said, “Alan, I just had to leave after awhile. There were too many trying to be cool.” My understanding was, there had to be a smattering of overselling in play.
I’ve learned it is better to be who God knows you to be in front of others. No doubt, a vehicle to loving others more than yourself.
Our neighbors will enjoy a bigger place as their young family grows. Possibly an older buyer will purchase the cottage-style house in efforts to downsize. Now THAT is a sale looking through a humble lens. Maybe, in the doorway, will be found, a FREE nozzle for fuel for the race.
“In my Father’s house are many dwelling places; if it were not so, I would have told you; for I go to prepare a place for you. If I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself, that where I am, there you may be also.” – Jesus – John 14:2-3 (NASV)