Our Moms

In memory of our mothers on this Mothers' Day. This is BBBH with her mother, Opal Weatherford Womack.

This is my mother, Vera Morrell Lacy.

Remembering Mother

Although I can still hear my mother's voice in my head, the only physical representation of her voice that remains is on a cassette tape. She does two readings on this tape. The first is this poem, which I give you here as a Mother's Day present. The other is the Twenty-third Psalm.

The young mother set her foot on the path of life.
"Is this the long way?" she asked.
And the Guide said, "Yes, and the way is hard. And you will be old before you reach the end of it. But the end will be better than the beginning."

The young mother was happy, and she would not believe that anything could be better than these years. So she played with her children, she fed them and bathed them, taught them how to tie their shoes and ride a bike, and reminded them to feed the dog and do their homework and brush their teeth.

The sun shone on them and the young mother cried, "Nothing will ever be lovelier than this."

Then the nights came, and the storms, and the path was sometimes dark, and the children shook with fear and cold, and the mother drew them close and covered them with her arms. The children said, "Mother, we are not afraid, for you are near, and no harm can come."

And the morning came, and there was a hill ahead, and the children climbed and grew weary, and the mother was weary.
But at all times she said to the children, "A little patience and we are there."

So the children climbed and as they climbed they learned to weather the storms. And with this, she gave them strength to face the world. Year after year she showed them compassion, understanding, hope, but most of all unconditional love.
And when they reached the top they said, "Mother, we could not have done it without you."

The days went on, and the weeks and the months and the years. The mother grew old and she became little and bent. But her children were tall and strong, and walked with courage. And the mother, when she lay down at night, looked up at the stars and said, "This is a better day than the last, for my children have learned so much and are now passing these traits on to their children."

And when the way became rough for her, they lifted her, and gave her strength, just as she had given them hers. One day they came to a hill, and beyond the hill they could see a shining road and golden gates flung wide.

And the mother said, "I have reached the end of my journey. And now I know the end is better than the beginning, for my children can walk with dignity and pride, with their heads held high, and so can their children after them."

And the children said, "You will always walk with us, Mother, even when you have gone through the gates."

And they stood and watched her as she went on alone, and the gates closed after her.

And they said, "We cannot see her, but she is with us still." --by Temple Bailey

Tipi

"You can't have two big Indians in the same tipi." --BBBH

Guess who is the big Indian in this tepee.

Stetson

John Batterson Stetson born May 5, 1830 was an American hatter, industrialist and philanthropist who serendipitously though due to ill health toured the West in the 1860s, the result of which was his invention of the cowboy hat, as it is commonly known today.

He noted that wranglers were a sorry lot, at least with respect to their headgear, as they tended to wear coonskin caps or whatsoever they may have grown up with regardless of functionality. Hence he invented a fur-felt hat with a four-inch brim and a four-inch crown. The hat caught on with a vengeance, and has been used by people worldwide, including the military here and abroad.

I am the proud possessor of a couple of fine Stetsons. The one I am modelling above was a gift to me from BBBH. The tan one I have had a long time. Though I grew up in the West, I was never a wearer of hats, an oversight in my sartorial arrangement about which my father chided me relentlessly. Dad always wore a hat, though he affected a fedora rather than a Western-style hat. He wore either Stetsons or Dobbs hats, and I have two nice fedoras, one that he bought for me and one that was his. By stuffing considerable newsprint in the sweatband, I can actually wear his hat.

Stetson eventually built one of the largest hat-producing factories in the world, and at the time of his death he employed over five thousand people. He built housing, hospitals and parks for his employees and maintained a clean and safe work environment.

Stetson contributed a huge percentage of his wealth to philanthropic enterprises, building schools and giving generously to universities. The Stetson School of Law in Florida is named for him.

John Batterson Stetson 1830 - 1906 RIP

One Old Coot Says to the Other #T

"How old are you, Son?"

"Younger than dirt," I said, "but older than you."

"No way!" he scoffed. "Look at me. I am old. I've been around the Horn, Boy. I've seen the elephant."

"Truly," says I, "you do look an awful fright. In what year were you born?"

"Why," says he, "I'm on the Social Security, born," he says, "in '43."

"So," I says, "if your birthday is before the third of May, you are 68 on this day."

"Yessir," he replied, "and mighty proud of it! So, how old are you, Whippersnapper?"

"Well," say I, "I'm truly not old enough to be your Pa; but I was deliverin' newspapers on my bicycle before you were born."

"If'n you're a standin' there, you're a lyin'," he says.

Well, the nice young officer cuffed me and put me in the cruiser. "Grandpa," he says, "the arrest report's gonna look mighty strange, your name and mine being the same and all."

"Well, says I, "I'm mighty proud of you. You've made something of yourself, and I'm just an honest old Coot who can't stand being called a liar." -30- fictional tale

And just what does this little vignette illustrate? Just one of the inexplicable foibles of people, bless their hearts. People go through childhood pressing their age "to the next level." Children will cite their age as "almost seven" or "ten-and-a-half."

Then we reach the stage where we press for denial. Well, yes, I am twenty-nine (but never thirty). Or I am "in my early forties," (until I'm truly not forty-anything).

But when we are "of a certain age" we begin to exhibit our years with pride, as though it is a personal achievement to have attained x-number of years. Well, perhaps it is an achievement. But now we even go so far as to s-t-r-e-t-c-h the truth. Why, just the other day I heard myself tell someone I am seventy-seven, which will still be a lie for another 63 days.

Back to the story. It is no exaggeration to say that two old men upon making one another's acquaintance will almost inevitably get to the place in their conversation where one or the other will either ask the other's age, or even go so far as to assert, with no evidence greater than the visual assessment, that "Of course, I am much older than you," or perhaps to preface a tale with "When you get to be as old as I am..." No joke. This happens over and over again. I have been the fooler, and I have been fooled. But mostly, it is just a case of two old fools...

To Be Seen of Men

"The thing for us to do is just to do our DUTY and not worry about whether anybody SEES us do it or not. Hain't you got no principle at all?" So said Tom Sawyer to Huck Finn in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

So when will we quit worrying about whether or not anybody SEES us doing our DUTY and simply get on with doing it? No time soon, I warrant.

I have just finished reading this tale for the however-manyeth time. Like the Bible, one sees something new in it with every reading. Not that I am equating Twain with scripture, you understand; but it is not the same story it was when I first read it as a boy. Nor is it the same as it was any of the other times I read it.

Nehemiah Rebuilds the Wall

RETURN TO JERUSALEM

I’m Nehemiah. If you need bonafides, my father was Hacaliah and I am from Jerusalem. I am cup bearer to King Artaxerxes. My people have been captive in Babylon for a long time. I have been in earnest prayer before the Lord, weeping in supplication and repentance for the people, both day and night.

As I brought his wine to the king and his queen, he narrowed his eyes, looked intently at me and asked, “Why are you sad? You haven’t been sick. What is it you want?”

I had been praying earnestly to the Lord for weeks that this moment would come. “Oh, help me God, Lord in heaven,” I breathed silently, “to say the right thing to the mighty king.” I raised my head and said, “Oh, King, live forever. If I have found your favor, grant that I might go to my hometown to rebuild it, for the walls are down and the dwelling places are in ruins.”

“Okay,” said the King. So I ventured to tell him when I wanted to leave and asked further for letters of safe passage, and directions to the King’s forester, Asaph, to provide me with timbers for the gates of the city and for the palace and for my house.

“Okay,” said the King; and he did as I had asked of him to do. So, I was off to Jerusalem. The governors of the land beyond the Euphrates were given the letters of safe passage. Grudgingly, I was allowed to proceed. Sanballat clearly was annoyed that anyone would come to seek the welfare of the Israelites.

Well, I arrived in Jerusalem and spent three days there, yet not revealing my intent to anyone. Then I got up in the middle of the night and mounted my beast and went out of the city, beyond the rubble of the walls. The stones were strewn everywhere, the gates were burned. I rode many furlongs around the wall, thinking to return to town on the far side. But the going was too rough for the poor animal, and I had to return by way of the same gate I had used to depart the city.

PREACHING IN THE RUIN

I had started a campaign among the people to encourage them to rebuild the wall. Look, I said, it is a reproach to us to abide in rubble. Let’s get ‘er done! The people agreed, and strengthened their hands to the work. But Sanballat and his toadies, Tobiah and Geshem hooted and laughed us to scorn.

“What? Are you going to stand against the king?” Thus they derided us.

But I replied, “God will prosper us; so we, His servants, will build. But you will have no share nor any rights within Jerusalem.”

THE WALL IS REBUILT

Well, we set to! The workers and their deeds are memorialized in the Book which I wrote and which bears my name. Those old naysayers, Sanballat and Tobiah, heaped ridicule and sarcasm on us, but I prayed the Lord visit reproach upon them, and we labored on. They stirred up their minions and thought to overturn us by force. Too much detail to report just now, but you can read it in the Book. We set half the people to work and half to sentry. The great work was completed in fifty-two days! Now the city was large and great, but the people were few. I caused a census to be taken of those who were the first to return from Babylon. You may find a detailed account of this in my Book.

Then old Ezra the priest set up a pulpit and conducted a sizzling revival meeting. The people reestablished and celebrated the seven-day Feast of Tabernacles. Then they fasted and repented; then they all rose in confession and praise to the Lord their God. So the wall was dedicated and the Book of Moses was read in the hearing of Israel.

END OF NEHEMIAH’S STORY

I’d like to tell you how I cleansed the temple, dispossessed Tobiah, and how I chastised those renegade Jews who married those heathen women! Man, I smacked them upside the head and snatched them bald. But you can read all that in the Book. "Remember me, Oh, God, for good," is my prayer.

---finis---

Go read Sis's article "Less is More?" about prom dresses and fashion.

Go here for the story of Jonah's missionary journey

Hospital

It is not a pleasure to spend time in a hospital. Yet we are truly grateful for the facility and its dedicated staff who are there in the hour of our need.

This is the whiteboard in BBBH's room as she had her surgical procedure the other day. The quotation is there for inspiration and guidance. And a good one it is, too. I read Scott Adams on a daily basis. Always did believe the soundest philosophies are printed on the comics pages. And Dad always said that the only part of the newspaper you could believe was the funny page.

The artwork below Nicki's signature was done by Dr. Weksler after he completed the surgery. He drew the sketch to explain to me where the stents were placed. Like many of the brilliant people I have encountered in my lifetime, this coronary surgeon wielded the pen in his left hand.

Thanks to all the staff at IU North Hospital who helped make the stay for Spouse as comfortable as possible.