Category Archives: History

MORTALITY ON THE VIA VENETO

Via VenetoI remember it like it was yesterday.  I was in Rome, Italy.  January 20, 1977.  The day Jimmy Carter was inaugurated President.  I was a 2o year old college student studying abroad.  That may sound a bit Ivy League, but it really wasn’t all that.  I signed up for a Jan-Term archaeology course at Samford University that included a three week trip to Israel and Italy.  “Studying abroad” just sounds cooler.

Our class spent two weeks in Israel seeing the sights and visiting archaeological digs .(Basically, we visited what other people had dug.  Interesting, but not really National Geographic material. We were, however, housed in the cold attic of a three hundred year old church.  That was cool.)  I enjoyed the trip very much.  Just being in the land that Abraham claimed, that David ruled, and that Jesus walked was inspiring enough.  But we got to visit places that regular tourists couldn’t even see.  It was an exhilarating adventure.  I thought about Jesus every single day.  It was quite a spiritual romp for a twenty year old.

One day in Jerusalem was especially memorable. We were strolling through the Valley of Hinnom, on the southeastern side of Jerusalem, just outside the ancient wall. It is a beautiful municipal park now, but in the time of Jesus it was Jerusalem’s garbage dump.  No kidding.  In Jesus’ day it was called Gehenna, where there was always garbage burning and dead animals smouldering and swelling in the hot sun.  Imagine the stench!

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THE CHIEF AND ME

 

IMG_1020The following is an excerpt from chapter three of the rough draft of a new book I am presently writing.  The book focuses on the last months of my elderly father’s earthly life, and the myriad of conversations we had during visits with him at The Oaks, an assisted living center.  Dad had just moved out of the house he had lived in since 1957, and away from the small town he had called home for over 80 years.  It was no easy decision for him, but it was one of necessity.  In this exchange, I was helping him unpack his stuff the day after arriving at his new home– a modest two-room apartment that would serve as his final home address.

       Together we unloaded the final container of stuff I had brought, giving us a unique opportunity to talk about things past.   In the box were a few pictures and some small items that had special significance to him. I placed the black and white five-by-seven picture of my mom next to his bed as he had ordered. Among a few framed pictures of family and friends, one item caught my eye. It was a small, brown leather book no larger than four inches square, packed full of names, addresses and phone numbers. Turning back some of the pages, I saw that most of them were obviously quite old—entries written in fountain pens, and even addresses without zip codes.

      “What in the world is this, Dad?” He stopped digging in his billfold long enough to look intently at what I was showing him.

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COURAGE, GRIT, AND THE LUNCHROOM LADIES

Grandma cateyesI grew up in the small southern town of Ashland, Alabama.  It was a wonderful place to call home.  It was “Mayberry” in more ways than one.  My grade school years coincided with the time known as the Civil Rights era– the 1960’s.  I began elementary school in a racially segregated world, but entered high school in a totally different world where blacks and whites graduated school together.  It was a changing time filled with uncertainty for everyone, especially in the Deep South.  But I had a advantage over many of my friends– my grandmother.

Grandma Nichols was different from her contemporaries.  She would have been perfect to play the part of Skeeter in the movie, “The Help.”  She was truly color-blind, in the symbolic sense.  She was gifted in mercy, compassion, and generosity– for black and white the same.  I stayed with her on Saturdays while my parents worked in their retail business.  We would spend much of our Saturday distributing leftover lunchroom food to needy families; checking on elderly persons in their homes; visiting patients in the nursing home; and cooking for folks who were sick.  Black, white, or green– it made no difference to her.  Compassion was for everyone.

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