Category Archives: True Stories

I Have A Confession To Make

Family, Humor, Small Town America, True Stories

Yes. I have to finally get it off my chest. My beloved parents went to their graves without ever knowing about it.

Starting at the moment it occurred there was a cover-up, and the authorities never knew that little 7-year-old Mark was both the culprit and the victim. Oh yes, a handful of others knew, but they were all in on the cover-up. Fifty-six years later I think it’s high time I blow my cover and confess. 

It all happened at a high school basketball game in my hometown of Ashland. It all started so innocently.  While my father did his Jaycees duty in manning the concession stand, I was required to stay with my older brother and his friends in the bleachers. My brother Mike is five years my senior, so I was not an easy fit with his junior high aged crew. Without a doubt I was the pesky little shrimp that was assigned to his watch, but being an independent social animal I did not find it necessary to sit next to my brother at all times. I knew his friends and they knew me. I was safe as long as I stayed close to the pack. After all, this was the arrangement at least once or twice a week during basketball season. Occasionally during the game I was allowed to make my way to the concession stand to get a snack. Dad allowed me to put it on his tab for the night.

Ashland had a small town school with a small but crowded gym, and an enormous amount of school spirit. The town’s civic pride rose and fell on the success of the Ashland Panthers regardless of the season’s sport. Home court and home field victories were each celebrated as if  they were national championships. That’s just the way it was in Ashland, and the way it should be. Everyone in town agreed.

I don’t remember who the mighty Panthers were playing that night. In those days I didn’t know them by their school name, only by their colors. We, of course sported white uniforms with blue numbers and trim. Blue and white are STILL my favorite colors. I vaguely remember that the opposing team that night wore blue and gold, which could have been any one of several teams in our area. i know for sure it wasn’t Lineville– our arch rival from six miles down highway 9. They were red and black and I would have definitely remembered if it was Lineville. Nevertheless, I’m sure the game was an important one. At age seven I understood very little about basketball. I was more interested in the colors, the sounds, the cheers, the popcorn, and the crazy fans.

At some point during the last half of the game (probably at a crucial time as the game was in the balance– I don’t remember) one of Mike’s friends stuck a metal referee’s whistle in my face and said, “Blow it as hard as you can!”  And I did exactly as I was told. 

Suddenly, the entire gymnasium grew silent.  The blue and gold player racing down the court with the ball stopped cold in his tracks. The refs looked at one another in total confusion and the game came to an awkward halt. Amidst the cheering and screaming, the sound of the whistle had echoed through the gym’s high ceilings in a way that made the source almost untraceable. Meanwhile the instigator, a.k.a. “whistle owner ” (who will forever remain anonymous) leaned down and gave me a quick but commanding, “shhhhhhh.” Then he tucked the offending whistle into his coat pocket and pretended to be as startled as everyone else in the gym.  And again, I did exactly as I was told.  I shushed.

In about fifteen seconds, our highly annoyed principal, Mr. Kermit Traylor began patrolling the floor in front of the home bleachers, back and forth, pointing his long finger toward the crowd of students and parents, “Who has a whistle?   Who has that whistle?!” 

Well, I certainly didn’t respond!  I just sat there, half-covered up by the few around me who knew the truth.  After all, I didn’t have that whistle, and never really had it.  I just blew it.  That’s all.  My little seven-year-old heart pounded out of my chest, and I’m SURE my face appeared as guilty as sin. My mom could ALWAYS tell when I was guilty just by looking into my eyes. But fortunately, Mom was not at the game! Mr. Traylor finally gave up his attempt to locate the guilty party.  So without  a confessor– or a tattle-tale– the basketball game resumed.

I have no foggy idea who won the game that night.  I do not remember.  But I DO remember my brother being really mad at the guy who had directed me to blow the whistle, AND I clearly remember Mike’s firm command, “Whatever you do, don’t you dare tell Dad and Mom what you did!”

And again, I did exactly as I was told.  

So, for the first time in fifty-six years I brought it all up to my brother a couple of weeks ago on a phone call– and it all came back to him.  Yes, Mike also found it somewhere in his distant memory bank.  Laughing he stated, “If Mom or Dad had asked me about it, I would not have lied.  But since they didn’t, I didn’t see any reason for them to have to worry about it.”  Amen to that, brother.

Truth be known, I actually only remembered it recently while watching my little granddaughter Charlotte play basketball in a church gym.  Multiple games were being played at the same time and the abundance of referee whistles confused everyone. That’s when it all flooded back into my mind, and our family has enjoyed laughing about it ever since.

So now, it’s out. It’s done. I have confessed.

And boy do I feel better!

“There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known.”    Luke 12:2

Mark Spitz and Me

Humor, Inspiration, True Stories, ,

In the early 1970’s Mark Spitz was the man. His face was emblazoned on the Wheaties cereal box for several years. Between 1968 and 1972, Olympic swimmer Spitz won nine Olympic golds, a silver, and a bronze. He was only the third athlete in history to win nine Olympic gold medals. He won seven gold medals at the 1972 Summer Olympics in Munich, all in world record time. This was an achievement that lasted for 36 years until it was surpassed by fellow American Michael Phelps, who won eight golds at the 2008 games in Beijing.

In an era when other swimmers, male and female, were shaving body hair, Mark Sptiz swam with a moustache. Spitz is quoted as saying, “When I went to the Olympics, I had every intention of shaving my moustache off, but I realized I was getting so many comments about it—and everybody was talking about it—that I decided to keep it.”

Needless to say, Mark Spitz was an American hero to me and everyone else in the USA. I think he’s the reason I decided to take swimming courses to complete my physical ed requirements in college in 1974-75. I actually earned six credits for swimming in my college days. I was a fairly good swimmer although I was a late bloomer– not learning to swim until I was about nine years old, and despite several frustrating years of swimming lessons. (For details, see my  January 2017 post– The Lady of the Lake)

Besides the name “Mark,” I shared some things in common with Mark Spitz– swimming experience, a thick helmet of dark hair, and a mustache. But it was what I DIDN’T have in common with Spitz that was the most telling.

Me 1975

At Samford University, I was placed in the advanced swimming class for some reason. It was probably because that semester there were only two choices– beginners and advanced. I was happy to be considered “advanced” but in reality I was apprehensive about what was expected of me. After a couple of classes I saw that I was not over my head, but was clearly up to my nostrils.

Our instructor was the Samford ladies swimming coach. She was friendly, fair, and tough. After a few weeks of remedial training on the four strokes used in competition,  she introduced freestyle sprinting to us as a method of pushing us to improve. At the end of each class period, she made everyone race against another class member until everyone (except the last poor soul) had won at least one sprint.

The freestyle sprint included swimming as fast as possible down the length of the olympic sized pool, performing a flip turn, and sprinting back to the starting position. The winner of each sprint got to exit to the locker rooms and was done for the day. The loser had to get in line to race against another loser, until there was only one multi-defeated loser left.

I broke out in a cold sweat in fear that I would be the loser of losers. How embarrassing would that be? Unimaginable. Of the twelve members in the swimming class, I could easily end up the runt of the litter. It all rested on who the coach paired me with in the initial sprint.

Fortunately, she had pre-arranged the matches. They were all based on what she perceived to be pairings based on similar swimming skills.  I don’t remember the name of the guy I was first paired with, but I do know that he looked nothing like Mark Spitz and me. I was just happy it wasn’t a tall dude with a legit swimmers build. Luckily I had eaten a hearty breakfast that morning and felt quite full of energy.

When it was my time to swim, I stood at my lane and stared into the sparkling blue water below me praying that my thick head of hair and mustache would not slow me down. I would definitely need all the aquadynamic help (that’s aerodynamics in water) I could get. Then in mid-thought I heard the magic word ring out– GO!!

I made a smooth entrance into the water and gave it all I had. I don’t know if I was breathing correctly (not sure I was even breathing at all), but I made it to the other end neck-and-neck with my opponent. Doing a perfect flip turn was not my specialty, but I performed it well that day. In fact, it was just a little bit better than the other guy’s turn, giving me a quick boost of confidence and a tiny lead.

Adrenaline kicked in and I swam like a crazed man in an alligator pit, skimming across the water like my life was in jeopardy. Approaching the finish I stretched out my fingers to touch the wall right on time!  Victory!  With one fluid motion I touched the wall, pushed myself up and hopped out of the pool in a blaze of glory. I had punched my ticket out of that day’s class on my first try, and breathed in the satisfaction of my accomplishment. No embarrassment for me today! No doubt Mark Spitz must have felt this way in Munich.

Taking two confident steps down the side of the pool in the direction of the locker room, I suddenly felt woozy, dizzy, sick. And then without warning, I puked all over the pool deck and into the water. The hearty breakfast had come back to haunt me– literally.

There were no more sprints to be held that day.  The pool had to be closed and disinfected.  I had become the reason there would be no biggest loser.  Every hypothetical loser in the room thanked me for their timely escape. Let’s just say that my name, like Mark Spitz’s, was left in high regard after I had won the big race.  It’s as close to Spitz and olympic gold as I would ever get.

“The race is not to the swift
or the battle to the strong,
nor does food come to the wise
or wealth to the brilliant
or favor to the learned;
but time and chance happen to them all.”                                                                                      

Ecclesiastes 9:11

Speaking Finnish

Humor, Inspiration, Master's Commission, True Stories, ,

Two weeks ago I submitted a post about a visit to Finland– to Santa Claus Village on the edge of the Arctic Circle. I have actually made four visits to the beautiful and amazing nation of Finland. The people are warm and friendly, and Finnish culture is so rich.

Finland is unique among the other Nordic countries of Northern Europe. It borders Russia in the east and Sweden in the west, but its language and history is entirely separate from both the Slavic Russians and the Scandinavian Swedes. The Finnish people call their nation, “Suomi.” Their complicated language is more akin to Estonian and Hungarian than any other– containing lots of double vowels, and double consonants, and spelling rules that are quite challenging to the English speaker. Still, most of the Finnish youth are bi- and tri-lingual– usually Finnish, English, plus a third (Swedish, Russian, or German, etc). They are a well educated people; not backward at all. Finland is the home of Nokia Telecom and other advanced technology companies. While in Finland, I was NOT the most educated person around– for sure. Other than “kiitos” (“thank-you,”) I did not try to speak any Finnish. I was just happy to let the Finns practice their English on me!

On my very first visit to Finland, my friend Israel and I stayed in the home of a wonderful couple named Tuulikki and Kalevi, who remain my friends today. Tuulikki understood and spoke good English, but her husband Kalevi did not. One cold Finnish morning we were treated to an incredible homemade breakfast prepared by Kalevi after his wife had left for work. There was no need for a common language between us. Kalevi did all his speaking through his culinary skills! He provided an array of all kinds of sweets, meats, cheeses, pancakes, fruits, and breads. Delicious!! And the coffee was from heaven!

There was only ONE item at the breakfast feast that we ate sparingly. It was a bread that was dark, dry, and packed with FIBER: Finnish Rye Bread (Ruisleipä)  One small piece gave us all the fiber we would need for a month or more! Kalevi handed me a second piece, but I hid it in my jacket pocket. Israel did the same when he was handed his second one. Each time we hid one, kind Kalevi just offered us another, thinking we loved it.

Not knowing Finnish, I looked for another way to politely refuse his offers. Then is dawned on me– NO means NO in most every language. But of course I didn’t stop at a simple, “No, kiitos.” Instead I motioned “no” with my hand and said, “No, kiitos, we can’t handle any more styrofoam.” It seemed to be a safe thing to say since Kalevi didn’t understand English. Besides, my comment got a little chuckle from Israel. Our host nodded his head signaling that he saw that we were stuffed already. Our happy faces showed our gratitude for the delicious mega-breakfast.

In the evening we returned to our host’s home for a relaxing end to the day. Tuulikki offered us use of the hot sauna that was located in the home. We had been instructed by our Finnish leaders that going to sauna at the close of the day is the very definition of hospitality in Finland, so we knew to not refuse the offer. Finnish saunas are unlike anything in American gyms. They are much hotter, and provide eucalyptus water to throw on the hot coals every few minutes. It is quite therapeutic for the skin, the lungs, and the circulation.

Finnish Sauna

Handing us two towels, Tuulikki intended to politely ask if we knew what to do in the sauna, but used the wrong English word in the process. She meant to say, “Do you know how to be in the sauna?” But instead said, “Do you know how to pee in the sauna?” Izzy quickly whispered to me, “Do we have to do that?” I simply nodded to Tuulikki in the affirmative. At the moment, ignorance seemed better than inquiring about using the sauna as a bathroom.

The sauna was nice, and (of course) we did NOT relieve ourselves there. Later, we returned to the family room and thanked them kindly for the wonderful sauna experience. With a broad smile Tuulikki was eager to say, “I’m sorry. I think I said the wrong word to you earlier. I should have used a B instead of a P.“ Together we laughed about the language mixup. Izzy and I were just glad that we didn’t follow her original instruction!

Then, Tuulikki added, “My husband is also very sorry that he offered you styrofoam for breakfast this morning.”

Izzy and I froze in embarrassment, but Tuulikki and Kalevi continued smiling. I was absolutely mortified at what I had said. How could I have been so rude and stupid?

“I’m so sorry,” I finally said. “Please forgive me. I thought Kalevi didn’t understand English, and I was just trying to be funny with Israel.”

“We’re so sorry,” Israel pleaded alongside me. “The breakfast was wonderful.”

“Oh, no worries,” Tuulikki answered. “It is true that Kalevi does not speak any English. But the Finnish word for styrofoam happens to be, ‘styrofoam.'” Unfortunately, I spoke more Finnish than I thought.

The Northern Lights

“Fools multiply words. No one knows what is coming….” Ecclesiastes 10:14

The Year of the Sweater

Family, Humor, Inspiration, Small Town America, True Stories,

It was the Christmas of 1971. It was customary that Grandmother Nichols would arrive early in the morning at the Sims house with her annual contributions to the family Christmas meal. She was a widow and enjoyed spending holidays with us. We only lived two blocks away from both of our grandmothers, so the daily interaction between generations was one of the most wonderful thing about growing up in a small town around loving family. Grandmother Nichols’ secret recipe for homemade yeast rolls was legendary. They were rolls that literally melted in the mouth. None of the family has mastered her recipe since she passed away. What made it special was probably the measureless cup of love that went into each roll. It was a requirement that she provided the rolls for any special dinner at the family table.

Estelle Nichols

When Grandmother finally came through the door, I noticed that she was without with her freshly prepared pan of yeast rolls. Instead she carried an armful of gifts to place under the tree. I assumed the rolls were still in her car. My little sister gained her attention immediately pointing out the array of toys Santa had brought. Amidst the joyous confusion, she placed her gifts under the tree just before the time to open our gifts for one another.

I was fourteen years old and in junior high in 1971. Home from college, my older brother Mike was 19, and our sister Donna was only eight. Of course, Donna was the center of attention during the gift opening time, squealing at the opportunity to open each new gift, and then loudly declaring what it was to the entire room. I remember it as heartwarming chaos.

Being fourteen, I had transitioned from toys to other “stuff,” although I remember secretly longing for those days when a new Christmas toy lit up my life. But I was working hard to appear as mature as possible, so I never let my disappointment show. Most of my Christmas gifts were clothes, and electronics (which in that day were limited to clock-radios and lava lamps). My brother’s gifts were even more adult– clothes, a billfold, and some 8-track tapes for his car.

Grandmother Nichols waited breathlessly for my bother and me to open her gift to us. They were shirt boxes wrapped identically in green holly wrapping paper. It was difficult to decipher which box belonged to whom, since “Mike” and “Mark” looked the same in Grandmother’s handwriting.

Expecting a warm winter shirt, we each tore the paper away and opened the gift. I got to the goods first and held it up in front of me– a light blue sweater with two huge brown deer adorning the front!! “Oh, wow, Grandma! Thank you so much,” I uttered with fake glee, thinking “How in the world can I wear this sweater in the front of anyone who knows me?” Fourteen year olds have a hard time with self-image as it is, so wearing it in public was out of the question for me. I had a hard enough time getting my bangs to swoosh over my forehead in an acceptable manner. The blue sweater emblazoned with deer was a reputation graveyard.

I cut my eyes over at Mike who was giving me the smirk that said it all. He knew I was mortified and all he could do was hold back a laugh. Then he opened his box from Grandmother Nichols. Oh yes. It was light blue as well. Alas, she had found the giant deer print in his size too! Matching sweaters for the Sims boys!

Grandmother was so proud of her accomplishment. “Do you like ‘um,” she asked? All we could do was say meaningless words like, “wow,” and “look,” and “oh, boy,” Mom was watching closely, covering her mouth as she always did when she was in shock. She remembered how she used to dress us up in matching attire– until Mike refused to be dressed like his kid brother– five years his junior. Dressed in matching pedal-pushers (light blue and gold) had been the end of the twins-look for the Sims boys– and that was a full decade ago. What could we do? Of course, we did what we had to do. We thanked her profusely and gave her lots of hugs as kisses. Besides, the rolls at the dinner table would be quite enough for us.

Mom announced that we would be eating Christmas dinner at Grandmother Nichols house this year, since Aunt Ruth and Uncle Bruner would be joining us at the family table. Mom instructed Mike and me to help Dad get Mom’s food loaded into Grandmother’s car so that she could return home to prepare. In our house coats and pajamas we loaded her car and sent her on her way– eagerly anticipating a wonderful Christmas feast (and yummy yeast rolls) in a matter of hours.

Returning into the house, Mom met us at the door with a smile, and we all had a big laugh. We acknowledged with Mom that Grandma’s gift came with a heart of love, and how thankful we were for her undying affection for all of us. Then Mom said, “She will be so happy to see ya’ll in those sweaters at Christmas dinner.”

I froze, saying nothing. Mike did the same. But we knew we had to do it. Mom finally said, “If you’ll wear them today at her house, you’ll never have to wear them again.” So, Mike and I chose to walk to Grandma Nichols house that day– thorough a path in the woods– a shortcut we had used as kids. We laughed all the way proudly displaying the Christmas deer for all the animals in the forest to see. Mom was satisfied. Aunt Ruth thought they were darling. Grandmother Nichols showered us with love all day long. And the rolls were delicious.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. 1 Corinthians 13:13

Remember……..

Family, History, Inspiration, True Stories, ,

Isn’t it amazing that there are certain events in our lives that have been engraved in our memory so deeply that we remember almost every detail about that event? I remember asking my parents, “Do you remember the attack on Pearl Harbor? Where were you and what were you doing?” Mom and Dad remembered vividly. Each time I asked them about it, they recalled the very same details in the very same way.

On December 7, 1941 my parents were Juniors in high school and were already a dating couple. In fact they were together that fateful Sunday afternoon when they first heard about the Japanese attack on the radio. Dad and Mom were drinking an RC Cola and talking with friends right in front of Jordan’s Drug Store on the square in Ashland. It was a Sunday afternoon gathering spot for teens. My parents were listening to Big Band music on the radio when the announcer broke in for a special news bulletin. From that day on, their lives changed. Dad even remembered thinking that eventually he and all of his friends would be going to war. Each time either of them recounted that day, they brought up a friend who was talking with them at Papa Sims’ car– Ned Browning, an Auburn freshman who was home for the weekend. My parents both lamented that it was the very last day they ever saw Ned. Ned died somewhere in the Pacific before the war was ended.

For me it was remembering the day President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. I was a second grader in November of 1963. It was just after lunchtime when our teacher, Mrs. Garrett, was called out into the hallway by Mrs. Levie. Like it was yesterday I remember exactly what she said when she returned to the room. Mrs. Garrett quietly closed the door and said,

“Boys and girls, President Kennedy has been shot in the head.” She even pointed at her temple as she said it. I remember being stunned. One of the kids in the class spoke up immediately and said,

“My daddy’s gonna be glad somebody did it.”  At that outburst, Mrs. Garrett grabbed him by the arm, jerked him up, and blistered his behind! I remember not knowing what to think, or what to do. I knew that my Dad was not very fond of President Kennedy—I had heard him say so—but I couldn’t imagine him wanting the President to be shot!

School let out about an hour early that day. I walked home with my friend Cathy. We were both confused and a bit scared. When I stepped into my house, I remember seeing my Mom sitting in the den in front of our black and white TV watching the news coverage. She was crying. Mom got up and met me as I came through the kitchen and held me close to her as she cried and said,

“I’m just so sorry you and Mike and Donna have to grow up in this terrible world.”

I was relieved knowing that my parents didn’t think his death was a good thing—not that I figured that they would—but it was comforting to know for sure. Second graders need clarity.

In college I asked fellow students “Where were you when Kennedy was assassinated?”  Just like me, every one of them could recall almost every detail. Even my wife who lived in South America in 1963, remembered it vividly.  Why? Because our baby-boomer world changed that day.

For my children it was the attack on 9/11. They can relive it in their minds like it was yesterday. Again, the world as we all knew it changed.

Remembrance is part of the uniqueness of humanity.  It has always been this way–  “Passover,” “The Parting of the Red Sea,”  “Lexington and Concord,” “Remember the Alamo,” “Remember Pearl Harbor,” “Remember 9/11.”– they all take us back to a singular moment that the world changed.  Even in the book of Isaiah we read the prophet Isaiah’s quote:

“In the year King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord……” Isaiah 6:1

According to Isaiah, his life changed that day. During a period of intense grief, Isaiah saw a vision, and he was never the same after that day.

It’s good to remember. It’s good to go back and relive the days that changed our lives.
And it won’t be just one or two, but many days where even the finest details are forever etched into our minds. Sometimes it causes us great pain, and other times great joy. But nevertheless, they are defining moments.

It is why I celebrate Christmas and Easter;

It is why I remember the day of my Baptism;

It is why I recount the miracles of God that I have personally witnessed.

It is good to remember.

“Remember the former things of old; for I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like me…”
Isaiah 46:9