Mama Beehive

Music is a tool for ministry, at least for me. I am a music minister in a local church and have been for over thirty years. I also participate in music ministry that is an extension of the local church.

My extended ministry is through the Mississippi Singing Churchmen. This is a statewide men's choir whose membership consists of music ministers from across the state. It has been my privilege to be a part of this group for more than twenty-one years.

This organization meets periodically throughout the year to rehearse, sing, minister and fellowship. There are times in the course of rehearsals or concerts our group can be enveloped by a phenomena. It happens when very familiar selections are being sung. Our director makes us aware of it by announcing, “you guys are in auto pilot”.

I think for the most part my parents adored the “auto pilot switch”. Our family had some simple yet meaningful rituals. Some of these rituals were annual. Each October when the fair was in town, my father would take us. We would go on Tuesday afternoon as soon as we got home from school. Why? It was his day off and I think my mother despised the fair.

Like most, Christmas eve had its rituals. In the afternoon we would visit extended family on my mother’s side and would ride to look at Christmas decorations after dark. We would also spend MUCH ENERGY trying to go to sleep.

My father was much about ritual. He seldom varied from his wake-up time. He was usually up at 4am, drinking coffee and armed with HIS pertinent reading material. I’m not convinced my mother was as attached to this routine. but she was usually not far behind him in the activities that heralded the new day.

Sunday morning...Sunday mornings were a ritual unto themselves. We did attend church as children. Our parents did not attend with us until we were a little older. Church was an important part of the life of our family, but the focus of this memory is not church. It was the activities before church.

Pancakes...pancakes were an important part of Sunday mornings. Sunday morning breakfast might also include grits, scrambled  or poached eggs and bacon or sausage. Breakfast was a memorable Sunday morning ritual, but it isn’t what stands out the most. What stands out the most about Sunday morning? Music!!

Again, my father had some “very clear” rituals and Sunday morning music was one of them. I wonder to this day if we would remember how to chew and swallow our food if the Sunday morning music had not been playing.

I cannot recall an “established order”. There may not have been one. However, the same “players” were always present. Each Sunday morning we could count on the likes of Patsy Cline and Floyd Cramer to join us for breakfast.

We were in “auto pilot” as the Sunday morning music played. “We knew every part by heart”. We could find the key before the next song began to play on the old LPs. “In the misty moonlight, by the flickering firelight”, Jim Reeves would serenade each Sunday.

The television was also part of the Sunday morning music repertoire.. My father would turn on the television at the appointed time and we would hear:

Jubilee, Jubilee, you’re invited to this happy Jubilee

Jubilee, Jubilee, you’re invited to this happy Jubilee

Our Sunday morning was also filled with “The Florida Boys” and “The Blackwood Brothers”. However, this dimmed in comparison to the group we hoped would be on for the week....you guessed it...”The Happy Goodman Family”. We anticipated them the most because of their beloved matriarch, Sister Vestal Goodman.

Why her? Was it the music? It really was quit simple...her hair. My mother’s routine had her at the hairdresser two days a week. Saturday was “wash and set”. Tuesday was for a “tease”. The occasional “perm” always led to a residential exodus until the “perm odor” had subsided. My mother had “BIG HAIR”. My mother was no match in the hair department to “Mama Beehive”.

Certainly ours is not the only family to tag Sister Vestal Goodman as “Mama Beehive”. It is for us a moniker that recalls a picture of “large hair”. It is also a moniker that recalls a wealth of routine that is now a crystallized heritage.

"The Help"er

“Read the book, don’t wait for the movie”. Presently both can be experienced with “The Help”. The book and the movie are popular, especially in our “neck of the woods”. The book was set in the Greater Jackson area and the movie was filmed in the Mississippi delta community of Greenwood.

Set in the mid-twentieth century, “The Help” is a story of the racial and societal tensions and dynamics that have haunted the American landscape, particularly the deep south, for generations.

“The Help” is a story of what might be identified as a generation of secondary slavery. It is also a story of resiliency of the human spirit. It shows that the heart will seek to rise above adversity and oppression with which it is sometimes bridled.

My parents were not of substantial fiscal resources. My mother and father were both in the work force. However, my parents found it necessary provide child care and household support throughout my early childhood. Although memories are sparse, “The Help” in my family has given me images and experiences that are vivid in my mind’s eye.

Maggie “helped” my Mom and Dad. I have not thought to ask when Maggie started “helping” my family. She was present in my earliest memories. Memories of her remain into my early elementary years. She performed household duties such as cleaning and laundry. She also provided childcare. As the youngest of four children I was its most direct recipient

My memory of Maggie is immune to the drama and dynamics of adulthood. I know that her time with my family was not without some tension and conflict. However, she is now frozen in my “childhood eyes” and has coalesced into figure that remains above reproach. She remains as a mother figure to me.

In birth order and character I have served well as “the baby”. If memory serves me correctly Maggie regularly referred to me in some derivative as “the baby”. Growing up being “the baby” was not cherished. My life is now at mid-point and I wear the moniker “the baby” as a badge of honor.

Maggie, whether knowingly or unknowingly,  served as an integral part of my defense strategy in my sometimes misguided role as a “sibling terrorist”. Younger siblings sometime employ covert and subversive actions to counteract the regime of oppression that the “cast system of birth order” brings.

I waged guerrilla warfare on my siblings. My siblings were older and bigger so I took it upon myself to address this environmental discrepancy by provoking them to adverse and counter-productive responses. I’d “drive them to the brink of their endurance”. (see “Brink Driving”)

When they would get to their “brink”, my siblings would retaliate. I would then retreat to “The Help”, fall behind the defensive line of her behind, and watch as she would defend the injustice of the “bigger-older” attack on the “younger-smaller” innocence. At the time it felt wonderful.

I am still amazed at my stubborn short-sightedness and even rank stupidity. Maggie was not always present. I could not always retreat behind the “behind”. I paid and sometimes I paid dearly. You know...it taken years for me to realize my siblings were not necessarily mean, I was however necessarily obnoxious.

I have novel memories of “The Help”. Maggie was not to be disturbed when she watched her “soaps”. She regularly needed a “BC Powder” and I was sent to fetch one from the store on the other side of our block. Yes..I would go as a young child...by myself...around the corner...out of sight... to the store to purchase Maggie a “BC Powder” and “pop”.

I recall how Maggie would iron clothes with starch. She would mix the starch in a 12oz Coke bottle. It had a top that could be inserted and the top would sprinkle the starch water on the clothes for proper ironing. I recall her need to “warm” during the cold months. She would back up to the spot heater in our living room, hike her skirt just a bit, and warm herself.

I still feel the security. I now realize her security was fragile. Truth be known, she was probably as scared of life as me. Yet, for me, I was sheltered. I had physical and emotional shelter provided by loving parents. Part of their provision for their “baby” was “The Help”.

Birthday Ball

Happy 50th Birthday to the Wiffle Ball. Seems that when we played on the streets and yards of South Side we might have pronounced it "Wuffle Ball". Whatever the name, like most neighborhood kids, if we could swing a bat at it we would. FYI....cracked Wiffle Balls are afforded a few more miles when repaired with your father's electrical tape.

Don't Blink

The crossing of a milestone brings a pause; a time of introspection and self-evaluation. Milestones can cause an individual to recognize they “are walking where they’ve never walked before”.

Birthdays, graduations, weddings, births and funerals are some of the milestones. Employment related experiences such as a new job or significant promotion might be included in this list. New love and relational experiences are sometimes in the census. The circumstances that bring the milestones can be numerous; the contemplative “pause” is the common thread.

When an individual comes to such a “pause”, he or she might speak about it. After all it is usually a significant life event. When spoken, it is almost inevitable the individual encounters a well-meaning “chronologically advanced” person who will claim the right to sober the moment.

These well meaning “wise guys” (in this case "guys" is not gender specific) say such things as “oh, you’re just a ‘spring chicken’” or “I’m old enough to be your parent” or “you haven’t seen anything yet”. They might add encouragement by quickly letting it be know that your experience “pales” in comparison to their own.

This thought has come full circle for me. Over recent years my wife and I have experienced a significant life event...GRADUATION. Our children have graduated high school and are now approaching completion of their college and graduate experiences. However, this is not the graduation to which I refer.

My wife and I are now graduated to the class of “empty nesters”. It is a unique class. It’s a pretty good class actually. It has caused us both to “pause” as we realize that we “walk where we’ve never walked before”.

It has been a healthy adjustment. We’ve manged to not “helicopter” our children. We do enjoy the opportunity to occasionally visit with them. As college students, they seem to enjoy such visits because it usually comes with free food. They don’t seem to mind the occasional company either but we recognize they don’t want too much of a good thing.

Our “empty nest pause” has brought me to a sobering awareness. I acknowledge my recent awareness with this disclaimer: “I now renege on my promise that I would NEVER repeat one particular “wise guy-ism” that I heard way to much in the early years of raising our children”. I’ll attempt to explain the statement.

I refer to the time our children were in diapers. The early years of raising children hold a rigor all their own. There is no physical boredom and the need to be mentally engaged in the process holds no vacation.

As I recall this time the mantra of parents, mentors and other well-meaning “wise guys” begins to echo n my ears. “Don’t blink”. “Don’t blink”, they would say... “Don’t blink, they’ll be grown before you know it”.

Yeah...right....in the midst of all this non-boredom....blink....who has time to blink. If I blink another crisis will have time to “sneak up”.

I recall the cataclysmic incidents like the time I was called to “quickly find an industrial carpet cleaner before the gallon of paint that was just spilled has time to dry and stain”. I weep at the thoughts of the countless times that potty-training children can find bizarre places to create new potty-training facilities, especially sleepy potty-training children.

When children are small there is no doubt the days are long. Day after day there is an ever present need and call for attention. Yes, there are days of respite and the occasional break. Even then the thought of the parent seems to remain on the child.

That brings me back to my renege. I have said and will say again....”Don’t blink, don’t blink, they’ll be grown before you know it”. I say this now even at the risk of “causing an increase of pressure” in a young parent.

I do so because of a statement I heard that must be added to this mantra. The statement I now add says “always remember, when it comes to raising children....the days are long....but the years are so very short”.

Good Grief?

The movie “Twister” is a quasi-sci-fi-action-adventure movie of the 1980’s starring Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton. I often watch “at movies” years after their release. I view them in bits and pieces as they are shown for a season on channels like TBS or FX. This is the scenario I recall seeing the final action scene of “Twister”.

I’ll issue a “spoiler” alert. I’m going to speak to the final scene of this movie. If you have plans to watch it you may want to turn away from my short narrative.

The culminating scene of “Twister” has the two main characters, an estranged husband and wife storm chasing duo, taking their last chance to “fly” a homemade data gathering weather instrument into the mother of all tornadoes. Since this was the final action scene they succeeded.

Understandably the climate-curious duo is not going to win and walk. On cue the tornado literally turns and chases them. As if angered, the tornado grows larger and more menacing. The hero pair do everything they can to save themselves. As the monster closes in, the pair grab heavy canvas strapping and tether themselves to the head of a deeply drilled water well.

In fine action-escapist form, the exact moment they are secure, they are consumed by the monster tornado. Instead of being “sucked up” into the tornado to meet their demise, they begin to float. They levitate in the core of the beastly storm all while tethered to their secure grounding.

I’ll not trace the plot, but for Helen Hunt’s character this deadly experience becomes a momentous occasion. She looks down the throat of her lifelong nemeses and admires the wonder of it, if only for a moment..

This scene has these two characters in the most violent, destructive and deadly situation they could possibly find themselves. Yet they are able to find a reverent, respectful awe and wonder for that which would surely kill them.

I have several books on the subject of grief. In reading about and talking with others about grief I have arrived at a couple of absolutes. Absolute is a strong word and it becomes stronger when it is attached to grief. If I am claiming certainties I guess I better be certain, right?

What is certain about grief? First of all, grief is certain. The death of those we love is not the only thing that pushes us into a journey through grief. Death is likely the most profound cause of grief but it is not the only culprit. Significant losses of any kind cause grief and no one is immune from loss. Therefore, grief is certain and certain for all.

What is the second certainty? It would be that no two people journey through grief on the same exact path. Grief seems to be as unique as the individual who is grieving. There are identifiable similarities on individual journeys, but there is no standardized grief. Individuals are not required to experience each similarity. It is certain that grief is an individual journey.

In these short paragraphs I have spoken to two diverse and unattached subjects. What might “tie” the two together? The writings of C.S. Lewis might be a place to consider. If you are unfamiliar with C.S. Lewis his work would be highly recommended. He was a brilliant person. Moreover, he was strong in Christian faith. His ethics an theology are deep and profound.

C.S. Lewis married late in life. After only a few short years of marriage his wife contracted an illness and subsequently died. In the weeks and months following her death C.S. Lewis kept a journal of his journey through grief. “A Grief Observed” is an account of his journey.

In “A Grief Observed” Lewis bares his heart and shares the raw emotions that accompanied his grief. The struggle with his faith escalated to the point of crisis. He was a believer living through the tumultuous winds of loss and grief.

Like the characters in “Twister” C.S. Lewis was pursued by a storm that might subsequently destroy him. Yet, like the characters in the movie, he was grounded by being attached to strength and security.

Faith in Jesus Christ did not deflect the storm that turned and pursued C.S. Lewis. In the midst of the storm he was not immune to the ravages and dangers inherent in the storm. He was tossed and “flown” by the violent event that surrounded him. His emotions responded to the destruction. Yet, as C.S. Lewis was “bound to Christ eternally by loves strong cord” he was able to stare down the throat of destruction and find a reverence in its passage.

Oh...may I learn to live DAILY in the assurance of the flawless, never failing bonds of Christ.

Till the storm passes over

Till the thunder sounds no more

Till the clouds roll forever from the sky

Hold me fast, let me stand

In the hollow of Thy hand

Keep me safe till the storm passes by

One Word...

PACHINKO......

Summer Camp

During my “growing up years” my family camped. Ooooohhhhh the memories. We camped by lakes and rivers. We camped in the heat and humidity. We camped in endless rain and even in tornadoes. We were intrepid.

Once we were camping at Okatibbee Reservoir north of my hometown of Meridian, MS. One late night our camping neighbors had enough time to properly ferment themselves in the grain beverage of their choice. Thus began the memory.

On this night a couple of the fermented neighbors ventured into the water for a late night swim. The water and the grain beverage mixed and caused a chemical reaction. It caused them both to turn into Jerry Clower.

The Jerry Clowers thrashed about in the water. One would bellow “knock ‘em out John”. The other would respond “awwwwww, shoot this thang”. They would both slur “shoot up here amongst us, one of us has got to have some relief”. It seemed to them to be just as funny the 214th time as it was the first. It was surreal.

I also remember being led to that most sacred of childhood deceptions.....SNIPE HUNTING. Yes, I was taken Snipe Hunting. I was lead by my “deceptors”, paper sack in hand, down the dark wooded trail to the place where I would be assured to capture that elusive creature.

I had convinced myself it was authentic because I had looked up the word Snipe in the dictionary. My “deceptors” had described the Snipe to a tee. I then discovered Websters definition matched their description and I was all over it. It was all the authentication this young woodsman needed.

I devotedly planted myself along the path facing the edge of the woods, knelt on the ground with paper sack open in front of me and began the mating call...”bbbbwwwwwwuuuuuuurrrrrrrpppppp” ”bbbbwwwwwwuuuuuuurrrrrrrpppppp” ”bbbbwwwwwwuuuuuuurrrrrrrpppppp” ”bbbbwwwwwwuuuuuuurrrrrrrpppppp”. I ultimately returned to camp.

I share the Snipe Hunting story to help others. If you are ever asked, be leery of this unlikely activity....