Toilet Paper Panic

Toilet tissue is in the news again. Not long ago there was a panic due to the shortage of toilet tissue during COVID. I always find it amusing when people panic about toilet tissue. It amazes me how the human race existed for centuries without toilet tissue.

This morning there was an article about the devastation of forests to make toilet tissue. In Alabama there are several papermills. One where I served as Director of Missions made toilet paper. It employed over a thousand workers.

 Harvesting timber is big business in Alabama. Paper products are one of the many products from wood. Papermills are adjacent to rivers due to the high volume of water used to produce paper. The article this morning stated that it takes thirty-seven gallons of water for one roll of toilet paper.

Could you imagine the amount of toilet paper that the Hebrews would have used wandering in the wilderness for forty years. An estimated 1.5 million folks would have used a lot of paper. The logistics of managing the waste is mind boggling alone. The Israelites we very sanitary even without toilet tissue.

I guess most modern Americans are pampered. Growing up in the poverty of Alabama we had an outside toilet behind the house hidden in some plum trees. It was a two-seater. I never understood two holes in the toilet (outhouse).

One of my special memories is a two-seater outhouse at my Aunt Annie’s house. Mom and I were in the outhouse together. I was six years old. There was no roof and as we shared the moment we watched an airplane flying high over us. I asked, “Momma can they see us?” She said, “No son they are two high.” It was bad enough being in there with momma let alone being watched by fancy folks high in the sky. Using the toilet is “of a private nature” if you know what I mean.

The cement plant had open toilet stalls. It difficult to do “one’s business” with coworkers carrying on a discussion. Most of the time the urge to purge was wiped away. It was one thing to have open showers but the need to be more discrete when sitting on the toilet.

Our toilet paper was a Sears catalog for special guests and old newspapers for most everyone else. Catalogs and newspapers provided occupants with reading materials. Sears and Spiegle became wish books for Christmas gifts. Amidst the panic and shortage, we in the country didn’t worry. As fellow Alabamian Hank Williams Jr. sang, “A country boy can survive.”

There are always options for cleaning materials. When hunting, leaves are the good. Those that are a little damp are better than those that are dry. Knowledge of leaves, especially when green, is a must. Poison oak or ivy can cause problems.

 Granny Hopper’s outhouse had two bins for corn cobs. One contained white cobs and the other red ones. For those that may be unfamiliar with the two colors, red is used first and white used second to ensure cleanliness. Back then there were no warning attached. One had to use discretion when using it, especially if there were rawness or hemorrhoids.

Once we installed an inside toilet we had to use the store-bought toilet tissue. Some country folks thought it unsanitary to have the toilet inside. I have always wanted to build a bricked toilet outside and have a half-moon on the door just to be nostalgist. Oh yeah, I would put a bidet in it.

I do not know what the Hebrews used for the paperwork “doing their business” or cleaning up the blood and carcasses of sacrifices when the wandered in the Wilderness but they practiced cleanliness.

Thou shalt have a place outside the camp, and you shalt go out to it. And thou shalt have a paddle upon thy weapon; when thou wilt ease thyself abroad, thou shalt dig therewith, and shalt turn back and cover that which cometh from thee: Deuteronomy 23:12-13 KJV

Do not fret pampered people. Do not make a run on toilet tissue and create a shortage.

 

Black-eyed Peas, Collard Greens and Cornbread

Black-eyed peas, collard greens, cornbread, hawg jowl, and hawg tail sounds like granny’s menu for Uncle Jed, Jethro, and Ellie Mae on The Beverly Hillbillies. In reality is was the smell of New Year’s Day dinner by the Hopper family. It is a family tradition of the South. Grannie Hopper and Grandmoe Chapman were connoisseurs of Southern cuisine.

The black-eyed peas ensured that families would have plenty of coins. Collards meant folding money and cornbread meant gold. Some folks call it “Soul Food.” Well, as a history major it is “Poor Irish Food.” In Alabama, home to many Scot-Isish immigrants, Native Americans (Indians) taught Scot Irish how to cook indigenous vegetation such as cornbread and greens. Greens could be dandelions, pokeweed, or wild lettuce.

My University of Montevallo history professor read an early journal written by Irish that settled in Alabama. The journal described a family meal. When he read it most students said it sounded like soul food. Dr. Fuller said it was Irish. Africans were hunter-gathers, and the Indians taught the Irish which taught the Blacks how cook. Bottom line it is the poor people’s meal. Poor is not a respecter of color.

Granny Hopper was a sharecropping widow raising nine children during the Great Depression. Daddy said that when they killed a “hawg” they only thing they threw away was the squeal. They ate all the meat, used the hair for mattress stuffing, and bones for fertilizer. I have helped Granny “sling” the guts (chitterlings) when we killed hogs.

Grandmoe Chapman was faithful to cook black eyed peas, turnip greens, and cornbread. During the Great Depression, mamma said Grandmoe cooked racoon and opossum. It was special when the had hawg jowl to flavor the peas and greens. Grandmoe’s specialty was hawg head cheese. When we killed hogs, she wanted the hog’s head to make it. I never ate it on New Year’s Day or any other time. I didn’t eat chitterlings either.

Yankees had black-eyed peas to feed livestock. Southern soldiers cooked them to survive. Peas eaten with Johnnie or hoecake (cornbread) was a staple during the War of Northern Aggression. After the War of Northern Aggression, poverty-stricken Southerners ate the peas, greens, and cornbread as a sigh of resilience and hope.

After decades of eating black-eyed peas, I never saw many coins even though daddy received “pennies” from unemployment several Christmas’s and New Years. Collars, turnip greens, and mustard were delicious with homemade pepper sauce and pone crackling cornbread, but we never saw much folding money and no gold. We always had hope.

As 2025 draws to a close, let us have hope and share it. God blesses the United States, and we take if for granted. We waste so much in a world that needs so much. Lisa will prepare black-eyed peas, turnip greens, and cornbread laced with bacon grease for New’s Year Day. I’d rather grill some hawg. My reasoning is that pigs eat peas, turnip greens, and cornbread and by me eating pig I will have them converted into chops, ribs, or tenderloin.

For ye have the poor with you always, and whensoever ye will ye may do them good: but me ye have not always. Mark 14:7 KJV

“Give Thanks” is one of my favorite songs. It has the line which says, “let the weak say, “I am strong” Let the poor say, “I am rich” rooted Joel 3:10 KJV

 “Let the poor say I am rich” shows the importance of gratitude and perspective. It reminds that true wealth is not just measured by material possessions but by our relationship with God and our attitude towards life.

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Jeremiah 29:11 KJV

As 2025 shifts to 2026 and we make all the adjustments for a new beginning hope and resilience will help us face the uncertainties of life. With Jesus we have new beginnings, hope, and help.

Happy New Year tell a friend if you enjoy the blog.

                                                                

 

 

My Goal to be the Best

 The first organized sport was Little League baseball for Mars Hill in rural Chilton County Alabama. I played catcher for one year. A couple three years later I played Babe Ruth baseball. My dad loved baseball, but I found out in was not for me.

I tried basketball as a high school freshman. We were in a league of ninth graders that were too tall for the seventh and eighth grade and too immature for high school. We had a great season losing one game that season.

I went out for football in the seventh grade and loved it. Unfortunately, it left me too injured to play basketball. My family was poor, and I could only play one sport. I chose football. I can testify that in all three organized events I watched the first game of each from the sideline. I did watch Mars Hill’s semi-pro baseball games but that was it.

My first football banquet was a unique experience. It was a big night for Jemison High School football. We for runner-up state champions in Alabama 4-A high school football. I rode the banquet with my cousins and met my date there. Mom got her a corsage, and I gave it to her. She came with her parents and brothers.

The meal was delicious. My favorite dish was the apple cobbler with ice cream top. It was the first time I had ever had what I learned was pie-a-mode. I had never been to extravagant event in my life.

After the meal they presented everyone on the team with a certificate of participation. Those that played received a letter “J” for Jemison that could be sewn on a sweater or jacket. I had played a total of three plays all year, but I was a practice team dummy. I was ignorant about such happenings and awards.

Several trophies were given that night. I made up my mind that I was going to win a trophy. Two years later my junior year the team awarded me with the “Best Defensive Player” trophy. My senior year they honored me with “Most Valuable Defensive Player” trophy.

By the time my daughter was playing volleyball awards were inclusive. When I attended me sports banquet, every player received a trophy and there were no accolades for the top player or players.

My daughter's freshman year while in State Volleyball Tournament, judges had my daughter in first place to win a trophy. Aware that My daughter was in the running for one of the tournament trophies, her coach pulled her from the game. Judges scratched her from the ballet. Her coach told my daughter that she did not want her to have an award.

A year or two later my daughter played in a regional tournament receiving an award. One again her coach was everyone gets the same reward, no special awards. The sponsoring regional tournament coach sent my daughter trophy to Jemison High School, and the principal awarded my daughter in front of the whole school.

I thought such shenanigans were wrong back then. I knew from ninth grade civics class that socialism and atheist communism wanted everyone to receive the same wages regardless of the expertise of the worker. Fast forward to the last few years and inclusion, quotas, mandates, and political correctness want everyone to get the same award. The end result is mediocrity.

My brother took his crew to dinner one day. Most of his crew were younger workers. They were in favor of socialism in the United States. Not seeing anything wrong, my brother used the tip for the waitress as an example.

They had agreed that their waitress did an exemplary job. My brother asked them if it was fair to give the tip the restaurant to disperse it equally among the waiters and waitresses.
They all said no that it belonged to the waitress that served them. He told his employees that is the difference between socialism and awarding a job well done.

Know ye not that they which run in a race run all, but one receiveth the prize? So run, that ye may obtain. And every man that striveth for the mastery is temperate in all things. Now they do it to obtain a corruptible crown; but we an incorruptible. I therefore so run, not as uncertainly; so fight I, not as one that beateth the air: But I keep under my body, and bring it into subjection: lest that by any means, when I have preached to others, I myself should be a castaway. I Corinthians 9:24-27 KJV

It Happened One Christmas

Traditions characterize Christmas. One year the Moxley family decided to grill steaks. It was a rainy afternoon as Mr. Moxley and I started an open pit fire. Mr. Moxley had filled the pit with hickory kindling.

I held an umbrella over us as he soaked the wet kindling with charcoal lighter fluid. It took a while, but we finally grilled the ribeye steaks. They sure made a great meal for
Christmas.

One Christmas momma cooked a special breakfast and invited my brother’s girlfriend’s family. His girlfriend’s dad was a pastor that rode songs. Country music artist Charley Pride recorded one. He and momma played guitars and we had a Christmas sing-a-long.

It was the first Christmas for my eldest son Andy. Being the first grandson, he received an abundance of gifts. His greatest joy was a large box that we used for the waste gift paper from the gifts. I put Andy over in the box and he was one happy boy playing in the paper. It was a wonder feeling seeing him enjoy the paper.

Another Christmas I made my daughter Angel a cradle for her baby doll. I had fun building and Angel was my helper. I told her that Santa wanted me to build it for a special little girl. He helped me and said she would like one too. I will never forget the joy on her face as she found her baby doll in the cradle under the tree that Christmas morning. I smile each time I remember seeing her in the cradle.

The Christmas morning that daddy found a “rabbit eared” twenty gauge shotgun under the tree was fun. He had wanted one for years. Momma found an electric guitar under the same tree. My sister Diane found a beauty salon hairdryer. My brother David found a cassette player and brother Glenn found him a guitar. I thanked God that I was able to make it a memorable Christmas.

For my first Christmas with my wife Lisa I had purchased an electric console fireplace. Part of the joy was watching her assembly it. She loves to assemble things. She loves to watch the fake burning logs especially during the Christmas holidays. She says that there is something romantic about a fireplace.

Another tradition for the Hopper family is Christmas sad. Dad usually experienced layoff. We called dad Scrooge because he did not like Christmas. Things from Christmas past tarnished the bright glow that the season brought. He said that Christmas was about Jesus and not all the hoopla that promoted buy, buy, buy.

Momma was a trooper at Christmas. She decorated a cedar tree like it was a Madison Avenue Douglas fir. She would buy Christmas on credit and spend the whole new year paying off the debt. The aroma of cooking a gigantic Christmas meal filled the air as did her singing.

Christmas sadness filled the air when layoff Scrooge collided with good housekeeping Belle. In the Hopper Christmas Carol, Scrooge and Belle married. There would many Christmas’s present where there were no presents. Dad would be Bob Cratchit at times, and the world of the Hopper family would be at peace.

Unfortunately, something would happen and the Grinch would tear up a washing machine, blow out a tire, burn out a dyer, break a washing machine belt. Grinch got one of my tires just the other day.

My heart goes out for the unfortunates of Christmas. Madison Avenue has created something that suffocates the real spirit of Christmas. I remember one time on the streets of Clanton, Alabama, a couple fighting over Christmas. They had run out of money. Their children were crying, people were staring, and my heart was breaking.

I thought about the times when our stocking were empty. Though empty when Christmas morning arrived our house celebrated love. Dad could not help his layoff and things tear up, but mom’s never give up attitude helped to make the season merry and bright. Because in the end is about Jesus/Love.

 

And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men. Luke 2:12-14

Cherry Jubilee

I do not remember the first time I ate cherries, but I have always loved them. When we lived in Beloit, Illinois, we had a cherry tree in our back yard. I remember mama baking cherry pie for me every day. She worried that cherry pie was my stable meal after school each day. French fries on the side made it a complete meal.

I love cherries on top of whip cream on top of ice cream. I love cherries straight out of the bottle. I love dried cherries and fresh cherries. I love cherries baked in cookies and cherry jell inside tarts. Pear salad is not complete without cherries. Chocolate covered cherries make parties, get-to-gathers, and weddings divine.

I once received a box of Queen Ann chocolate covered cherries as a school Christmas gift. It was from a poor girl whose family could not afford the required gift. Momma wanted to know what I received. When I told her that I got a box of cherries, she was furious. I enjoyed them and to this very day when I see a box of Queen Anne cherries I think of that fourth grade Christmas party.

I love cherry Coke. Not that stuff with fake cherry favoring, but the ones from the soda fountain made with crushed cherries. It is the same for cherry shakes, malts, or floats. That long-stem cherry on top of a banana split is haven’s treat.

There are many kinds of cherries. There are Bing, Black, Maraschino, Montmorency, Morello, and Queen Anne. When we moved back to Alabama, we had a Black Cherry tree in the back yard. The cherries were tiny and bitter unlike those in Illinois. I learned to hate that tree because it was momma’s switch tree used to whip us.

My favorite cherry is not a fruit but a friend I met while pastor of the Gallion Baptist Church in Gallion, Alabama. He was the father of a church member. His name was Robert Milton Cherry. Everyone called him Milton. The son of a preacher, Milton was one of the Godliest men I have ever known. From 2000 to 2025, I considered him an older brother and spiritual mentor. My son Aaron called him Pawpaw. Milton’s grandson was Aaron’s good friend.

Milton was one of the charter members and deacon of the Fairhaven Baptist Church in Demopolis, Alabama. He was a retired maintenance man from the Rock Tenn Paper Mill in Demopolis, former mayor of Linden, Alabama, volunteer with Campers on Mission, and aera coordinator for Alabama Baptist Disaster Relief and the Bethel Baptist Association.

Milton and I spent many hours ministering together on disaster relief deployments. All deployments were what is termed “Ministry of Inconvenience.” Milton and I were deployed to Miller, Missouri February snowstorm disaster. GPS was new to us and found it vital when deployed to disasters. We were to stay at a Baptist Retreat.

 As were neared the facility, the GPS lady directed us from a major highway to a narrow land road between a pastor. Milton and I stared at one another. The narrow road got smaller and in the missile of nowhere the GPS lady said, “You have arrived at your destination.”

It was dark and snowing. On our left was a shed and one our right a pasture enclosed with barbed wire. We studied our dilemma and thought we must be staying with cows for the trip. I told Milton that I thought I saw a sign a few feet behind us. It was dark and the sign was worn but it was the Baptist Retreat sign.

Miraculously, Milton turned our disaster relief trailer around and we went up the pasture road to find a beautiful retreat center. Ms. GPS brought us back way. Situated on a snow-covered hill, we enjoyed our stay and our work in the fourteen-degree snow. We were not in Alabama anymore.

We were deployed again in December to another Missouri snowstorm with our destination unknown. We were to rendezvous with another Alabama disaster relief team from north Alabama. Our final destination was St. Joe, Missouri which had an abundance of snow.

This deployment a church hosted us. I had fun making Milton laugh by making snow angels. Milton and the crew make fun of me. As Chaplain for the team I ate cookies and sipped hot chocolate as the team worked in the snow. One lady gave me cookies, and I asked her to give them to the team. It did not help my cause.

One morning in the church life center Milton put his arm around me and told me how much he appreciated me. I thought it special. I noticed that I received many smiles that morning before breakfast one the men from north Alabama whispered to me, “Your friends have pulled a trick on you. You have a sign on your back that reads, ‘Will work for food.’” I could always count on Milton to make my day.

I retired and moved back to Jemison, Alabama. I missed Milton coming by the office. One day I went to Demopolis to spend some time with Milton. His health was quickly fading. We shared a few special moments.

At his funeral I shared with his pastor about the “Will work for food” sign. He shared it in Milton’s eulogy. It is good to share special moments with friends and smile when remembering.

A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity Proverbs 17:17 KJV

Thanks, Milton, for helping me in the hard moments of my being and loving my articles. This one is for you.

 

 

Controlled Chaos

I watched a coil of wire as the strap that held it in place snapped. The wire looked like a giant toy Slinkey moving as the wire slowly to uncoil until the whole coil created another pile. I do not know what started the coil moving unless it was the sun heating the steel.

While working as a rural United States Post Officer substitute mail carrier, I was on my maiden voyage when the rubber band holding a cluster of slick magazines broke sending the large bundle all over my mail vehicle. The unique characteristic of rubber bands is they only work when under pressure. I suppose that the bundle of magazines created more pressure than the rubber band could hold.

There was time I was repairing a starter for my John Deere riding lawn mower. I removed a screw that released four springs and ball-bearings hurling them out the garage door and into infinity and beyond. I retrieved all but one spring that remains traveling somewhere out there in space.

Pull cords on small engines recoil due to a spring connected to a pulley. A couple of things can create uncontrolled chaos. One, if the cord breaks, the remaining cord will suddenly disappear into the mower and the recoil spring will unwind. A second thing is the recoil spring can break or disconnect. As the spring unravels, the pull cord will not recoil, or it can become knotted inside the mower.

There are thousands of ways to hold things together. There are all kinds of clips that hold stuff together. There are magnets that hold all those precious grandchildren’s pictures on the refrigerator. One of the greatest inventions is the zip tie. The possibilities are unlimited.

Another priceless invention for holding things together is glue. You have Elmer’s glue, gorilla glue, superglue, flex glue, JB weld, Tite-bond, and Tester’s plastic cement to name a few.

My first experience with glue happened in Beloit, Illinois at kindergarten. We used water and flour to make some paste to hold colored cutouts on paper. We graduated into Elmer’s glue, and it was an item students must have for school.

I was introduced to “airplane” glue after I received an AMT model car as a school Christmas gift. Back in the 1960’s, the Tester’s model car/airplane glue actually glue the parts together. The bonus was it had this wonderful smell. Remember it was the sixties and hippies enjoyed the smell so much that the changed the chemical makeup of the glue making model car assembly difficult. It did not set up as quickly as before and that wonderful smell was gone too.

When I graduated high school, I started work at Keystone Metal Molding in Clanton, Alabama. Keystone fabricated molding for automobiles. I worked in the boxing department making boxes for shipping the parts.

One of the pieces of trim had vinyl glued to it. It was a new glue which became known as “Superglue.” I was young, naïve, and trusting. A co-worker said, “Hopper, give me your pointer finger.” Knowing what I know now, I should have given him my middle finger!

I held out my pointer finger, and he placed a small drop of a clear substance on it. He said, “Hold your thumb on the finger for a little bit.” Like a dumb country redneck, I did. For the next hour I tried to unglue my finger. I used mineral spirits, acetone, and other solvents. I worked it almost loose, but one tiny place held my fingers together. I finally took my pocketknife and cut my fingers loose.

I keep Super glue handy. My wife has me repairing all manners of stuff that gets broken. Since she is decorating for Christmas, I have reattached a “naughty/nice” roll in Santa’s hand back to his arm, attached the head of Wise back to his body, and attached a redbird to a figurine.

Walking down the hall, a nightlight Santa with springy legs and head stuck his nose in the laundry hamper. He was the headless Santa. It took some “redneck ingenuity.” Using a cotton Q-tip, I super glued the cotton tip to Santa’s body sliding the spring over the stem of the Q-tip.

I love working with wood. Tite-bond is my favorite glue for turning scrap wood into beautiful things. When properly prepped, a glued joint is stronger than the wood. I tried it and it worked.

The Apostle Paul reminds believers that Jesus is the glue that holds everything together. All of creation as vast as it is, is held in place by God. Scientist have discovered in the human body there is a cell adhesion molecule called Laminin. Ironically, it looks like a cross.

For by him were all things created, that are in heaven, and that are in earth, visible and invisible, whether they be thrones, or dominions, or principalities, or powers: all things were created by him, and for him: And he is before all things, and by him all things consist. Colossians 1:16-17 KJV

Over My Head

If you are like me, sometimes things are over my head I remember a colleague calling me about some theological question. I was clueless when he asked me what I thought. I sat for a moment trying to figure out the theological term. Not wanting him to think I was ignorant I asked, “What do you think about it?”

As he told his position on this theological query, I finally understood what theological principle and knew it by a simpler terminology. We conversed for several minutes, and he thanked me for my input. He never realized that he had bumfuzzled me.

I must confess. I have pulled this insane method on many occasions. Years ago before I became a minister, my home church was discussing Communion. I had no clue what Communion was, so I listened trying to decipher what the heck was Communion. My feeble mind thought about the Hippie movement and their communes. Then I thought that it must be something about the community.

Finally, there was talk about break and wine or for Baptist, grape juice. Then something was said about white tablecloths, the table in front of the pulpit, and deacons wearing suits. Walaa, the light bulb in my mind came on. They were talking about the Lord’s Supper. I often wondered why the table in front of the pulpit had engraved, “Do This In Remembrance of me.”

I have had the great honor and privilege of serving on committees and boards. Most of the time discussions were over my head. I lived by the Redneck rule: Be silent and listen and let people think you are stupid and speak to prove you are. The wise person remains silent.

People thought I was intelligent, but they just don’t know. I am smart enough to be quiet until the conversation turns to something I understand before I comment. I have been in conversations with University presidents, Alabama governors, members of congress, and many other venues.

People have told me that I am shallow. That is why I try to stay in shallow water. Last year Lisa and I went mullet fishing in the Lagoon in Gulf Shores, Alabama. The water is shallow and since Lisa cannot swim it made it challenging walking in the Lagoon and casting the net.

I held her hand and consoled her the entire time. We caught more sting rays than mullet, but we Had a great time and grilled some good mullet without getting in over our heads. That was until the second trip out. Lisa did not go. A second time I waded into the Lagoon and occasionally step in a hole submerging me. I went in over my head a couple of times but was able to stand up out of the water. I was glad Lisa was on dry land.

Rather than wading back to the cabin, I rode back in a boat. When we arrived back to the pier, I slid from the bow into the water. I was in way over my head. I can swim but having replaced both knees with titanium makes swimming difficult. As you can tell, I made it.

Like many reading this article, I have been over my head with debts, discussions, and decisions. Some of my decisions have put me in over my head and I needed to repent and change my life. By God’s grace I have survived being over my head.

As was Ezra in the Old Testament I had to realize that I am in over my head and seek God’s forgiveness and mercy.

 And said, O my God, I am ashamed and blush to lift up my face to thee, my God: for our iniquities are increased over our head, and our trespass is grown up unto the heavens. Ezra 9:6 KJV

I know that eventually I will be in over my head again. God knows I will too.

Are You Getting Smart With Me

Thirty-five years ago, I bought a 1986 Firebird Trans Am for my oldest son Andy. He was fifteen at the time and I would not let him drive it until he got a permit. It belonged to a friend’s daughter, and she offered to sell it to me at a wonderful price. She knew that Andy and his sister Angel loved the car.

I told my friend that I could not afford the car, but she had lowered the price for me against her brother’s advice. He was a car salesman. I told he that could possibly buy it but could not afford the insurance for it. I finally caved in and bought it and own it to this day.

The 86 Trans Am was not a hotrod, but it was a sports car of the eighties. Gas shortages and government control had unmuscled the muscle car. It was white with red pinstriping, T-tops, grey and red interior, aluminum alloy mags wheels, and pop-up headlights.

It was fun to drive. Andy was not a hotrodder. When the Honda Accord “grocery getters” became popular, he called the Trans Am a piece of junk. He eventually got him a “grocery getter.” I kept the Trans Am stored in my shed from 2000 until 2016. I would drive it when I would spend the weekends on the Sugar Ridge Farm. I was serving two hours south in Linden, Alabama.

I had replaced the motor and after several years had it rebuilt. It used so much oil that I did not have to change oil, but only a filter. Oil blew from the exhaust onto the rear bumper. My friend and mechanic friend Mack Tucker rebuilt it for me. It took him six years.

After the rebuild I asked my wife Lisa, who I married in 2018 if she wanted a Trans Am. I told her that it was rough. When we drove to Linden, Alabama to retrieve it, she fell in love with it and said it was beautiful. He loves to drive it with the T-tops out making it almost a convertible. Cool, stary nights are her favorite times to take a ride. I drive while she watches the stars.

One night while taking one of our romantic drives, we went to McDonalds for a burger and coke. The young man at the drive-thru window asked me, “Did you take the top out of the car?” He was young, pre-T-top days young.

I said, “I sure did.” He wanted to know how, and I took a few minutes to tell him about the removal T-tops. He thought it was the coolest thing. We get comments all the time about Trans Am. What Andy called “junk” is now a classic ride.

One night Lisa was driving, and I was enjoying the beautiful night lights until suddenly blue lights started flashing. A quarter mile from home, Chilton County’s finest County Police pulled us over. Granted the Trans Am is a police magnet because it looks fast. Thinking they had two hot, partying teenagers on a wild ride they stopped us.

I sure what they found embarrassed them. Two old grey-haired adults puddling home. They asked for driver’s license, registration, and insurance info. Then they asked, “Where you headed” while shining flashlights into the car.

We told them just over the hill less than a quarter mile. The problem was ALFA insurance had failed on several occasions to change the address from Maplesville, Alabama to Jemison, Alabama after we married and moved. They thought we were lying; perhaps they thought we took the car from the teenagers. Finally, after several other comments, they said we pulled you over for driving with only one headlight. I said the headlight must have a bad connection. I started out of the car to the surprise of the officer on my side. He witnesses just how difficult it is for an old man with titanium knees to exit a Trans Am. I bumped the headlight, and it came on. They let us go.

Most of the time when I am pulled over by the police they first thing they ask is where are you going. Now, when I answer I do not know if it is my looks or tone of my voice they ask, “Are getting smart with me?”

The two that pulled Lisa and me over, did not ask me that the of one-eyed Trans Am but I sure they thought my answers were smart-alecky. We answered as sincerely and honestly as we could.

One time I thanked an officer who pulled me over for speeding. He thought I was smart with him when I thanked him for stopping me and reminding me to slow down. And I thanked him because I knew that officers never know what or whom they are confronting. They have a thankless vocation. What makes all this funny was I was a Chaplain for the Linden Police Department until I retired in 2018.

Next time I get pulled over and they ask are you getting smart with me I am going to reply, “No officer I don’t know if I can get down on your level.” Now that would be smart-alecky.

Some words of Jesus may be construed as being smart-alecky.

And Jesus said unto him, Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head. Luke 9:28 KJV

Jesus; addressing Pilot’s question-

Jesus answered him, Sayest thou this thing of thyself, or did others tell it thee of me? John 18:34 KJV

 

 

 

The Man in the Middle Lives

Today as we celebrate Veteran's Day in the United States, I want to pay tribute to our Veterans. My grand paw Chapman was Veteran of WWI. My Uncle James Hopper was Veteran of WWII (Pacific), Dad was (North Africa and Italy), my uncle J.P. Waldrop and Gerald Chapman were Veterans of Korea. My wife Lisa is a Veteran.

WWII veterans are rapidly disappearing. Veterans are what makes America great. Below is a poem I penned in honor of the men that fought alongside of dad. I hope you read it in honor of those that have now passed and pay tribute on this day to those that are celebrating today.

Appearing as a dark fog drifting from hole to hole

Death, devastation, and destruction shrouded

The sacred ground where demonic fiends

Methodically pierced the hearts of the mutilated

 

Silent are loud bombs, rattling guns, exploding grenades as

Aromas of sulfur, blood, and guts saturate the air along with

Coalescing cries of pain, pleas for help, and begging God

Become quiet as the grim reaper surveys the carnage

 

Enthusiastic agents of death with spikes of demise

See three in another death pit to add to their trophies

Two disfigured youth had given the ultimate sacrifice as

Death laughed when his urchins penetrated their silent hearts

 

One urchin twisted his lethal tool deep into victim’s heart

As his partner made a noxious jab in the other victim’s heart

Shielded by the prayers of a mother on her knees and far away

Her son lies motionless beneath two that died to set people free

 

Petrified, the son deciphered enemy idiom concerning his plight

With devious confidence, the urchin replies the third one is ours

Blinded buoyancy does not allow them to see the young man’s verve

Death cannot and will not eradicate a mother’s prayer and true life

 

Anonymous and gone are the two who shielded the man in the middle

Eternal are the praying mother and the son whom she loved

Always present are the agents of evil seeking to kill and destroy

A praying nation will continue to bolster the red, white, and blue

 

The man in the middle left a legacy behind through his children

Teaching them to be responsible citizens for freedom is not free

 

Bobby E. Hopper

 

My daddy was the man in the middle.  Private Mitchell Clark Hopper fought under General Patton in North Africa and Italy.  Somewhere in Italy dad lay beneath two dead soldiers in a foxhole.  German machinegun fire ripped open his chest and abdomen.  He pulled dead soldiers together and two German soldiers pierced the fallen soldiers’ hearts.  With a limited knowledge of the German language, he heard them say, “What about the one in the middle?”  “He’s dead.”

Receiving official word that dad was killed in action, Granny Hopper said, “No.  He is alive. I am praying for him.”

Never Quit

Not too long ago a dilemma got my attention. It was a wad of string. The easy thing would have been to toss it in the burn pile, but not me. I saw a challenge. I decided to unravel it.

For the next few minutes, I unraveled the string. Some knots were tight, some were multiple, and some were downright hard, but I worked until I had an unraveled string that I rolled on a spool to use again. My wife Lisa will challenge, “You ain’t going to quit until you get it are you?” She is right. It is not my nature to quit but I am tempted to often quit.

One of the largest temptations to quit was school. I love to learn and solve problems but hated school. As started in an earlier article, I would run away from school. I tell people that I started school in 1959 and finally graduated in 2002. Schools included Beloit, Illinois kindergarten, elementary, Jemison, Alabama elementary through high school, University of Montevallo, New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary, and finally Beeson Divinity School Samford University in Birmingham. If you throw Bessemer Technical, Bessemer, Alabama, and Howard Extension in Birmingham, that is a lot of school for someone that wanted to quit.

Every Monday all four years at the University of Montevallo, four at New Orleans, and three at Beeson I wanted to quit. Each Monday I found myself in class.

In the eighth grade, a football coach encouraged me to play football. He said I had the size to be a good player. I decided to try it. Having missed two weeks of practice, my teammates decided to catch me up. There was no junior high team, so I practiced with the varsity line. They tried to kill me. I was so sore the next morning that my mamma had to dress me, feed me, and force me to attend school. There was no way to practice so I QUIT!

Another coach who worked with the junior high encouraged me to came back. He was aware of what happened. I rejoined the team. I learned a valuable lesson. I promised that I would never quit something that I started. I may stop and sit it down but will pick it up and try again.

While enroute to church, I tried to button the cuff of my dress shirt. Using my left hand to button the right cuff was a little difficult. The laundry starched the shirt and somehow the buttonholes of the cuff were closed tight. My right hand had a very difficult time trying to button the left cuff. Arthritis did not help any either.

While driving Lisa noticed my difficulty and said, “I will button them when we get to church.” I kept trying, stopping for a few minutes, then tackling the tiny buttonhole again. I have a sneaky suspicion that the cuff buttonholes are smaller on the left.

I have found that in life more people encourage me to quit than those that encourage us to continue. When I began the University of Montevallo at age twenty-nine, married with two small children, and no finances, well-meaning family, friends, and folks said I would quit. As I said, I wanted too. God placed people in my journey that said I could.

My Christian faith is one that says, “Never say quit.” That is something that former University of Alabama quarterback Steadman Shealy said in his book Never Say Quit. In the spring of 1978, his football career was thought to be over, but Steadman prayed, sacrificed, worked hard, and demonstrated great faith overcame knee surgery and severe infection to lead the 1978 Alabama football team to a national championship followed by another in 1979.

Another Alabama great, quarterback Jay Barker says, “First of all, I just want to think my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, because I’ve had so many criticisms, and the Lord says in the bible, ‘If you just humble yourself therefore under His mighty hand, he will lift you up In Due Time,’ and this has been due time for me.” Due Time: The struggles and triumphs of Alabama quarterback.

These are two of countless others that have faced life’s struggles and through faith refused to quit. The main person in the Bible that did not quit was Jesus Christ, God in the flesh.

Being confident of this very thing, that he which hath began a good work in you, will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ. Philippians 1:6 KJV

And let us not be weary in well doing for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not. Galatians 6:9 KJV

 

Look Both Ways

When I was a teenager dad had a Farmall Cub tractor that I used. Plows were visible below me. I used the tractor to break ground, disc, plant, and cultivate crops. My greatest achievement was at twelve years old; I planted nine acres of corn.

Daddy worked evening shift, and he supervised me until time to leave for work. Most of the time I was alone. When the field turned green with corn stalks, my grandpa Chapman was proud. I had continued what he had started years before. He told me that I did a great job.

Dad decided to trade the Cub for an 8N Ford tractor. I had a difficult time plowing with the *N plows in the rear of the tractor. Watching the plows beneath was easier than turning and looking back. One time while cultivating corn, I plowed it up because grandpa built the terrace banks to be plowed by a mule. The Cub could do it, but the rear plow 8N were terrible. They were great on straight rows but disastrous on curves of the terraces. I constantly looked forward and backward.

Looking both ways is imperative when crossing the highway or pulling out into the road. When I used to walk across the road to my grandma Chapman, I always looked both ways. Duke, m dog named for Duke of the Beverly Hillbillies television series, would walk with me. I would look both ways before crossing, and I noticed that Duke would too even if he were not with me.

When my son Andy and daughter Angel would walk over to grandma’s, Duke would walk with them. He walked ahead and check both ways before crossing and led the across. Duke would walk with them to catch the school bus and in the afternoon, he would be at the road when the bus delivered them home.

Crossing before looking both ways is extremely dangerous. One I was traveling down the highway on a long straight. There was a yellow line not to pass but an impatient driver decided to pass. Down the road about seven hundred feet, an automobile pulled from a driveway to my left. Stopping he looked to if there was anything to his left. Not seeing anything, the car entered the highway not realizing Mr. Impatient was speeding toward him. I was about to witness and be in a three-car pileup.

Mr. Impatient darted in front of me cutting me off, but I was already in a stopping mode. Ms. Look Only Left panicked and stopped avoiding the crash. It always amazes me when folks pass on double lined highways when they can neither see what’s behind nor in front.

Even looking both ways can be scary. On one occasion, my cousin Mikey and I were hauling a hog to the slaughterhouse. I borrowed a cattle trailer, and we headed to Clanton, Alabama to deliver the hog. Crossing the L&N Railroad track in Thorsby, Alabama, I looked north up the track and south, then north again and Mikey looked south down the track then north then back south. We could see a long distance both ways.

Back then there were no crossing safeguards or flashing lights, just stop and look both ways before crossing. Seeing nothing we crossed the tracks. When I stopped on US Highway 31 the cattle trailer had just cleared the tracks when suddenly a north bound train with lights a whirling and whistle sounding roared past us.

White with fright, Mikey and I looked at one another with our hearts now pounding in our throats. A few years earlier I had a friend that was struck and killed by a train in nearby Montevallo. It was same scenario. No guard rails nor lights. My friend had crossed the train for years and never looked both ways until that morning the train hit the pickup and trailer load of cattle.

In life it is vital to look both ways. Not only in crossings but looking to what is behind and what is forward. In the book of Ezra, the Hebrews upon returning home from exile remembered the glory of the Temple and looked forward to the building and worship in the rebuilt Temple.

And they sang together by course in praising and giving thanks unto the Lord; because he is good, for his mercy endureth for ever toward Israel. And all the people shouted with a great shout, when they praised the Lord, because the foundation of the house was laid. So that the people could not discern the noise of the shout of joy from the noise of the weeping of the people for the people shouted with a loud shout, and the noise was heard afar off. Ezra 3:11-13 KJV

 What's behind is gone and the future is coming as you read this and it is full of exciting probabilities.

Be sure to share this article and comment if you like.

Amish Buggy Ride on A Rainy Day

It was a cool rainy day in Bird-In-Hand, Pennsylvania. The morning air was crisp, and rain drizzled as we purchased tickets to ride the horse drawn buggies in Amish country. My wife Lisa has ridden on dozens of these trips, and she was excited to have my brother and sister-in-law along for their maiden ride.

A vehicle from Maryland parked. A father from Hawaii was visiting his son who was in the Air Force stationed in Maryland. It was their maiden voyage also. We waited, along with five others, for the buggy driver’s arrival.

We loaded into the buggy and Ben, the Amish driver, introduced himself and asked if anyone wanted to sit in the front with him. My sister-in-law jumped on it “Quicker than a chicken on a June bug.” That is an Alabama expression for being quick. Then Ben asked where from where we came.

There was a newlywed couple from Israel celebrating their honeymoon. They spoke very good English, but I think they had trouble understanding our Alabama southern drawl. Across from them was the father and son from Hawaii. To their left were three members of a family, grandparents, and grandson, from upstate Pennsylvania. My brother, my wife Lisa, and I sat across from them. I had the pleasure of sitting next to the newlyweds.

As the journey back in time began, Ben began to explain the Amish way of life. It is always fascinating as we slowly passed the large dairy farms, cornfields, alfalfa fields, and apple orchards. The trip was worth the price just to watch the expressions of the first timer travelers.

Each traveler told a little bit about themselves. The newlyweds planned to visit Washington D.C. The Hawaii father and son we amazed with the Amish culture. My brother and sister-in-law are big farmers in South Alabama, and they loved seeing new farms and gaining new ideals.

The grandparents told us that it was their grandson Joey’s twentieth birthday. I lead the travelers in singing happy birthday to Joey. Granddad was retired Airforce and he and the young Airforce officer from Hawaii shared common interests. Granddad said that he and his wife had placed to travel and explore, but they inherited Joey.

Even though he was twenty, Joey was autistic and non-verbal. He was well mannered and obedient. Sitting direct in from of me, Joey seemed fascinated with me. He would touch me from time to time and his granddad would admonish him. I told the grandad that it was okay.

One time he saw a knot on the pull string of my jacket, and he quickly touched it. He would look me in the eye, and I would smile. One of the reasons he watched me was that the week before I had taken a nasty fall and scraped my face from my hairline on my forehead to the tip of my nose. I had an ugly scab and a hole on the bridge of my nose and used a long staff to help me walk. I told Joey that I was wearing my Halloween mask a little early.

After a stop at a farm, Joey returned to the buggy with a large cream cookie. As the tour continued the curiosity of Joey got the best of him. Quick as the proverbial chicken on the June bug, Joey reached over to me and stuck his right index finger on the scabby hole on the bridge of my nose. I admit that it hurt but I tried not to show pain and smiled. His granddad scolded him. I assured him that it was okay. My dad taught me that we were to lookout for those that could not take care of themselves. It was a heavenly moment realizing that Joey felt safe in touching me. I assured his grandparents that children and animals were attracted to me even wearing a scabby face and sporting a walking stick.

That night as Lisa and I talked before retiring for the night we discussed Joey and the hundreds of children being raised by their grandparents. We are thankful for those that will put their lives on hold to care for those that cannot care for themselves.

I am sure that the raining buggy ride of the serendipity of travelers will share Joey’s story around the world. I know it will if you read this article. The Bible commands believers to care for those that cannot take care of themselves.

Lo, children are an heritage of the LORD: and the fruit of the womb is his reward. Psalm 127:3 KJV

But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto them, Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God. Mark 10:14 KJV

It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones Luke 17:2 KJV

Personal Touch

This morning on my way to the optometrist I stopped for gas at a local station. I have been a customer for many years and seen the station change hands many times. I entered the debit card and followed the instructions. I inserted the card, entered my code, and pushed the enter button. The message on the screen said to remove nozzle and select the grade of gasoline I wanted. I followed the instructions to the letter and number only for the screen to display “please wait for a moment.”

After waiting for several moments, I asked the man and the opposite pump if his was working to which he gave me an affirmative. My screen still remained the same, so I decided to step inside the store. The man behind the countered acted as though I did not exit and I finally said, “Excuse me.” He asked what I needed and told him that the pump was not working.

That when he insulted my intelligence. I was pumping gas when he was a child overseas somewhere. I assured him that the pump was ready to pump but had me waiting. He asked if I was sure that I entered the card correctly. I replied, “Yes, I know how the card works and that the pump gave indications of working properly but it scrolled “Please wait.”

As I returned to my car, he followed mumbling something about he would show me how to properly insert the card. I pointed to the pump and said, “See it is ready to pump.” He said, “Insert it again.” I did and it repeated what it did before. He wanted me to try again which I did and this time it said my card was invalid.

He inserted a special card, cleared everything, and instructed me to change pumps. I did but I wanted to greet his arrogance with good old southern redneck hospitality with a punch in the nose. I did not because that was not the Christian thing to do, but I thought it.

I steamed while heading to the optometrist and thought about how the personal touch in our relationships is disappearing. It is a sign of the apocalypse. That is what I have thought ever since the anti-Christ cards started changing us to a cashless society.

I told a female cashier that having to come inside the store made the plastic money irrelevant. I said, “If the world was wanting to usher in the anti-Christ, y’all are gonna have do a better job with the plastic currency.” She looked at me with a bewildered look and said, “You believe in that okie poky junk?” I answered, “Oh yeah and you better.” The strange thing about our conversation was that it predated texting and other forms of communication that have depersonalized society.

For the next hour I fumed trying to let go of the incident. I thought will I need a card to enter the pearly gates. I wondered if I would need a special account number to give St. Peter. Then I thought if I wanted to talk to God would I get Heaven’s answering machine.

I could imagine a call. “Our office numbers have changed, please follow the instructions. Press one if you speak Hebrew, two if you speak Greek, three if speak Arabic, four if you know the extension, press zero to speak with Methusalem.

Then my mind went to how important personal touches are. There was Annie Jean corn drip that even with her recipe cannot be duplicated. Nola and her chicken and dumplings were one of a kind. No one can paint an automobile like Larry and his special touch. Dr. Calvin Miller’s autograph on one of books or artwork adds the personal touch. A personal touch is special.

When I arrived at the optometrist, I left my iPhone in the car. My wife calls the cell phone the devil’s device. The receptionist and I exchanged some pleasantries, and I took a seat. I spoke to everyone; they returned the favor and returned to their cell phones.

I was called back for the exam. Each aide took special care. At one point, one of the ladies touched my eye lids to apply drops for dilation. Her dark hands were so soft, and I told her that her gentle touch was nice. It made it personal, and we shared a wonderful conversation.

The optometrist is a personal friend of mine, and he has always had the personal touch. He has a genuine concern for his patient's wellbeing. With all the modern technology and equipment, his office reminds of good old southern hospitality.

When Jesus, God in the flesh, walked on earth, He had had the personal touch. I imagine when I make that journey to heaven He will say, “Welcome Bobby and say to the multitude there, he’s one of our boys.”

Then the Lord put out his hand and touched my mouth. And the Lord said to me, “Behold, I have put my words in your mouth. Jeremiah 1:9 KJV

“And he took them in his arms and began blessing them, laying his hands on them.” Mark 10:16 KJV

My prayer was that the Lord touch the heart of the one I wanted to touch. His touch is much better than the touch I wanted to give.

Enjoyed It Reverend

Since I experience the call into the ministry, I have never been fond of the term reverend. There have been too many given that title and their ministries questionable. I would rather people call me Brother Bobby, pastor, preacher not reverend.

Most of the men and women where I have worked called me preacher. The black men called me “the man of the cloth.” Most of the churches I pastored they called me Brother Bobby or Bro Bob. A few youth and children called me “the Creature.”

While working on my doctorate, church people would ask me what they should call me. I told that Bobby had worked my whole life. Since that time until now most people call me Brother Bobby. When in formal situations people will call me Dr. Hopper. If folks do not refer to me as Dr. Hopper, I usually do not correct them.

I have a lot of fun when people realize I have a doctorate. I remember speaking at the University of Montevallo Batist Student Union meeting. The host introduced me as Dr. Bobby Hopper. Once behind the podium, I told guests that the D R in front of my name stood for “Documented Redneck.” I said my redneck degree came from BUTTS, Bessie University Technical and Theological School. Bessie was the community where I grew up and live today. Everyone laughed.

I started my doctoral work at Beeson Divinity School Samford while pastor of the Friendship Baptist Church in Clanton, Alabama. Folks there were supportive. I felt is was a great honor to serve alongside of them. God blessed in many wonderful and powerful ways.

One ministry was ministering to alongside of the Clanton Mental Health Clinic. The Clinic allowed residents to attend church with us. Three residents were faithful. Gwen, F D, and Nikki did not miss. Nikki was a high-spirited young woman that laughed and would repeatedly tell me that she did not belong in the clinic. She would say “I’m not crazy.” She constantly corrected Gwen and F D and insisted that teachers should too.

F D was a young man whose mental aptitude was that of a twelve-year-old. His favorite thing was wearing his toy cowboy pistols, cowboy hat, and guitar to church. He loved to sing and to impersonate Elvis. Another thing he loved was talking to his watch and calling KIT of the television program Night Rider.

Gwen was a black lady with a childlike demeanor. She worn ruby red lipstick like that of a little girl playing with makeup. The Clinic informed me that she received her disability from a car accident. She loved to help babysit children. F D and Gwen were constantly in competition for attention. They were polite and courteous most of the time.

One Vacation Bible School Richard and Stanley, F D, Nikki, and Gwen’s VBS teachers, were singing the opening song with the rest of VBS. Richard, an electrical engineer and Stanley, editor of the local newspaper, separated the trio: F D, Richard, Nikki, Stanley, then Gwen. The two men stood as the Rock of Gibraltar and the trio sang. F D singing like Elvis, Gwen correcting him, and Nikki laughing.

One year the VBS was a Cowboy theme. As I made visits to the classes I peeked into Richard’s class. The room was dark, tiny lights like stars scattered on the ceiling, Richard with head resting on a log by a fake fire, Gwen sitting by the fire, and F D playing his guitar. It was a moment that I will always remember.

Each service during the invitation, Gwen would come to the altar where she would ask me to pray for the clinic, her, and F D who was in route to the altar too. Many members of the congregation were uncomfortable with them. What Gwen and F D did was make it easier for others to come to the altar.

During my tenure there Gwen’s mental situation worsened, and the Clinic committed her to a hospital in Birmingham. As her pastor, I visited her there in the psychiatric ward. Once I had permission to visit, a big black orderly, that reminded me of a bouncer, met me and wanted me to state my business. I told him I was Gwen’s pastor. He gave me a look of unbelief seeing I was white, and Gwen was black.

He wanted more information, and I understood his concern. I was about to give up and leave when Gwen happened to walk past us. She yelled, “That’s my Reverend.” She carried a large black Raggedy Ann that had pigtails and freckles. For the next precious and few moments were shared together. The whole time she demanded that I hold Annie.

F D, Gwen, Richard, and Stanley have gone on before us. I enjoyed the moments we spent together. The highlight Sundays together was at the close of the service I would always ask, “Any word from the congregation as we leave?” Gwen would always say. “I enjoyed Reverend!” It was one of constants of worship.

When Gwen could no longer attend Friendship, I asked, “Any word as we leave?” There was an eerie and awkward silence. Suddenly, Regeana, wife of our local physician, said “I enjoyed Reverend.” The congregation tearfully applauded.

I was glad when they said unto me. Let us go into the house of the LORD. Psalm 122:1 KJV

 

Who's Knocking on My Door

God always prepares us to minister for Him. I never dreamed that contract negotiations were progression for pastoral ministries. Each step we take in life’s journey is preparation for the next opportunity headed our way.

Negotiations had been difficult at Blue Circle Cement in Calera, Alabama. The 1980’s were troubled and trying times for the economy. Due to a corporate takeover, in 1982, Martin Marietta Cement sold to Blue Circle.

During the period from April 1982-March 1987, my vocabulary increased. Terms like “corporate purging,” “downsizing”, “eliminating inventory”, and “efficiency focus” created an atmosphere of low morale, drop in productivity, loss of experience and knowledge.

I, as well as several other employees, were laid off from Martin Marietta and called back after months and years later to Blue Circle. Being the last man hired in October 1976, I was the last employee for five years. I learned to despise the corporate terminology that led to five years of transition.

During the five years of struggling, I felt called into full-time ministry and enrolled at the University of Montevallo in the fall of 1983 as a twenty-nine-year-old freshman. The is one of many steps in a long journey. A wise pastor said, “A trip around the world starts with one step and the higher you go, the farther you can see.”

Four years later, Blue Circle called me from layoff. Blue Circle and Local Union 537 were at an impasse on contract negotiations and implemented a contract. My university experience had broadened my horizon. My co-workers discouraged from loss of pay, loss of vacations, and other losses. I found myself in a battle with human resources over insurance and trying to finish my spring term at Montevallo. Trying to turn five years of change in three days was no easy task.

Having been successful with human resources, some union brothers asked me to use my college knowledge to help the union. I reluctantly agreed and was immediately found that I was president by default.

God blessed me and we did negotiate a new contract with wages, vacations, and other fringe benefits restored. After a year as president, I decided to “go out” on top but stayed on the negotiation team.

By 1994 we were in another contract negotiation. Once again Local Union 537 and Blue Circle were at impasse, and the Federal Mediator is involved. Trips to the Federal Building were regular. Lockout would follow. Local Union 537 was outside looking in.

On a federal mediation day, the Local president, Keilan, and I were early and decided to see an old friend that had retired and lived in north Birmingham. We had promised to see him, but he lived in a rough neighborhood, and we did not have his address.

Elijah Smith (Smitty) was our friend’s name. He was black and lived in a black neighborhood. What we did was crazy, but we promised Smitty we would visit. I knew about where he lived because we discussed it when we worked together. I knew he lived near 15^th Street and could see the Hardee’s from his house.

Two white boys rode through the north Birmingham neighborhood looking for his Chevy van. Kelan was scared to death. Round and round we drove with no luck at all. I spotted a senior adult black lady swinging on her front porch swing. I told Keilan that I was going to ask her where Smitty “stayed” as Smitty called it.

I went on the porch and introduced myself to her. I told her that Elijah and I worked together at the cement plant, and we had promised to visit him. I knew he lived on 15^th Street. Keilan watched me from the car.

She told me her name and pointed across the street and said, “Elijah stay at that white house there.”

I thanked her very much and told Keilan that Smitty lives there. We drove to Smitty’s driveway, and I got out to knock on the door. Keilan whines, “Hopper, you going to get us shot!”

I told him that we were welcomed by the front porch lady. I knocked several times but no answer. I told Keilan to write a note that we paid a visit. About that time, I hear the unlocking of the door. There were several locks, and I realized Smitty was cautious.

Our friend opened the door, I think Keilan lay low in the car. There was Smitty smiling big and tears running down his cheeks. He said, “Lords I don’t believes it. Yall said you would come and yous did.”

Keilan and I found a lonely old friend in need of conversation and remembrance. We celebrated a wonderful morning. It would be our last time together. Keilan and Elijah are in the presence of the Lord.

Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me. Revelation 3:20 KJV

Blue Circle Cement locked out Local 537 for several months eventually allowing only a few employees to return. The plant sold a few years later as result of corporate purging and corporate downsizing philosophies.