Bootlegging

Life in rural Alabama has been a wonderful experience. It is authentic. Common sense, practical living, and hard work create an atmosphere that builds character and personifies what is real and what is fake.

Rural life is not a utopia. There is an ample supply of moral deficiencies that are no different than most sin cities around the globe. People are people regardless of ethnicity, social class, location, or education.

Most folks were poor where I grew up in Alabama. There were very few good places of employment with an abundance of people moving out of state to work. Those that chose to live in Alabama either worked in populated areas or eked out a living plowing, planting, hoeing, and picking cotton. Then there was cutting, manually loading, and hauling pulpwood. Small farms with pigs, chickens, and cows utilizing row crops provided for most families. Peas and corn fed most of us.

Another prevalent industry was bootlegging. It was part of living in the hills and hallows of most rural areas across the state that were in “dry” counties. I had bootlegging relatives on both sides of the family. In fact, I had an uncle on my mamma’s side of the family that did prison time. It was not his still. He was visiting a neighbor’s still when revenuers raided. My uncle did time rather than “squeal” on his neighbor.

My uncle used corn for his brew. Corn made the mash and when complete the mash fed the hogs. Most well knew his skill everyone, even the local county sheriff who would send deputies to tell my uncle the revenuers were planning a raid. That was the code of the community.

In 1977 when I was a young man dad bought a book from a childhood friend that authored it. It was titled Moonshine Till Dawn. It was his friend’s autobiography. It is not about the moon shining but moonshine. Dad’s friend reveals his journey in Bibb and Perry counties in central
Alabama from bootlegging to prison and then release.

Names have been changed in the book, but dad pointed out which ones were kinfolk and which pictures of whiskey stills belonged to the Hopper family. It was fascinating with stories dad told us growing up coming to life.

Dad’s brother was driver for bootleggers. My started his Thunder Road experience when he ran away from home when he was sixteen. My uncle eventually settled down in Rockton, Illinois. Visiting him back in 2003, I noticed he had a picture of his old racecar on his refrigerator. As a kid when we lived there, I loved to watch my uncle race.

I asked if the picture was of his old car and he said it was. He said he started racing in Bessemer, Alabama during his moonshine hauling days. He talked about three friends, all three would become Birmingham Internation Racing and NASCAR legends affectionately known as the “Bama Gang.”

I knew that the birth of NASCAR began in Southern rural hills and hallows running from Revenuers with hotrods full of “White Lightning.”  I learned more about the hauling of moonshine in dad’s friend’s second book Bloody Bibb published in 1995. It is most revealing of life in central Alabama.

Bootleggers come in various forms. By definition bootleg means illegally made, copied, or sold. That a lot of stuff.

Jesus did not too much of bootleggers. When he raided a large bootlegging operation in the Temple at Jerusalem, the bootleggers and those profiting from it made plans to have Jesus killed.

 Ye offer polluted bread upon mine altar; and ye say, Wherein have we polluted thee? 

In that ye say, The table of the LORD is contemptible.

And if ye offer the blind for sacrifice, is it not evil? and if ye offer the lame and sick, is it not evil? offer it now unto thy governor; will he be pleased with thee or accept thy person? saith the LORD of hosts. Malachi 1:7-8 KKJV.

And the Jews' passover was at hand, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem, And found in the temple those that sold oxen and sheep and doves, and the changers of money sitting: And when he had made a scourge of small cords, he drove them all out of the temple, and the sheep, and the oxen; and poured out the changers' money, and overthrew the tables; And said unto them that sold doves, Take these things hence; make not my Father's house an house of merchandise. John 2:13-16 KJV.

 

 

 

The Great Deception

Several year ago during the Christmas season my brothers and I were in a Birmingham area mall with our dad. We have never been big on shopping. We do research on products and then go purchase the product.

Dad was mesmerized by a man playing with a mouse. This was long before the day before a computer mouse. This mouse was running up the man’s stomach. The man would shift his hands up and down making the mouse jump from hand to hand. The mouse was for sale.

Dad bought the mouse only to realize that he was deceived. The mouse was plastic and attached to a long female hair. The mouse was suspended hanging by a long hair. The mouse never moved. The man manipulated his hands making the mouse appear to be running. We all laughed but learned to watch for deceit.

Today’s technological world has personified deceit. I am afraid that we have reached the societal age where critical thinking has become a lost virtue. Our reasoning ability is such that if it is posted on social media or the world wide web it must be true.

This is not a new phenomenon. Lisa and I watch old movies. The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp is our present favorite. Filmed in the late 1950’s, high-definition television makes the flaws more evident in the black and white photography. Fake mustaches, beards, wigs, and makeup are more pronounced.

Stunt doubles are obvious as are fake rocks, trees, and the fights. Producers use trick photography to transform fake into reality. Fast forward to the present and old movies seem archaic, even comical. What was scary and frightening in the 1905’s appears comical today.

Even episodes IV, V, and VI of Star Wars pales to I, II, and III. Producers adjusted the originals to blend the old to the new. It is amazing how Artificial Intelligence and Green Screen Lighting have made deception more realistic.

Madison Avenue marketing and the Media has used deception for decades. They have desensitized the masses of people to the reality of reality. Credit debt must be paid, possessions do not bring happiness, and bad choices have detrimental consequences.

Until the Lord returns, deception will continue to fool, and true wisdom will be able to distinguish the difference between the real and the fantasy. One day the Antichrist, will be the ultimate deceiver.

Even him, whose coming is after the working of Satan with all power and signs and lying wonders, And with all deceivableness of unrighteousness in them that perish; because they received not the love of the truth, that they might be saved.¹ And for this cause God shall send them strong delusion, that they should believe a lie: 2 Thessalonians 2:9-12

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In the Rearview Mirror

Lisa and I were taking a trip in my old Plymouth. As I looked in the rearview mirror, I noticed that the bottom right corner of the mirror was wearing thin. It is seventy-six years old and not as brilliant as it once was.

When I remodeled the 1950 Plymouth, the mechanic that helped me placed the mirror upside down. He wanted to know how I knew it was upside down. I said that the mirror is the same shape as the rear window. He said he did not know that. I reminded him that most rearview mirrors in older vehicles were the shape of the rear windows.

Looking in the mirror I thought, “How many people had looked in, and adjusted, the same mirror over the seventy-six plus years?” I know that my Uncle Gerald Chapman bought the Plymouth in the 1950s. He looked in and adjusted the mirror many times. I wondered how many people had done the same task from the time the mirror was installed until I adjusted it for our drive.

Seventy-six years of looking at what was behind and going away. I imagined the stories the mirror could tell and the places left behind. Did the mirror laugh as people looked into it and made funny faces, fixed their hair, or picked their nose?

The mirror always told the truth as people’s hair turned grey or loose. It patiently watched as women put on makeup or lipstick and as kids looked at one another and made goggle eyes when corrected. It always showed the various activities inside the car and those happenings fleeing behind. The mirror always spelled signs sdrawkcab.

Grandpa Chapman bought the Plymouth from Uncle Gearld. When he looked in the Twentieth Century mirror it reflected the lines and wrinkles of a dying Nineteenth Century, the experiences of WWI, the hardships of the Great Depression, the victorious hope of WWII, the rock and roll of the fifties, and the radical changes of the sixties.

Unable to continue looking in the mirror, dad bought the Plymouth from grandpa as a work car making the Hoppers a two-car family. I remember daddy looking over his glasses and into the mirror that was keeping watch on the Hopper boys. The mirror allowed us to see “the look” that spelled trouble when things in the mirror stopped moving.

That old mirror watched me when I was ten years old learning how to drive. It watched as momma screamed, fussed, and cussed as I tried to shift from first to second and made the gears grind, the car bunny hop, and Bobby cry.

I inherited the Plymouth when I was fourteen years old. The mirror would show me my frustration when I repaired the constant breakdown of parts. The mirror would show me my disappointment every time the car would not start. The mirror gleamed at me when I saw the new interior and paint job for a summer’s wages.

The mirror would wink when I looked in it to see if I looked good enough to pick up my date. It watched as I sneaked a kiss or shyly hugged my girlfriend. It was always faithful to show me where I had been. It was wonderful to look in the mirror and watch my date wave goodbye.

It a good thing that that rearview mirror cannot talk. It has witnessed so many events, been eyewitness to numerous changes, and bystander in time as we are well into the Twenty-first century. There will be more events. Looking in the mirror reminds us to adjust and watch what is behind. It helps us to look forward. That in the mirror is gone, but when we gaze into it we see the present.

On our ride to town, I smiled at Lisa and said, “If this mirror could talk!”

 Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus. Philippians 3:13-14 KJV

 

Buck's Compass

The story begins one morning back in the 1970's at the Blue Circle Cement plant in Calera, Alabama. “Pawpaw” Hubbard, foreman for the labor crew, quizzed “Coon Dawg” concerning the whereabouts of his coon hunting buddy, “Buck.”

Coon Dawg was disingenuous as to the whereabout of Buck. Pawpaw knew that two of his prime laborers had planned a coon hunting on the previous day. “You and Buck go coon hunting last night?” Coon Dawg, with denying shyness, mumbled a feeble negative.

Most all of us knew that they had been coon hunting. Their passion for coon hunting was notorious. Registered hounds, four-wheel drive pickups, hunting gear, and any accessories they could buy, beg, or trade they owned.

Buck had bragged that he had a new compass for coon hunting. This was before GPS and smart phones. For years coon hunters used knowledge of the woods, sounds of the dogs, and memory to hunt coons. Hunters would train dogs to primarily to hunt coons and reject the scents of deer and other creatures of the nocturnal. Possum hunting was another pastime but coon hunting primary.

One time Buck secured a load to buy his wife a new washer and dryer. Buck bought a coon dog instead. One night the dog, Old Blue was in hot pursuit of a coon. The coon crossed the Southern Norfork train tracks, but Old Blue did not. No washer and dryer, no coon dog, and no coon.

There was a very large tale circulating in the plant about a poor blue tick hound that Southern Railroad paid for hitting. As most coon hunting stories go, it was said that the blue tick owner bought a new washer and dryer for his wife.

Buck did not report to work, and Coon Dawg shuffled around all day as an alcoholic with a hangover. Here’s what happened according to Buck.

Coon Dawg and Buck went hunting in Bibb County Alabama in the Talladega National Forest. Buck was excited to try his new compass. Seven miles from the Talladega National Forest Highway they released their dogs and listened to the dogs bark as the followed the scent of a coon.

As the sounds of the barking changed tunes and grew intense, Buck decided to find the dogs leaving Coon Dawn in the warm pickup truck. Coon Dawg was a little on the skittish side and said he would just wait until the dog treed.

Buck used his compass to locate the dogs and made his way toward them. Coon Dawg’s imagination ran wild as shadows came alive, sounds grew horrific, and stars disappeared. Darkness was not an old friend but a demonic surrounding capturing Coon Dawg who quickly escaped into the woods screaming for Buck.

Hollering back and forth Coon Dawg found Buck. The dogs stopped hunting. Buck used the compass to locate the pickup. Coon Dawg, lost to where he was stayed close to Buck. As they approached the clearing where they left the pickup, Buck noticed that Coon Dawg fled the pickup so quickly that he forgot to turn off the lights. The dynamic salt-pepper duo once again had no dogs, no coons, and now no battery. Their journey to the highway was a long four miles of walking in darkness with flashlights as way to see.

After hours of walking, they made it to US Highway 82. As the sun shined a faint pink, they tried to hitchhike. Two bearded, nasty, muddy, nomads at the breaking of dawn watched as vehicle after vehicle slowed only to speed away when the two mountain men tried to flag a ride.

Buck told Coon Dawg to wait in the ditch in hopes someone would not. That did not work either. It was more horrifying when Coon Dawg jumped from the ditch. They made it home. Coon Dawg reached the plant minutes before worktime. The following day, Buck bragged about using the compass and the foolish scaredy-cat Coon Dawg. Buck and Coon Dawg should have used a moral compass.

A compass is essential for navigating. The world which we live in dynamic. The earth is changing every day. From early explorers that used a technique called “shooting” to find their latitude (north or south position) by measuring how high above the horizon the Polaris (North Star) appeared at nightfall using a sextant.

Today a digital smart phone compass uses magnetometers to measure magnetic fields. By measuring the strength and direction of Earth’s magnetic field, it can determine which way is north.

A moral compass is essential for navigating life’s ethical challenges, helping society make decisions that align with values that contribute positively to community. Without a moral compass there is anarchy and a rapidly decaying society as we are experiencing today. God gave Moses Ten Commandments or a moral compass.

“Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them: for this is the law and the prophets.” Matthew 7:12 KJV

“Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of God: the powers

that be are ordained of God.” Romans 13:1 KJV

 

Note: In Colbert County Alabama is the Key Underwood Coon Dog Memorial Graveyard. Dedicated to the burial of coonhounds since the 1930’s. You can use a GPS to locate it.

The Hopper Clan Christmas

Wow, wonderful, fantastic, and great were words that described Saturday January 10, 2026. It was a big day in the life of the Hoppers. We had our family Christmas with fifty-seven members attending at the family farm at Sugar Ridge in Jemison, Alabama. It was the perfect morning for those of us that love it gray, overcast, cool, and rainy.

J M and Leecie Hopper would have been proud of all the children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren having a prodigious day. The day started at eleven with a funeral of my niece’s grandfather. The rain was steady, and we all thought that the turnout might be small, but the dinner did not begin until two in the afternoon.

Returning from the funeral, a sizable crowd gathered at Sugar Ridge. Rain was drizzling heavily. My youngest brother fried fish in an iron pot, and my middle brother boiled gumbo in another iron pot beside him. There were uncles, nephews, and small children onlooking in anticipation of samples from the pots. The fish samples were delicious.

Inside all the women were steadily preparing the fixin’s to accompany the fish and gumbo. Fish and grits, turnip green soup, cornbread, and rice were hot from the stove. Nephews battered the fish and then battered oysters which my brother cooked. One sister-in-law brought home-made apple bread. My wife made an apple cake, Hors d’oeuvres, white chocolate covered Ritz crackers filled with peanut butter, a meat tray and stuff for sandwiches, and more.

When all was ready, I, being the patriarch of the Hopper Clan, offered up a Christmas prayer of thanksgiving. Just as in a story, the rain stopped, the sky lit up and dozens of children hit the yard finding mudholes, pools of water, and anything else they could explore. The hills and hollers were loud with the sound of laughter and screams as barefooted kids chased chickens, a dog, and a tomcat.

There were no electronics, just kids with imaginations and swinging in tree swings, rolling in the wet grass, and getting mud between their toes, up their backs, and on their faces. It was a special moment of noise that had long been absence. There were no arguments or upset folks, only smiles and laughter. Everyone agreed that God had given us a great family and glorious day to celebrate Christmas. The gift we shared and received was love.

Some of the family played a card game called swoop. Then they played “My Weird Family.” The family voted my sister the winner. One tradition we have when at Sugar Ridge is to take a picture of the family on the steps of our front porch. I worried that the weight might be an issue, but it held the family.

One by one family members began their journeys home to places from Birmingham and central Alabama to Gulf Shores and the Bay. Some of the family stayed for the baptism of one of the great grandnieces. We wanted to make sure her baptism waters were dirty. She did say that she did want to scare the preacher with some dye to color it. She has the spirit if a true Hopper. We concluded with Sunday Dinner at my sister’s home. She lives in the shadows of the giant peach tower on Interstate 65 in Clanton.

J M died in 1984 and Leecie died in 1987. Their desire was for us to love one another. We try to honor that desire. It was so much fun watching the kids making trails to the old home site where J M and Leccie raised us. I think that the good earth of Sugar Ridge felt revised. I know that the Hopper Clan did. Thank you, Lord, for a great day.

Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the LORD thy God giveth thee. Exodus 20:12a

 

 

 

 

People Are Leaving the Stands

            Organized football played an important role in my life. I love to play it. The first real live football game I saw was the one I played in junior high. My first day of practice, the coaches put me head up on the best lineman on the team. I asked the coach what he wanted me to do. He said, “Tackle the man with the ball.” That sounded simple enough. I took my 125-pound, seventh-grade frame and gallantly attacked that massive all-state junior offensive tackle. When the dust settled, I was under a pile of massive humanity. I loved every moment, even though my body hurt.

            Momma tried to get me to quit every day. Our family had one automobile, which my daddy drove to work. We lived seven miles from the school. That was enough distance to walk out the soreness after practice. I would never tell her I hurt, but she could see it.

            Most mothers would have forced their sons to quit. Other mothers would have given up trying to persuade their sons to stop playing. Momma was consistent. When I entered my senior year, she was still begging me to quit. She kept saying that those big boys were going to hurt me. I could not convince her that I was one of the big boys.

            Every young boy should play some kind of team sport. I learned so many valuable lessons. The teamwork, camaraderie, and discipline are wonderful growing experience that one can relate to all through life.

            One of my greatest life-changing events took place during the first game of my senior season. We thought we had a decent team and had high expectations. The visiting team had beaten us two years in a row. This was their third year to have a football team, and the scores were very close. The seniors really wanted this game.

            The stands were always full for our football games. Even the year we won only one game the stands were full. We were never beaten badly, and the people attended in anticipation of a win.

            We kicked off to our opponents and the crowd went wild. Very early in the game the people in the stands were quiet. With 1:20 left in the second quarter, our opponents led 28–0. I remember the time, because my teammates and I looked up to see people leaving the game. We looked at the clock and saw the time. One of my teammates yelled, “People are leaving the stands.” We did score before halftime and made it a 28–7 game.

            I've never liked halftime. I never got liquids or candy, but got more than I needed of chewing out from the coach. It was that way the whole time I played football. Admonishment was never favorable, seldom encouraging, and always discouraging. I always played my best, so I learned to tune the destructive criticism out of my mind.

            In the second half, our running back ran sixty-five yards for a touchdown. Our defense held our opponents, and we had another sixty-two-yard run. Suddenly we realized—after we had had three runs of over sixty yards—that our opponents were tired. They were no contest on the line of scrimmage. They scored once, and we scored three times. They were tired, and we were energized!

            Our defense stopped them on a touchdown drive. We made a big stop on third down. Instead of passing on third and long, they ran the triple option. We stopped them for no gain. Our last score made it 34–33. We decided to go for two points. We did not pass very much, and the boy who caught the two-point conversion never caught another pass all year. The game ended with us winning 34–35.

            The next day people all over the county could not believe the score. Many who had given up on us missed one of the best games in the history of Jemison High School. When I tried out for a football scholarship, many of the boys from all over the state of Alabama had heard of that comeback. I learned never to give up—even when it appears that it is over.

For Jesus had known from the beginning which of them did not believe and who would betray him. He went on to say, “This is why I told you that no one can come to me unless the Father has enabled him.” From this time many of his disciples turned back and no longer followed him. “You do not want to leave too, do you?” Jesus asked the Twelve. Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We believe and know that you are the Holy One of God.” (John 6:64–69, NIV)

 

But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. (I Corinthians 15:57, KJV)

 

For whatsoever is born of God overcometh the world: and this is the victory that overcometh the world, even our faith. (I John 5:4, KJV)

 

Are there times you want to quit? Why?

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List some of your frustrations, and then give them to the Lord.

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What words would you desire to hear during some of life’s half-time talks?

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Prayer: Father, the Christian life can be so frustrating, especially when we seem to be losing the battle. Help us realize that the victory belongs to You. Help us to run the race of life with our confidence in You. Forgive us when we see people leaving the stands of life, worship, and ministry. Grant us the words we need to encourage others. Help us say, as did the Apostle Paul to the church at Philippi, “Being confident of this very thing, that he which hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ.”

This one of the devotions from my book: I Will Speak Using Stories: A Thirty-one Day Devotional published by Author House. 

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.”