Independence Day Escapades

I trust that you will have a safe and blessed Fourth of July.  After the Fourth most of us will be recovering from bulging bellies and thunder thighs from too much barbeque, potato salad, baked beans, and peach clobber; from aching pains and soreness from volleyball, pitching horseshoes, playing softball, and swimming which is really arthritic flare-up and gout caused by uric acid overload from too much watermelon, cantaloupe, and pork; and from sunburn from showing too much skin and applying too little sunscreen.

When I think of celebrating a safe Fourth of July, I think of my cousin, Stevie.  My aunt threatened to lock him in a room taking away his Independence Day.  Stevie was an accident waiting to happen during pre-teen and teenage years.

One Fourth he aggravated Grandmoe Chapman’s dog one too many times.  Rover was Grandmoe’s mutt and trusted “guard dawg”. On this particular Fourth, Rover got even by biting a hole in Stevie’s lip.  This meant a quick trip to Dr. Joe Moore in Clanton.  Stevie got stitches and a shot. 

Another Fourth Stevie was playing with a step ladder.  The ladder collapsed almost severing fingers from both hands.  It was another quick trip to see Dr. Joe for stitches and another shot.

On another Fourth we were working on an old rear engine Chevy Corvair.  It had one fan belt that looped from the top down around the side and the back bottom of the engine through a series of pulleys.

Stevie and my brothers were watching the belt trying to diagnose a squeak.  They told me to bump the engine (that’s a Chilton County for turning without starting).  I bumped it and they yelled for me to stop.  Stevie was pointing at a pulley just as I bumped it and his fingers went between the belt and the pulley.

You probably have guessed it by now.  When I went to see the commotion, Stevie had two fingers dangling and one finger with a compound fracture.  I told daddy we needed to carry Stevie to the doctor.  He asked how bad the fingers were.  I said, “Bad.”  I had wrapped them and would not let Stevie see them.  When dad saw them he said, “Let’s go.”  My dad and I loaded up in my hot rod Cutlass Supreme and raced to none other than Dr. Joe.

Dr. Joe shook his head as he filled a shot.  He had a few choice words for Stevie and commenced to set the fractured finger and sew the other two back together and hoped Stevie did not lose them.  Stevie never cried through the whole ordeal until Dr. Joe stuck his fingers to deaden them for surgery.  My aunt had a few choice words for Stevie when we returned him home.

It gets better.  One Fourth Stevie and my brothers decided they would make their own fireworks.  They found out that if you mixed red-devil lye with aluminum foil and water it created helium.  Their scheme was to put the material in a coke bottle and trap the helium in balloons.  They put balloons on the mouth of the bottles.  For fireworks they would remove the balloons, tie rags on the balloons, and light the rags with a lighter.  Rising high over the Chilton County sky the balloons exploded with brilliant colors.

It was so successful that they expanded their experiment.  More aluminum foil, red-devil lye, and water would make a bigger explosion.  It did.  The coke bottle exploded and melting aluminum went everywhere.  Stevie received the most.  Dancing an Indian rain dance for relief, my brothers and another cousin tried spraying water on Stevie’s brightly glowing legs and shorts.  Water was a no no because water is the catalyst to start the chemical reaction.  It spread the concoction and Stevie made another trip to Dr. Joe.  At least there were no stitches, only gauze and cream for burns.

Stevie had one more bad Fourth.  Two other cousins and he went to the local store for fireworks.  No more concoctions.  The sun was setting as Stevie and his cousin left the store on a Yamaha motorcycle.  They stopped to shoot some fireworks.  Stevie, sitting on the back heard the other cousin leave the store on his 750 Honda.  He was winding it out.  This cousin wore glasses and had difficulty seeing at night.

Stevie screamed, “He can’t see us!”  They took off trying to get out of the way.  For a cousin that could not see, he hit the motorcycle dead center of the rear tire pushing the rear tire into the engine of the bike and forcing the front tire of the bike into the 750 engine.  Bikes locked together, the trio slid around seventy-five feet up the highway.  One cousin was bruised, one had a bleeding arm, and Stevie had rocks embedded in his buttocks.  He slid on gravel which ate through pants, underwear, and skin.  My aunt had a few more choice words as she used a pair of tweezers to remove the rocks and then a trip to Dr. Joe where he placed Stevie head down and filled his rear end with Ivory soap to remove tar, dirt, and gravel and prep for another shot.  He did not have stitches but our other cousin had forty-five or more on his arm.

 A prudent man foreseeth the evil, and hideth himself: but the simple pass on, and are punished (Proverbs 22:3 - KJV).

I am glad God watches over us, especially Stevie growing up.

I am your Creator. You were in my care even before you were born (Isaiah 44:2a - CEV).

  

Awe School Daze

It is funny how things trigger your memory.  I got my yearbook and I saw a picture of one of our deceased teachers, Miriam Harvey.  Miss Harvey was a math teacher at Jemison High School.  She was an old maid.  Her eyes were a little weird and her grey hair had a blue tint to it.  She was small and frail looking.  I had her for seventh grade study hall, tenth grade algebra II, eleventh grade geometry, and twelfth grade advanced math.  I knew her before I had her as a teacher.  My aunt, a beautician, was the one that gave her that blue tint.

Miss Harvey called me her best student ever.  She made math so simple with her teaching methods.  First, she asked if there were any problems we could not work.  Second, those students that could not work a problem would go to one chalk board to show what he/she knew.  Third, another student who worked the problem, and for an extra “A”, would go to another chalk board and work it.  Finally, the student that worked the problem would explain to the one who could not how to work the problem. 

Miss Harvey constantly challenged me to go to college.  One particular time she asked if I knew a certain student.  I did.  She reminded me that he was at Auburn University and was the top calculus student there.  She said that I was smarter than he.  I figured (remember I love math) she was just trying to get me to go to college.  We frustrated one another over the college thing. 

Finally, one day I asked her why people went to college anyway.  My parents were very anti-educational. Their perception of college educated people was not very high.  They thought of them as being better than them and as smart-alecky.

Miss Harvey said that people go to college to get an education, to get a good job, and make more money.  I responded that some go to be a smart-aleck.  That did not resonate very well with Miss Harvey.  She said I called her a smart-aleck and I got on her bad side.

One day she caught me as I started home.  I never carried books home, having finished my homework at school.  (I took books home to study for tests sometimes.)  She marched me back to my locker to get books to take home.

Another time, the biology teacher and the principal got me and some other “A” students to play a prank on Miss Harvey.  There was a mumps epidemic in school and Miss Harvey had never had them.  They gave us bubble gum (a no-no in class) and had us pretend to have the mumps by placing gum in our cheeks.  When we all went back for the laugh the whole episode turned into a fiasco.  When we told her the biology teacher and the principal had us pull the prank she told us they would never do a cruel act such as that.  When we went to principal, he told us we went too far with it.

That prank got me kicked out of class and ten demerits.  Those demerits, along with some other demerits from a series of unfortunate events, got me kicked out of the beta club.  I had all “A’s” except for an “F” in conduct. 

Miss Harvey was sponsor of the beta club and I was president of the club my senior.  I felt her wrath.  She told me that no beta club member would have an “F”.  I maintained the required grades for membership, but she got her way.  I spent the remainder of the school year trying to be reinstated in the beta club.  The club overruled Miss Harvey and I got back in the club.

Miss Harvey retired at the end of the school year in 1971.  Her life was Jemison High School and her students.  When I returned to college in 1983, I went to the nursing home to see Miss Harvey.  She smiled when I told her that I was going to college.  She saw something in this “Knot head” I did not see.  When I read of Anna seeing Jesus I think of Miss Harvey.  She was a wonderful Christian teacher.

And there was one Anna, a prophetess, the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Aser: she was of a great age, and had lived with an husband seven years from her virginity; And she was a widow of about fourscore and four years, which departed not from the temple, but served God with fastings and prayers night and day.  And she coming in that instant gave thanks likewise unto the Lord, and spake of him to all them that looked for redemption in Jerusalem (Luke 2:36-38 KJV).

Oh, by the way.  Miss Harvey had someone read the Bible and have devotion every morning in her home room class.

I Love You Son

I think of the horror he must have felt to see his daddy dead,

  From a ghastly self-inflicted wound to the head.

A terrible sight for just a lad,

  Boyhood, manhood, and fatherhood for him were sad.

This helped me better understand why he struggled to say,

  I love you son and be a great Christian some day.

I wonder how many times as a small boy he was told,

  I love you son, grow big, strong, and bold.

These words from him to me were rare and few in between,

  However, I never doubted his love or felt that he treated me mean.

I knew daddy loved me and as his first-born, he was proud of me,

  There were too many photographs of daddy showing me off you see.

Pictures of pickups, horses, and tractors testify to that fact,

  That many years passed without him saying he loved me, before he patted me on the back.

I was married with children of my own bringing joy into my life,

  When he said, “I love you son” filled my heart with delight.

As his son many days came and went with me having that great desire,

  To hunt, fish, just doing something with him even if were changing a tire.

Many times in my youth, I would get the ball and glove,

  Wanting more than playing ball, I really wanted to share his love.

Day in and day out, I begged him to play,

  But would say he was too tired, too old, or say wait another day.

He was big, strong, and tough as evidenced in his scars,

  I wanted to be like him in many ways especially “fixing” cars.

His younger days without his dad were wild and rough,

  Cussing, fighting, drinking, and wild women he could not get enough.

As my dad his vises were down to cussing and telling lies,

  However, I only saw his hurt of not having a dad in his life in my young eyes.

I was a sissy, cry baby and he worried his first born would be a runt,

   If he could see me now, his words would be very blunt, followed by a big grunt.

No one questioned how he felt about a situation or where he stood,

  He was wise and discerning, but sometimes I wondered if his head was wood.

I grew bigger and taller than he ever imagined me to be,

  But in my mind, he is daddy and will always be a big man to me.

In my youth I worked hard and trained because I wanted to make him glad,

  So one day we arm-wrestled and I finally beat, but his reaction was sad.

I thought he would be happy for me to win,

  Nevertheless, I saw the hurt and sadness, not a smile of a father’s grin.

I wished I had just given him a tough fight,

  Moreover, let him win and not take away his glory and might.

I wanted so much for him to be so proud,

  So he could wolf and brag about his son when in a crowd.

I wanted love and affirmation,

  And not money, not cars, and not even a beach vacation.

My desire, the one that was number one,

  Was hearing daddy say, “I love you son.”

I was Christian and my daddy was lost,

  I prayed for God to save him regardless of cost.

The cries, the pleas, and the prayers were not for naught,

  When daddy told the preacher Jesus his soul, he had bought.

The news of his decision brought amen’s, hallelujahs, and tears,

  Then suddenly the answer to prayer filled my heart with fears.

The cost of salvation is a price that is high,

  For God at Calvary in Jesus our sin did die.

For daddy the cost for him to find Jesus was not cheap,

  He accepted his wound to the head, a tumor, without bitterness, not even a peep.

He had made me proud when he asked Jesus into his heart,

  However, the sting of the cancer struck me like a fiery dart.

He served Jesus for two years after his surgery to the head,

  He had a great testimony as I sat with him at his deathbed.

The week had started with me feeding him peas, potatoes, cornbread, and tea,

  Him not speaking a word, I fed him with delight remembering he once did it for me.

So as the dawn of that Friday was the rise of the sun,

  I held his hand as he took his last breath and raised with Jesus the Son.

As I held that big old hand one last time, my hand seemed so small,

  For in my mind I was a little boy and daddy so big, strong, and tall.

I said, “I love you daddy” as the nurse said there is no heart beat, no not one,

  Then I remembered the word of his heart as he said, “I love you son.”

I have written this Father’s Day poem so you can do something for me,

  Fathers and children look at one another and tell me what you see.

Dad, do you see children, who want to hear,

 The words “I love you” from a father so dear.

Boys, do you see a dad, who to you is so big and strong,

  Tell him you love him, and boys that is not wrong.

Girls, do you see a dad that has hugged you and held you to his chest,

  Remember when he says, “I love you Hon,” that each boy in your life must pass dad’s test.

Mom, do you see the dad of your children and the joy you share,

  He needs your love and affirmation to be the man to thread where eagles dare.

Today the sermon may be short and sweet, the message plain to see,

  Remember that to be together in heaven like Jesus we must be.

For when John baptized Jesus, a new course was set to run,

  God the Father said to Jesus, “I love you son.”

Matthew 3:17 says, “And lo a voice from saying, this is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.”

Counting the Cost

I remember the last day I worked for Blue Circle Cement Incorporated at Calera.  As I left the electrical department, Truman Hughes stopped me.  He asked, “How long do you think we will be out?”  He was referring to a strike planned for the next morning, August 3, 1994.

I responded with, “Truman I have worked my last day.” 

With eyes of disbelief, he said, “No, really how long do you think we will be out?”

Once again, I said, “Truman, if we go on strike the company is going to replace us.  I have worked my last day.”

Still not believing me, he said, “Do you really mean it?”

With my electrical tool pouch on my shoulder, I said, “Truman, if we are not back to work in two weeks it is over.  I, like some others, will never be back.  I have been in negotiations since February and the company is ready to replace us.  They have told me that if we strike, I will not have a job.  Look, I have all my personal tools with me.  I have a few in my locker, but I have most of my hand tools in this pouch.”

Negotiations had been tough.  Chicago lawyers have disdain for Alabama rednecks.  Sitting across from an educated know-it-all who twists every article of a contract is deplorable.  Sometimes times we had to remind the lawyers that just because we talked slow does not mean that we were stupid.

Negotiations were long and frustrating with trips to Atlanta, Birmingham, and Anniston.  Every time the negotiating committee returned to the plant, the men had hundreds of questions.  We tried to give them as much information as we could without doing any damage to the negotiations.  Hearsay among employees ran rampant throughout the plant.

The men wanted to strike immediately when the contract expired in May.  The negotiating committee tried to hold them together as long as we could without hitting the highway.  Many of the men thought that we were not trying hard enough in negotiations.  They would remind us what they would do if they were on the negotiation committee.  I offered to let them have my position.  I never had any takers.

The anxiety was building with each meeting.  Co-workers would heckle members of the negotiating committee.  I remember an incident one morning while buying a coke in the canteen.  Some of my friends, I use the term friend loosely, sounded like laying hens in the hen house.  They were clucking as a hen does when laying an egg.  I will let your imagination take you were they were going with that one.

Another time a co-worker cussed me from the time I got out of my truck, punched my time card, and entered the plant.  He told me that I was not a man, had no guts, and that I was probably on the take by the company.  As a footnote, when we went on strike, that same man was the first to cross the picket line.

The president of the union and good friend on the negotiating committee was worried sick about the situation.  I remember riding back from Atlanta with him.  I told him that the situation was bigger than we were.  We knew that men wanted to strike and that the company was prepared this time.  There had been two successful strikes previously.  One was a twenty-four-hour wildcat strike over a dismissed employee.  The other was a two-day strike resulting from three years of implementation, which involved pay cuts, holiday and vacation losses, and benefit reductions.  The employees of the plant were confident, but the company had the workers and the money to outlast them.

On another occasion, he and I were standing outside the bathhouse.  He said, “Hopper, what are we going to do.”  I reminded him that we would make it.   As we talked, Eddie, another employee, walked by us.  I said, “I worry for Eddie.  He cannot get another job making $40,000-$50,000.  He has no education and his age is a factor.”

Billy, an older machinist, walked past us.  I said, “Billy is too old to get another job.”  Then, there was Jerry.  I said, “Jerry is in the same boat as Eddie, but you and I are young enough and have enough education to start over.”

The men voted to strike.  True to their word, the company bussed in enough strike busters to run the plant.  The men were strong until they missed their first payday.  After a month of negotiations, the negotiating committee convinced the employees to return to work.  Of 157 employees on strike, only fifty returned.  Some of us, especially the negotiating committee, never did.  I learned that although the majority rules, it is not necessarily right.

Enter ye in at the strait gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat:  Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it (Matthew 7:13-14 KJV).