Let Freedom Ring: You Zonked Me

Forty-nine years ago today was the bi-centennial Fourth of July.  My how time flies!  Andy, my oldest son, was six months old.  It was an exciting time to be an American.  Two hundred years was not a long time for many nations but the good old United States of America was celebrating a great event in the history of the world.

The Hopper family was celebrating by slaughtering four pigs.  Dad invited his family to have barbecued pork.  “Killin’ hawgs” is a hopper family tradition when the weather is cold, but a July killing was something different.  July in Alabama is hot!

The pigs were not large, but four was also a first for us.  We had to work fast.  Mamma made sausage while we prepared the hams, shoulders, ribs, and pork chops for cooking.  We stewed the lard from the fat and cooked French fries.  There plenty of fries and cracklings.  Dad told me to not eat too many cracklings saying the fresh meat would make me sick.  The fries and cracklings were delicious.  We cooked well into the night and I ate until midnight.

At day break the Bi-centennial was well under way.  I did not want any barbecue pork for the celebration.  I never told day he was right about the fresh pork.  Every time I burped it tasted of grease.  I think daddy knew by the grin on his face when he asked why I wasn’t eating.

There are plenty of memories about Independence Day.  Most of them involve trips to the doctor or to the emergency room.  All I can say about those events were that the Hoppers and our extended families like to have fun and we did it without alcohol and other drugs.  It was just great red neck frolicsome and capersome celebrating.

I often think of the times spent with my in-laws.  It was their family reunion.  The day started early with a hickory fire to make coal for cooking chicken halves.  Lucky’s grocery in Montevallo, Alabama was our chicken half headquarters and was a reliable standby when some family member arrived without his or her bird.  Facing the wrath of Margaret was usually a scolding for being unprepared. 

When there were amble hickory coals for cooking dad Roy and sons Tony and Lane would place the chicken halves on a homemade grill which sat on concrete blocks.  The trio was meticulous when cooking.  Their technique was precise and deliberate basting with a homemade secret sauce.

There were always plenty of onlookers as family began arriving early anticipating a samples hot from the grill.  Usually there would be gizzards and livers as preliminary offerings.

When the time was right, the halves were flipped, basted and the top returned to ensure the halves were cooked according to specifications.  Hickory coals were transferred from the adjacent fire to underneath the halves with critical eyes ensuring proper heat without burning.

As the smoke billowed, the sweat rolled, and the tall tales began, arguments about Auburn and Alabama football prevailed.  The rotation and basting of the halves took precedence.  Roy’s lemonade was usually a big success with gallons consumed by the cooks and onlookers alike.

As the noon, or thereabouts, hour approached Tony’s special barbecue sauce simmered, Kay’s German chocolate cake, moistened, Cathy’s lemon pie grew tart, and Sharon’s peach cobbler cooked, waiting some homemade ice cream.

The yard was beginning to spring for games of volleyball, horseshoes, and croquet.

Bill, Carl, Jabo, and Lee pitched horseshoes, young folk’s volleyball, women folks solved the world’s problems, and babies cried in the heat.  Most of the women folks sat inside under the air-conditioner.

When the dishpans of halves were golden brown and sweating under the tinfoil, grace was said.  Family began to fill plates with bake beans, slaw, and all kinds of fixin’s.  Recipes were swapped, Tony’s barbecue sauce was slopped, and tea, cokes, and water were slurped.  Roy, Tony, and Lane smiled with each compliment on the chicken.  Smiles abounded as the cakes, cobblers, and pies suddenly disappeared.

The biggest event was the croquet game.  It was renamed Zonked.  We spent more time zonking the leader’s ball than trying to win.  Sometimes the leader of the game would be knocked into the woods.  It was great fun.

My best memory of horseshoes was when Tony threw a double ringer.  I was pitching against him and I double ringered him.  Those were the days!  Most of the family are dead and gone.  The laughter and smiles are a wonderful memory. 

Those that fought for our freedom have been gone for almost two-hundred and fifty years.  Lisa, my wife asked this morning, “Do schools teach about the Declaration of Independence?”   I replied, “Probably not.  Most people hate history.”

 

And free and not using your liberty for a cloke of maliciousness, but as the servants of God. I Peter 2:16 KJV

For you, brethren, have been called to liberty; only do not use liberty as an opportunity for the flesh, but through love serve one another.  Galatians 5:13 KJV

You Tricked Me

I cannot remember the first time someone pulled a trick on me.  I’m pretty sure it was my dad.  Tricks are part of the learning process of life.  I come from a family of tricksters.  My extended families: Hopper’s, Chapman’s, Crumpton’s, Dutton’s, Waldrop’s, Smith’s, Barnett’s, and Clark’s are well schooled in the art of trickery.

One memorable time was on a visit to my Dutton cousins.  They were poor as we were and found entertainment with simple things.  They told me that they wanted to show me something in the woods behind their house.  Following cousins Floyd, Wayne, Larry, and Danny in the woods was fun and exciting.  They were more like older brothers than cousins.

As we trekked up the trail, I paid more attention to my surroundings than I did where I was going.  Suddenly I stepped and I disappeared into a gigantic hole.  I found myself looking up at four laughing cousins peering down.  I felt like a trapped animal about to be speared to death.  They retried me from the hole and showed me how they built the trap.

The hole was formed by stump of a large tree that either had rotted or had been removed for the resin it possessed.  They had placed rotten pine sticks over the hole and then covered the sticks with pine straw.  They showed me how they stepped around the hole allowing me to step into hole. I couldn’t wait to get home and build one for some unsuspecting soul.

School was another place where tricks were fun.  My senior year there was a mump epidemic.  I had already had them.  One of my favorite teachers, Ms. Harvey, was an old maid that had never had the mumps.  I had her for advanced math.

The principal and biology teacher enlisted Tony, my friend and future brother-in-law, to pull a prank on Ms. Harvey.  They gave us some bubble gum, which was prohibited in class, and instructed us to hold the bubble gum in our jaws resembling the mumps.

We went to advanced math and did as directed.  I held my face on my desk and got my face hot and red as did Tony.  Ms. Harvey summoned Tony and me to her desk where she felt our faces to check for fever.  With classmates in cahoots with us, when Ms. Harvey asked if I was okay, classmates told Ms. Harvey that my brothers had the mumps.  They were really home with them!

Ms. Harvey ordered us out.  She was terrified she would catch the mumps.  A couple of our friends pretended they were sick, and she told them to go to the office.  Back then there was no school nurse.

When Tony and I arrived at the office and informed the principal and the biology teacher, they laughed and applauded our diabolical deed.  They told us to return to class and tell Ms. Harvey. 

Ms. Harvey did not appreciate out Academy Award acting debut and became livid.  We told about the scheme orchestrated by the principle and biology teacher.  She said they would never do such an evil thing and expelled us from class.

When we told the principle and biology teacher, they realized their blunder and accused us of taking the trick too far.  Tony and I got demerits.  The joke was on us as the principal and biology teacher put the blame on us.

The cement plant was a perfect place for tricks.  When I operated the cement kilns my oiler and I made a deal about losing weight.  We decided that the first one to lose twenty pounds would be treated to a steak supper and all the fixings by the loser.

I told him to bring a set of scales to the burner floor, and we would weigh and record our weight at the end of our work week and the first shift to the new week.  We worked seven midnight shifts from Wednesday through the following Tuesday and were off two days.  Then we worked seven evening shifts from Friday through the following Thursday and were off Friday.  Day shift started Saturday and went to Friday, and we were off to Wednesday midnight.

My oiler got the scales, and we stated our weight loss competition.  What he did not know was that the scales were used to weigh raw materials.  The scales design was conducive for me to put my little finger on a rod that connected the counterbalance weights and slide that determined our weight.  When we weighed before being off, I made him weigh less.  When we returned, I made him weigh more.  His weight was fluctuating twenty pounds, and it was driving him crazy.

He accused me of cheating that is why I had my hands were where he could see them.  He never realized that my little finger was on the rod that controlled the counterweights.  I carried on the deception for several months.  Our coworkers told me I should be ashamed.

Finally, I showed Allen, my oiler, how I controlled him.  He laughed after giving me a big cussing and threatened to kill me.  

Last year, thirty years later, I had the privilege to baptize him.  Thanks, Allen, for your friendship.

 

The Bible has plenty of tricksters. Here is one from the Book of Joshua 9:3-8 KJV

 

And when the inhabitants of Gibeon heard what Joshua had done unto Jericho and to Ai,

They did work wilily, and went and made as if they had been ambassadors, and took old sacks upon their asses, and wine bottles, old, and rent, and bound up;

And old shoes and clouted upon their feet, and old garments upon them; and all the bread of their provision was dry and mouldy.

And they went to Joshua unto the camp at Gilgal, and said unto him, and to the men of Israel, We be come from a far country: now therefore make ye a league with us.

And the men of Israel said unto the Hivites, Peradventure ye dwell among us; and how shall we make a league with you?

And they said unto Joshua, We are thy servants. And Joshua said unto them, Who are ye? and from whence come ye? 

RESPECT - Where did it go?

Several years the Hopper family gathered in Montgomery, Alabama for the wake of my aunt Gertrude.  It was one of the few occasions that the extended Hopper family was together.  It seems that funerals have been the reason for our coming together.  Problem is there are getting fewer of us.

As Hopper kin we were taught respect, especially to women, children, the elderly, and especially toward people that are not able to care for themselves.  Hoppers do not mind stepping in when there is disrespect.

At the funeral home a young boy walked into the chapel wearing a baseball cap.  My uncle Cliff jerked the small boy around and told him to show respect for Aunt Gertrude and yanked the ball cap from his head.  The young boy tried to resist but Uncle Cliff “got his attention” and the embarrassed lad skedaddled.

The young boy was not part of the Hopper family but that did not matter.  Uncle Cliff in a few brief moments explained to the young man to have respect.  Hoppers were taught not to wear hats in church, something that amazes me about today’s culture.  It is amazing how many men and boys wear caps at the table.  That was a big no no at the Hopper table or when we had the honor and privilege to dine at a restaurant.  The legendary Coach “Bear” Bryant would not wear his famous hound’s-tooth hat in the Sugar Bowl in New Orleans.  He said he was taught not to wear a hat inside.

Wearing hats inside has to be the product of a generation that knows not a father.  Shame on a society that dad is absent and the media that glorifies the buffoonery of the stupid dad.  It is the breakdown of family which was ordained in the Garden of Eden.

When I attended the University of Montevallo in the 1980’s, a male student wore a hat into Dr. Morgan’s history class.  Dr. Morgan politely asked the student to remove his hat.  The student was indignant and refused which did not fare well with Dr. Morgan.  Dr. Morgan told the student if he did not remove the hat that he had to remove himself from the classroom.

The student said that the reason for the cap was he did not have time to comb his hair.  Dr. Morgan reminded him that it was his classroom and to remove the hat or get out.  The student removed his hat and would have made Alfalfa of the Little Rascals proud.

As a returning adult to the University, I tried to be kind and courteous toward everyone.  One day I held the door open for another returning adult.  As she approached, she began to use some very ugly language.  She told me that she could open the @#$& door her @#$& self and did not need a @#$& male chauvinist pig to open it for her. 

I said, “You are welcome.  My mamma told me to be a gentleman every chance I got and to hold a door open for a lady.  Undoubtedly, you’re not one.  Have a great day!”

It is amazing at the number of people that smile when you show them respect.  One day a friend said, “I notice that every time you speak to a child you lower yourself.”  I told my friend that I get down looking them in the eye.  I show them respect.

Recently in Wal-Mart, a little boy was checking his blood pressure.  Filling out his info on the machine he asked me how to spell Michael.  I could tell that he had special needs, so I took time to help him.  We enjoyed sharing with each other.  I went over to another aisle and another special needs boy said, “My name is Tommy, what’s yours?  His mother scolded him.  I smiled a big smile and said Bobby.”  His mother smiled a big smile.  Both boys helped make it a great day.  I told my wife if a third special needs child spoke to me it would be a special word from God.

I’m thankful the Hoppers continue to teach and show respect.

Be kindly affectioned one to another with brotherly love; in honour preferring one another Romans 12:10 KJV

 “Stand up in the presence of the elderly, and show respect for the aged. Fear your God. I am the LORD.” Leviticus 19:32

 Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it. Proverbs 22:6

Only in Church

Church is the place where we worship, preach, teach, sing praises, pray, and fellowship.  It is a sacred place, a safe place, and a sanctified place.  We experience many exciting and wonderful moments with weddings, baptisms, baby dedications, vacation Bible school, and revivals.

There are experiences of salvation, rededication, and renovation.  Singings and homecomings fill the church with attendance, melody, and nostalgia.  Funerals and times of repentance remind us that death and sin are related. 

These times can prompt salvation and forgiveness.  Grace and mercy are characteristics of God and jog our memory to the greatness of God and eternal life through Jesus.  The Holy Spirit moving among the church presents some marvelous happenings.

Reminiscing about church has some things that need penning.  There are some events that are unbelievable and memorable.  I have titled this article: Only in Church.

 

At the Sweet Water Baptist church, the pastor was very passionate about his preaching.  He was very good.  However, one of the members there would close his eyes during the preaching of the sermon. 

Finally, one Sunday the preacher asked why the member closed his eyes.  The member said, “Pastor, I love to hear you preach but I can’t stand to look at you!”

Brierfield Baptist church was having the baptism of a teenage girl.  The girl had broken her arm, and she had a bubble wrap on it.  It was the preacher’s first time to conduct a baptism.  As former pastor at Brierfield, the teenager asked if I would attend her baptism.

I will never forget it.  As she descended into the baptism waters, the blue bubble wrap on her arm was obvious.  As the newbie pastor cited, “I baptize thee my sister in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” everything went into the water but her arm.

The poor pastor tried several attempts of dunking the teenager, but the blue bubble wrapped arm retained its sin.  The splashing of the waters went everywhere.

An earlier baptism at Brierfield involved sister church Ashby.  Ashby did not have a baptism pool so they barrowed Brierfield’s.  The weather was cold; 14 degrees was the low.  The baptism pool was filled, the heating element was energized, and the water was crystal clear.

Ashby member filled the auditorium, and the baptism candidates lined the passageway to the pool.  As the Ashby pastor entered into the water like John the
Baptist of old he started a tradition.  It was the first polar bear baptism.  The heating element had shorted and failed to heat the water.

The Providence Baptist Church had two men that were notorious for pulling pranks.  One Sunday as the pastor waxed eloquently, one of the pranksters fell asleep.  When the timing was just right, the other prankster nudged the sleeping one and said, “The preacher called on you to say the benediction.”

The poor sleepy man stood up and closed the service.  The preacher pronounced to the church to have a good afternoon since there was an early benediction.

Baby dedications are wonderful occasions.  I had twelve babies to dedicate one Sunday at the Gallion Baptist Church.  Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and everyone else flooded the church in anticipation of the dedication.  Baby dedications are more for the parents and the congregation.  The only way the baby will know of the moment is through the parents and the church.

I took each child and lifted them toward God.  I had individual prayer and words of encouragement for each.  When I lifted Chloe high into the air I started to speak when I noticed a big bubble of baby slobber hanging from her lip.  It was like watching an eye drop dangling before it drops in your eye.

Suddenly the big glob fell into my mouth.  The whole congregation gasped, with a variety of different moans and words.

The only thing I could do was to swallow it which the congregation did another set of phrases.  I said, “Dew drops from heaven from one of God’s little angels.”

I performed a wedding at the Brierfield Historical Park at the Mulberry Baptist Church.  The church had been moved from deep in the Bibb County woods and remodeled making it ideal for weddings and other venues.

As I conducted the ceremony, the little feller that was the ring barrier began to run his hand up the leg of the groom.  The groom tried to motion the little boy back, but he was not deterred and had a big mischievous grin.  I tried not to laugh, the groom focused on the vows, and the bride was scared stiff.

The pastor of Union Springs Baptist Church, my home church was and continues to be a great puppeteer.  He has great movement when preaching.  He has what my professor of preaching, the late Calvin Miller, said is balanced movement.  The pulpit always is the center of his movement.  The pulpit is and always must be the center of preaching the Bible.

The late RG Lee was one of my pastor’s favorites.  He quoted him often.  One Sunday as my pastor moved like a caged lion keeping the pulpit center, he crept closer and closer to the edge of the stage which was about three feet high.  He finally did it.  He stepped off the stage saying, “R G Leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

He landed on the floor and never missed a beat.  He slowly returned to the stage and behind the pulpit.

 

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

Runaways

Someone once asked me about school.  I told them that I hated school.  I love to learn, I just hated school.  I loved math and history, tolerated science, hated English and spelling.  Then they asked me about my grades.  I said that I hated school so much that I made straight A’s, was a Beta Club member, and president of the Beta Club my senior year of high school. 

When students told me they hated school I inquired of their grades.  Usually, their grades were bad and most had failed or taken summer school.  I would say, “You must really love school to fail and take the class again.” I said if they really hated school they would make A’s.  They would quiz, “Why?”  I replied, “You graduate quicker.”  

I often spoke at high school Baccalaureates, college students, civic organizations, and preached since 1983.  When introduced as Dr. Hopper, I got rounds of laughter and sometimes ovations.  I would tell them that the D R stands for Documented Redneck.

I would tell students that I started school in 1959 at Beloit Kindergarten in Beloit, Illinois and graduated Beeson Divinity School at Sanford University in Birmingham, Alabama in December 2002.

Hopper tradition proves we deplore school.  Mom went to the seventh grade and quit to hoe and pick cotton. Dad went to the eighth grade and quit to cut and load, by hand, pulpwood.  My younger brother, Glenn, and I we were school runaways.  My sister Diane and other brother David were not as bold and daring as Glenn and I were.

When I started kindergarten in Beloit, it was mandatory, and I loved it.  My teacher was a beautiful young blonde and reminded me of Beaver Cleaver’s teacher on the television show “Leave it to Beaver.”

I got to finger paint, go to the creek, and catch tadpoles.  The best part was it was only a half day.  There was no homework, tests, or any pressure.  It was wonderful until I started the first grade a Beloit Elementary.

In first grade I had the oldest and meanest teacher.  She had to be at least a hundred years old and was a robust Yankee tyrant.  This first grader from central Alabama did not speak as did the other students.  I was a shy introvert, and she was a fun making bully.  She shamed my Southern drawl, criticized my reading, and analyzed by inability to skip with both feet.

After school started, I saw my teacher at a sporting event.  When I saw her in that old gangster car, an old Buick with bullet hole fenders, I was terrified.  Momma worried and warned us about the evil ninety miles to the east in Chicago.  The St. Valentine Day Massacre happened many years before, but momma still fretted.  I thought that that
Gangster Yankee teacher was going to kill this little Johnny Reb.

We lived three or four blocks from the Elementary school.  I would walk to school and eventually I got fed up the “Attila the Hun” and sometimes I would enter the breezeway of the schoolhouse and return home crying.

When the snow came, I would walk to school in the snow.  On extreme snow days day would drive me to school.  He would put me out and I could beat him back to the house hiding under the kitchen table for long periods of time. 

In March of 1960, we moved back to Alabama the Beautiful.  My cousin Floyd took me to school in Jemison.  My teacher was a Ms. Shirley, and she looked a lot like the one in Illinois.  I was terrified.  She made fun of me because after three years up North, I picked up the Yankee brogue.

To complicate matters, I asked to be excused to go the restroom.  Welcome to the South and outside toilets.  I had an outside toilet at home, so it was no big deal although the inside ones in Illinois were nice.  Returning to the classroom, Attila the Hun’s sister asked me a quest on the subject I missed will in the toilet.  I could not answer her, and she made me sit on a stool in the clothes’ closet with a dunce hat.

The school is six miles from home so I couldn’t walk home.  But the school bus circled with a quarter mile of the house so I would get off the bus and walk home.  We had only one vehicle, so I got to stay home claiming various ailments.

After being threatened within the inch of my life by momma I did not pull the ailment scam.  I did get off the bus where I normally escaped but it was on the way home.  I felt sick but I had cried wolf so many times did not believe me. 
Turns out I had the mumps.  Momma sure did feel bad.

I honestly do not know had I got in the second grade, but I did.  I had Mrs. Nellie Glasscock for second grade, and she was like a sweet grandmother.  In the third grade we did not a permanent teacher until Christmas break.  God blessed us with a beautiful blonde angel named Mrs. Avis Harden.  I went to making excellent grades.  She was inspiration for the rest of my schooling.

My brother Glenn was a first grader when I was in the ninth grade.  Most of the teachers we had had taught mom.  They were old.  Glenn would run away from school.  He made across the railroad tracks or a mile or so from school like an escape convict appended and returned to prison.

My fondest memory is ninth grade civics class.  Danny Pike, a friend sat behind me.  Mrs. Miller was cousin to the Huns and was very strict.  Danny had a special touch to get my attention fearing the wrath of Mrs. Miller.  He whispered, “Your brother is at the door.”  There was my little brother with saddest face and expression that said, “I want to go home.”  I was his last hope.  Glenn will be sixty-five this October.

Glenn was head and shoulders taller that his first-grade cell mates.  When his ancient teacher threatened to give him a baby bottle he was not as quick to make an escape.  We finally told momma years later about her baby runaway.  I think she was more sympatric than angry.

 

Jesus’ parents were relieved when they found him in school.  He ran to school where the Hoppers were runaways.

 

Every year Jesus’ parents went to Jerusalem for the Festival of the Passover.  When he was twelve years old, they went up to the festival, according to the custom.   After the festival was over, while his parents were returning home, the boy Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem, but they were unaware of it.  Thinking he was in their company, they traveled on for a day. Then they began looking for him among their relatives and friends.   When they did not find him, they went back to Jerusalem to look for him.   After three days they found him in the temple courts, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions.  Everyone who heard him was amazed at his understanding and his answers.   When his parents saw him, they were astonished. His mother said to him, “Son, why have you treated us like this? Your father and I have been anxiously searching for you.” Luke 2:41-48   KJV

Rainy Day Memories

 It was a rainy Thursday in Alabama, and I was happy.  I love rainy days whereas most people become depressed.  I have a dear friend in Demopolis, Alabama that gets very depressed when it rains.  She told me that when it rains, she thinks how much I enjoy it, and she becomes more depressed because I love it.

One of my favorite things is to take my old 1977 GMC pickup, nicknamed Gymmie, for a ride.  There is something magical and hypnotic about riding in the rain.  It is the rhythm of the windshield wipers as they repeal the precious jewels of heaven falling on the glass.  Then there is the flutter of angel wings as the dual glass pack exhaust sings a lullaby that will send passengers into a wonderful sleep.  

As I spend a few precious moments of my being in Gymmie, I thought of the 48 years that I have driven the old truck and the special stories Gymmie could tell.   Yesterday was special because it was my youngest son’s 38^th birthday.

For the first three years of his life, he did not sleep all night.  After working midnights at the cement plant, his mother demanded that I get Aaron out of the house where she could get a few moments of sleep.  I would lay him in the seat beside me, this was pre car seat days, and before we got a mile down the road, he would be asleep.

Aaron loved Gymmie.  He loved it so much that when the seat became ragged, a cousin of mine did some work on Gymmie and replaced the seat with one identical.  Aaron was a teenager and was not happy until I retrieved the old seat and placed it back in the truck.  The seat had worn spots created by our rear ends!

Aaron and I spent many hours riding in Gymmie.  When he got in trouble with his older brother and sister and mom, I would take him and console him and prepare him for life.  When he left home and finally moved away to Texas, I thanked God for the special moments that I encouraged him on life’s journey.

Around 2013, Aaron and I started rebuilding Gymmie.  His older brother had totaled Gymmie 1988, and we renamed it Joseph because Gymmie had a “coat of many colors” as did Joseph in the Bible.  Front fenders, front bumper, and hood were demolished when striking a pecan tree in the front yard. 

We drove it for several months with no hood, a primed right fender, and deer rammed left fender.  I did get a rusty hood from a junk truck at the cement plant.  Aaron only knew the wrecked Gymmie.  Gymmie was so bad that a preacher friend once asked, “Was anyone killed in the wreck?”  Aaron and I quizzed, “What wreck?”  The “so called friend” grinning said, “The one y’all got out of!”

Aaron and I stripped Gymmie to the frame giving it new life.  We changed broken and worn-out parts.  We repaired the interior first with new seat covers, new dash, and all the components that made it brand new inside.

We purchased new fenders, hood, doors, chrome, grill, tailgate, and bed panels.  I had a friend give Gymmie a professional paint job.  The pickup that I could not give away suddenly became the object of lust for boys and men.  We transformed a junker into a show truck.  It is not a show truck.  Aaron and I did not want a “trailer queen” but a truck we could drive.  To put the finishing touch on it we had the engine and transmission rebuilt.

The most asked question is, “Is it for sale?”  I say, “No.”  Some are very persistent.  They have made some very tempting offers but I say, “You will have to get on a very long waiting list.”  Some say every man has a price.  I tell folks that I have promised it to Aaron.  It is my gift to him for all the memories of our lasting impressions, “our butts”, and other times that rainy days help create and keep our hearts joined.  Happy Birthday son.

One day Aaron can give it to his son Jack Barrett Hopper.

The Bible has 139 scriptures on the begats.  Here is a look at our heritage since coming from Scotland:

Thomas Hopper, b. 1747, Amherst County, VA; d. 1837, Oglethorpe County, GA     

Rolly Hopper, b. 1775, Amherst Co., VA; d. 1860, Elbert Co.

Mitchell Brady Hopper, b. 1816 or 1817, Oglethorpe County, GA; d. about 1857 in Perry County, AL

William Hopson Hopper, b. August 24, 1853, in Perry County, AL; d. September 9, 1935, Lawley, AL

Mitchell Clark Hopper, b. December 7, 1887, at Lawley, Bibb County, AL; d. March 30, 1935, Lawley, AL

Mitchell Clark Hopper, Jr., b. April 9, 1924, in Waycross, GA; d. April 27, 1994, Jemison, AL

Bobby Earl Hopper, b. December 13, 1952, in Clanton, AL

Aaron Christopher Hopper, b. May 29, 1987, in Birmingham, AL

Jack Barrett Hopper, b. July 19, 2023, in Baytown, TX

 

When people inquire of Gymmie I tell them that it is a labor of love of Father and Son.  Gymmie is a reminder that the Love of The Father and Sacrifice of His Son can transform and give new life the life’s wrecks.

Therefore, if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new. 2 Corinthians 5:17 KJV

Purpose Driven

 Before the millennium, I got an invite from Danny Daniels to spend time with Dr. Rick Warren and the folks at Saddleback Church.  Danny was Rick's best friend.

A preacher friend, Gene Hitchcock had been stationed in California and Rick and Danny served with him there.  Gene was a retired Marine Major.  Gene introduced me to Danny, and I asked him to preach an Easter Revival for me at the Friendship Baptist Church in Clanton, Alabama.

Danny was on staff at Saddleback as Evangelism minister and working with the Billy Graham Organization preaching in areas that would eventually invite Dr. Graham for area-wide crusades.  Danny desire to get started in the Southeast United States.  It was after the revival at Friendship that Daddy invited me to California.

I told several friends of the invitation, and they seemed uninterested thinking I was dreaming.  That was until one of the Southern Baptist Convention's when Danny and I accidentally met.  Another preacher friend and I were resting when Danny spotted me.  I introduced Danny to him.  Danny wanted to know when I was going to visit him at Saddleback.   I told him that I planned in the near future.  He winked in agreement.

Roland, my friend, all of a sudden realized that my invitation was real.  He and I did visit Saddleback.  Roland had received a special grant and paid our way to California.  Danny planned the trip and booked us near Saddleback.  

Dr. Warren was having one of his conferences and Danny secured all the necessities.  Before the conference Danny took into Rick's office and the operation of Saddleback and the The Purpose Driven Life phenomnon.  Danny told us that if Rick had chosen to be a minister that he would have become President.

We were not able to meet Rick who was suffering from severe back pain.  Rick did the conference via video.  During one of the breakout sessions, a gentlemen notice that nametag showed I was from Alabama.  He said, "My name is Jimmy, Rick's dad and I have a sister in Alabama.  Her name Anora Gant and she lives in Titus.  I moved to Texas years ago."

Brother Jimmy did a study guide that accompanies Rick's book.  I hold it as one of the treasures in my collection of books.  My preacher friend was astonished.  He said everyone here is trying to see Rick and his dad chose you.  Hopper, You are something else.

I little later at another time out, a lady approached me and she saw that I was from Alabama.  She looked me in the eyes and asked, "Why do people in Alabama shoot one another?"

I looked at her name tag and saw that she was from California.  I pondered the question and replied in a slow and premeditated Alabama "redneck" southern boy drawl, "Mam, I think that the latest shooting was near LA when some California weirdo shot a rifle off a freeway bridge.  I think that the last school shooting was on the West coast."

Her next question was, "Why do you people in Alabama have so many guns?"

I said it real slow so she would continue to think I was stupid, "To kill for food to eat."  I went into my pastoral voice and taught her about guns and Southern pride, wisdom, and know how.  I said from a young age we are taught to respect a gun.  The Golden Rule of a gun is, "Do not point it at something unless you intent to kill it."  Guns do not kill, PEOPLE KILL.  Cars do not kill, people kill, cell phones do not kill, people kill.  Cigarettes, Alcohol, and drugs do not kill, people kill people.  All the items mentioned left by themselves will never kill.  One of my first lessons in like was I pointed a toy shotgun with corks attached to the barrels at my sister and said, "I'll kill you."  I was playing.  Dad wrapped my new Christmas present around a tree, whipped me, and made me tell my sister I was sorry.  Then, he lectured me on the horror of killing.  He served in WWII and saw plenty of killing.

I drew her attention to a small window and said, I have a small son that can already fire a rifle.  I can tell him to shoot out that window and he can.  He is a very excellent shot.  I told her for the number of guns owned in Alabama, versus the intentional and premediated murders and crimes is not comparable.

She said you eat food you kill.  I told her yes, and someone kills the food you eat.  She was shocked when I told her that I killed hogs, squirrels, rabbits, cows, and even fish.

I had a wonderful adventure visiting California to the Purpose Driven Life Clinic and got to teach a lesson on the purpose of guns and the reality of the hearts of humanity.  Even in Birmingham, Alabama there is a heart condition.  The University of Alabama in Birmingham is one of the finest heart hospitals in the world.  Daily there are murders in Birmingham and surrounding towns.

We must teach our children the realities of life. 

Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.  Proverbs 22:6

Thou shalt not kill  Exodus 20:13 KJV

For as he thinketh in his heart, so is he  Proverbs 23:7 KJV

Check out Danny Daniels book Mortal Midnight

PONDERING THE JOURNEY

Standing on top of the lime kiln silo I pondered my journey.  Adored with hardhat, safety glasses, respirator, overalls, steel toe boots, and leather gloves I gazed to the south down a big valley toward home.  Holding a number two flat shovel which we called a “Red Neck” dragline, I was in an emotional quandary.

Overcome by the pungent smell of sulfuric acid, the distinct odor of crushed limestone, and hydraulic fluid, I questioned why.  The task at hand was several tons of limestone spilled on top of the silo due to the neglect of a lazy or half-asleep lime feed end employee.  Instead of limestone entering the silo by chute to start the process of making lime, it covered the top of the silo.  My equipment to direct the crushed limestone in the silo was the number two flat shovel and a wheelbarrow which we affectionally called a “Redneck Euclid.”

My crushed pride had me feeling low on a high silo.  It was a test of faith and confidence.  I had just graduated from the University of Montevallo with a Bachelor of Arts degree with a history major and English minor.  I had gathered several honors along the way.  I received all this while on a five-year layoff from the cement plant.  The plant included cement, lime, and quarry operations.

The tears from my eyes were from a combination of sulfuric acid, dust, and broken heart.  As I spoke with God that morning, He directed my attention to the quarry wall that was very visible from high above.  It was a mystic moment as the fog from the lime hydrator, dust from the limestone crushers, and exhaust from the kilns created an Old Testament meeting like unto the prophets.

The quarry is in the geographical center of the State of Alabama.  The Heart of the Heart of Dixie is a gigantic hole.  The limestone mined from the hole is some of the hardest in the world.  The limestone was formed from tiny seashells liken to the conch during the Great Deluge.  The quarry walls are layered at an angle.  Most of Shelby County dotted with limestone and lime plants.  Limestone not conducive for lime becomes gravel.

Here is what the Lord taught me in that spiritual moment.  The limestone was once a living sea creature and after the Great Flood settled into the valley in what is central Alabama.  Dead for thousands, possibly millions, of years until holes were drilled into the limestone beds and explosives packed in them to create limestone rocks that can be a small as dust and as large as the Euclid trucks and loaders that haul them.  Once dead, the Dunamis (dynamite) power begins a new creation.

Some of the limestone must be crushed in a primary crusher where some travel unscathed and large ones crushed.  A secondary crusher will continue to size the stone.  Again, some are untouched.  Before leaving the quarry via conveyor system, a tertiary crusher will make the remaining rock usable aggregate.  Some stone travels from blast to process untouched while others were crushed repeatedly.

Conveyors carry the aggregates to the lime kiln silos where I am having a divine moment.  These will enter a fourth crusher, a jaw crusher, that will feed the lime kilns were the stone will be exposed to intense heat to create “quick lime” which will enter a hydrator to make lime used in almost everything especially the purification of water.

Some branches of the conveyor will carry aggregates to a large “ball” mill that will mix in sand, iron ore, aluminum to create the “raw mix” used to burn in the cement kilns.  The kilns will cook the mix to make clinkers which enter a clinker breaker to resize to send to another “ball” mill called a finish mill to crush the clinkers mixed with gypsum into power making Portland cement.  The cement will be mixed with some sand and rock, mostly limestone making concrete to be used in construction.

During my five-year layoff I worked with Alabama Bridge Builders.  I help pour tons of concrete for beautiful bridges that help travels arrive to their destinations.  In process of building a bridge, some limestone was used directly after the Dunamis power separated it in the quarry.  Some limestone faced very few changes, but yet it is used in the bridge.  Some had many changes but in the end all that were transformed were used to help people in life’s travels. 

God was showing me that my journey would involve many times of being crushed and exposed to transforming trials and to be the only one on top of the silo with a college degree operating a Red Neck dragline loader and Euclid hauler.  God had blessed me!

 

The LORD is near to the brokenhearted; He saves the contrite in spirit.  The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit       Psalm 34:18

 

But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon Him, and by His stripes we are healed.  Isaiah 53:5

We Hired You for Your Back Not Your Mind

When I started at the cement plant in Calera, Alabama back in October 13, 1976, I was introduced to making cement.  I remember my first day and all the wonders associated with manufacturing cement.  The first thing that my supervisor showed me was clinkers.  He reminded me that cement making is dangerous work.  He looked me in the eye and said, “Hopper, you were hired for your back and not your mind.  Work safe, you may walk into the plant and before the day is done we may have to tote you out!”

Clinkers are made by kiln burning raw materials of lime, iron ore, sand, and aluminum.  Years later I would be a kiln burner operator and watch as the blended ingredients would start a four-hundred fifty feet journey down the kiln.  I trained my eyes to watch the “burning zone” as the powder turned to liquid, then to a clinker as the liquid turn solid as it rolled down the kiln wall. 

Clinkers varied in size from dust particles to baseball size.  They could be gigantic if there was a disruption during the burning process.  The largest I witnessed was four feet in diameter.  It looked like a Volkswagen Beetle rolling toward me.  That’s a story for down the road.

One of my first jobs with the labor crew was helping to tear out bricks from a kiln.  Kiln bricks are 9 inches x 4.5 inches x 3 inches making a circle in a 12 feet diameter kiln hull.  That’s a lot of brick.  Back in the seventies management told us that replacing one row or course of brick cost $125,000 considering all the variables of down time, removal, replacement, and startup curing.

Brick removal is very dangerous.  First a “key” has to be cut in the bricks.  A 90 lbs. jackhammer is the principal tool to cut the key.  The jackhammer weighs more than 90 lbs.  It takes 90 per square inch of air to run it.  It is hard using it on a flat surface and more difficult to operate it in a 12-foot circle surface which 36 feet around the kiln.

Most of the time, about 3 feet high on each side of the key is as high as one could operate the jackhammer.  The rest of the row incorporated a sledgehammer that we effectually called “Percy” in honor of Percy Sledge the recording artist who was an Alabama native.

I had the privilege to operate both the 90 pounder and “Percy.”   One of my first claims to fame involved the sledgehammer.  I had the strength to sling the hammer.  I could tear out the brick but with one fatal flaw.  I would break the head off the handle.  That day I broke every sledgehammer in the plant which was no small number.  My co-workers replaced the handles until they had used everyone the storeroom had driving the cost a little higher.  It is like the man of God replacing the lost axe head in II Kings.

Another time Don, my co-worker, and I were charged by our supervisor, Hubbard, and the plant production manager, Killingworth, to cut a key in the burning zone of the cement kiln.  This area of the kiln reaches temperatures of 2200 degrees and uses a more expensive brick.  $125000 multiplied by 100 rows (75 feet) is $12,500,000 for a rough estimate in 1976.

Don and I asked how far they wanted the key cut.  They responded, “Don’t worry about that, just cut to we get back.”  So, we did as instructed.  I ran the jackhammer and Don tossed out the brick.  I cut three bricks, then four for seventy-five feet key.

Suddenly, Don and I smelled the aroma of a pipe in the draft of the kiln.  Hubbard, which we called” Pawpaw”, could not sneak up on us because of the pipe.  Killingworth, which we called “Killer”, not because of his name but due to an attempted suicide, entered the kiln.

It was a grand entrance.  Killer’s face turned blood red like unto a cartoon character and tossed his hardhat up the kiln in anger and cussing like a Corinthian sailor.  Pawpaw had some unlike Pawpaw words as well.  “Why in the &@!$#did you tear out so many bricks?”

 Our answer was classic.  “You told us not worry about it just tear them out to you got back.”  They denied it but Don that Pawpaw kind of favored said, Hubbard you did say tear them out to you got back.”

Don and I had worked hard without stopping while they were gone.  They were only going to replace 15 feet.  Killer and Pawpaw told everyone that the brick were rotten and that is why Don, and I removed them so quickly.  Killer and Pawpaw had to report to upper management, but everyone in Calera knew they were just covering their very costly blunder.

All they had to do was tell us what they wanted.  We just used our backs and did not think.  

 But as one was felling a beam, the axe head fell into the water: and he cried, and said, Alas, master! for it was borrowed.  II Kings 6:5 KJV

He becometh poor that dealeth with a slack hand: but the hand of the diligent maketh rich.  Proverbs 10:4 KJV

Dad's Last Supper

 This past Sunday, Resurrection Sunday, Union Springs Baptist Church observed the Lord's Supper during the Worship.  My mind goes back to that last supper when Jesus became a servant and washed the disciple's feet.  True to who He was He humbled himself to the lowest of servants.  It was a nasty job.

I'm reminded each time of being the one in my immediate family that had to empty the "slop jar" each morning.  Some people would call the "slop jar" a chamber pot.  Our slop jar was an empty gallon paint can.  We couldn't afford an inside toilet nor a store-bought chamber pot.  They did not have them in Jesus' day and the lowest of servants would empty the clay jars of human waste at the local dung gate or dump.  I emptied our tin gallon bucket in the edge of the woods.

The slop jar resided in my brothers and my bedroom.  Our sister had to do "Number Two" in it almost every night.  I believe did it because I had to empty it.  My brothers and I just went outside to pee and to the outhouse (toilet) when dad built one.

When Granny Hopper would stay with us, she always used the paint can slop jar.  There was no modesty curtain and our ten-by-ten bedroom with the army cot which was my bed and my brothers' double bed filled one end of the room.  A baby bed used for clean clothes that mama ironed was at the foot of my cot.  Each corner beside the door opening (no door) were wires nailed loaded with clothes and coats.

I was ashamed carrying the slop jar especially when we had company.  When there was company, I would place the tin bucket through my sister's bedroom window outside on the ground.  I would carry and empty it.  The edge of the yard was so beautiful green where I deposit my sister's number one and two. 

My sister was like one the Buc-ee gas station’s rest rooms sayings, “We are number one at number two.” 

Sunday marked the forty-first Easter since my dad died.  As were observed Communion, I thought back to the Last Supper I had with dad.  It was the Monday night after Easter, and we had convinced momma to take some time off.  She had cared two years for dad who had a brain tumor.  He was in his last hours.  Momma had babied daddy and his nursed could not believe how healthy he was.

Momma had fixed daddy a wonderful meal with his favorite potatoes, green field peas, pepper sauce, corn, tomatoes, cornbread, and sweet tea.  I wheeled dad to the supper table in his wheelchair.  He was very feeble and could not speak.  I prepared him a plate and began to feed him.  Every time I watch Driving Miss Daisy, I weep.  I think of feeding daddy what would be his last meal. 

I would take a fork and point it to his food.  If he wanted it, he would nod his head yes.  If he did not want it, he would nod no.  One time he nodded no to everything.  I finally bumped the sweet tea glass, and he smiled and nodded yes.  It is a precious moment in his and my being that I will forever cherish.

I feed him some cornbread, and he choked.  I thought he was going to die, and I was alone with him.  We had a great time not realizing it would be the last time we would communicate.  During the night he slipped into a coma.  Early Friday around four in the morning, daddy died.  I would spend our last moments holding his hand.  When he the nurse pronounced him dead, I shook his hand and said, "See you later pop."

Daddy had turned sixty on April 9, 1984.  Easter Sunday was April 22, 1984, and I fed dad his last meal on the 23rd which is today's date for this article.  He died on the 27th.  

Jesus knowing that the Father had given all things into his hand, and that He was come from God, and went to God; He riseth from supper, and laid aside his garment; and took a towel, and girded himself.  After he pureth the water into a bason, and began to wash the disciples' feet, and to wipe them with the towel wherewith he was girded.   John 13:3-5 KJV

"Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me." John 14:1 KJV  

Greatest Night in History

 

So, after receiving the morsel of bread, he immediately went out.  And it was dark. John 13:30

How many of you know someone that has so much potential and refuses to live the good life that God has for them?  Each of us knows someone who has allowed alcohol, drugs, and other deadly vices destroy careers, marriages, families, and fortunes.  How many parents grieve over a child that could have been a great Christian working to improve society but falls victim to the sins of society?  How many neglect the opportunity to serve the Lord? Do we consider how much we grieve the Father when we do not live according to His plan thereby not living to our potential?

Journey back to the night of Jesus’ betrayal.  What was the greatest night in the history of the world when the disciples were gathered together with God turned into a restless night of confusion, separation, denial, guilt, jealousy, murmuring, and rejection.  An intimate relationship with Jesus and with each other becomes a night of revelation about the hearts of the Twelve where unfilled areas of the heart were exploited by sin, especially Judas.  Jesus loved Judas knowing his future betrayal.  Jesus knows and loves us in-spite-of our actions. 

Long Cold Journey

 I love Spring.  New life is everywhere.  The sunshine creates thousands of shades of green, millions of different colors decorating the landscape, and in Alabama temperature changes that baffle the mind.  In the mornings you need heat and clothes that keep you warm and are removable because afternoon you need an air-conditioner and shed clothing.

Night times are marvelous with clear skies and billions of stars that remind us how insignificant we seem in this universe God created.  The Bible reminds us that humanity is His greatest creation and all that He created was for us.

One beautiful spring Saturday, my son Aaron and I decided to make a road trip.  Living in Linden, Alabama we were a hundred miles from Sugar Ridge my home where I grew up and where I am now retired.  Aaron has a Jeep Wrangler, and we removed the hard top and doors and started to make the trip just to check on the house and property.

I went into the house and got me a jacket.  It was a good sun shining morning and Aaron questioned my getting my leather jacket.  I reminded him that it might turn cold before we returned to Linden.  He reluctantly got him a jacket, a down one I might add. 

Aaron had a friend that had testicle cancer and had lost all his hair due to treatments.  Aaron decided to shave his head to encourage his friend.  He asked me to shave it, and I did.  I add this information because it is pertinent to our adventure.

The journey was one that helps bring a father-son relationship a cherished one.  Aaron had the best time that day.  My hair was blowing in the wind while Aaron's bald head was getting a tan.  It was exhilarating viewing the spring unfolding its beauty.  It was fantastic watching from the jeep.  We took our time and took in every special moment.

The Spring began sinking into the western horizon.  Sunsets are gorgeous on Sugar Ridge.  We started our one-hundred-mile journey back to Linden.  My leather jacket looks great but lacks any warm thermal qualities.  I carried mostly for blocking the wind.  Aaron started home in his short sleeves.  We went through Clanton the county set of Chilton County got us some grub from Sonic as darkness dominated the skies.  The air began to cool.

Traveling down Alabama Highway 22, it got cold and colder.  Aaron finally put on his jacket and turned the Jeep's heater to high.  On 22, we discovered all the cold spots and the colder spot that trees had shaded during the day.  Warm spots we few and far between.  My leather jacket did not warm me.

With the temperature steady falling, I begged Aaron to stop, and I would use political signs to make us doors for the jeep.  It was election year and there was plenty if signs.  He pulled his jacket over his bald head, I shivered, and the Jeep began a refrigerator.  When we reached Selma, we stopped at a redlight and the heat from the pavement temporally gave us some warmth.  

I don't know if the cold froze Aaron's brain, but he would not stop.  Outside Selma we were halfway to Linden.  We could not feel the heater any longer.  Aaron was driving so his left leg was exposed the cold from the missing door.  As passenger I my right leg was freezing.  He slowed the Jeep hoping it would reduce the and we could feel the heater.  It did not good.  Two icicles finally arrived in Linden to a warm house.  Both of us still had cold legs.

We laugh at our frozen escapade now.  It was a journey that I will always cherish mostly because I made this wonderful memory with my teenage son.  

Thanks, Aaron, for making life fun and unforgettable.

Thank you, God, for your wonderful creation and unpredictable Alabama weather.

O Lord, our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth! who hast set thy glory above the heavens.  Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength because of thine enemies, that thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger.  When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?  For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honour.  Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of thy hands; thou hast put all things under his feet:  All sheep and oxen, yea, and the beasts of the field; The fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea, and whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas.  O Lord our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth!  Psalm 8 KJV

While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease. Genesis 8:22 KJV

The Right to Vote

 It was a November evening in Alabama.  The Hopper family loaded into a 1958 Chevrolet Biscayne and headed to Posey’s Crossroads.  It was Election Day.  Day had changed his election voting location from Randolph, Alabama to Posey’s Crossroads which was less than a half mile from our home.

Dad had moved us back from Beloit, Illinois in March 1960.  Dad had been registered in Randolph even while we lived in Illinois from1957 to 1960.  This had to be 1964 and one of the most memorable moments of my life.

Mom, my sister and two brothers sat in the Chevy as dad entered the polling building which was a car shed which exists until now.  Things in the ballot house started to deteriorate when they refused to allow daddy to vote.    He had returned back to the house to get the legal documents that verified that daddy had changed his voting place.  

Dad walked back into the car shed and produced his documents.  What they told dad was that his name was not in alphabetical order and was added to the back of their registration roaster.  The irony was that dad was registered and all the men running the voting were personal friends with dad.  They often played checkers across the road at our local store/filling station at Land Mart.

There was a big commotion building as faces turned red, shouting continued to get loud, and face to face confrontation grew intense.  Then it happened.  Escalating, dad began to roll up his long-sleeved shirt.  We all sat in the Chevy watching something like at the movie drive end.

Momma said, “Bobby, go get your daddy.  Tell him it is not worth it.”  What those so-called friends of daddy did not realize, they were about to feel the wrath of my dad.  It was a defining moment for the Hopper family.

Dad’s rolling of the sleeves was a signal that some serious “butt kicking” was about to explode.  Mom always bought regular shirts for her Hopper man and his three sons.  They never fit because we were not regular.  We were taller and bigger.  I have pictures of us growing up.  Regardless of the sleeve, short or long were worn one to two rolls on them.  When dad got serious, working or kicking butt, he rolled them higher above the bend of the elbow.

When we lived in Beloit, Illinois, daddy worked at Beloit Ironworks in Beloit Wisconsin.  We lived one block from the state line.  One morning after a midnight shift, a raucous began across the street at a tavern named The Brown Derby.  Police were trying to arrest a drunk.  He had escaped and wound up in our back yard.  He had wrapped his arms around on a utility pole.  There the police had handcuffed him there.

Daddy woke from all the commotion and went out to investigate.  He asked the officers what was happening.  They said they could not put the man in the patrol car.  The drunk did something that most Yankees do not take offence but to Good Old Southern men and boys it is the unpardonable sin.  The drunk what’s it to you SOB as he spat in daddy’s face.

Dad slowly removed his wristwatch and his beloved ruby ring and handed them to one of the bystanders as he rolled up his sleeves.  With one bow to the jaw of the drunk, he slid down the pole, the officers thanked dad, undone the handcuffs, and laid the unconscious twice smashed intoxicated man in the patrol car.

The person that took dad’s ring and watch gave them to mom as the neighbors gave dad an ovation.

I went into the voting shed and took daddy by the hand as he rolled his sleeves.  I was almost twelve years old.  Looking at dad with eyes of pity and respect I said, "Momma said to come on that they are not worth it,” She knew dad would do serious damage and be in serious trouble.

The real damage was that we spent the rest of the evening traveling to the county courthouse trying to help daddy vote he never did.

That is one of few times I witnessed my daddy being hurt.  We heard him telling the poll men that he fought and was wounded in WWII, that he paid his pole tax (abolished in 1966), and that he was registered.  None of the men at the polls had ever served in the military.  From that day on, dad never respected or had any relationship with those men.

Not long ago someone posted an Easter picture (below) of my sister, brothers, and me.  People wanted to know, “What’s up with these Hopper boys and rolled up sleeves.”   As Hank Williams Jr., another Alabama boy would say, “It a family tradition.”  We all still do it even though our lovely wives buy us shirts that fit.  It’s a habit and reminder of the right to vote.

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. 

II Timothy 1:7 KJV 

It is joy to the just to do judgement: but destruction shall be to the workers of iniquity. 

Proverbs 21:15 KJV

Notice the sleeves on the Hopper boys