Remember June 7th

Once upon a time, a long time ago, in the land of our youth, there lived a family. In this family there was a mother, a father, two sons and a daughter. This is a story about the father and daughter.

The daughter was the apple of her father’s eye. Although he loved his sons, there is something about a father’s love for his only daughter, that is different and special. She, of course, worshipped her father. She looked up to him, rightfully so, as her hero and protector. He spoiled her and she loved him unequivocally.

A couple of weeks before her tenth birthday, which was on June 7^th, her father came home one afternoon with a handful of bumper stickers which he handed to her. Printed out in neat letters was the phrase, “REMEMBER JUNE 7.” The father informed his daughter that he had these bumper stickers printed up in honor of his daughter’s impending birthday and had distributed them all over the county affixed to automobile bumpers.

The daughter was thrilled that her wonderful daddy would do such a thoughtful thing. Over the next couple of weeks, everywhere the daughter went she saw her bumper stickers on car after car. She even saw them stuck to telephone poles and even in some storefront windows. Every time she saw one she would squeal with pleasure and clap her hands. She said it was the best birthday present she had ever gotten.

On June 7^th, her family threw a birthday party for the daughter and her little friends. She couldn’t help but notice that every car in her driveway had one of her bumper stickers on it. She was so proud she could bust.

Some years later, in casual conversation over dinner, the father finally made a confession to his daughter. On June 7, 1958, Cobb County, Georgia held a special referendum on some issue of import, which escapes us now. As a way to get out the vote, the Democratic Committeeman for the Smyrna District had bumper stickers printed up to help notify and remind the local voters to get out and vote on June 7^th, a day not normally assigned for casting ballots.

The Democratic Committeeman’s name? Yep, Bill Reed. Daddy of Cynthia. Hero and protector. And on June 7, 1958, the best daddy a girl ever had.

(Below is a photograph of Cynthia with her baby brother Bruce and yours truly on her 10th birthday.)

The Castor Bean Plant

I have a castor bean plant. Several actually. Next spring I will plant seeds for new plants. They are really beautiful with green and red foliage, the leaves as large as 12” to 18” across, with distinctive red and pink seed pod clusters. It is actually a small tree, and will grow 10’ to 12’ tall in a single season. Very distinctive looking. I have had many friends comment on it and ask what it is.

The first time I ever noticed the castor bean plant, I did not know what it was, only that it was beautiful and I wanted one. The plant I first saw was located in the front of a house on the road into our lake cabin. I must have driven by it a hundred times that spring and summer, meaning to stop and knock on the door and inquire what the plant was. Of course I did not stop, and the plant was cut back in the fall and the next year it was not back.

I asked my next-door neighbor at the lake, “Frank the fisherman,” if he was familiar with the plant. He immediately knew what I was talking about and told me it was the castor bean plant. He told me that the seeds it produced were poisonous, but the plant was good for keeping moles out of your garden if you planted it in the area.

I kept hoping the plant would reappear in the yard on the way to the cabin, but it did not. A year or so later, January 2005, I was involved in purchasing a fraternity house for my fraternity, Sigma Pi, at the University of Georgia. This older home was located on fraternity row on Milledge Avenue, just a couple of doors down from the house that was my fraternity house back in the 60’s. The day of the closing, I left the attorney’s office and went by for an inspection before delivering the keys to the fraternity. As I drove up into the drive-way, not the first time mind you, what should I see, finally, growing to the side of the drive in a planted area at the new fraternity house? Yep…a castor bean plant. It was January and the seedpods were dried and ready to be harvested. I broke off a number of pods and brought them home.

Michelle did a little research for me about how to grow the castor bean plant. The next spring I took a single seed, poked a three-inch deep hole in the ground at the corner of the planter area next to the cabin, and let it be. Sure enough, it sprouted in the late spring and over the summer grew to a 12’ tall shade tree at the corner of our house. A really beautiful specimen. In the late fall I cut it back and mulched it pretty good, but it did not sprout new growth the next year. I planted several seeds in various locations around our yard and they came back wonderfully. I have shared seeds with a number of folks.

But here is the rest of the story:  In The Book of Jonah, Chapter 4:5-6, “Jonah went out and sat down at a place east of the city (Nineveh). There he made himself a shelter, sat in its shade and waited to see what would happen to the city. Then the Lord God provided a vine and made it grow up over Jonah to give shade for his head to ease his discomfort, and Jonah was very happy about the vine.”

This event happens after Jonah disobeyed God and fled from going to Nineveh as commanded by God. Jonah was afraid to go to Nineveh because it was an evil place. Of course most of us know the part of the story where Jonah was swallowed by a whale and spit back up on shore to fulfill God’s command of going to Nineveh. He did as God commanded and told the people of Nineveh to repent or face destruction. Jonah was sitting up on this hill overlooking the city to watch its destruction. He was none too pleased to see that God did not destroy it. Instead, God showed grace to the City and spared it. There is much to be said about this passage, but I’ll let the preachers do that another time. My story is about the “vine.”

I was interested to note, upon reading some commentaries and discussions about this passage, that in some quarters it is thought, although not possible to prove, that the vine in question that grew up and gave Jonah shade, was indeed the lowly castor bean plant. Once I read this, it gave additional significance to my being taken by the beauty (and shade) of this wonderful plant.

After the first freeze one late fall, the leaves of my castor bean plants were mostly damaged and withered, as is normal. But there were some leaves that were still in full splendor. A neighbor around the corner from our cabin, Don, is an artist who works in clay and fired pottery. He sometimes will use natural leaves and vegetation to give life to his work, using them to give relief to the fired clay. Beautiful pieces. He came by our house and asked if he could pick some of our castor bean leaves to use in his work. When Michelle told me, I was excited, and when we dropped by to talk to Don and his wife Jane, I mentioned to him that I would like to purchase a piece and a couple of pieces as Christmas presents for my brother and sister. He told me that it took a while to make the pieces and it could not be done before Christmas. I would have to wait.

A few days before Christmas, Michelle could not wait any longer. She presented me with an early Christmas present – a tray plate made using our castor bean leaf. There were two more – one for Bruce and Cynthia. It turns out that Michelle had already talked to Don about making the piece for me as a Christmas present. They were all surprised on our visit when I announced that I would like to have him make me some. They looked at each other and knew that I was going to be getting something I wanted for Christmas.

Well, that’s my castor bean plant story. Let me know if you want any beans to plant in the spring.

A Wine Story

In the fall of 1969, I was in the US Army stationed at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas finishing up my training as a Medical Administrative Specialist prior to receiving my orders for overseas assignment. Everyone was going to Viet Nam in those days so there was an attitude of “have fun now, ’cause tomorrow you’ll be in the Nam”. Therefore, we all did our best to live up to that creed.

One evening, a fellow GI and I went out on the town looking for fun. We ended up at this club called “The Mad Hatter”. Out front for a sign they had a twenty-foot tall rabbit wearing a top hat, shades of Alice in Wonderland. It was a true honky-tonk in the best tradition. A loud band, packed bodies, sawdust and beer on the floor and a haze of smoke obscuring the view. My buddy and I had already hit a few other dives before ending up at “Mad’s” place, so we were feeling no pain.

We elbowed ourselves up to the bar to place a drink order. Directly to my left, sitting on a bar stool, passed out with her face resting in a puddle of unnamed liquid on the bar, was a prime example of the female clientele who frequented the club. 

The bartender came over, and shouting over the din, asked us what we’d have. We saw a few folks at the bar slugging back wine directly out of bottles, chased by beer. I asked the bartender what wines he had and he told me they had Bali Hai and Mogen David. I asked him which was the best, and he gave me one of those contemptuous looks French waiters are famous for, and then laughed and said they were pretty much the same.

My buddy said it was up to me, so since I was a fan of South Pacific, I said give us two bottles of Bali Hai. At that moment, the girl passed out to my left stirred awake, pulled her dripping face off the bar and turned toward me and said in a slurred voice,…”Don’t do it, it’s rotgut…” and then flopped back face down on the bar and proceeded to snore. We got a kick out of that, but decided to not heed her warning, considering the source. We should have found out what she had been drinking.

We got beer chasers and found us a table to watch the action surrounding us. I don’t remember making it back to the barracks that night, although I do remember hugging the toilet at some point in the early morning hours. 

Next morning I pulled myself out of my bunk, hung over bad, and made my way out to my car to go get some breakfast at a local restaurant, not thinking I could handle the mess hall. It was one of those bright sunny and cloudless days in Texas and was warming up fast. When I opened the car door the smell hit me in the face like a sledgehammer. There in the floor board with the top off was a dripping partial bottle of Bali Hai wine. I hurled right there in the parking lot, wishing I had another toilet to hug.

From that day forward, it was not Bali Hai, but “Bali Low…how low can you go.” Pretty low, believe me. I should have taken the advice of the maid at the bar. She was right. It was rotgut. I should have had the Mogen David.

SOMETHING WONDERFUL HAPPENED TODAY – A Memoir

Yesterday, January 19, 1998, I visited Aunt Alice at the nursing home.  These visits are painful at times, seeing Alice in the state she is in.  But sometimes, something happens that takes away the pain, even if for only a moment.  Such was the situation yesterday.

Let me go back in time to 1987 and 1988 to set the stage for this story.  In June of 1987, my Mom, Jennie, had been diagnosed with brain cancer.  Due to the tumor, Mom’s memory came and went.  Sometimes we were not sure if she recognized us, and then other times she could remember things from long ago with clarity.  The brain is an amazing organ, and when something invades it, as in Mom’s case, it sometimes had unusual effects.  For example, after Mom had been diagnosed with the tumor, and just days before her operation to try to remove as much of it as possible, we took her from the hospital and brought her to our home for a 4th of July party.  The whole family was there.  There was some question as to whether or not she would survive the operation.

Mom spent most of her time sitting on the couch in our greatroom talking to everyone and watching the activities around her.  She was not in any pain that we were aware of, but she was sort of out of it, coming and going, not always aware of the conversation going on around her.  Bruce and Michelle had sat down at the piano at different times and played a little, as was normal when we had gatherings.  Mom, who had been an accomplished musician in her youth, playing the piano, sax and drums, among other instruments, had not touched a musical instrument for decades.  Her reason, especially in regard the piano, which I had tried to get her to play numerous times to no avail over the years, was that the arthritis in her hands would not allow it.  We never pushed it.  At any rate, here we were all together.  I happened to be in the loft area overlooking the greatroom, video camera in hand, recording Michelle playing with Bill and Lew on the carpet.  As I was recording them, Michelle motioned to me and said, “Mark, you need to see this…” pointing down into the room.  I swung the camera down toward Mom, who had gotten up from the couch and had walked over to the piano.  No one was around at that moment, and if not for Michelle catching it out of the corner of her eye, it was a moment that would have been lost.  As I watched Mom through the viewfinder, she stood at the piano and leaned over the keyboard and started to play the piano.  It was not long, nor was it loud.  In fact, it was over in an instant, and she wandered back over to the couch and sat down.  In my entire 40 years of life up to that moment, I had never seen my Mom play the piano, and I never did again.  But I was blessed with that little gift, undoubtedly prodded by the cancer in her brain.  Count your blessings.  You never know when you will receive them.

Some months later, after her operation, and after her doctor had informed us that Mom only had a short time to live – six months, maybe a year – the ultimate outcome of her illness was not in doubt.  She was dying.  It was just a matter of when.  It was spring of 1988, and the nursing home where she was now staying had sent her to St. Joseph’s Hospital for treatment and observation of various maladies she was experiencing as she went through her decline.

This one particular day, I was visiting Mom in the hospital.  As I said earlier, sometimes I was not sure she knew who I was.  Generally, I would mention my name in our conversations, just to remind her and make sure she knew who she was talking to.  She sometimes called me Bruce or Bill.  As we visited with each other, Alice came through the door to see Mom.  I turned to Mom and said, “Mom, look who’s here to visit with you.  Do you know who this is?”  She did not hesitate, glancing at me with the old sparkle in her eye, and said, “Sit on it, Mark!”  She then turned her attention to Alice and said, “Hi, Alice.”  I was blown away.  It was Mom!  She was really there.  She had it all together at that moment, and she let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I should not be condescending or talk to her like she was an invalid or a child.  Of course she knew who Alice was.  She used the term “sit on it,” a term made popular by the popular TV sitcom “Happy Days,” to put me in my place.  I must tell you that I have never been more happy in my entire life to be reprimanded by my mother.  I had a great laugh right there in the hospital room, Mom and Alice joining in.  It was wonderful.

That brings me back to yesterday, January 19, 1998, to the purpose of this story, or at least to what prompted me to sit down and write this remembrance.  There I was, sitting there visiting with Alice, basically carrying on a one sided conversation.  She seemed to be near the verge of going to sleep as her eyes fluttered open and shut as I talked to her.  When I had walked in, she did not acknowledge me with a “Hello, Mark” as she normally did, which let me know that she recognized me.  So there was some doubt in my mind as to whether or not she actually knew who I was.  She had, at times in the past, mistaken me for Bruce, Rob Flournoy or even her brother and my Dad, Bill.  So, I picked up the Christmas card we had sent her with the picture of Michelle, Bill, Lew and I, and said “Isn’t that a great looking family?”  She did not respond, looking at me and the picture with a gaze I interpreted as one of non-recognition.  I leaned toward her and softly asked her, “Alice, do you know who I am?”

She looked at me sideways, her head tilted, one eye more closed than the other, and clearly said, “Yeah, you’re Rudy Vallee,” (a singer and entertainer from the 20’s and 30’s) and broke into a grin – the first grin I had seen her make since she had her stroke over a year ago.  I immediately burst out in great, joyful laughter, and her grin, lopsided as it was, grew larger and larger.  I laughed with abandon and happiness, because I knew she was making a joke, putting me in my place, just as my Mom had done, years before.  I can’t tell you how beautiful that twisted smile on her face was.  When I was finally able to control my laughter, I asked her if she knew why I was laughing so hard, and she replied, “Sit on it, Mark!”  Yeah, something wonderful happened yesterday.  God is great!

The two pictures below are of my Mom, July 4, 1987, the day before her operation and when she played the piano. The photo of Alice was from Christmas.

EARTHQUAKE IN HAITI – Part 8 – Miracles

Over and over again we were told stories of survival that boggled our minds. Looking around, it looked as if no one could have survived the destruction. Of course hundreds of thousands did die, but millions survived.

The small two story church/school of Pastor Clerzius, one of our ministry partners, had collapsed flat on the ground. Pancaked. Standing beside it, the roof was just above my shins, with everything inside squashed flat. The miracle was that not a single person was inside when the quake struck. When Crawford and I were there on our last trip, handing out school back-packs to the children and feeding them lunch, the place was packed.  The building is hardly ever empty, except during the night, so the fact no one was inside was indeed a miracle.

Our friend Jimmy Gel, one of the young men we support, took me to his home in downtown Port au Prince. There is nothing but a big pile of rubble, of what used to be a multi-story apartment building. We climbed up on the rubble so he could show me where he had lived. I asked him how he had survived this. He said he was asleep in his room, taking a nap, and something woke him up. He said it sounded like a voice calling his name. It seemed to be telling him to come outside. He got up out of bed, walked out his doorway and down the hall to the exit. Just as he walked out of the building, it collapsed around and behind him. He is convinced that it was God who called him and told him to wake up. If not he would be dead. He gives all the credit to God.

Pastor Jean Baptiste (JB as we refer to him) was in class at the University Medical School when the quake struck. As the walls started falling around him, he dashed through hallways and out doors and across the campus between buildings falling all around him. Hundreds of feet to the street. As he got to the street and turned around to see where he had been, there was nothing but a big pile of rubble. Almost that year’s entire nursing class of young women were killed that day. A generation of nurses gone. As JB and I stood in the street gazing at the pile of rubble that used to be a university, the fact that he had made it out from the center of the campus, now a pile of rubble, is nothing short of a miracle. He did not get a scratch.

The stories are endless. Everyone we talked to gave all the credit to God for their survival, saying over and over again how good God had been to them. Here these people are, with nothing but the clothes on their backs, everything else gone, but they are still thankful and their faith is stronger than it has ever been. It is humbling, I can tell you.