Chapter 5

[This chapter begins with another correction. Been talking with my brother Jack, who gave me some info about our maternal grandparents I’d like to share: first, I said my father had built them a house on the East end of our farm. NO, he provided them a plot of land, but “Dad” built the little house. In fact, he built  that one, then it burned and he built another. When we sold the farm and moved to town, he built the 3rd house exactly like the first two. I guess he only wanted it one way or he only knew one house plan. Anyway, just a minor correction.]

Somewhere in the ’52-’53 era, my father began to get more work as an independent contractor; built a concrete block house just South of Lick Spring Cemetery, a room addition here and there, new roofs, etc. He also worked for Camp Atterbury for a while during the Korean War (that was not a war.) The old wooden stoops on the WW2 buildings were rotting and had to be repaired (mostly replaced.) On one such repair, he was stung by several bumblebees to the point he was too sick to continue and he had to be home in bed. But, the next day, as he had scheduled it, he got up and drove about 50 miles of country road to preach a funeral. Sickness never caused him to miss an appointment to preach in all his years of preaching. He told us that often. I always enjoyed hearing him say it, sort of like thinking I would be that healthy always, I guess.

In 1954, the old house had just about seen its day, at least in the way it looked. So, daddy designed and began to build a “new” version of our house. The way it had been built was very inefficient for heating in Winter and for staying cool in Summer. It had all those gables, therefore all those offsets creating real problems moving warmed air to any room other than a living room which was not at the very front or a kitchen which was more isolated at the rear. So, the plan was to put in a central heat system and re-shape the rooms to be ranch house designed: living, dining, kitchen on one end; bedrooms and hallway to them on the other. The bathroom, more or less, in the center of the house.

Some things the old design had done was have high ceilings, yet with the high pitched roof, it had enormous attic (wasted) space. The new design meant adding to a squaring up of the exterior style, then adding a new low pitch (3/12, I think) roof. This was done inside the old spacious attic mostly! One day the house looked like its old self, then with almost all of the new roof built inside the attic, in one day we tore off the old high roof and decked the new roof for a completely different new style house! It was the talk of the town! (Of course, I was only 12, wasn’t much help, and had stepped on a nail during this great feat and mostly just watched.)

Winters were often rough and bitter during those times before we remodeled that old house, but often us boys would get inventive about how to “play” basketball inside. We had transoms over the doors, both exterior and interior doors. So, we invented how to take a “ball” of socks and pretend dribble the ball (rhythmic up and down hand movement while holding the ball of socks), running around the defensive man and shooting the socks into the transom panel! 2 Points! I don’t remember how often we did that, but I remember some heated moments—“that shot didn’t go in!” “yes it did!” “no, it didn’t!” I suppose, since I was the youngest, I always must have lost those arguments. 

But, if the weather was one of two different ways, we played basketball outside: if the ground was frozen, we would play till either we got too cold or the ball we had went flat (for quite a while we had an old ball that leaked slowly and we would put it close to the stove and the heat would swell it to capacity—for a few minutes.) Sometimes, though, Winter would have mild days and we could play on the outside court at the school, unless it was muddy. Mm,..sometimes we played in the mud. We liked basketball. Somewhere in those years, we had a Christmas day above 50 degrees! We played ball till dark! Outside, on Christmas!

My father never played basketball as a youngster, but he used to play baseball. Got pretty good, he said. He had a good throwing arm till he was about 60. In fact, I believe he was 61 when we had an amateur league team there in Trafalgar with, I believe 4 Lockharts listed on the roster. On July 4th, 1962, we were scheduled to play a game in Whiteland and my father came to watch. We only had 7 players and the league rules said to start you had to field at least 8 players. We only had 2 Lockharts in the 7, so we just put Daddy in right field as a Lockhart roster player and got the game started. He played two innings, I think, before other players showed up. I don’t think he had to field any hit balls, but he batted! Ground out, but he did at 61, hit the ball.

From 1939 to 1960, all eight of E.H. and Lenora’s children went to Trafalgar High School and all graduated. My oldest sister, Roberta graduated in ’43 and I, as the 8th, graduated in 1960. Quite a record. From 1946 to ’60, there was a Lockhart boy on the varsity basketball team all but two years. In ’49, there were 3; in ’50 & ’51 and in ’57 there were two. All the boys earned 3 years of varsity letters except me, I earned two. We all played baseball all four years. The oldest 3 played softball in the Fall, baseball in the Spring. The youngest 3, we played baseball in both the Fall and the Spring.

(Paralleling us, almost perfectly, was the 6 Dehart boys—only they went from ’44 to ’61. That’s not about the Lockhart family, but it is an interesting side note. In both families, when someone would see us in another part of the county, they might would ask, “are you a Dehart or a Lockhart?”)

The next chapter might be harder to write. Tragedy came our way and taught us many things, both about ourselves, our parents, and our community.

To be continued

Thanks for reading, the Elder

FROM ’20 to ’20, MORE OR LESS

chapter 4

A correction from the previous chapter: My father did buy new cars after that. Seems to me he bought a new ’51, ’53, and ’55 Nash, the last being an Ambassador. Those were good cars. Innovative. Never got the credit they deserved for new things: A transmission designed to save gas with an aspect called “free wheeling.” Also, perhaps the first to have an automatic transmission.   With an overdrive gear! Very difficult to turn over (I guess a low center of gravity?) The first car to have air conditioning as standard equipment. Seats which made into full beds. Starter on the gearshift handle…etc., etc., etc. Nash, an American marvel!

Just wanted to clear up that error.

When we left the farm (which my father sold in order to do some other business) we moved into an old house in Trafalgar, right on the main street, which I found out years later was called Pearl St. Our house had four gables, I think. In 1954, we remodeled it to be a ranch-style look. Inside it was much the same, but had ranch effect design (central hallway between bedrooms, etc.) That was also the year we got indoor plumbing. Finally. Everything changed then, thank goodness.

But, when we first moved, my father built a commercial building in town but on SR135 and a house next door to it. The house was for my oldest sister, Roberta and her husband, Bob, who had served in WW2. The commercial building was masonry with a quonset style roof with arched trusses made of wood; 2 inch materials lashed together in an arch fashion to create the quonset look. The building is still there today with a more common pitched roof.

“Lockie” had a blacksmith shop sort of in the middle of the garage area, then there were two garage openings on the North end, with a filling station on the South end—Texaco, it was. I remember spending several days with him in the blacksmith area, mostly a nuisance to him, I’m sure. He did a lot of plow point sharpening. You didn’t grind those down to sharpen; you heated them and beat them back into shape on an anvil while they were red hot. He was a strong man in those days, that stuff was hard work. He also grind-sharpened mowing scythes, the kind that fit into tractor mounted PTO mowers for cutting hay. That also took a lot of strength. They were several feet long, a system of 3 inch triangle blades which meant you sharpened two edges while holding the whole length in the air. These triangles were mounted on a bar by rivets, as I recall, which would get loose or break if the farmer ran into a rock or something. He fixed those, too. Daddy kept some scrap iron in a wooden box for making a tool or attachment from scratch. I’ve seen him make hitches, replacement parts hard to find for old equipment, etc. My early adulthood carried these memories into my belief mankind can do most anything he sets his mind to do. I thank my father for that seated principle in my life. 

The blacksmithing became less each year as new farming innovations replaced the need for as much repair work. Not sure, but I think maybe 3 seasons was all he did as a blacksmith. The building stayed being a garage and filling station until the mid ‘60s. I spent several hours a week in the filling station/restaurant as a teenager. Daddy and Mommy went on to work at Camp Atterbury after the blacksmith days. Daddy also started doing contract work, building and remodeling which he did until he “retired” at 81.

My greatest memories of the ‘50s, living in Trafalgar run from starting my schooling (actually starting in the Fall of ‘48) and continuing through the Spring of ‘60–12 years in the same building with everyone else in grades 1 through 12—no kindergarten in Trafalgar in those days. My folks were not personally involved in the goings on at the school very much. Once, my father went and told school board people NOT to take government subsidies, it would only lead to more and more government interference. They told him it was out of their hands already. I’m pretty sure he never went back to them about anything. 

During all the years I was in school, my father was also a pastor and/or evangelist in small churches in Indiana, Illinois, Kentucky and a few times in North Carolina. Pastoring was mostly limited to central Indiana, several different churches with classical names: Shiloh, Friendship, Pleasant Valley, Mt. Zion, Bethel, and a few others. He actually started preaching and pastoring a year or so before I was born. He continued to preach till about age 82-83, but slowed considerably after late 70s. The last 30 years at a church which also served as the denominational headquarters in a little town called Fruitdale or Midway, as was the name of the church.

For about 3 years, in the early 50s, he had a tent and did “tent revivals” in small towns which didn’t have a church of the denomination he was. He fit their definition of a “home missionary” —not being sent overseas somewhere. To me, it was always fun to put up the tent and take it down. It was a most of the day job setting it all up: borrow a vacant lot next to someone willing to share electricity, then the old and totally physical way of rolling out the tent sections, lacing them together, get the center pole (it was a 40’ X 40’ tent with one center pole) set to be raised, the corner poles placed, then while several men held it up, the stay poles and staked tie ropes all up into place. Then the electric lines were hung, lights all working, sawdust or woodchips placed as an aisle, then the knockdown pews all set up and the pulpit assembled,  piano carried in and placed just so! Phew!!! A lot of fun! Taking it all down was hard work, but it didn’t take all day.

Through all that, my father and mother never appeared to be angry or upset with one another. Maybe they were, but it never showed, at least not to me. One day I remember well, I think I was about 9 or 10: He was leaving to go to work and my mother said, “You got any grocery money?” He said he didn’t. She said, “How am I supposed to feed these boys? what are you gonna do?” He said, “I’ll pray about it.” And walked out. An hour or so later, a man pulled up at our house and told her he had a half a hog, already dressed in pork chops, bacon and ham for us. His prayer worked pretty good, don’t you think? She traded some neighbors for some other essentials and we never went hungry. We had some very lean years during that era. 

[this morning the song in my head (SIMH) was also a favorite of my father’s: IN THE CROSS:

Jesus, keep me near the cross,

There’s a precious fountain, free to all

A healing stream, flows from Calvary’s mountain.

IN THE CROSS, IN THE CROSS be my glory ever

Till my raptured soul shall find

Rest, beyond the river.

Written by the famous hymn writer Fanny Crosby—1869]

To be continued

Thanks for reading, the Elder

FROM ’20 TO ’20, MORE OR LESS

chapter 3

The first few years of married life are sort of memories of tales told, memories of older folks than me. I do know by heritage that my oldest sister, Roberta their firstborn, came into the world in September after my mother turned 16 in April. Pretty sure they still lived in Kentucky, even until after my second sister, Margaret was born in February of 1928. So, not too long after that Lockie and Lenora and their two little girls moved to Indianapolis, IN. Those older siblings of my father were there, perhaps beneficial to my father having a really good job during the early stages of the depression. In ’31, Kenneth was born—first of 7 straight boys over the next 27 years. (I was the sixth son, born in 1942, but my mother had what was then known as a “change of life” pregnancy and had a son in 1958 who only lived a few hours. Interesting thought: in today’s medical world the lad would have likely lived a normal life, it was undeveloped lungs, usually overcome with today’s medical devices.)

With boys being born, and a depression effecting nearly everything, my father, with his good job in Indy, decided to buy a farm! Yes, he bought a farm in the middle of the Great Depression. 1935, I believe. Donald had been born in ‘33, Leon was just a whip of a boy, so with 5 off-spring under their wings, Elvin and Lenora moved to the beautiful farmland about 30 miles South—Trafalgar, IN; my home town! I still love saying that. I love going there, I still have many people there, family and friends, whom I love dearly.

My father told this story to be true, so I haven’t any reason to not tell it here. He said he once bought a brand new car. Seems like it was a T-model Ford (I could have that part wrong) and was driving it down a straight flat road, when he looked to the right and saw a rolling tire cutting across the grass and two rapid thoughts came to his mind: funny, he first thought, wonder where that came from—quickly followed by the answer; It came from my car!! His right front wheel had come off and was parking itself up against a farmer’s barn! Oh, the perils of buying a car which no one had “broken in!” I never knew him to have another new car. 

The farm. Interestingly, farming seemed natural to most of the family, even though later a couple of the siblings admitted a dislike. But, it was pretty normal living for this burgeoning family, growing by one more (Marvin, better known all his life as “Pete”) before the official end of the depression. The farm sustained our family, even the addition of Jack in 1940 and me, Jerry, in ‘42. And sometime in those early farming years, Lenora’s parents, whom we called “Mom and Dad” Earps had joined us, my father building them a small home on the far eastern end of the farm. 

Being the last of the family from birth to now  (except for the short-lived life of baby Bruce), I lived on the farm a little under 5 years. We sold the farm and moved into Trafalgar in the Summer of ’47. I have a few memories of life on the farm, but mostly the detail has been added to or taken away by some of the brothers and sisters who would laugh at my telling of something and then correct me—or just give me their version. Hmm; what if I like my version best?

Here’s just a couple:

One day, my mother grabbed me by the hand and led me down to the bottom of the hill where there was a watering trough to water the horses who worked our fields. She left me there, telling me not to move or I’d get a whippin’. She stormed across the driveway to the field where two of my older brothers had walked the horses into a wet area of the field pulling a disc. The horses had rebelled against whichever one had the reins and one (Belle) had laid down in the wet soil, harness and all.

My 4’11” momma grabbed those reins from my brother, slapped him across the back with the ends, and told him to get out of the way. She yelled at Belle, “YAH, BELLE! GIT UP, BELLE!” and lashed Belle on the rump with the reins! Again…and again, she yelled, “YAH, BELLE! GIT UP, BELLE! and she whipped that downed horse till Belle had had enough of it and got up!. “Whoa,” my momma said quietly, stroking Belle on the neck, up close to her ears. Belle stood quietly in tandem with her work partner. Momma, yelled the go command and the horses pulled the disc out of the mud. She stopped them, handed the reins back to Don and said, “Now don’t do that again!”  Pretty sure I never saw momma that angry again. Didn’t want to.

Another farmhouse memory, though a little foggy, I remember having to sit in the living room and watch while my momma whipped some of the older boys. She took a belt to 2 or 3 of them, I believe because she caught them smoking. After that as I grew up and might of gotten in a little danger of doing something worthy of a “whippin,’” I’d remember that scene in the living room with a belt and her going round and round holding them with one hand and whippin’ them with the other slinging a belt! …Another I-don’t-ever-want -to-see-that-again memory.

Over the years, whenever I go back to Trafalgar for a visit, I go to the Indian Creek Road and slowly drive past that beautiful little farm, a hundred acres it was, and wonder: what would be the changes in my life if we had never left the farm. I wonder: would I have been like Don and loved to farm? Or like Ken and wished to get away from farm life. I wonder.

Thanks for reading, The Elder

To Be Continued

chapter 2

While Ed and E.H. messed around like teenagers of their era did, Ed’s little sister was beginning to catch E.H.’s eye. But she was so young and he was…, well, patient. In the Fall of,1923, E.H. was 22 and Lenora was 14. E.H. would come over to the Earps residence and sit on the porch with the family: William, her dad, would smoke his pipe, watch the youngest two, Lenora and Corrine, play and gab and squabble like kids do. E.H. and Ed would sit with William and talk, the way men do. 

It became obvious to William that E.H. had his eye on Lenora. The boy had become a man and had fixed his gaze upon the fair maiden of Will and Lizzy Earps. Just a note about the Earps: Will was, so the story goes, adopted by a Kentucky family from somewhere in Kansas. His name was Earp. But they say Will didn’t like the association of that name so he added an s to it, making it Earps. So the story goes. I wouldn’t know how to prove it wrong or right, so it goes.

Lizzy was a Draper, of the lately come from Wales, Drapers. She was a tough mama and no bigger than a minute, but she had a heart of gold. She also could see what was unfolding on the front porch. Somewhere about the middle of November that year, Will says to E.H., “Son, it’s gettin mighty cold sittin’ out here on the porch every evenin’, if you want that girl, why don’t you just marry her?” 

A rather startled E.H., looked at Lenora and said, “If she’ll have me,” to which Lenora replied, “Of course, I will.” They were married a month later. 

Of course, in today’s world all four of them would have been standing in front of a judge trying to explain this horrible situation, but in the early part of the 20th century in Kentucky, this wasn’t terribly uncommon. They would begin their marriage in a small cabin near the little ‘berg the Earps lived in—BonAir, KY (not the suburb of Louisville.) It was too small for much, but they were in love and she was learning how to run a household, he trying to make a living.

Incidentally to the whole situation, but important as they moved around, was their education. E.H. had a 3rd grade level education. He used to tell us the story of how they had to “burn down the school house to get me out of the 3rd grade!” Truth was, he went to a one room school for 3 years (I never heard how old he was when he started) and shortly into the Summer break, lightning struck the school building and it burned to the ground. The community never had the money to rebuild it for several years and by then, E.H. and his age group had either gone somewhere else for schooling or gone to work somewhere—E.H. was in the latter. Lenora had gone to school through 6th grade, which was thought of as enough for a girl who was just going to marry and have babies.

E. H. picked up a nickname in school and it stuck with him amongst his closest friends almost all his life: they called him Lockie. Lenora never called him that. She had a special way of saying his name, Elvin. but she didn’t say “Elvin.” If I spell it the way she said it, you have to say it out loud fast, ok? —she said, “E-yelvin.” I never knew why she didn’t just say “Elvin” and they never spoke of it, just an oddity in her speech, perhaps?

Oh, one more thing about his schooling. He said to me once, “you know, when you’re in school, there’s a lot more to learn than what’s in the books.” (Boy, was that ever the truth!) He said, when he was in his first grade, Spring came and the teacher, a man about 50 years old, took the boys from 1st grade on up, out to the school yard and showed them a brand new Barlow “mumblee-peg” pocket knife, (old English word is spelled mumblety peg, but in KY it was as I spelled it) this was a sought out possession that every boy would have loved to have. It was a 3-bladed small pocket knife that a boy could master the toss necessary to win at mumbled-peg. 

The teacher held his arm out parallel to his shoulder with the knife lying in his open hand, palm up. He said, “the boy that can hold this knife like this the longest wins it!” Oh! Boy! What a prize! Eagerness caused every boy to line up, biggest and oldest first. The first was a big, brute of a boy who laughed and said to the rest, “Y’all don’t have a chance!” He didn’t last a minute. One by one they all did their best and many beat the big boy, but when it came down to a first grader who was little and the boy most picked on by the bigger boys, he held that knife with his little skinny arm much longer than the others could even imagine! The Barlow was this little guy’s to keep! My Dad always was a champion of the “little guy” and loved telling that story. The object was the biggest and strongest might not always win.

Lenora never said much about her schooling, but they both knew two very important things: they knew how to read, and they knew how to do arithmetic. These made them learn the truth and how to always no what was fair and right. And, they made it just fine throughout their long lives.

Thanks for reading, the Elder

To be continued

<<I>>>>>

Most of the details to this true story are lost to the memories of those long passed away.. What I am writing down was told to me in bits and pieces by my father and mother, as well as some of it coming from older siblings or other relatives . Some of the details, then, are fueled by my imagination as to what or how the events came about. But, the essence is true. I am living still (I think) as I write this and it is not another’s family but my own of which I write. 

For the many years that I have been “out in the world” I’ve spent the most time talking about the things I experienced or I’ve heard from others. As these years have begun to pile up, some things seem worth writing down, not because the world just has to know! But, because there are some worthwhile lessons learned, some tales worth telling, and some next generation, and on down the line which might benefit from reading about them. 

Almost all of the time, location, and the peoples found herein is truly middle of America, 20th century. This, then is the story: 

“From 20 to 20—100 years, More or Less”

Around 1990 it became clear to me that I wasn’t seeing my mother enough and that I had to make a way to change that. At that time, I had no certain income that I could plan out ahead of whatever was in the bank at the time, what I was going to do, where I went or how long I would be gone. My wife had an excellent job, and even though we were living well and seeing our children regularly, etc., I didn’t plan based upon her paycheck unless the two of us were going to be doing or going together. So, I resolved to go to Indiana no less than twice per year, to see my mother, regardless.

It seemed to please the Lord that I do this because the uncertain income which was coming to me through people giving without being prompted in any way, to the ministry of teaching what I saw in Scripture at several bible classes each week, became sufficient for my trips. Carrying out my avowed plan to see my mother regularly from the on, always seemed to be provided for.

These trips “home,” found me visiting my mother, Lenora, at her small apartment in Morgantown, IN. My father had passed away on Sept. 12, 1987. There wasn’t any way my mother could care for their home, a modest but very comfortable country home with too much yard, etc., for a 78 year old to caretake. So, with our full awareness and eager consent,  one of her grandsons, a nephew to me, bought her place and she had chosen the small apartment to which I went to visit. She and I would have long talks (some arguing, mostly about Scripture) and one thing would lead to another and over the years she did a lot of gap-filling on the historical side of the family. I don’t think it will be boring.

Early On

On several occasions I heard my father, E.H., tell that he left home when he was 14. It never was perfectly clear to me where he went, but little by little I could put together years in which he did this or that and piece together his teenage years. Seems he went to Indianapolis at the first, perhaps due to older siblings who had left their Kentucky home near Bowling Green in order to find more permanent work “up North.” He told me about his treks West during those years to become a hand on Threshing crews. These were young men, mostly teenagers who would “follow the wheat harvest” where a man or a company would own one of the large Threshing Machines which would move from farm to farm (or a central location for small farms) and the farmers would haul their harvested wheat straws to them, the “hands” would pitch the wheat straws into the machine and then load the wheat and the straw in separate wagons on the back side for the farmers to return home with or sell the grain. 

The “following the harvest” part came from a starting place in Southern Oklahoma and would move Northward as the Spring weather ripened the wheat. It was in Northern Kansas, working this job, when my father tried to join the Army to fight in the “war to end all wars”-WWI. He was found to be too young and they shipped him back to Kentucky at the age of 16. 

So, back in Kentucky, E.H. worked for a while with his father (my grandfather Robert was a logger at that time, I believe, taking hardwoods for building homes up North.) But, my scant understanding of that made me draw the conclusion perhaps E.H. and Robert didn’t always see eye to eye. Not much was told, mind you, but so it seemed to me. 

In those late teen years, E.H. pal’ed around with some men his age, a little younger, a little older, and I know nothing of their habits except for a couple of small details that grow in importance to this tale.

A slightly younger lad, name of Ed entered the picture somewhere because we had an old picture for many years (I think still have it) of Ed and E.H. dressed as cowboys complete with the Winter sheep’s wool chaps, Pretty sure they weren’t cowboys — just foolin’ ‘round. But, Ed had a younger sister. 

To Be Continued (TBC)

Thanks for reading, the Elder

4/14/2021 (4/14 ?? WHERE HAVE I BEEN?)

Spring has brought a whole myriad of ideas on several different fronts and will really effect our activities for months ahead. There have been 3 bible conferences scheduled for this year and perhaps a couple more to come, never can tell. We’ll have a trip to Kentucky and a trip to Indiana in our 2021, dates haven’t been set yet. Perhaps a trip to Texas and one or two trips from Texas to see us. We’re also pretty expectant about new stores coming into our Blue Jug group this year and hopefully, some short trips involving those. Busy year, so far, looks like it will continue.

When walking around our downtown, seeing all the empty store buildings, the not-in-use parking lots, etc., my mind goes into a “gear” I am reasonably sure I don’t understand. Maybe it will clear up or clear out soon — or not. Here’s one idea which has been fed by visiting another city:

[[Twice last year, I saw a really neat development in a southern city for the re-use of a large former retail space. In today’s modern traffic pattern this store building had been rendered disabled. It had no room along its front other than sidewalk. Some brilliant developer, however, had redecorated that front—leaving the walkable sidewalk, so that the now multi-store front was very attractive to drive or walk past. Then the developer went to the rear of the large building and put a “front” on the back which was even more inviting than the dressed-up front! The back of the building faced a city parking lot so, it seems, the developer made a wise move by getting the city to release to them a few (maybe 6) parking spaces. Then the developer curbed them, topsoiled some flower beds and shrubs, interlacing the area with an entrance walking path, curving through some tables & chairs with umbrellas—beautiful!! Two of the new and now existing stores were lightweight food servers—Chicken Salad Chick and a frozen yogurt place. The other two were high traffic small stores; women’s chic apparel and a gift shop—brilliant! 

We have a similar space here in our town and with a little consideration by the city, may not be too difficult to get the necessary adjustments in the small area of codes, I’m betting. Now to find the developer and the property owner and get them together. Seems like it should be a snap, right?]]

<<—Here’s an interesting side note to the above paragraphs: I mention the idea to a man who has recently opened a new business. He said he first thought of using part of that building (in my above idea) and that it had two very serious problems. First, the cellar fills up every heavy rain with no sump system at all and second, the roof over about 1/4th of the building is in bad shape. How, then, would that structural problem get resolved? Not a simple do! This doesn’t deter my idea, just makes it more difficult. Will it be worth it? Yes, think of the alternative —>>

[[Across from our Blue Jug store in our town sits a vacant building that has been for years now, an instigator in my visuals; my visions for that building’s changeover are continually forthcoming. This building actually faces a “side” street with a space from the corner of our main drag being a small city parking lot (maybe 50 spaces) seldom used at all during the daytime. It is designed for some special events which generally take place on weekends or nights. The adjacent vacant building (always in my view and ergo, always on my mind) is an old masonry building with poorly painted exterior walls. It does have an attractive, though somewhat dated retail front which faces the side (6th) street. The rest of this building needs remodel work—inside and out. So, along the side which faces the parking lot and therefore also faces the main North/South street, I keep seeing in my idea-crowded mind, a large doorway with sidelights about half way back and allowing for people stepping into the building directly from the parking lot.

This, then, would make two store spaces, 1300s.f in the back half of the building, and about the same facing the front of the building. What about that for re-use of a fine building which has been empty but not gone to ruin for about 6 years?]]

All I need to do these two things is money…..Oh. Someone else have money? I’ll give them my ideas.

There are two other downtown buildings absolutely necessary for the “21st Century” rebirth of downtown Fort Payne! If these and the first two were re-born, all the rest of downtown will fill up with good tenants, other buildings would get remodeled, some with downtown apartments above (one is being done right now!) and the “Boom Town” would be booming again!

[[The first of the other two has planning and preparation being done as I write. It is an old historical hotel, a well constructed building which just needs updating and repurposing. It will get done (time and circumstance prevailing.) And yes, I will try to give my ideas to the owner if and when I am privileged to do so.]]

[[The second, though, is more of a hardship to visualize. It is a one block long strip center in an old historical site. The center is well occupied, but has the look of a 1960s center, i.e., old and worn-out looking front. It needs a 21st Century facelift! If that were done vacancies would go away.]]

You might be saying, why is this old coot thinking of all this remodel stuff! I wish I knew. You might say, get your mind on things which matter! I’d say this matters. You might say since you don’t have any money, why don’t you just leave all your ideas out for all those who are interested to mull over and consider?……I just did. Let me know if I can help.

Thanks for reading, 

The Elder

3/22/2021 This is my first blog since finishing one on Feb. 26th

The phenom of me having a Song In My Head each day when I awaken has never really gone away, but I have failed to mention it several blogs. Today, though, a great hymn was there and Barb and I even sang a few lines from it about breakfast time: It was: “Come Thou Fount” by Chris Rice. This is an “old sound” hymn, but Mr. Rice is much more contemporary than his sound, I never saw the exact date he wrote it, but his only picture I could find was a man of 30s-40s in 1996. So Mr. Rice wrote lyrics of a great deal of understanding about who the Lord Jesus Christ is and what He has done for us. Very thankful for this song as the SIMH today. (Read the lyrics all the way through.)

Here’s a borrowed paragraph from the very first blog I wrote in August of 2018:

 [This is not an attempt to gain your sympathy or to win you over as a friend, and it is definitely not to try to sell you anything. It’s just a blog about life. I’ve been in life a long time now and there are some things worth writing about.]

Well, now I’ve been here almost 3 years more than when I started this. I’ve seen many things in these 32 months, things I didn’t want to see; things that astounded me, things that angered me, things I wish I hadn’t seen and many things I pray I never see again. (Come to think of it, perhaps that describes my whole life.)

As I walked to the store this morning, this beautiful Spring morning, I was reminded of some events that happened in my school years. For several years of my 12 year term in the one 3 story building known as THS (Trafalgar High School, Trafalgar, IN) we had a boy in our class—I don’t remember him graduating, but he was there for several years and is probably worthy of more stories than I can tell on here. Many of you may have had someone in your past who would fit into his category. And if you ever read the book, “A Prayer For Owen Meany,” you’ll know what I’m telling can be sorrowful but meaningful. 

This boy come to us from Indianapolis in about the 3rd grade, I think, and maybe left after our 9th or 10th grade year. He was little for his age, and his look always invoked in me that he wasn’t getting fed properly at home. (Watching him eat the school’s meals or when he visited in my home made me sure of that.) We boys were sure he was being beaten pretty hard by a not-so-loving father. Nothing we could do about that, of course, but if we ever hoped someone to get out of his home life, it was this boy. His clothes were never what any of us would call clean, his thick glasses were always dirty, and he never looked warm enough. He had some bad habits of a personal nature which we endured.

He would continually do things to draw attention to himself which, in the years I was in school, always got him in trouble with teachers. I’m sure I remember him being pounded on the back, hands slapped, or being shaken in his seat by every teacher except two. Mostly he was a disruption to the norm, that’s why he got the disciplinary action they all thought would help: it never did. It always made me feel sorry for him, but he wasn’t easy to be around, regardless.

After about the 8th grade, most of us boys smoked cigarettes. This boy did too, the only difference was he never had any money to buy them. He used to say to whomever had a pack, “Hey, Jesus said ‘Share’—give me a cigarette!” And we usually did. If he saw me in the drugstore or pool hall, he would beg me to buy him a coke and I would if I had the money. Before I had begun to make a little money, another boy in town would buy me cokes, so I guess we sort of “paid it forward” before there ever was such a term. 

Back to this boy: After he left our school, I never heard from him again. I’ve very often wondered about him, but I can’t think of anyone who has ever had any update about him. I kept expecting to hear he had been in this trouble or that, or died an untimely death or something. It seems strange to me these vivid memories of him are here today. Perhaps I’m going to hear something about him soon.—Fascinating.

Here’s something to take into consideration concerning the political side of the world now in the 3rd month of the new administration in Washington: I do not want to see anymore poking fun about Joe Biden’s physical/mental condition. I now believe he is going to be a short-lived president because some of his mistakes or miscues or even his tripping on the steps up to the plane are things which are going to become worse. I don’t think his opposition should make fun, I think they should enter into a serious dialogue with those close to him and get him the help we would give to anyone. He doesn’t seem at all to able to be the most powerful man in the so-called free world. He should be pitied, cared for and relieved of his duties. Yes, I know what we’d get with those stacked up under him, but we are getting them, anyway. He’s not in charge. And he should not be going through this pressure. It’s almost inhumane right now, and it’ll be worse in days to come. Just my opinion—didn’t cost anything.

Thanks for reading, 

the Elder

1/11/2021 A Belated Welcome to 2021// Finished 2/26/2021

Even though we all thought of 2020 being gone as a good thing and 2021 would be exponentially better, our 2021 started off not so well as expected and desired. News from our family from Christmas eve on was that a dearly beloved niece in Indiana was hospitalized in ICU with Covid-19. And on it endured, till she became most critical and passed away January 12th. We are all heartbroken by this loss. 

Then, to our dismay, the Indiana rules for funeral services had some pretty tight “lock-down” stipulations: no more than 25 people in the facility at any one time, and that included their staff. I was asked by my niece’s husband to do the funeral service for them the following Monday, the 18th. But, due to limitations my son was the only other family member to go with me to Indiana. However, as you might expect, in spite of all the strictness it wasn’t enforced at all. The service was Zoomed over to a Senior Citizen’s center for a larger crowd to be able to attend. The celebration of her life and my message which included her testimony of salvation was heard by a good many, and kept on some family FB pages afterward. 

A few days after we returned home, we had another 2021 critical event take place: our second son was taken to the hospital on the 24th and in ICU (not covid) having had a heart attack, his blood sugar way out of whack and a couple other problems to go with it. After balancing the necessary things in one hospital, he was transferred to a more specialized hospital and a quadruple bypass was performed to set his heart back into the proper pumping of his life-giving blood. It’s been very worrisome and very much an upheaval to us all. 

Well, it is now Feb.26th, our son has been home more than a week and is progressing into some therapy to restore his strength and weight, finding a way to get back to normal living. We thank God for his privilege of recovery from those things which could have turned out a lot worse.

(Sometimes when I don’t know what to write about, I just take a few weeks off the blog writing. Hope that doesn’t bother anyone.)

Oh, it slipped my mind: all this stuff going on is just politics, right? Strangely, no, it isn’t just politics. It is a demented version of a demented segment of this demented world! 

The world may not settle down, at least not down to a low enough roar that we sane people can continue to live in it. When one political party takes control of both legislative bodies as well as the presidency, they usually gloat, gain smugness, and go about working on their agenda to tilt the nation their way. But, this time? Oh my! This time around they declared war on the outgoing president—accusing him of things he didn’t do—as well as many other members of the opposing party! Why the war? Because if they don’t declare war on political enemies they might be found out to be the perpetrators of most things wrong! That’s why! And that, my friends, is closer to the real reasons for all this happening. Free speech is being attacked at every level; in Congress, on social media, and even little voices of conservative thought. Forget about efforts to support the protection of the other 9 “bill of rights” amendments if the number 1 amendment falls prey to the party in power now.

[ Pardon the (partial) rant.]

Throughout the “pandemic” I’ve noticed a sort of futile attitude in a high percentage of folks with whom I visit. Futility should not exist. Understanding how things around us stretch our minds to the edge should re-create in us a need to know truth, THE truth. Not just our short lived truths thrust upon us in the finite world around us, but the truth which can and should be seen in God’s holy word. The truth about what is ultimately going to prevail. When the Lord Jesus Christ was here He told some men, “Before Abraham was, I AM!” They mocked Him; they said you are not even 50 years old, you weren’t here before Abraham. He said ‘Abraham rejoiced to see my day, and he saw it.” (this is in John 8)—Abraham saw the Lord in His day. How did that come about? I don’t want to sound like this is the answer to that question—but, it could be. From Gen.18:16-22, it seems Abraham was with the Lord at his tent door. The Lord was there. So, did Abraham rejoice in the day of the Lord? looks like it to me. The Lord who appeared after His resurrection, went to be glorified in His ascension, then returned to sit with and appear in more than one place to His 12 Apostles, then to Saul/Paul…why is this not “The Lord” at Abraham’s tent door? (If this isn’t how Abraham “saw it,” how then?)

You see from this how the Lord can make “…all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.”? I hope you can rejoice with Abraham because you can “see” the Lord’s day found in the manner He wrote His instructions for your life to become real to you (read: Romans thru Philemon.) Would love to read comments about this blog.

Thanks for reading,

The Elder

12/26/2020

With the weirdness of 2020 coming down to the last few days, I have wanted to write a poem about it. But, alas, I am not a poet. I’ve wanted to write a strong condemnation of it. But, also, I am not a qualified rebuker. I wanted to write a novel about it. But, alas, I am not a novelist. So, here I sit, writing the perfect solution of it instead: Let’s be done with it! 2020 be hanged! Bring on 2021! 

I wrote at the start of this year about how great the momentous 2020 would be for us all. Boy did I miss this one. There’s no reason for me to re-hash the events of this year. Rather, how about if we stress the need to be positive and therefore enthusiastic about the coming year? Being an inaugural year brings us a different President. He’s not a good choice, but his people worked hard at digging up several million dead democrats to vote him in. So, let me see: 

Democrat Presidents; Jimmy Carter: I listened to when he was running and I could listen to his speeches for a year, or so. Then not until he got old and was a better man than he was a president.

Semi-Republican George H.W. Bush: I didn’t listen, not because his voice bothered me, but because he was sort of “do-nothing” (except he lied one miserable time and sort of done me in.)

Bill Clinton: I listened to him once when he first ran, listened to the debates (both terms) because H. Ross Perot was there, never listened to a presidential speech, but now listen to him just to see what an old liar sounds like.

More Republican than his father, but way less conservative than me George W. Bush: I listened to him for 8 years and like Reagan, his second term he was too liberal. He also caused the next guy to win. Yes, he did.

Barack Obama: I heard one primary speech and dismissed him as being qualified to do anything. Then, the debates, primarily to see how poorly the republicans presented their proposals. Could not ever listen to his speeches for his 8 years, and now cannot stand to hear his voice. His audacity of writing nearly 800 pages about himself and calling it Part 1 is not to be believed!

Now, we’ve got Joe…..oh, my. Can’t listen, can’t participate, can’t believe we are in this position——80 million votes? I don’t believe it! He may be the last president of the USA, I fear.

So much for politics, let’s move on! Wait! It’s hard to do that since I want to mention Covid-19 and it’s as political as they come! 

I know the virus is actually making many people ill and there is no denying people close to me are ill from it. A couple of distant relatives of my wife have passed away due to the China virus. I call it that because all that I have read and can learn about its genesis convinces me that China had it made, probably with a consortium of collaborators from all over the world. What their purpose truly was I will leave to your own judgment. And the medical experts, doctors, and caregivers at every level cried out, “We must have a vaccine!” So, President Trump instigated a program to cut the research time down by about 70% and sure enough, we have a vaccine being applied (as I write) to millions of people—even while politics is still arguing about where it should go and when.

In the first place, this should have never been manufactured in China. In the second place, China should have kept it contained. Thirdly, as soon as the president banned incoming flights from China and Europe, medical experts began to want to take over the United States of America and began by illegally  suspending rights (without the benefit of martial law) and soon begin to cause local officials everywhere to quarantine healthy people! How much greater idiocy could have been perpetrated upon us?! So, here we are one year in. Record breaking research and two vaccines foisted upon us because of the diabolical intentions of a few who, no doubt, will never be caught or brought to justice.

The quarantine-isms have caused more harm than good. Business closures are doing irreparable damage to millions of people. Gatherings have been so curtailed in may states that fellowship is rapidly coming to a halt. What these governance pressure point operators don’t seem to remember is this: people teach themselves how to become immune by personal health-care, feeding, self-quarantining, and diligence. I don’t believe there would have had to have been any of the government involvement in curtailment of normal activity. People would have taught themselves and probably with a lot less deaths. 

[I know it’s easy to say this because I don’t have to offer proofs or back it up. It is just my opinion. What becomes suspect in my mind is the progression of virus attacks over my lifetime which carried warnings of the “massive” deaths that were expected: bird flu, swine flu, SARS, HIV, etc. All these have been handled and are still in existence, but contained. It is as though Covid-19 finally wins the prize for causing world panic. I’m remembering it was called a “pandemic” long before there were any numbers to warrant it, but they managed to get the numbers up and say, “See there, we told you!” But, even though the numbers scare us and our heart aches for those whose loved ones have died, the death rate to Americans is 1/10th of 1%. And the most vulnerable (elderly with other chronic or terminal illnesses) amounts to about 40% of those who’ve died. It is horrible. It is diabolical. And it is a process to take away personal freedoms in the western civilizations that we’ve never seen before. More effective than military wars or juntas or crooked elections.]

My constant prayer besides health and safety for all is this: That the Lord Himself, fulfilling the promise of 1 These.4:13-18, takes us out of here soon and let politics and its hero have the world for a “little wrath” and then, the coming Savior!….Without which this world’s condition will continue to worsen and we who have that promise will suffer even greater things.

Thanks for reading, the Elder

12/22/2020

Well, I’m wondering if anyone will read this. I haven’t written anything for about 5 weeks. It isn’t that I went blank and had nothing to write, several things have been lolly-gagging about in my head and still are. But, most of them are negatives not worth my time and certainly not worth yours. Besides, several of these “gripes” are being written nationally and all over social media!—better writers with more firsthand knowledge than me! Today, however, I thought it profitable to pen a few things. Help yourselves if you wish, I hope it’s somewhat beneficial.

The shortest day of the year has now passed, as well as that once-in-a-lifetime event with the planets, which didn’t occur to me as anything special, but many media were speaking of it. It too has passed. Ahem. Now back to history, the important stuff!

For 12 years of schooling I attended Trafalgar school in Trafalgar, IN (I like writing about Trafalgar because it was the stage that unfolded my “firsts” in so many things.) Each year for I don’t know how long the Alumni Association of THS has held a Banquet on Derby Day—first Saturday in May. This year it was cancelled due to Covid-19….ever heard of that? Yeah, me too. This morning instead of a SIMH, I awoke with the alumni (collectively) in my head. Not particularly anxious that they should replace music and song, but it was OK as a slight diversion.

I hope this annual event is not cancelled again. If it takes the demise of the China virus to bring it back, then that’s my prayer. I missed seeing the alum more than I would have suspected. 2021 makes my 1960 class just 6 years away from the final THS graduating class—1967. So, the number gets a little fewer each year, as you might expect. But, for those of us who have been gone from Trafalgar for so long, being privileged to see those still able to come is a real treat, a memory that rises often in our minds. There’s another Trafalgar story gonna follow this. I hope it shan’t be irritating or boring.

Trafalgar Volunteer Fire Dept. had a Saturday Fish Fry very often (can’t remember if it was ever more than twice a month. Maybe.) It was a very unique fish fry: the unique breaded fish taste is legendary still in the minds of all those who remember it and I’ve never known why. Or, if anyone of the firemen knew what it was, but it was unique enough and popular enough that threats of getting a different fish would have caused mutiny! It was goo-ood!!

Besides the sandwich there were always homemade sides and especially the pies. Oh, the pies! I believe every woman in the whole township baked and brought pies. (When I saw the movie “Michael,” the pie scene reminded me of the fish fry Saturdays in Trafalgar.)

My first experience, at least in my memory bank, of the Fish Fry Saturday goes back to my first Boy Scout troop meeting, I guess that would have been in the Fall of 1953. We gathered in the little office-type room at the Fire Dept with our Scout Master, Mr. Herb Lancaster. Sometime during that scout meeting, men began to arrive and drove the fire dept. vehicles out of the bays and we scouts were drafted into the set up activity for the Fish Fry a couple of days later. First Scout meeting, first “community” work event, first Fish Fry that I remember. What an evening for an 11 year old!

The last time I was at a Fish Fry was several years ago and if I recall, was the next to the last year they had fish fries. I was there with my brother Ken and we stayed till the end talking with an old friend. As we stood next to our cars, trying as friends do, to end our conversation, another townsman came by, waved at us smilingly and drove on. Our old friend said to us, “I’ve heard many things about that man for years: did he ever cause you guys any harm or bother?” We said no, and I added, “there was a time in my growing up years that I thought of him as a good friend.”…we stood there a few moments, then the old friend said, “Nuf said!” We agreed and said our goodbyes. …A lesson from a small town of true community.

The first time I chased the Volunteer Fire Dept. truck (as many townspeople did, just to lend a hand, if needed) it went to a farm West of town where a grass fire was out of control and reaching toward nearby properties on two sides. While the tank truck extinguished the largest of the blazes, about 25-30 of us grabbed gunny sacks and headed for the other fire edges and beat out the rest of the fire.  I remember the satisfied feeling of knowing the VFD was helpful, as well as having been a part of it. Hmm, that might make for a new melancholic phrase —small town satisfaction (STS)…..or not.

By the way, people who study their bible the way I and several hundreds of my acquaintances do are sometimes called Rightly Dividers. So, it has become a FaceBook thing to refer to them as RDers. It’s ok, obviously. But, it has a sort of triteness that I’m not sure I like. I am one, but I may not need to be nicknamed, or acronymed!..know what I mean? (In case you didn’t know, “rightly dividing the word of truth” is a portion of 2 Tim.2:15 which instructs us individually to study in order to have our works approved of God. Ergo, the type of study is to continue in rightly dividing as we study.)

Hey! New picture coming next time, I hope. (If I can make the process work.)

Thanks for reading, the Elder