While sweeping the floor of our farm shop one October morning, I was fondly reminded of the late Julius Bembry. Enough dirt had accumulated under my watch to start a small garden. That never happened when Julius was around. Sweeping up was part of his weekly routine.

His parents moved to my grandfather Jim Joiner’s farm when Julius was six months old. As a young man he worked with my Uncle Ray for a while, then spent over 50 years helping Daddy. He was a fine Christian gentleman and a dear friend to multiple generations of our family.

There were times of the year that sweeping the shop was put on hold. Planting season  came with long hours, and the days of harvesting often extended past sundown. Usually, however, farm work ended at noon on Saturday. About 11:30 Julius would grab a broom and sweep the concrete floor.

Julius liked a clean and orderly workspace. He’d make sure the hand tools were in the right place, knowing he’d need them again Monday morning. If they were greasy he’d wash them in gasoline. Then he’d sweep the floor and lock the door.

Joiner’s Store also came to mind that morning. My sweeping experiences there were courtesy of one of Daddy’s brothers. Uncle Emmett hired me to help him while he was recovering from a car accident. I was 11 when I started and 12 when I quit. We got along fine, but he tended to have grouchy spells. I figured I could get by without the dollar a day for Saturday pay which he held until month’s end.

Store work was, however, good training. I’d stock the shelves, fill orders, work the mechanical cash register, pump gas, wash his car, and do the weekly sweeping. He kept red sawdust which I’d sprinkle on the wooden floor in the mornings. It came moistened with oil to help attract grime. After a few hours of foot traffic the sawdust was ready to be collected.

A third sweeping-related memory surfaced of my friend Larry Abbott. He died in 2018 at age 70 from ongoing health issues. Larry walked with a pronounced limp, and one of his arms was severely undeveloped and almost useless. Despite those limitations, he kept the floors at the hospital in Vienna spotless for 21 years.

Larry was constantly going up and down those tiled hallways. It was a common site to see him pushing a wide dust mop with an arm made strong from double duty. I never saw him when he wasn’t smiling and pleasantly taking pride in his work. 

His exemplary attitude is one reason I sometimes think about Larry. The other is his simple approach to faith, a perspective he memorably conveyed one day at the bank.

I was sitting at my desk when Larry came into my office. He invited me to speak at a Brotherhood meeting at Mt. Vernon Baptist Church. I told him I would then jestfully added, “Maybe I can think of something to talk about.” 

With a big grin, Larry said he was sure that I could. He headed toward the door, but paused and turned around. He stepped back to my desk and innocently shared some advice which I still cherish. He said, “You could talk about something out of the Bible.” 

That little moment has long been a source of inspiration. Religion can be complicated if we let it. So can church. Larry understood that faith at its best is simple.

Matthew 18:2-3 addresses that matter. “And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them. And said, ‘Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.”  

Sweeping the shop floor that October morning gave me a lot to think about. Julius, Uncle Emmett, and Larry are all gone, but each of them impacted my life in positive ways. Pleasant memories with meaningful lessons are a good combination. Reflecting on them was an unexpected reward for my long-delayed efforts in rounding up the dirt.  

And as the stirred dust resettled to the floor, I decided it best to sweep a little bit more.