Abby’s Graduation

The Gettysburg Address only lasted a little over two minutes.  I won’t claim to be as efficient with my words as Abraham Lincoln, but if you’ll promise to listen closely, then I’ll promise not to keep you too long.  All those in favor, please signify that with a hearty, “Amen!”

Congratulations to each of you in the Senior Class of 2018 of Grace Christian Academy.  I’ll confess to being somewhat partial toward one of the graduates, but that’s part of being a grandparent.

I’d like to give those who are graduating a few simple rules that will almost guarantee you a happy, healthy, and prosperous life.  But the truth is, that’s not how it works.

What I will share with you though, are some worthwhile principles that can help you along life’s journey.  They aren’t new.  You’ve heard them all before.  But I hope to say them in a way that will help you remember them long after leaving here with your diplomas.

The first principle is, “Do your best.”  I heard a story a long time ago about an annual convention of a major dog food company.  It was a well-known national brand, one that all of you are familiar with.  There were several hundred salesmen gathered in the large banquet hall.  The company president was rallying the troops as he enthusiastically shouted out a series of rhetorical questions.

“Who has the best production facilities of any dog food company in America?” he yelled.  “We do!” the sales force shouted back.

“Who has the best distribution system of any dog food company in America?  he asked.  “We do!” they replied with vigor.

“And who has the best sales force of any dog food company in America?” he inquired.  “We do!” they responded.  The room was quickly filled with the thunderous sounds of spontaneous applause.

When the applause subsided, the company president spoke in a low and serious tone.  “If we have the best production facilities, the best distribution system, and the best sales force of any dog food company in America, then why,” he asked, “are the sales of our dog food ranked way down in fourth place?”  The room became uncomfortably quiet.

“Will someone please tell me,” he pleaded, “why aren’t we selling more dog food?”

A man in the back reluctantly stood up and gave a simple answer.  He said, “Because the dogs won’t eat it.”

If your career path leads you to a company that makes dog food, then make the best dog food you can.  Make it so good that the dogs will fight over the scraps.  If you become a school teacher, then be that teacher that makes a difference.  Be that teacher that inspires students to excel both academically and personally.  If you become a surgeon, then keep your scalpel razor sharp.  And live in such a way that your hands are steady, and that your mind is clear.  Ecclesiastes 9:10 perhaps says it best.  “Whatsoever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.”

Secondly, “Get up on the right side of the bed.”  Two men were said to have been engaged in a rather unpleasant breakfast conversation.  One of them had a reputation for being ornery.  The nicer fellow asked him, “Do you always wake up grouchy?” to which the man replied, “No.  Sometimes I let her sleep.”

Never underestimate the value of a positive attitude.  We can’t always control our circumstances, but we can control how we respond to those circumstances.  Rev. A. B. Hosea was the pastor many years ago at Harmony Baptist Church, the little country church of my youth.  He began every morning by looking out his bedroom window while reciting Psalms 118:24, “This is the day that the Lord hath made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”  Quoting that scripture didn’t guarantee Brother Hosea a wonderful day, but it helped him to approach each day with a wonderful attitude.

Finally, ”Brush your teeth and say your prayers.”  That’s what Andy told Opie in Mayberry, and it’s still timely advice.  I remember a bedtime scene where Andy asked his young son if he had brushed his teeth.  Opie fibbed.  He told his father that he had, then he offered for Andy to feel his wet toothbrush as proof.  Don’t ever be tempted to just run water over your toothbrush.  That won’t help prevent cavities.  Take good care of your body.  It’s the only one you’ll ever have.

And nurture your faith.  Every ship needs a rudder to give it direction.  Faith is like the rudder of life.  It keeps us on a course that’s worthwhile, a journey where we serve God by serving our fellow man.  II Timothy 2:15 says, “Study to shew thyself approved unto God a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.”  Our faith doesn’t grow by accident.  It grows by our intentional efforts to become closer to God.  If we excel at everything else we undertake but fail to nurture our faith, we’ve missed out on what’s most important.

I’ve given you four things to think about.  Do your best, get up on the right side of the bed, brush your teeth, and say your prayers.  Following those principles won’t magically give you a storybook kind of life.  It will, however, help you to write a better story for the life that you’ve been given.

Good night, and God bless you.

Posted in 2018 | 10 Comments

Snow Springs

Snow United Methodist Church is a short drive west of Unadilla on Highway 230.  I was there in November of 2017 for the funeral of a long-time friend, Charles Jones.  Charles and I were in the Unadilla F.F.A. String Band together in the late 1960’s.  He mostly played bass guitar, but sometimes took a turn on piano, or plucked a bluegrass classic on his mandolin.  Like his father, Horace Jones, Charles could play just about anything with strings on it.

Jerry Pickard was one of our fellow band members.  He played “Last Date” on the keyboard at Charles’ service.  Jerry and I then played a duet of “Down Yonder.”  Jerry made a lighthearted comment that “Down Yonder” seemed like an odd title for a funeral song.  The congregation laughed, knowing that Charles had a long history with that old country standard.  He had played it countless times in duets, first with Jerry, then later with me.  He would grin comically and bounce along the piano bench as he pounded out the rhythm on the lower keys.

I can’t help but wonder if Charles nudged Saint Peter and said, “Pete, I’ll bet you haven’t heard that at a funeral before!”  Charles had a contagiously joyful approach to life.

Deidre and John Hibberd have been attending Snow UMC since 1974.  At Charles’ service Deidre invited me to come back in the spring to celebrate Homecoming and the 175th anniversary of the church.  She knows that I am easily tempted by a combination of good friends and fried chicken.  They were both plentiful that Sunday in April.

I learned that a nearby spring once bubbled with sand as white as snow, hence the name of Snow Springs.  James Ray Irwin has been around Unadilla for over eight decades and has a gift for remembering details.  I had seen him a few weeks earlier and asked him about those springs.  He said that in his youth it was like quicksand, just like the bottomless pits depicted in movies of yesteryear.

Johnny Moore was born in 1952 and grew up attending Snow UMC.  He’s heard old tales of people tying a rope around themselves and venturing into the swirling sand and water.  Johnny and I graduated together from Unadilla High School in 1970.  If he had been born a few years earlier, he would no doubt have been on the end of one of those ropes.

Brush arbor meetings were held outdoors before the church was officially chartered in 1843.  The site was chosen because it had ample water for the people and their horses.  The preaching, singing, and visiting often lasted for several weeks.  A log church was built but lost in a fire.  The current white frame building has been there since 1902, and remarkably still has the original stained-glass windows.

There are stories from years ago about revivals where the church was overflowing with people.  Buckboards were positioned near the open windows for additional seating.  I guess the preachers in those days needed strong voices, or maybe the people listened more closely.

Mrs. Marjorie Moore is 88 years old.  She’s heard her share of sermons and Sunday School lessons at Snow UMC, but faithfully attends every service.  Her good friend, Mrs. Alvarez Hudson, will be 100 on December 9th.  She moved to Perry a few years ago but came as usual to Homecoming.          The Moore and Hudson families have a long history at Snow UMC.  Miss Alvarez said that her late husband, Vaude, was one of nine children.  Eight of them are buried in the cemetery behind the church.  In an era when big families were common, Snow UMC was surrounded by prospects.

Homecoming has been observed at Snow UMC on the fourth Sunday in April for over sixty years.  This was the first time that Charles Jones wasn’t there.  We sang his favorite hymn, “Victory in Jesus.”  I’d like to think that he sang along, but I don’t want to ask him about it yet.

There was a good turnout for this special occasion. Like many rural churches though, the regular Sunday crowd is a lot smaller than it used to be.  The days of big families have passed, and a lot of folks left the farm to live and work elsewhere.  The list of potential new members is not very long.

The white sand is long gone from the spring.  There are more members in the cemetery now than in the pews.  That’s a sobering fact in some respects, but it’s also a good reminder that Snow UMC has been around for a lot of folks who needed it.  Over the past 175 years they’ve helped quench the thirst for countless souls.  The living water they offer is free to all who will receive it.  It comes from a spring that will never run dry, a spring where the sand is much whiter than snow.

Posted in 2018 | 9 Comments

Another Boss Hog

Boss Hogg was the scheming but lovable political kingpin on The Dukes of Hazzard television series.  Bo and Luke Duke repeatedly foiled his poorly conceived and sometimes illegal plans.

Unadilla has its own version of Boss Hogg.  But the nickname was given to Clint Shugart with great affection, and with a tip of the hat to his fun-loving nature.  He was a longtime Mayor of Unadilla and is one of the most colorful politicians to hail from this part of Georgia.

Mr. Clint turned 89 on May 10th.  I went to his home in early April to talk about a men’s Sunday School class that was formed in 1955.  Mr. Clint is the only original member still living.  Charles Speight and James Ray Irwin went with me on the visit.  Mr. Charles is 96 and has taught the class since 1956.  James Ray, the youngster in the group at 84, is a longtime class member and a first cousin to Mr. Clint.

We talked about church, then briefly discussed the 65 years he drove a school bus in Dooly County.  That’s a state record for Georgia and most likely for all of America.  I rode his bus a few times back in the 1960’s.  He was as popular with the children as he was with his constituents, always smiling and welcoming us aboard.  He didn’t just drive the bus, he hosted a daily social event for his young riders.

The conversation during our visit naturally shifted to politics.  Mr. Clint’s countless trips to the state capital were unconventional but highly effective.  His political savviness was honed during an era when friendship and camaraderie were the best tools of the trade.

Mr. Clint would gather all kinds of produce from local gardens.  He’d head for Atlanta with corn, peas, butterbeans, and watermelons.  He once asked Mr. Charles about getting a few pears from a tree in his yard.  Mr. Clint didn’t leave enough pears on the tree to make a cobbler.

Joe Frank Harris ran for governor in 1982.  A lot of folks didn’t know who he was when Mr. Clint started putting up signs.  But we all knew who he was by election day, and Governor Harris knew who Clint Shugart was.  Those were eight good years for Unadilla and Dooly County.

James Ray asked me with a big grin, “Do you know where Clint parked when he went to see the governor?” I nodded that I didn’t.  “In the Governor’s spot!” he said.  “They would move the Governor’s car and motion for Clint to pull in.”

Mr. Clint and his helpers would unload the produce, hams, or whatever they were carrying.  When a question was posed about regulations, Mr. Clint told his group of friends to just leave everything on the sidewalk.  He said he would let somebody know there might be some abandoned items that needed to be moved.  He embraced results over orthodoxy and had a knack for getting things done.

The waiting room to see Governor Harris was always filled with men wearing tailored suits.  Mr. Clint wore his coveralls, the same ones he had on when he had picked the pears from Charles Speight’s tree.  The Governor would slip out the back door and welcome his good friend into his office.

When the Department of Corrections decided to put a state prison in Dooly County, they spent a full day looking at potential sites.  The last one they inspected was near Unadilla and was quickly deemed their top choice.  Mr. Clint understood that formalities and decisions are two different things.

“There were times,” said Mr. Clint, “when we couldn’t round up enough produce, and we needed some money to buy a few things.”  He said, “Charlie, that’s when I would go see Joe,” referring to Mr. Charles’ late brother.  “Joe would always help us out,” he said, speaking with a deep appreciation that’s lasted for decades.

Several times during our visit Mr. Clint laughed and said, “Charlie, we had some good times, didn’t we?”  Each time, Mr. Charles affirmed that they did.  We walked toward the door to leave and Mr. Charles paused by the chair of his old friend.  He shook his hand, held it a moment, and said, “Clint, we had some good times, didn’t we?”  We all laughed, knowing it was a question that required no answer.

Unadilla has been blessed to have its own Boss Hogg, a homegrown version that’s much improved over that fellow from Hazzard County.  Clint Shugart left town with his trunk full of produce.  He came back home with some big loads of bacon for the folks of Unadilla.  And he and his many friends had some good times all along the way.

Posted in 2018 | 7 Comments

Reverend A. B. Hosea

Reverend Arthur B. Hosea was a remarkable man in my youthful eyes.  I was around 10 years old when he became our interim pastor at Harmony Baptist Church.  He had served as pastor of First Baptist Church of Unadilla for 12 years.  He resigned in 1961, then came to Harmony not long afterward.

He was a distinguished looking gentleman. His silver hair was always neatly combed and his wire rim glasses spotlessly clean.  His white shirts were heavily starched to hold their sharply ironed creases.  In the humid summers of middle Georgia, he sometimes changed shirts several times a day.

He had a pleasingly graveled voice and a dynamic manner in the pulpit.  When he spoke of Elijah confronting the 450 prophets of Baal, I forgot about the hardness of our slatted wooden pews.  Brother Hosea wanted all of us to have a confident faith like that of Elijah. He made it seem almost possible.

It was probably 25 or more years ago when Mr. Emmett Stephens took me on a tour of rural Crisp County, mostly around the Pateville community.  I loved hearing a variety of recollections from a man born in 1912.  He even pointed out a wet bottom where a calf got stuck in the mud and had to be pulled out by ropes.  But the place I found most intriguing was the long-vacated site of a country school.

Mr. Emmett mentioned that Arthur Hosea had grown up in that area.  He had quit school at an early age, something not unusual for a country boy who was born in 1897.  God called him to preach when he was a young man, still in his teens I think.  He returned to a one-room grammar school as an oversized student surrounded by the giggles of young children.  An accommodating teacher cut a hole in the floor so that Arthur could spit his tobacco.

Mr. Emmett said Arthur worked at the train depot in Cordele at night.  A couple of fellows about Arthur’s age decided they would test his commitment to ministry.  They sent a girl to call on him, a girl whose looks were much better than her reputation.  The boys hid behind a pile of coal and watched, expecting that Arthur would be easily distracted from his calling to preach.  But there was nothing to see.  Arthur sent the young lady on her way and continued with his work.

In 1955 Brother Hosea started a men’s Sunday School Class at Unadilla First Baptist.  Allen Head was their teacher the first year.  They began with a group of mostly unchurched men that Brother Hosea rounded up from all sorts of places.  He even found some of them on the barstools of downtown Front Street.  He told them they didn’t need to hide their beers, but that he really wanted to see them in church on Sunday.  He had a talent for meeting people where they were, for sharing his faith in a way that made others want to know more.

On Easter Sunday in 1958 that class had 56 men present.  The church wouldn’t hold them, so they met under a pecan tree.  Charles Speight, who has taught the class since 1956, was there, as was James Ray Irwin.  Clint Shugart was in the group.  He’s the only member left from the original 1955 roll.

I visited with those three gentlemen recently in Mr. Clint’s home.  They recalled a Sunday morning when Brother Hosea said that if God told him to lie down and preach, then that’s what he would do.  He stretched out on the floor and preached for a couple of minutes.  He taught his congregation in a memorable way to follow God’s direction, regardless of how it looked to others.

James Ray said Brother Hosea didn’t have much formal education, only through the seventh grade he thinks.  He smiled broadly when he quoted his beloved former pastor on that subject.  “I may not know the King’s English,” said Brother Hosea, “but I know the King.”

Those three Unadilla men have more memories than a short column will hold.  They recalled a man who had told Brother Hosea that he planned to make a public profession of faith at the next service.  When he stayed put during the invitation hymn, Brother Hosea walked to the pew and took him by the hand.  The man’s heart was more than willing.  Brother Hosea knew that it was his legs that needed some help.

The one room schoolhouse that Arthur Hosea attended is long gone.  So are the pranksters from that night at the train station.  But there’s a Sunday School Class in Unadilla that still bears witness to the efforts of a godly pastor.  There’s a longtime teacher and a dozen or so members still looking on Front Street for unchurched men.  Their faithfulness is a living testament to a remarkable man, a man who knows the King very well.

Posted in 2018 | 4 Comments

Lunchroom Lovers

This is a fictional story about true love.  Or maybe it’s a true story about a fictional love.  If it happened, it was before I met my future wife.  She says either way is okay, so just take your pick.

We weren’t exactly lunchroom lovers, but that title has a lot more intrigue than “My Cafeteria Friend.”  I loved seeing her behind the serving line at Valdosta State College, and I think she loved seeing me.  We enjoyed our brief exchanges as I walked by with my tray.  Our visits were often better than the food.

There was a time when I am sure I knew her name, but that was long ago.  I wouldn’t know it now, even if I heard it called.  I wouldn’t know her either.  Her face has completely faded.  That seems to happen more often lately than it used to.

I was a third quarter freshman in that spring of 1971.  She was a freshman too.  She helped in the cafeteria as part of the college’s work/study program.  She was blond and pretty and had a smile as sweet as her disposition.  She lived at home with her parents in Valdosta.

We never had a class together. Our paths seldom crossed except for those brief encounters in the cafeteria.  We flirted a bit, but mostly we just teased each other, each looking for a reason to talk, often finding something to laugh about.

I struggled in search of clever lines.  She willingly patronized my attempts.  I would ask quietly if she would get in trouble for sharing their recipe for English peas.  She would whisper back and swear me to secrecy, saying she could perhaps get me a label from a can.

I would ask if the potatoes being served had been grown in Idaho, that I much preferred Idaho potatoes.  She assured me that was the case.  She said that she had inspected the bags and found the documentation to be in order.

When we had peach cobbler, I told her I had a vitamin deficiency, that my doctor had advised I needed to eat more peaches.  She asked if he mentioned more ice cream as well.  I affirmed that he did, already knowing I would get a larger serving than the college administration had approved.   We both knew the conversation was not really about dessert.

Once we had a particularly suspicious looking entrée.  I don’t remember what the official cafeteria name of the dish was.  Maybe they didn’t identify it, giving the students a chance to think creatively.  I asked her if there had been any reported fatalities.  “No more than usual,” she casually replied.  “You can count them on your fingers for the whole week.”

The next day I told her that I thought I had food poisoning.  She said, “Maybe you should stop those late-night trips to the Royal Castle.”

“But they have a great scrambled dog for just a dollar,” I said.  “You can’t expect me to give that up.”

“I’ll never try to tell you what to do,” she responded.  “But if you sleep with dogs you’ll wake up with fleas.”

I never asked her for a date, and I’m not sure why.  Maybe she was dating someone, or maybe I was.  The shallow end of my memory pond only has a small trace of water remaining.

As spring quarter was ending, I was about to go home for the summer.  I was glad she was behind the counter that last day.  “Here’s that recipe you wanted,” she said, handing me a label from a can of English peas.

I told her I hoped that she had a good summer, that I would see her in the fall.  She made me promise to eat plenty of peaches and cream, a promise that I have faithfully kept.

She wasn’t working in the cafeteria when I returned to college.  My trips there were never quite the same.  But when I see peach cobbler on a serving line, sometimes it still reminds me of a brief but lovely friendship in a springtime long ago.

It was a special time for lunchroom lovers.  It was a wonderful season for peaches and cream.

Posted in 2018 | 2 Comments

The Floating Ax Head

In the sixth chapter of II Kings there’s an Old Testament story about a floating ax head.  Some prophets were cutting down trees near the Jordan River.  They were building some better accommodations for themselves, and for Elisha, who was the top prophet at the time.

One of those fellows took a hearty swing.  He sent an iron ax head sailing into the river.  To make a bad matter worse, it wasn’t his ax.  He had lost a valuable item that was borrowed and would have to be special ordered from the hardware store.

Elisha didn’t panic nor send for his diving gear.  He asked the man to show him where the ax head plunged out of sight.  He cut a stick and threw it in that same spot. That ax head floated right up to the top of the water.

In January of this year, I found an ax head that had surfaced unexpectedly.  It wasn’t a miracle like God demonstrated through Elisha.  This one was unknowingly rescued from a soggy grave by Chuck Coley’s backhoe operator.

Jane and I were taking one of our regular exercise walks.  We were on the scenic route around the edge of the June Coley Farm, just down the road from where we live.  Jane is usually the one that spots partially hidden things in the ground, but the ax head was right in my path.

It was caked in dirt and obviously had been there a long time.  A small drainage ditch had recently been dug, apparently bringing the ax head to the surface.  My first thought was that it would make a nice addition to Chuck’s scrap iron pile.  But there was also an element of mystique as I wondered how it had been so badly misplaced.

I’m no expert on ax heads or antiques, but I think it was made by hand in a blacksmith shop.  I cleaned off the dirt and rust and found that the metal sides were quite rough.  Part of its textured surface is from taking a long nap in a wet bottom.  But it doesn’t seem to have the uniformity of a mass-produced item. I believe it was hammered into shape by an artisan with a hot fire and a strong arm.

It’s larger and heavier than most modern ax heads.  The curved blade measures almost five inches, a good half inch more than the one I have at home.  Although the sides are imperfectly shaped, its cutting edge is symmetrical.  A few good licks with a file or emery rock and it could be splitting firewood again.

I don’t know how long that ax head had been lost, but I’m sure it was once a valued part of someone’s household.  It’s not the kind of thing that would have been intentionally left in the woods.  Maybe the person using it got sick.  Or maybe someone took a big swing like that prophet did, and the ax head took cover in mud or leaves or in a hole dug by a critter.

All of that is just speculation.  Sometimes I see things as they are, but sometimes I see things as I want them to be.  I don’t know how that ax head got there, but I have no doubt someone searched for a while trying to find it.

I’ve been thinking about those rough sides.  They’re not perfectly formed like an assembly line product, but that doesn’t really matter.  The important part of that ax head is its cutting edge, an edge that was hammered into a fine point, an edge that even today could be sharpened and made useful.

I don’t think that finding that ax head was a miracle, but it reminded me of something miraculous.  It reminded me that God looks past the mud and rust, that He sees us not just as we are, but as we can be.  It reminded me of what God told the prophet Samuel when He sent him to anoint a king: “The Lord doesn’t look at the things man looks at.  Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”  (I Samuel 16:7b NIV)

I’m taking that old ax head to my good friend Chuck.  It’s up to him whether to put it with his keepsakes or add it to his scrap pile.  There’s a good case that could be made for either place.  There’s no miracle in that metal.  The miracle is in the message.

Posted in 2018 | 5 Comments

The Old Man and the C

                                                       A Parable of Purpose

Cephas Jackson was deep in South Georgia, driving down Hopeful Road near Chason Crossing.  He had been to look at an antique tractor, thinking he might enjoy having one to tinker with, hoping he would get asked to put it in the Christmas Parade.  The tractor was a bit overpriced in his opinion. He left it there and began the two-hour drive back home.   “Another wasted day,” said Cephas aloud, although he was alone in the truck.

A lot of Cephas’ days seemed wasted since his retirement.  He didn’t miss work, but he missed having something to do.  He missed the routine of having a place where he was supposed to be.

Cephas saw a homemade sign just off the right-of-way.   All he could read was a big letter C and a large dollar mark.  He figured it must be someone asking for a handout.  He didn’t know if the need was real or not, so he planned to drive on by, hoping they wouldn’t approach him at the four-way stop.

When Cephas got closer he saw that the scribbled C wasn’t for Cash.  “Collards – $1,” it read, a message that caught Cephas by surprise.

The old man had the sign propped against his rusted truck, a truck that held a generous supply of collards. He sat in a lawn chair that needed new straps.  He, the chair, and the truck seemed quite comfortable under a massive oak tree, a tree Cephas knew was much older than the man.

Cephas thought he might enjoy some fresh collards, and a dollar seemed like a bargain.   “Good morning,” he mumbled to the old man.

“It sure is a good morning,” replied the old man with a giant smile.  “I’ve got my health and a truck load of collards!  That’s a good morning to me.”

Cephas thought it was a bit of a stretch to be so happy about just two things, especially since one of those things was collards.  The old man’s smile, however, was infectious. Cephas could not help but smile back.

“I can understand being happy about your health,” said Cephas.  “But at a dollar a head, seems like you wouldn’t be that happy about these collards.”

The old man took another lawn chair off the back of his truck and placed it near his own.  “If you got a minute to spare, Mister, I’ll tell you about these collards.”

Cephas sat down, partly from curiosity, partly from having nowhere else he had to be.  The old man told how he had been doing this for over a decade.  He had retired from his work, then his wife had died.  Their three children lived too far away to visit often.

“These collards,” said the old man, “give me a reason to get up every morning.  I plant them, then keep them watered and free of weeds.  I bring them out here and make a little spending money.”

“Seems like you could raise the price and make a few more dollars,” said Cephas.

“I probably could,” said the old man, “but I ain’t here for the money.  I like having the folks stop by.  Sometimes I get lucky and another old man will sit in that same chair you’re in.  We’ll visit for a while. He’ll leave with my collards, and I’ll stay here with his dollar.  Most of the time we both feel a bit richer that day.”

Cephas folded a twenty-dollar bill so the old man wouldn’t know he was due any change.  He took a bundle of collards, shook hands with the fellow and drove away.  On the way home, he planned his collard patch.  And he thought about growing pumpkins for the fall and gourds to make houses for martins.  Cephas’ mind was overflowing with possibilities.  It was a feeling that he knew was worth way more than the twenty dollars he had left behind.

Cephas envisioned a small stand under the big oak in his own yard.  He would open it when the weather was nice, and would price everything at just a dollar.  He’d have an extra chair or two and maybe a checker board.  He knew that an old man might stop by on occasion, a man who had more time than plans, a man who had no particular place that he needed to be.  “This sure has been a good day,” said Cephas aloud, although he was alone in his truck. “This has been a really good day.”

Posted in 2018 | 9 Comments