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I recently visited with someone I had not seen in almost 50 years.  We met at Valdosta State College in the early 1970s, but she was only there a short time.  That was the last contact I had with her, yet our friendship was memorable enough to easily pick up where we left off.

Please understand this is not a story about romance.  We did once go on a date together, but not with each other.  She went with Jim, and I was with her friend Latrelle.  And we danced until almost midnight even though three of us were Baptists.

The element of romance probably doesn’t matter to either of my regular readers, but I felt compelled to address it.  The Vice-President of the Proof Department at Joiner’s Corner has made two old-fashioned chocolate pies lately at my request.  I don’t want to jeopardize prospects of having more of that spectacular pudding topped with meringue so light it defies gravity.

My friend, Becky, and I filled in some blanks while sipping hot tea on a rainy afternoon at Lake Blackshear.  After covering the present, we took a nice stroll down memory lane.  Virtual tours of the past are not a bad option at this point in life.  Memories often grow sweeter with the passing of time.  Then she posed a question which I’ve never spent much time thinking about.

“What’s on your bucket list?” she asked, her query taking me by surprise.

“I don’t really have a bucket list,” I answered.  “I’m not even sure how many buckets we have.  My guess is seven or maybe eight, but it’s never crossed my mind that I should make a list of them.”

Her disarming smile was unchanged from decades earlier, a sign I interpreted as an indication I should continue.

“Our buckets are mostly white or yellow.  We had a brown one, but it finally got so many cracks in it we threw it away.  Most of our buckets originally contained hydraulic fluid or chemicals used on our farm.  There’s only one I know of that had waited emptily on a store shelf until we purchased it.

“The bucket we bought came from Survivors Bait & Tackle on St. George Island.  When our family was there on vacation last summer, I bought some shrimp for our grandchildren to fish with.  I didn’t have a container to carry them in, so I weighed the options of a small Styrofoam minnow bucket or a five-gallon plastic one.  I figured the bigger bucket would be more useful at home.

“Jane uses that bucket when she picks up pinecones.  We’ve gotten our money’s worth already and it could easily last another ten years.  Plastic buckets are quite durable if they’re taken care of.  Jane loves working in the yard and I try to make sure she has good equipment.

“We also have a couple of small metal buckets that probably hold two gallons or so, but that’s just a guess.  One of them came as a door-prize at an annual meeting of Middle Georgia Electric Membership Corporation.  It’s a nice bucket that certainly deserves to be included on a list.  I don’t remember where the other one came from unless it was a beach trip, but that’s highly speculative.”

Before wrapping up this column, I need to disclose I have taken considerable liberties with the truth.  As I began writing it seemed potentially amusing to answer Becky’s question in a different manner than expected.  I hope you agree, but either way, here’s a condensed version of what really happened.

When Becky asked what was on my bucket list, I told her the first thing that came to mind.  “I’d like to write something that makes a difference,” I said.  “It doesn’t matter if I’m famous for it, or if I make any money with it, but I’d love to know I’ve written something worthwhile.”

“You’re already doing that,” she responded with warm affirmation.  I know my friend is sincere, and I hope she’s right, at least some of the time.  Her question led me to do some soul searching, and I’m offering you that same opportunity: What’s on your bucket list?  Is it worthwhile?

I hope today’s column was worth your time.  I’ll try again next week if you’ll let me.  If I stop writing these stories my daily routine will no doubt take a troublesome turn.  Pinecones are steadily falling like gentle spring rains, and I’ve said far too much to hide the other buckets.

The story of a young man named Eutychus is found in Acts 20:7-12.  He was seated in the opening of an upstairs window as he listened to the Apostle Paul.  Paul was planning to leave town the next day, so he kept preaching until midnight.

I’m not sure at what point Eutychus drifted off to sleep, but I’ll bet his pals were amused as they watched his eyes grow heavy.  Eutychus wouldn’t have attracted much attention, except he fell backwards from a three-story room and died when he hit the ground.  Thankfully, Paul was used by God to intervene and Eutychus’ life was restored in a miraculous way.

It’s a given that everyone present was alarmed by Eutychus’ fall, shocked by his death, and amazed by his second chance at life.  After things settled down Paul broke bread then continued talking until daylight.  Scripture doesn’t say, but I’m certain Eutychus stayed awake the rest of the time.

There’s a smiley face in my Bible by those verses that I drew at some point when I made a notation: “Sleeping in church is a longtime problem.”  I imagine Eutychus still gets some good-natured teasing about that episode.  I don’t know exactly what heaven will be like, but I have no doubt that laughter will be common.

Eutychus’ story reminds me of a Sunday night service at Harmony Baptist Church during my childhood.  I was sitting with my cousin, David Dunaway, and his older brother, Larry.

Larry must have stayed up late the night before.  David and I were tickled as we watched Larry’s predictable path toward slumber.  We were hoping for some free entertainment, maybe a head jerk or a forward slump noticeable enough the preacher might call his name.  Much to our chagrin Larry remained upright although his eyes were fully sealed.  That’s when David had a moment of inspiration.

David opened a green Broadman Hymnal to number 162, “Just As I Am.”  He put the hymn book in front of Larry and whispered with urgency, “Stand up!  We’re singing!”  Larry popped up from that pew like sliced bread being sprung from a toaster, but he quickly noticed he was standing alone.  That’s when he gave David a “you just wait until we get home” kind of look that I still vividly remember.

At Vienna First Baptist, where I’ve been a member since 1976, Mr. Emmett Stephens was our champion pew sleeper for decades.  In today’s congregation Frank Hulsey would give him some competition, but back in the 1970s Mr. Emmett was without peer in competitive dozing.  Like my cousin, Larry, and my friend, Frank, Mr. Emmett had a gift for napping without drawing attention.

JW Wallis was the pastor at Vienna First when Jane and I became members.  He didn’t fret over his much older friend Emmett nodding off during the service, and Mr. Emmett was very appreciative of his young pastor.  He told JW that he had slept through the sermons of other preachers, but assured him, “I’ve never slept as soundly as when you preach.”

One late night at home Mr. Emmett listened in frustration to the ticking of the clock by his bed.  He was quietly miserable for a while, then finally spoke softly to his wife.  “Christine, are you awake?”

“I am now,” she answered.  “What is it Emmett?”

“I’m having trouble going to sleep,” he told her.  “How about calling JW and see if he’ll read me a little bit of one of his sermons.”

JW and others of us from that era still enjoy revisiting that memory.  It’s a funny account of a man who sometimes slept better in church than he did at home.  But within that humorous framework is a reminder that pastors need more than members.  They also need friends.  JW didn’t worry about Mr. Emmett sleeping on Sunday mornings.  He knew he could count on him the rest of the week.

I’m sure Mr. Emmett and Eutychus have swapped stories by now, and he’s no doubt looking forward to introducing Eutychus to JW somewhere down the road.  I can almost hear him saying, “Eutychus, this is the fella’ I’ve been telling you about that used to put me under.”

When Eutychus stops chuckling Mr. Emmett will likely be serious for a moment and share how much JW means to him.  “But Eutychus,” he’ll probably add, “if you’re ever in a service when JW is preaching, I’d suggest you keep a good distance away from any open windows.”

I’m old enough to know better but I did it anyway.  I spent most of the last Saturday in March trying to burn a pile of wet leaves.  They looked dry on top, but sometimes I forget that what we see is not always what we get.  Beneath the surface is what’s most important.

My long day of spreading layers of leaves to keep the fire going reminded me of an old television ad.  It ran on Macon’s WMAZ Channel 13 during my 1950s childhood.  I couldn’t find the advertisement using a Google search, so I may not be telling this exactly right.  I’m not giving my usual guarantee of at least 50 percent accuracy.

Two middle aged local men were featured touting a brand of bacon, which I’m guessing was packaged in Central Georgia.  According to one of the fellows this exceptional bacon wouldn’t burn.  The other man, however, kept forgetting that unique characteristic.  The first gentleman feigned frustration towards his rather hapless friend.  “He’ll never learn!” he said, while shaking his head.  Just afterward, or maybe it was just before, he’d add with excitement, “Southern Maid No-burn Bacon – It will not burn.”

We have a big yard with a lot of trees.  Jane normally mows over the leaves with mulching blades, but her mower was in Russ Bowden’s Infirmary this past leaf season.  It needed some major work, so I came up with a brilliant idea of blowing the leaves into piles.  To make loading easier, I made a leaf sled.  There’s no patent pending.  You are welcome to follow the detailed instructions below and build your own.

I took a 12 by 16 blue polyethylene tarpaulin and ran a small cord through the grommets all the way around.  We raked the leaves onto the tarp, draped the cord over the bumper hitch on my truck, then drug it 100 yards to our brush pile.  I flipped it over to unload, then returned to our yard and repeated that process until the truck ran low on gas.

If I can pause here for a moment on a sidebar to the story, I’d like to say I’m not totally convinced tarpaulin is spelled correctly.  I’ve always pronounced it tar-po-le-on, four syllables with an accent on po.  I’m relying on Spell Check but hoping it’s wrong.  Tarpoleon may not be a real word, but in my opinion it should be.  Say it aloud a few times and I think you’ll agree it sounds better.

Those leaves covered an area bigger than downtown Findley and were several feet deep.  They had been soaked by winter rains which set a record on Coley Crossing.  The top three inches of that pile burned like wildfire.  It went, “faster than a Seville second,” as Marian Bowen would say.  But the bottom three feet or so wouldn’t cooperate.

I should have looked beneath the surface before I struck the match, but the dry top and delightful weather was too tempting.  It was a beautiful spring day with a perfect breeze, enough wind to scatter the smoke without floating tiny cinders to parts unknown.

It was around nine a.m. when I called for my burn permit.  I expected to be through before lunch, or at least well before sundown as required by regulation.  The flames died out before the deadline, but the leaves were still smoldering Sunday morning.

Our former next-door neighbor, the late Mrs. Lorena Morgan, worked in her yard almost daily.  She piled leaves and limbs into a wheelbarrow and burned them every few days.  The smoke finally got to her though.  She walked to the ambulance that took her to the hospital where she soon died at 102.

While burning those leaves, I was reminded of Miss Lorena.  She was a sweet, soft-spoken lady who loved taking care of her flowers and grounds.  If heaven offers a neighborhood channel, I hope she was watching me.  I know what she’d be thinking but would be too kind to state.  “He’ll never learn.”

I say that because I believe this is the second time I’ve made the same mistake.  The slow burning of wet leaves seemed oddly familiar.  As the great Yogi Berra would have said, “It’s like déjà vu all over again.”

Hopefully I won’t soon forget a lesson I sometimes ignore.  The top layer of anything seldom tells the whole story.  But if we look beneath the surface, we’ll find what’s most important.

During my early childhood at Harmony Baptist Church, Mrs. Ilene Mashburn was my Sunday School teacher.  She used a felt board to help tell Bible stories, pressing on figures to go with the scenes she compellingly described.

I saw Noah standing at the entrance of the ark while the animals peacefully boarded, guided by an unseen Shepherd.  I watched Moses lead the children of Israel as they walked on dry ground between towering walls of water in the Red Sea.  And I was amazed at Daniel who showed no fear as he sat on a large stone in a den of lions.

It was hard to imagine having the courage of those Biblical heroes, yet I believed it was possible by choosing faith over fear.  My belief is unchanged, yet making that choice remains a challenge.

Another vivid memory from those early days in Sunday School is from a few years later.  Mrs. Betty Calhoun was our teacher by then.  A recollection that still causes me to smile is from our time of reciting verses.

Memorization has never been my strong suit.  I could learn something well enough to usually make a good grade on tests at school, but the information dissipated as soon as the bell rang.  It was the same with memorizing Bible verses.  A few have stayed with me, but I generally look them up for accuracy.  I’ve found that my paraphrasing is too heavily influenced by my opinion.

My go-to scripture during recitation time was, “Jesus wept,” from John 11:35.  It was also, however, the highly preferred option of my cousin, David Dunaway.  We sat beside each other and would scuffle over who went first in the rotation.

As soon as Miss Betty said it was time to recite verses, we quickly raised our hands.  From the front edges of our seats David and I waved aggressively while trying to restrain one another.  We competed with feigned desperation for the privilege of quoting the shortest verse in the Bible.

I didn’t understand much about that brief scripture at the time.  It’s likely I had heard a sermon on it at some point, but I don’t remember one.  To me it was simply a ticket to go to the front of the line.  Lately, however, I’ve been thinking more about Jesus’ weeping.

Covie Langford called me in early April to tell me his first cousin, Jimmy, had died.  Jimmy Langford and I grew up about two miles from each other.  We started first grade together at Pinehurst Elementary.  As adults we worshipped in the same church.  For the past ten years we lived just a few hundred yards apart.

Jimmy was one of the most kind-hearted and humble people I’ve ever known.  He had a Christ-like demeanor that I aspire to emulate but fall dreadfully short.  He didn’t make speeches or do other things that garner attention or yield applause, but his servant’s heart was a wonderful example for all who knew him.  Jimmy preached a daily sermon in how he lived.

I didn’t know Jimmy had been sick for a week or so before he died.  Maybe that’s why Covie’s phone call brought tears to my eyes.  The tears only lasted a moment, but as I’m writing this story on Easter Sunday my eyes have turned red.  I’m sad because a gentle man with an easy smile is now among the COVID-19 losses.   Statistics are more troubling when they wear a familiar face.

An unexpected death of a lifelong friend seems more tragic than usual during this pandemic.  Virtual embraces aren’t the same as real ones, yet that’s the world we must live in for a while.

Perhaps it would have been better if I had written something humorous this week.  Melancholy topics are already far too common.  But I wanted Jimmy’s wife, Kay, and their son, Kyle, to know what was in my heart.  Writing a column is not like giving them a hug, but it’s all I can do for now.

It’s a little embarrassing to admit I’ve been crying, but I think it’s helped me understand something better than I did before.  I’ve heard several explanations as to why Jesus wept, yet I’m still unsure of all the implications.  I’m confidant, however, that he shed those tears to tenderly teach us a lesson.  By Jesus’ example we can know one thing with certainty.  Sometimes it’s okay to cry.

In 1950 Holy Oak Baptist Church was approaching the 100^th anniversary of its founding.  Its white clapboard walls and faithful congregants were typical of rural South Georgia.  There were a dozen children of various ages, and 50 or so adults who ranged from barely grown to almost gone.

No one was more faithful than Deacon Homer Smith, a silver haired gentleman who had once been a baby at Holy Oak.  He’d always done more than his part for the church, mostly because he wanted to, sometimes because no one else was willing.

When the ancient oak tree which Holy Oak was named for toppled over in a storm, Deacon Smith made a beautifully finished pulpit from its massive base.  Then he carved an old rugged cross to be hung behind the preacher on the baptistry wall.

Deacon Smith’s wise counsel was valued by the congregation.  As he grew older, however, he began keeping his opinions to himself.  It was, he believed, time for the mantle of leadership to transition to a younger generation.  In January of 1950 he made a private resolution to keep silent in the conferences held each month on the second Sunday.

He made it through several meetings without expressing his views on any matters of business.  In the April conference, however, his fortitude was severely tested when Sister Betty Lou Watkins, President of the Women’s Missionary Union, proposed a substantial acquisition.

When the pastor asked if anyone had any new business to bring up, Sister Betty Lou raised her hand.  She moved that Holy Oak spend $500 to buy a chandelier.  It was the first time Deacon Smith had heard a woman present a motion in conference.  He stayed quiet but his heart was racing and his stomach was churning.  He knew the Apostle Paul said women should keep silent in church, but he was unsure if that applied to conferences or maybe just preaching.

Multiple opinions were offered by church members during a lively discussion.  Some thought a chandelier was a wonderful idea and wanted to get it before the 100-year Homecoming celebration in October.  Others thought it was a complete waste of money.  Two men with opposite views each said they were certain of God’s will in the matter.  The chandelier became a divisive issue in a place where unity had long been the norm.  That’s when Deacon Smith stood up to speak.

“For the past few months, I’ve kept my opinions to myself,” he said, “because I feel like it’s time for me to step aside on items of church business.  But I can’t sit quietly in the pew today.”

With the kind spirit he was known for Deacon Smith continued.  “I’ve listened carefully to every comment, and I have no doubt they’ve been said with good intentions.  But I honestly don’t believe our church needs a chandelier.  We don’t need to spend that kind of money to buy a chandelier.  We don’t have a good place to put a chandelier.  And we don’t have a single member in our congregation who knows how to play a chandelier.”

He looked around the sanctuary as he paused to gather his thoughts.  His heart was warmed by pleasant expressions.  Scowls of contention had given way to radiant smiles.  “This church doesn’t need a chandelier,” he added with confidence and conviction.  “What this church needs is some better lighting!”

Sister Betty Lou Watkins withdrew her motion and offered to help investigate the lighting issue. Deacon Homer Smith moved to authorize the W.M.U. to spend up to $500 for whatever kind of fixtures they could agree on.  And the smiling congregation of Holy Oak Baptist Church knew one thing with absolute certainty. Sometimes the Lord works in mysterious ways.

Footnote: “The Chandelier” was one of many humorous stories told by the late comedian Jerry Clower.  He was a master of clean comedy and a fine Christian gentleman.  I don’t think he would mind my sharing a new version of his old story, but someday I’ll ask him.  I expect to see Jerry in a place where there’s no need for chandeliers.  The light from the Son is more than enough.    

It’s amazing how much debris can accumulate in a gutter over fifteen years.  Until the first Saturday in April, I don’t think we had cleaned out our gutters since they were installed.  The coronavirus pandemic has necessitated most of us spend more time at home, so I’m catching up on some overdue maintenance.

Confinement of any type is seldom viewed as a blessing, but we’re fortunate if we have that option.  There are masses of people who would love to stay home but can’t.

First-responders are working long hours in conditions more hazardous than anyone could have imagined.  Healthcare providers are worn to a frazzle as they risk their own lives to help save others.

Grocery store workers are wiping down carts and stocking shelves.  They were rarely thought of as heroes in the past.  Today, however, I’d like to hug every one of them.

Druggists are still dispensing medicine.  Restaurant employees are cooking take-out orders.  Truckers are delivering goods to warehouses which people in vans bring to our porches.  And the folks at the post office know the mail must go through.

People in factories are wearing masks while making things we need.  Many are nervous about going in, yet thankful to be on payroll.  Coronavirus is fatal to jobs but not bills.  Payments come due every month and essentials are quickly depleted.

I’ve only touched the surface of professions which are severely affected by COVID-19.  My point is that those of us who can stay home in relative comfort and safety have a lot to be thankful for.  I’m sure you already know that, but it takes a lot of reminding for me.

Jane was pruning shrubbery in our back yard when she noticed a weed with a yellow flower growing in our gutter.  Despite its colorful bloom, I knew it shouldn’t be there.  So, I got a ladder and pulled it out.

I was surprised to find that weed had a lot of company.  A row of green unwanted guests was thriving in a mixture of leaves and sand-like particles that had washed down from our shingles.

The debris was several inches deep and tightly packed by time and moisture.  I had to loosen it with a trowel before using a big shop vacuum to suck it out.  And I did something foolish.  I ignored some advice that I had included in a small book titled Lessons From The Ladder.

There’s a sticker on many ladders which warns, “DO NOT STAND ABOVE THIS STEP,” but I climbed a rung higher.  It turned out okay, but it was a poor choice.  All I had to do was borrow a longer ladder from my neighbor, Ken, or get one from the farm on Monday.  But the gutter needed cleaning and I didn’t want to wait, for I had already waited too long.

I hope by the time this is published COVID-19 will be on the downslope.  Meanwhile I’ll spend some time taking care of a few things I’ve neglected, like cleaning out the gutters.

It’s also a good opportunity to clean out my spiritual gutters.  They tend to fill gradually with bits of sediment.  They look about the same from ground level, revealing nothing that demands urgent attention.  At some point, however, the weeds take hold and the roots grow deeper.  And we venture precariously near the top of the ladder trying to treat the symptoms rather than the cause.

Spiritual gutters need thorough cleansings.  “Nothing but the Blood,” a hymn written in the 1800s, succinctly tells us how.  “What can wash away my sin?  Nothing but the blood of Jesus.  What can make me whole again?  Nothing but the blood of Jesus.”

When a rain gutter is filled with debris, it doesn’t function like it’s supposed to.  And when a spiritual gutter is cluttered with sin, it doesn’t work like God intended.  There’s a cost that comes with neglect, and a joy that comes with a clean fresh start.  There will never be a better time for a new beginning than right now.

As hymnist Robert Lowry so aptly put it, “Oh, precious is the flow, that makes me white as snow.  No other fount I know, nothing but the blood of Jesus.”

By the time I was born in the fall of 1952, I had been attending Harmony Baptist Church for nine months.  During my early childhood there were only a few steps separating Harmony’s sanctuary and that of Smyrna United Methodist.  The distance between those white frame buildings was probably no more than 50 feet.  The congregations shared an unpaved parking area, an ancient cemetery, and a long row of concrete picnic tables located beneath towering virgin pines.

I’m not sure who built the impressive, though unpainted, cement block outhouse.  I think it was on Harmony’s property, but the open-door policy welcomed members of either denomination, as well as those who only came for special occasions like revivals, funerals, and Decoration Day.

The oversized outhouse was divided into two sections, one for ladies and the other for men.  Each side had a long wooden plank that could accommodate two people, or maybe it was three.  In my young mind it seemed that a cement block privy for a rural clapboard church reflected an uncommon degree of prosperity.  I can honestly say, however, that I never heard anyone boast about it.

There was a hand pump near the outdoor concrete baptismal pool.  After a few strokes of the rusty metal lever, cool water would trickle from its iron spout.  I don’t remember girls drinking from it, but young boys found immeasurable pleasure pulling that handle and leaning over to take a sip, knowing a little mud might splatter on our shoes.  That sure was good water, especially in the middle of summer.

I don’t think Harmony’s baptismal pool was ever filled from that old pump, but I’m not sure.  When I was baptized in the summer of 1962 the church had a deep well and a water hose.  Right after our July revivals someone, usually the nearby Deloach family, would remove the winter leaves and summer frogs from the uncovered baptistry and fill it with clean water.           Reverend Earl Troglin was the young pastor who immersed me.  I told Brother Earl a few years ago that some people think he didn’t hold me under long enough.  He said he’d rather be accused of going too short than too long when he lowers someone beneath the surface.

In the days before air conditioning Harmony had big ceiling fans that stirred the air almost imperceptibly.  The windows of both churches, Harmony and Smyrna, were raised for services during hot weather.  It was an enchanting view looking through those open windows.  A downside, however, was that wasps would occasionally join us.  Their unpredictable flight patterns provided welcome amusement at times.  On other occasions young boys fought bravely to conceal unadmitted fears.

Those menacing wasps were especially unsettling during prayers.  The decision whether to keep our eyes fully closed or discreetly monitor for potential attacks was never easy.  I was thankful when I discovered there’s a code of silence among peeking sinners of all ages.

Boys could feel a wasp landing on our flattops, and men could tell if one skidded down a Vitalis coated runway.  But ladies, especially those with fresh permanents, had no idea when an invader lightly meandered across a stiff hairdo in search of a nesting site.  It was a delicate matter whether to ignore the wasp, sound the alarm, or swat it with a funeral home fan and hope it didn’t land in some place even worse.

Although wasps could be troublesome, there was one thing I especially enjoyed which came through those open windows.  I loved hearing familiar hymns sung by our Methodist friends, and I tried to make sure they heard us too.  Daddy told me about a memorable Sunday morning of long ago.  While the Harmony folks were singing “Will You Meet Me Over Yonder?” the Smyrna congregation was answering “No Not One, No Not One.”

I think that’s just an amusing tale my father heard and passed along.  But remembering those open church windows reminds me of moments long ago that still matter.  There were times at Harmony when I listened to the preacher and times when I listened to the songs.  And there were times, thankfully, when I listened to the Lord.  That’s the part that still matters.

I’m not sure what year our family encountered bumper sharks in the Gulf of Mexico.  Several of us were playing in the clear waters off St. George Island.  Melanie, our second grandchild, was probably seven or eight.   She’s sixteen now, but that moment is still vivid in her memory, as well as in mine.

St. George Island is one of my favorite places.  Our family enjoys vacationing there so much I’m reluctant to bring attention to it, but I know good things are meant to be shared.  The uncrowded beaches account for much of the island’s charm.  Sparkling white sand has trails of nesting sea turtles comingled with the scattered footprints of man.  And melodies of gently breaking waves ride salt air breezes to a porch hammock perfect for afternoon naps.

Four generations of our family have been going to St. George every June for a long time.  There’s nothing more relaxing than drifting in those calm warm waters while watching seagulls glide overhead and dolphins patrol the coastline.

The state park at St. George is a popular place for shoreline shark fishing.  That’s a mile or so from where we swim, but sharks are not always courteous enough to stay only where they are welcome.  We’ve seen a few uninvited guests that came close enough to get our attention.  A shadowy figure sends us in retreat to the shallows, but the effect is temporary.  The promise of merriment quickly seals the small crack in our confidence.

I don’t remember who else from our family was in the ocean when the bumper shark came.  Melanie was on top of a rectangular float while I drifted nearby.  Something sparked a conversation about sharks and other dangers, and I saw a teachable moment.

“There were some bumper sharks spotted down the beach yesterday,” I told Mel.  Then I assured her she didn’t need to worry, that my long pale legs would be more tempting than snatching a small girl off a float.  I said, “A unique thing about a bumper shark is they let you know before they attack.”

“How do they let you know?” she asked.

“They give you a small bump before they bite,” I answered.  “You’d feel a short nudge underneath the raft. That should give you time to grip the sides tightly or start paddling toward shore.  You’d have to decide what to do.  The main thing to remember in a crises is don’t panic.”

Less than an hour later a bumper shark punched her noticeably from beneath the float.  She abandoned ship and made a frantic lunge toward shore.  That’s when I confessed the culprit was her Papa’s big toe.  We laughed as she nervously returned to her raft, and I asked what she had learned.

“Don’t jump off my float?” she offered rather tentatively.

“That’s a good point,” I said, “but not the main lesson.  Rule number one in a crisis is don’t panic.  Do you know what rule number two is?”

“Don’t jump off my float?’ she repeated with the same uncertainty.

“Nope,” I responded.  “Rule number two is don’t ever forget rule number one.”

Mel and I still laugh about her close call at St. George Island.  Although bumper sharks are mythical creatures, “Don’t panic” is a good rule when real trouble comes.  As the coronavirus wreaks global havoc and gets closer to home, it’s hard not to be anxious and overwhelmed with fear.

Caution and concern are warranted.  It’s not a time for reckless behavior that endangers others.  But it’s also an opportunity to be reminded of what’s most important.  What if we pray as often as we wash our hands?  Being careful and prayerful seems a perfect combination.   “Clean Hands-Clean Hearts” might be a good theme.

I don’t know what the future holds, but I have confidence in the One who does.  He said, “Fear not, for I am with you; Be not dismayed, for I am your God.” (Isaiah 41:10 NKJV)

Life as we’ve known it has abruptly changed, but the Creator of life is still the same.  That’s reason enough not to panic.  And should we forget rule one for a spell, then rule number two works almost as well.  God bless, stay safe, and don’t panic.

Chick-fil-A is my favorite of the chain stores in the fast food business.  There are other places with mighty fine fried chicken, but Chick-fil-A stands out for their excellent service and clean facilities.  It’s also inspiring to me when the owners of a large corporation are generous in their giving and open about their faith in Christ.  They don’t force their beliefs on others, but neither do they hide them.

As a devoted fan of Chick-fil-A I hope they continue to prosper.  That’s why I sent them a suggestion to add Thousand Island dressing as an option for salads.  Thousand Island was the only dressing I ate for many years.  My love affair began during the 1970s in Valdosta at ABC Restaurant.

Mrs. Balanis, the charming Greek lady who owned ABC, made her own delicious version of Thousand Island for the crisp fresh salads she was known for.  A padded booth in her restaurant is where I first realized a green salad can be a full meal.  I can’t claim that was a moment of divine revelation, but it was close.

I’ve gradually shifted toward vinegar and oil over the years and mostly rely on Olive Garden Italian dressing now.  But when I have fried chicken on top of a garden salad I go back to my roots and prefer a heavy dose of Thousand Island.  I emailed my suggestion to Chick-fil-A and got a prompt and polite response.

The fellow who answered my inquiry said they were glad to hear from me and appreciated my input, then he added that due to the potential for misunderstandings they are unable to consider such creative ideas.  He graciously explained their company could potentially already be working on concepts similar to what others might propose, which could lead to confusion as to who originated the idea.

I can see how that could be a concern in today’s litigious society.  Every few minutes there’s a heroic attorney on television encouraging us to sue somebody who did us wrong.  It reminds me of that lady who was in a minor traffic accident and said, “I didn’t know how badly I was injured until my lawyer told me.”

Doctors used to make those kinds of medical determinations.  Now you can call a toll-free number with no upfront cost if you’re willing to share a nominal 40 percent commission on your future winnings.

So, I understand why Chick-fil-A can’t readily accept suggestions.  But I found it amusing they consider Thousand Island dressing to be a creative idea.  If they think that’s creative, they should hear the late Scage Morgan’s story about onion ice cream.

Scage was a good friend of my cousin, Rooney Bowen, and he became a good friend of mine.  I enjoyed his entertaining stories, infectious laughter, and flare for mischief.

Scage had a deep affection for Vidalia onions.  He commented to someone, whose name I’ve long forgotten, that he loved Vidalia onions so much he could eat them in ice cream.  When a man has a prankful nature it’s not uncommon for his friends to be of like mind.  That’s how Scage ended up with a churn of onion ice cream.

“What’d you do with it?” I asked.

“I ate a bowl,” he said, noting his friend dipped him a generous serving.  “I smiled, swallowed, and thanked him profusely.”

“How bad was it?” I inquired.

“It was terrible,” he said.  “I almost choked getting it down, but I bragged on every bite.”

Onion ice cream is obviously a creative concoction, but I’m not recommending it to anyone.  Thousand Island dressing, on the other hand, would be a nice addition to Chick-fil-A’s choices.  If Mrs. Balanis’ recipe was used, I wouldn’t mind paying a little extra.

I hereby publicly affirm that I am in no way entitled to any compensation if this creative idea is implemented now or in the future.  As those friendly folks behind the Chick-fil-A counters always say with a warm smile, “My pleasure.”

Marilyn vos Savant writes a column called “Ask Marilyn” that’s been in Parade Magazine since 1986.  Her affiliation with Parade began the same year she was recognized in the Guinness Book of World Records as having the highest intelligence quotient in the universe.

Guinness discontinued publishing the IQ category years ago, so now we can only guess at who the world’s most intelligent person may be.  Dooly County has some strong contenders, but I won’t name any of them for fear they might get the big head.  A smart person with the big head is a bad combination.  Even a wise person with the big head can be problematic.

You don’t have to take my word on that.  You can read about Solomon in the Old Testament.  Scripture tells us he asked God for wisdom and God granted it.  Solomon was given wisdom unlike anyone else.  He did some remarkable things, and he left us with Proverbs, a splendid collection of wise sayings we can profit from.

Yet with all that wisdom Solomon accumulated 700 wives and 300 concubines.  It seems like even for a wealthy king seven would have been plenty.  That’s a wife for every day of the week, or maybe allow him a few spares in case of headaches.  His staff was probably overwhelmed keeping up with birthdays and anniversaries.  God gave Solomon wisdom, but He left it up to Solomon to use it.  Free will is a wonderful gift, but it sure is hard not to abuse.

I hope Guinness will resume publishing the IQ data and supplement it with a reliable assessment for wisdom.  Perhaps they could merge the scores and list the top 1000 who are American citizens.  It’s a long shot, but maybe one day we could convince someone in that group to run for President.

Readers submit all sorts of questions to Marilyn.  A few times I’ve thought she was wrong, but I’m smart enough not to argue with her.  I’m gradually learning that avoiding arguments is a good practice in many areas of life.  That reminds me of a conversation I had years ago with my good friend and cousin, Roy Noble.

I don’t recall how the subject of spousal disagreements came up, but Roy told me he and his wife, Ann, had never had an argument.  Roy is easy going and Ann was one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known, yet I found it hard to believe they had never argued.  I saw Ann a few days later and shared my skepticism with her.

She surprised me by quickly affirming what Roy had said, then offered some enlightenment.  With a smile so warm it would melt the polar caps, Ann said, “I’ve tried to argue with him at times, but Roy would get in his truck and drive off.”  We shared a moment of laughter, and I realized later I had been offered a valuable lesson.  My record since then is admittedly imperfect, but that memory of Ann helps remind me there are times I should not speak too hastily.  Sometimes the best thing to do is to get in my truck.

I’ve sent a few questions to Marilyn over the years without getting a response.  The only thing I can figure is the problems I presented were too challenging.  On February 9, 2020, she finally came through.  My old pal Bubba Collins let me know I was mentioned in her column.  Now I can quit spending sleepless nights wondering why flannel sheets feel so much warmer than percale.

Marilyn explained that flannel is warmer because tiny air pockets inside the loosely woven threads help capture our body heat.  If the fibers are brushed that also affects the sensation.  That makes sense for during the night, but that’s not what I wanted to know.  It seems to me that when I first touch a flannel cotton sheet it should feel the same temperature as our cotton pillowcases with a percale weave.  The flannel, however, seems warmer, as I’m sure anyone who is still awake this far into the column will agree.

I considered calling Marilyn to complain that she didn’t answer my question satisfactorily, but then I had a better idea.  I got in my truck.  On a slow drive down a dirt road I thought about how good it feels to have flannel in the winter, percale in the summer, and one wife for all four seasons.  I don’t have to ask Marilyn to know that’s a blessing.  And I’m almost positive King Solomon would agree.