Postcards from the Fast Lane

The year was 1930. The scene was Plinnie Jane and Samuel’s bedroom. Plinnie Jane leaned in closer as she pulled the crocheted bedspread up around her husband’s shivering shoulders. “Doll? Can you hear me?”

The sound of Samuel’s labored breathing was his only response. Taking one of Doll’s hands in hers, she sat by the side of the bed…letting her mind wander at will.

“How did you ever get the nickname, ‘Doll?’ I can’t seem to recall.”

As she smoothed the crocheted bedspread once more, her fingers unconsciously caressed the stitches.

“Little did I know when I crocheted this wedding ring bedspread for our wedding night that it would witness so many trials and tribulations…oh yes, this bedspread has seen good times as well…like the birth of our children.” Laughing, she continued, “Remember when Teddy was born and he got his tiny fingers hung up in the spread?”

The door to the bedroom opened and the now-grown children, Bea, Willie Mae, Vance, Q.C., Teddy, and Elmer tiptoed in to say a final farewell to their father. Glancing in their direction, Plinnie pursed her lips to imitate a “shushing” sound as if they were still children.

As they circled the bed, their father rallied one last time. With tears in his eyes, he looked singularly at each of his offspring and smiled. Then, turning to his wife, he squeezed her hand and closed his eyes.

Samuel left an unspoken legacy to his children…one of loyalty, compassion, joy, and responsibility. That legacy carried them through…

The year was 1931. The scene was once again the bedroom where Samuel had passed away the year before. But this time, the crocheted bedspread covered Teddy as he lay dying from an accident. Plinnie hung her head as everyone said their goodbyes to Teddy.

After returning from the gravesite, Plinnie yanked the crocheted bedspread from the bed, determined never to use it again. However, years later, when Plinnie made her last move…to a nursing home, the only thing she insisted taking with her was the bedspread.

The crocheted wedding ring bedspread’s final chapter ended with Plinnie ‘s frail body. She smiled as her snarled hands, once again, caressed the stitches.

“You have been a trusted friend…thank you,” she whispered as she closed her eyes to join Doll and Teddy.

****

Dear Readers, we have a trusted friend in Jesus.

The little Choctaw girl looked at her older brother with tears in her eyes. “Why must you do this?”

“Aki ahnichi lhampko vllanakni!”

“Is there no other way for Father to respect you as a strong boy?”   “Keyu!” came the firm reply. No!

When the young Choctaw Indian boys came of age, it was the custom to take them deep into the forest. The elders would draw a circle in the dirt where the young boy would spend the night all alone…never to cross over the line…no matter what strange sounds he heard coming from the darkness surrounding him. If the young boy succeeded in carrying out this ritual, he would become a brave and earn the respect of all the people of his tribe.

Once self-imprisoned inside the circle, his father and the other elder’s left. Soon, darkness enveloped the boy. The previous bravado of the young Choctaw boy faded as he began to fully realize what could happen to him. It was a frightening possibility that he could be killed by a bear or any hungry wild animal for that matter.

Stubborn pride kept him from stepping foot outside the drawn circle but fear overwhelmed him inside the circle. He cried and whimpered for his father throughout the night. Finally, exhausted and emotionally spent, he lay down on the cold hard ground and fell into a fitful sleep.

Just about sun up, when the shadows of the night started to disappear, the boy awoke and rubbed his swollen eyes.

Startled by what he saw, he jumped to his feet…still careful to stay within the confines of the circle.

Just outside the circle stood his father with bow and arrow stretched taunt ready to pierce the heart of any predator that might threaten to harm his son.

He had been there all night.

****

Dear readers, our Heavenly Father is just outside our circle…
Is your circle a circle of fear like the young Choctaw’s…unaware of his father’s protection?

Or is your circle a circle of peace…secure in knowing that your Heavenly Father is always there…
keeping watch through your dark times?

Postscript: The little Choctaw girl in our story today was my great grandmother…Cynthia Anne Herndon

The blast of the shotgun echoed in the night. “Cookie! It’s a downright miracle you didn’t start a stampede!” barked the trail boss.

“No one messes with my pot…” Cookie pointed his crooked finger at Joey as he hissed, “Especially not you, Greenhorn!”

The newest addition to the outfit ducked his head in embarrassment. “Sorry Cookie, it won’t happen again.”

Later, a seasoned cowboy explained, “That black pot is sacred to Cookie.”

Unfortunately, Cookie got drunk at the first town they came to and lost the cast iron pot in a poker game to a buffalo skinner. Cookie was never the same after that.

Rasmus and his partner, Jake, carried the pot with them throughout the hills of North Dakota as they ravaged the buffalo population. However, the Blackfoot Indians ravaged them one night just after Rasmus and Jake had scoffed down a meal cooked to perfection in the pot.

The pot then made its’ way with the Blackfeet…yielding ample meal after meal of wild game and fish. When word reached the Blackfeet that the fort’s Army soldiers were tracking them, they left the cast iron pot behind in their haste to break camp.

Sgt. Jenkins discovered the cumbersome pot and carried it back to the fort. After his discharge from the Army, he took it all the way back to Oklahoma to his bride, Althea.

Throughout the generations, that cast iron pot was passed down from one pioneer family to another…finally settling with my great grandmother Dooley’s family.

There was a twinkle in Mama Dooley’s eyes as she continued with her tale of the “cast iron pot.”

“Remember Herbert Hoover’s campaign slogan in the presidential race of 1938? ‘A chicken in every pot!’ American’s clung to that slogan because it brought us hope in the depths of the Great Depression.

“What does that have to do with the pot?” I asked impatiently.

“How do you suppose we always had enough food to go around…? During the hard times, we might not always have chicken in the pot but we always had enough to feed our family plus many more hungry neighbors and even strangers.”

She smiled as she lifted the heavy cast iron lid to uncover the most beautiful Thanksgiving turkey I had ever seen. The aroma of the turkey filled the warm kitchen. As far as I was concerned, that turkey confirmed the authenticity of the “magic” pot.

She replaced the lid as she ended the tale of the cast iron pot. “If cast iron pots could only talk! What stories they could tell…especially this cast iron pot.”

****

Dear Readers, share your family stories at the Thanksgiving Day table this year…

“I hurt my toe…I hurt my toe.” Those were the words I awoke to in the middle of the night while spending Thanksgiving at a hunting lodge in the dead of winter. The smell of dying embers filled my nostrils as I made my way to the great room. There in the middle of the huge brick firewood storage box sat my son, Chip. I heard him repeat, “I hurt my toe.”

By that time, another lodge guest in blue striped pajamas had joined me. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked sleepily.

I reached over and gently shook Chip. “Sleepwalking,” I explained.

After examining his toe (it was fine), I led him back to his bed. The next morning, Chip didn’t recall any of the previous night’s drama.

A few months later, with the smell of spring in the air, Chip made a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles to test for his driver’s license. After taking the written exam and discarding the chewed-on pencil, he was ready to take the test drive.

As he slid under the wheel, he heard the officer ask, “Well, who do we have here? The sleepwalker!”

You guessed it…the “man in the blue striped pajamas” turned out to be a police officer who worked at the Department of Motor Vehicles…and in our town no less.

“Let’s get started…and please…try to stay awake,” he teased.

Chip passed his test with flying colors in spite of the officer’s teasing. For weeks, Chip waited patiently for his “real” driver’s license to arrive in the mail. Finally, it arrived. Much to the surprise of my son, in the restrictions box beneath his name was the warning (as big as Dallas): Sleepwalker. It was later removed but for a while, the man in the blue striped pajamas got the last laugh.

****

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone

Back in the 1930’s, after only two months of lessons, Georganne, my first cousin once removed, decided to work as a paid ballroom hostess at one of those “dime-a-dance” halls. Her mother, my grand-aunt Gertrude, sounded doubtful, “You could make a living doing that kind of thing…I suppose.”

Nevertheless, in spite of her mother’s reservations, Georganne went to work for The Last Dance Palace.

She was rudely awakened to the “wild and free” lifestyle the very first night. Only one of the other girls spoke to her…Beatrice with the amazing legs. Beatrice’s exact words? “Don’t get in my way or I’ll break both your legs.”

How ironic, thought Georganne…we were both thinking of the other’s legs.

Georganne was jerked back to reality when a rough-looking sweaty man shoved one-half of a ticket into her hand, grabbed her, and pulled her out to the middle of the dance floor beneath the revolving glittering mirror ball…all in the name of dancing.

Georganne suddenly realized that she had made a grievous mistake. Her mother had been right. She struggled to give the crumpled ticket back to the man. “Please, let me go.”

“I paid for you!” he sneered as he yanked angrily at her dress, tearing it from the shoulder.

Her first job, her first threat, her first dance…all ended tragically.

She waited on the sidewalk in front of the Palace. The marquee neon lights cast a harsh glow on the tear in Georganne’s pink Sunday dress as she tried to cover her trembling body.

As she slid into the car beside her mother, she sobbed, “All I could see in my head were those lyrics,

‘pansies and rough guys,
tough guys who tear my gown.
Come on big boy,
ten cents a dance.’”
(Rodgers and Hart, “Ten Cents a Dance” 1930)

“Shhh…I see only my child…wearing wings not a tattered gown.” Kissing her daughter tenderly on the cheek she compassionately whispered, “Let’s go home…it’s Thanksgiving and we have a lot to be thankful for.”

****

Dear Readers, we all have a lot to be thankful for…
count your blessings…

The origin of the phrase “bringing home the bacon” is most often associated with the story of the Dunmow Flitch Trials held in Great Dunmow, Essex, England.

This tradition, which still continues every four years (The next trial will be Saturday, July 14, 2012.) is based on the story of a local couple who, in 1104, were awarded a flitch (a side) of bacon for their marital devotion to each other.

The continuing ritual of devoted couples who win the prize, to considerable acclamation by the locals, is old but well authenticated.

But a little closer to home…in 1906, prize-fighter Joe Gans received a telegram from his mother right before the widely reported world lightweight championship with “Battling” Oliver Nelson.

His mother said, “Joe, the eyes of the world are on you. Everybody says you ought to win. Bring home the bacon, Son.”

He won and The New York Times printed a story saying, “Mother, your son is bringing home the bacon.”

After that, it was common to see the phrase in print.

My eleven-year-old grandson, Levi Dawson, bagged his first deer last weekend while hunting on his grandfather’s ranch where his father, as a youngster, had bagged his first deer. It was a momentous occasion for the entire family…especially for Levi’s father.

And to think…104 years later…the tradition continues…

“Mother, your son is bringing home the bacon.”

Papa Dooley chuckled as he read from the newspaper. “Listen to this Mama. The President says he got a tip yesterday and if it wasn’t straight from the horse’s mouth it was jolly well the next thing to it.”

Mama laughed but looked concerned. “He wasn’t betting on a horse race was he?”

“Absolutely not…he was referring to a tip on his popularity in the polls.”

“What does that mean, ‘straight from the horse’s mouth?’” asked Louise, looking puzzled.

Mama Dooley smoothed her apron. “It means that the information the President got is from the highest authority.”

Papa picked up where Mama left off. “In horse racing circles, tips on which horse is a likely winner circulate among the people who bet. The most trusted authorities are considered to be those in closest touch with the form of the horse…stable lads or trainers. The phrase, ‘from the horse’s mouth’ is supposed to indicate one step better than even that inner circle…the horse itself.”

Mama Dooley said, “Since we don’t bet or take chances on anything… ‘straight from the horse’s mouth’ has a totally different meaning for us as Christians. We get all our ‘tips’ from the Highest Authority ever…the Lord God Almighty.”

Papa chuckled again. “And that’s the true meaning of straight from the horse’s mouth.”

****

Dear readers, where are you getting your “tips?”

“Mama? Have you ever asked yourself, ‘What is my purpose in this life? Why was I born in the first place?’”

“Of course, Louise. All of us have asked ourselves those very same questions at one time or another. The answer is found in the Bible…shall we explore?” asked Mama Dooley.

Louise pulled up a chair while Mama Dooley opened her Bible.

“The best place to start is at the beginning…so let’s turn to Genesis 2:7 And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life and man became a living soul.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question, Mama.”

“Louise, God formed you in my womb…Isaiah 44:24 Thus says the Lord, your Redeemer, He who formed you from the womb. He breathed the first breath into you Louise and He knows the plans He has made for you…Jeremiah 1:5 Before I formed you in the womb I knew and approved of you and before you were born I separated and set you apart.”

Mama Dooley pulled her reading glasses off and took Louise by the hand. “Every single breath that you breathe is a gift from God. Never take that for granted…He alone gives you the breath of life and He alone will take it away.”

Putting her glasses back on, Mama Dooley read, “Psalm 150:6 answers your question. ‘Let everything that has breath and every breath of life praise the Lord! Praise the Lord! Hallelujah!’”

Louise’s countenance brightened. “I understand Mama…I understand. I was born to praise the Lord with every breath that He gives me. Isn’t that right?”

“What does that mean? ‘A blessing in disguise,’” asked Louise tearfully.

Mama Dooley took her daughter by the hand to comfort her. “If some misfortune ultimately results in something positive, it’s a blessing in disguise.”

Sniffling, Louise blew her nose. “I still don’t understand…how can moving far away from all my friends, especially Wayne, end up being a blessing in disguise?”

Mama Dooley smiled. “Louise, put your best foot forward and let’s have this same conversation six months from now…then you’ll understand…okay?”

Louise managed a giggle. “Mama! What does ‘putting my best foot forward’ mean?”

“It means to embark on this journey with purpose and gusto and with a happy heart…think you can do that?”

****

It ended up that Mama Dooley was absolutely right. Within a couple of months, news trickled back to Louise that Wayne ended up in prison for theft and the unsuspecting girlfriend who was in the vehicle got into a lot of trouble too…even though she knew nothing about Wayne’s plans.

Louise shuttered to think that it might have been her.

But more importantly, Louise found the love of her life in the town where her family moved. They married, raised a family of three, and the rest is history as they would say.

****

Dear reader, are you recognizing your blessings in disguise?

“Mama, why is it so important to keep family records?”

Louise continued to thumb through the records of family births, deaths, and marriages in the big family Bible kept on top of the roll top desk in the parlor.

Mama lay her darning aside. “Look up Matthew one and read out loud starting with verse one.”

Louise did as she was told. “The Book of the ancestry of Jesus Christ the Messiah, the Anointed, the descendant of David, the descendant of Abraham.”

Mama interrupted Louise. “Genealogy is so important to God that He had the scribes of the Holy Bible record the ancestry of almost everyone…especially Jesus. Matthew lists His lineage back to Abraham.”

“Now turn to Ezra two and read verses fifty-nine through sixty-two.”

While Louise was finding Ezra, Mama explained, “Ezra names the exiles returning to Jerusalem after seventy-years of Babylonian captivity but the passage I want you to read records a very interesting twist.”

Louise read, “And these were they who came up from Tel-melah, Tel-harsha, Cherub, Addan, and Immer, but they could not show a record of their fathers’ houses or prove their descent, whether they were of Israel: The sons of Delaiah, Tobiah, and Nekoda, and the sons of the priests: the sons of Habaiah, of Hakkoz, and of Barzillai, who had taken a wife from the daughters of Barzillai the Gileadite and had assumed their name. These sought their names among those enrolled in the genealogies but they were not found; so they were excluded from the priesthood as ceremonially unclean.”

****

Dear reader, is your name among those not found in the family of Jesus Christ in the Book of Life? Don’t be excluded…the only valid proof you need is the Person of Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior. Ask Him into your heart today and know with certainty that your name is recorded in the Book of Life for eternity.