tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186636772024-03-13T09:18:56.330-07:00Hillcountry Wit and WisdomPapa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-56051276119622644162010-06-23T17:33:00.000-07:002010-06-23T17:34:15.411-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; border-collapse: collapse; "><b><p align="center">A SNOUT LIKE AN ELEPHANT</p><p align="center"></p><p align="center"></p></b><p>It was sometime during the last days of the Great Depression. Dad was working as a grave digger at the Park Lawn Cemetery in Fort Worth, Texas. Somehow he got some time off, more than likely, no one died that day, anyway he had some free time so he took Mom, Jo and I to the Fort Worth Zoo. I don’t really know why it stuck in my four or five year old brain, but I must have really been impressed with the elephants. For later that day after arriving back home, Mom sent us outside to play so she could get some work done. We were living in the cemetery in a house provided for the care takers. In my explorations I found myself in the barn. And there stretched across the aisle that ran between the milk cow stanchions was a creature I had never seen before. It had a long narrow body, except for the head. The head was twice the size of the circumference of his body, and it had a snout. I stared at it for a long time and it stared back at me. For whatever reason, I did not feel led to pick the thing up and take it to show Mom. But, about that time Dad came driving into the yard on the cemetery tractor. I ran over to him and told him to come with me. “There’s something in the barn that has a snout like an elephant.” Dad got down off the tractor and followed me to see this strange creature. When he saw it he didn’t stand and stare at it like I did. He grabbed a garden hoe propped up near the barn door and promptly tried to chop the creature in two. Its head flicked back a split second before the hoe buried into the ground in front of him. The snout disappeared into its mouth, the head struck forward over the hoe bound right for Dad, who did a quick Texas Two Step - I’m not sure that dance was invented at that time, but Dad did it just the same. Before Dad could get the hoe free from the dirt into which it was buried, the creature disappeared under the hay rack. Dad, using the hoe to poke around, could not find it. It was only after he was sure he could not find it, that he revealed to me that it was a snake and was not kin to elephants. The snout was the tail of a rat the snake was in the process of swallowing.</p><p>Dad and I had a pretty tall tail to talk about that night at the supper table. He commended me for not trying to pick it up, or play with it. He did not think it was (a new word) poisonous. That meant it couldn’t severely hurt me. It could bite, but the bite would not kill me, and Mom vowed to never go in the barn again. The reason I remember this incident out of my childhood is because I heard Dad or Mom rehearse this story numerous times. It’s funny how your mind retains certain things through the years.</p><p>My point is this: There are a couple of verses in the Bible that tells us about the personal angels God gives his people to protect them during times of harm. In fact it says, “He shall give his angels charge over thee that thou shall not dash thy foot against a stone.” Another one says, that our angels always behold the Father’s face. They always have his attention. I’m really glad my personal angel wasn’t afraid of snakes that day. </p><p>Don in Georgetown</p></span>Papa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-32893570710147655652008-01-05T20:04:00.000-08:002008-01-05T20:08:44.145-08:00I watched most of the Cotton Bowl game today, (New Years 2008). During the course of the game the announcers interviewed a spry, 83 year old Frank Broyles. They asked him questions about the tradition of the Cotton Bowl, he graciously shared his thoughts, then they asked him his favorite memory of all those years coaching the Arkansas team. His immediate reply was their national championship game in the 1964 Bowl game. That answer brought back some memories. <br />On January the first, 1964, we had slept late. It was a holiday, and besides we had been up past mid-night attending our New Year's Eve service. I had no more gotten out of the bed when the phone rang. It was Leroy Kirkpatrick and he asked me if I would like to have a couple of tickets to the Cotton Bowl game. "Give me a few minutes and I will call you back." To which he was agreeable. After discussing this with Bettye; kids, baby sitters, etc., she couldn't go, we decided to give Don Elmore, a member of our church at the time a call. He was a faithful member and from Arkansas, both qualified him to be the first I called. Absolutely! No question about it, he was ready and rearing to go. So I called Leroy back and told him I would take the tickets. By the time I was ready, and had eaten a bite, Don was knocking on my front door. Somewhere around 8 A.M. we were on the road to Dallas. We got there in time to do a little site seeing at the Texas State Fair and eat a big hotdog on the midway. The plastic mustard jar was hard and I cranked down on it with a grip of steel, (yeah, right) and it broke lose and sprayed mustard all over me and the lady standing next to me. What a way to start an adventure. <br />Anyway, we eventually found our seats, well up in the stands, but under the seats above us, because it rained during the game. We remained dry. Arkansas played Nebraska. It was a low scoring game with Nebraska taking a 7 to 3 lead into the last few minutes of the game. Arkansas mounted a late drive that resulted in a touchdown and was enough to win the game and secure the national championship for the Razorbacks and Frank Broyles that year. <br />I got a voice mail from Bro. Don today. He had heard Frank Broyles' comment, and reminded me that we were a part of his favorite memory during the years he coached at Arkansas University. Do you know where you were 43 years ago today?Papa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-32142568637193901302007-11-29T07:14:00.000-08:002007-11-29T07:16:09.323-08:00Madison (Mattie is what her family and friends called her)slipped the mini-skirt out of its hiding place. Today would be the day. Mom was not back from work yet (she worked the 11 PM to 7 AM shift) and she had been dying to wear this new skirt for days now. She slipped it on, and was just finishing her bowl of cereal when Mom walked through the door. After the initial shock, there was an immediate confrontation. It ended with her Mom threatening to call her Dad and placing her on restrictions for the rest of her life. She changed her skirt in anger and rebellion. She stomped through the living room, flung the door opened and just before she went through it, she turned and in a hateful and angry voice, said to her Mom, “I hate you!” She stomped out the door slamming it behind her. Four hours later the principle called her out of her class and informed her she needed to go home, that something had happened and her Dad wanted her home. To her horror she learned that her mother had died shortly after she left for classes. That whole morning scene replayed itself now with an accusing finger pointed at a frightened teenager’s heart. “I killed my mother.” Over and over, this scene played out its message in unmistakable terms. <br /> All of Mattie’s family and friends say the same, “She was never the same after her mother’s death.” After the funeral she was uprooted and sent to live with an uncle and aunt. She learned a trade and she also learned that the love of men could not atone for the grinding guilt she felt for what she had done. She went from one husband to another, until God in his great mercy brought Sam into her life. He was quiet, calm, strong, rock solid, and at peace with himself. Everything she needed. They got married and spent several years together. She let everyone know that those were the best years of her life. <br /> We had her funeral today, she was 54. What caused her to die? We could say it was an ulcer in her stomach that allowed juices to leak into her intestines. We could say it was peritonitis that killed her. To the Doctors and the Medical Examiner that would appear to be a satisfactory explanation. But that is not what killed her. It was the 39 years of living with the fact that the last thing her mother ever heard her say was, “I hate you!” After 39 years of living with that awful truth, it finally ate a hole in her stomach and killed her. <br /> My point is this: Love really does cover a multitude of sins. Love will remove the guilt and heal the ulcer. Never allow yourself to leave the presence of a loved one when you are angry, or have said something hasty or hurtful. It is an awful burden to carry in your body. It will kill you, it did Mattie.Papa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-54948538550213410322007-11-20T17:39:00.000-08:002007-11-20T17:42:29.865-08:00THE SCREECH OWL <br /><br /> I haven’t heard one of these little creatures in quiet a while. In fact, the last one I heard was back in the ‘40’s. The only ones I ever saw was after it had been stuffed and in a museum. They were called Screech Owls, and for a good reason. If you were outside after dark and just a little jumpy to boot, and one of these darlings of God’s creation cut loose - it would scare the living breath out of you. Their call, for all the world, sounded like a woman in severe pain, like she was being tortured to death. <br /> It just so happened that the first time I heard Mr. Screech Owl, I was with my Dad. Still, my blood ran cold, and I looked at Dad half expecting him to be as scared as me. “What was that?“ I demanded, and in a quiet and calm voice, he said, “Oh, that’s only a screech owl.” “Well,” I responded, “it sure scared me.” Dad chuckled, and owned up to the fact that it scared him too, the first time he heard one, but that was when he was only a boy too. They became so common place in his day, that he hardly paid attention to them anymore. But this one sure set my heart to racing, big time. They are a small creature, only about nine inches long, and weighing less than seven ounces, but when they cut loose you can hear them from several hundred yards away. <br /> Later, when any of my friends were with me and heard the sound they made, it was my turn to act all calm and cool about the matter. “Oh, that sound, it’s only a screech owl.” Dad even picked up some information on the birds for me, and understanding more about them, I lost all fear, and even came to welcome their eerie night time calls. <br /> But, like a lot of God’s special creatures, their ranks really dwindled to the point, that they may even be extinct. It has been well over 50 years since I last heard one. They were harmless to people. Other than scaring the bejeebers out of you, they posed no threat at all. But, there are some special things I learned from these unusual birds, and that brings me to my point. <br /> There are some things that frighten us, or at least, they do me. They bring “sudden” fear upon us. Death, suffering, even the presence and purpose of God are just a few. I was afraid God would call me to preach, or to serve him in some capacity. When the thought came to my mind, “sudden” fear would come upon me again. That caused me to put off surrendering to God’s call on my life for about four or five years. Why was I fearful? It was because I didn’t have enough information as to what God wanted to do with my life. The more I learned about the screech owls, the less fearful I was of them. The more I have come to know God and his will and purpose for my life, the less fearful I become of God. The more I know God and the more I listen to him, the more I know his yoke is easy and his burdens are light. Besides, perfect love casts out all fear. <br /><br />Don in Georgetown.Papa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-52688465582306260052007-11-05T12:03:00.000-08:002007-11-05T12:04:29.570-08:00HE QUIT <br /><br />His name was Billy Jack Hoover, he was my wife’s younger brother’s best friend. They were inseparable. Billy Jack and Charlie went to the same school, from kindergarten through the twelfth grade. Both played sports, and both had a Cushman scooter on which they rode up and down highway * with abandon. Why they were able to remain good friends is anybody’s guess. They played some of the “dirtiest” tricks on one another that you can imagine. Charlie was a people person. He always had to have his friends around and he never met a stranger. You would see Charlie talking to someone you did not know, and you would swear they had been acquaintances for years. When they finished their conversation you could ask him, “Who was that” and he would reply, “I don’t know, we were just talking.” <br /> Anyway, over the course of time Charlie made friends with a farmer who lived down the road a couple of miles from their house. He even worked for him some. One of the farmer’s cash crops each year was watermelons. He would give Charlie one or two to take home with him at the end of each day’s work. He even told him anytime he wanted a melon, just come by and get it. Here’s where the plot began to thicken. Charlie told him he would like to play a trick on his friend. It was okay by the farmer, so at an appointed time, (read after dark) he and Billy Jack arrive at the watermelon patch, to “steal” a couple of the farmer’s products. With perfect timing he shows up with shotgun in hand and Charlie conveniently flattens out in a furrow and behind some rather thick watermelon vines. Billy Jack froze in terror when he heard the booming voice asking, “Boy! What do you think you’re doing?” And then the deadly sound of a shotgun being cocked for serious business. The unwitting victim was close to tears when Charlie rose up off the ground and he and the farmer enjoyed a hearty laugh at his expense. A real tussle broke out between Charlie and Billy Jack. <br /> That’s only one of may instances I could site, but the real point of this article happened a couple of years later when these two friends were in high school. It was track season. Charlie was a letterman in four different sports all four years of high school. In track he ran the open quarter and was the anchor leg on the four-by-four hundred relay, and the mile relay. They were competing in the regional finals. The meet was held in an ancient stadium in Kilgore, Texas. To show you how ancient, the track ran in front of the bleachers on one side of the field, and behind them on the other side so that during the race, the participants were hidden from view down the back stretch. It came time for the half-mile race. That was Billy Jack’s event. All went well on the first lap, then during the second lap, they disappeared behind the stands. We waited expectantly to see how he was doing. The other runners sprinted from behind the stands and as we identified each one, we realized there was no Billy Jack. We waited five or ten seconds more, but no Billy Jack. I begin to think it in my mind, but then a voice from behind us articulated it for everyone, “He quit.” Sure enough, when they went to look for him, he was sitting on the curb, arms folded over his knees and his head resting on his arms. He was fine, but he would not look at or speak to anyone. He was ashamed. In his shame, he wanted no companionship at that moment. He had quit. <br /> My point is this; I’m sure that all of us have thought about it at some time in our ministries. “I think I will just quit!” It’s alright if you think about it, but not too much. Just don’t do it. Someone has said, “The only sure way to fail is to quit.” Don’t let it be said of you that, “He quit!” What and awful epithet to carry to our grave, to be engraved on our tombstone, “He quit.” You will reap in due season if you faint not, that is, if you don’t quit. <br />Don in GeorgetownPapa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-12708292876438597332007-07-21T19:30:00.000-07:002007-07-24T16:33:36.558-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_IOCMI4EgB_E/RqaLxXnmtjI/AAAAAAAAAA0/d6IhWddtVEo/s1600-h/1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_IOCMI4EgB_E/RqaLxXnmtjI/AAAAAAAAAA0/d6IhWddtVEo/s320/1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5090910109058905650" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">From left to right is Adel and Bill Reese then Gladys and J.W. Steadman. J.W.'s letter jacket is from the Fighting Yellow Jackets of Cleburne, TX. The little building in the back is our restroom, and the hoist in the tree was used by Papa to fix his car engine.</span><br /><br />THE VERY FIRST ALAMO BOWL<br /><br /> I knew nothing about football games and teams. All I knew was what I played in my front yard with June Cowan, or with other friends on some vacant lot in the neighborhood. I had not yet been introduced to Southwest Conference football, or to announcer Kern Tipps who described the games over the radio. All that was about to change. Our favorite Uncle and Aunt paid us a New Years visit. I had no idea why they were at our house, but I heard something about going to a football game the next day. So, early the next morning Dad woke me out of a deep sleep, I put on my warmest clothes and Dad, Uncle Eldon, and I drove to San Antonio to watch a football game being played in what was called The Alamo Bowl. This was January 1, 1947 and I was 10 years old. I only found out yesterday (December 27, 2006) that game was the first ever played as the Alamo Bowl. It featured Hardin-Simmons Cowboys of Abilene, Texas against The University Denver Pioneers of Denver, Colorado. It was colder than blue blazes. We had to chip ice off the bleachers before sitting down. Hardin-Simmons won that day behind the running of their tailback, a young man they called Doc Mobley. He scored two touchdowns, and their tight end, J.W. Steadman, caught a pass for the third. The final score was 20-7. <br /> That time with Dad and Uncle Eldon at the football game, visiting J.W. and his beautiful wife Gladys in their hotel room after the game - as you can tell it really made an impression on a ten year old kid. You see, J.W. was Uncle Eldon’s oldest son. That would make him my cousin. Of course, J.W. didn’t take after the Ledbetter side of his family - he was over six feet tall and weighed in at 200 pounds. I can still see him now, faking the block on a lineman, then slipping down the field behind all the defenders (who were zeroing in on Doc Mobley) hauling in the ball like it was something sacred and outrunning them to the end zone. It was a gray, cold, icy day, but it burns brilliantly in my memory to this very hour. <br /> My Point Is This: There is some kid in your life. He may even be like me and not have a clue about what is going on - but take him and make a memory. It will stay with him far longer than you can imagine. He will love and be grateful for you all the days of his life. It’s worth your time and effort. Don’t wait, do it now. <br />Don in GeorgetownPapa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-36585403750281894742007-07-08T15:11:00.000-07:002007-07-08T15:14:45.661-07:00WASH DAY<br /><br />The wash was done, the plug on the old wringer washing machine had been pulled, and the rinse water had been drained into the flower beds. The wash was hung on the line to dry, tenderly flapping in the gentle summer breeze. Mom’s voice, demeanor and intentions were clear and direct to my sister. “Mary Jo, this is the third time I have told you, go bring those close in off the line. If you wait till it’s dark, you’ll have to gather them anyway.” Sure enough, the sun set with the clothes still on the line. I had already gone to bed, not to sleep, but to listen to Red Skelton and Judy Canova on the radio. In the midst of my entertainment, I again hear Mom’s level but insistent voice, “Mary Jo, did you bring the clothes in?” “No Mam.” “Then get out there right now and get them in.” Instant weeping and wailing. “But it’s dark, and I’m scared of the dark.” “I don’t care, I told you, now you go bring the clothes in.” More weeping and wailing. “Young lady, you have a choice. Bring in the clothes or get a spanking, which do you want?” “Okay, I will bring them in.” More weeping and wailing. But in the midst of this character building lesson, an idea struck me like a bolt from the blue. I unlatched the window screen beside my bed, slid through the window and across the porch, down the side of the house and arrived at the back door well ahead of my reluctant sister. I waited. Still weeping and wailing she pushed the screen door open and all I did was raise up with my arms spread, my eyes bugged, and my mouth wide open. Now the weeping and wailing turned to screaming and running in place. Above this frightful den I heard my Dad’s voice, “Donald Lloyd!” I retraced my previous route as quickly as I could, but he caught me coming through the window. I got a whack on my thinly clad pajamaed bottom, one that would usually have stung worse than a nest of yellow jackets, but the prank was well worth the whack. Also, I had to go help her bring in the clothes. I didn’t care, I was still ahead in this game!<br />My point is this, when God lays something on our heart, especially something that needs immediate attention, it is better to obey. To put it off can be scary and painful, but too often, we choose to put it off. But unlike my prank, the consequences for our procrastination are far worse than we ever anticipated. Like the old invitation hymn says, “Almost is but to fail.“ To obey is good, to obey immediately is far better.<br />Don in GeorgetownPapa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-38089205096751137962007-07-06T08:42:00.000-07:002007-07-06T08:45:27.650-07:00LESSONS FROM TOM AND TOM.<br /><br /> “Here he comes!” That bit of information grabbed our attention, we left what we were doing and scrambled to the end of the city block on which we lived. Mom wouldn’t let us cross the street, but as soon as Uncle Enos got there, we ran out into the street and climbed aboard his wagon, and rode to the other end of the block, bid him good bye, jumped off the wagon and run back to the house to continue what we were doing. <br /> It was in the early ‘40’s. Uncle Enos had a team of mules. He and his mules plowed the ground for the spring gardens, or in order to keep the growth of weeds in check. Every now and then, he would pick me up and allow me to go with him (with Mom’s okay of course) as he did one of his jobs. I noticed one day as he called out his orders to his mules, that he was only calling out one name. “Giddy up there Tom!” he would call out. Or, “Whoa Tom! Gee Tom!” Curiosity got the best of me, so one day I asked the obvious, “Uncle Enos, which one is Tom?” “Both of ‘um.” I was incredulous. “You named both of ‘um Tom? Why’d you do that?” “So’s I don’t have to be calling out two names every time I need something done.” Uncle Enos’ attempt at energy conservation. His energy, of course. <br /> Something else I noticed. He treated those mules with tender kindness. He made sure their shelter was closed and tight enough to keep them out of direct exposure to the north winds during the long cold winters. They had plenty of food, he rubbed them down after a long days work, and some times he even doctored them. He took real good care of those mules and they weren’t the stubborn, hard to get along with creatures that most mules were. They were his pets and when it came time to work, they were ready. He didn’t have to yell, cuss, or crack a whip. They could start early and stay late, and did lot’s of times. <br /> My point is this. Uncle Enos was illustrating that Proverb that says, “A righteous man regards the life of his beast; but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.” Without any intention of comparisons, I wonder, how we sometimes treat those who supply our income, bread, or butter? More times than not, people are the ones who supply us with our daily bread, in one way or another. Yet we treat them rudely, or with disdain, lie to them, or cheat them when ever we can. We might learn a good lesson from Uncle Enos. We need to care for those who provide for us.Papa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-62687482861865952932007-07-05T19:36:00.000-07:002007-07-05T19:49:06.075-07:00I couldn’t believe my eyes, but there it was on the front page of the local newspaper. One of my high school coaches was coming to the town where I was pastoring to accept a coaching position at the local high school. As soon as I could, I went over and visited and we recounted old times. When I graduated from high school our local football team made it all the way to quarter finals in the class 3A division. A fairly good feat in the football minded state of Texas. Coach Jim was on that coaching staff, as the offensive line coach. We had a lot of catching up to do. He did come visit our church, but never joined. <br /> Anyway, as football season got under way I went to see the Jr. varsity play, one the young men from our church was on the team. They played on Thursday afternoon, and I was there early. No reserved seating and I wanted a good seat. As I was walking through the gate, Coach Jim spotted me and invited me to sit on the sidelines with him. You have to understand, Coach Jim’s invitations were more like the commands of a drill instructor in the Marine Corp. You didn’t turn them down. <br /> As the game progressed one of the young men on our team did something the Jr. varsity coach didn’t like. He came charging down the side line like a Bradley Tank in full battle array, with fire in his eyes, yelling instructions to the young man in very colorful, but unrepeatable language. As play resumed, he come walking back, still scowling and casting evil glances in the direction of the team in general and the offender in particular. Walking past Coach Jim was not something he should have done and although it was good natured ribbing, he got the verbal jab just the same, “If you coach’em during the week, you wouldn’t have to yell at them on Thursday afternoon.” <br /> The offended coach made some off handed remark as he resumed his position on the sidelines. I looked at Coach Jim and he had a twinkle in his eye. “I love to get under their skin,” he explained. We had a good laugh. My point is this, as pastors, parents, or leaders of anykind, I wonder how much time we spend yelling at people, rather than “coaching” them. The closest thing to coaching we have is “exhortation.” We are encouraged to do that often, in fact daily. So, the next time you are tempted to yell at one of your "plebs", think, “Have I coached them sufficiently in this matter?” Sometimes it seems like fun to yell, but it is more profitable to coach. <br />Papa DonPapa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-44772574599231195202007-07-05T08:49:00.000-07:002007-07-07T09:01:01.989-07:00<span style="font-weight: bold;">Nostalgia</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_IOCMI4EgB_E/Ro-4ExjAftI/AAAAAAAAAAU/MCMjDhrkUzo/s1600-h/Bro.DonPic.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_IOCMI4EgB_E/Ro-4ExjAftI/AAAAAAAAAAU/MCMjDhrkUzo/s320/Bro.DonPic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5084484896483737298" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Art Wilson, me, Terry Sears and Dad.Papa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-34144583218959703812007-07-05T06:41:00.001-07:002007-07-14T19:33:07.784-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_IOCMI4EgB_E/RpmHT5huFcI/AAAAAAAAAAk/W8kchwAmqfE/s1600-h/4.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_IOCMI4EgB_E/RpmHT5huFcI/AAAAAAAAAAk/W8kchwAmqfE/s320/4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5087246030021203394" /></a><br /><br />UNCLE ARTHUR<br /><br />I didn’t know him that well and when I did begin to be aware of him and who he was, he was well into his forties. He was tall, dark, and a quiet man and was married to Aunt Clarise, and had been ever since any of us could remember. Together they had one son, his nick name was “Tuffy.” Tuffy was not as tall as his dad, but was a strong, muscular, athlete. During World War II he was a tail gunner in one of the “Flying Fortresses.” But, he is not the one about which I wanted to talk. It was Uncle Arthur that is supposed to be the center of attention here. He was my Dad’s half brother. He was the third child of my Grandfather’s first wife. Her name was Mina Aloura and she died shortly after giving birth to Uncle Arthur. That posed only a small problem. The woman who was to become his second wife, and my Grandmother already lived in the house with them. Her name was Maud Echo. So as soon as was deemed socially acceptable, Granddad and Grandmother Ledbetter got married. Why? According to Grandmother she didn’t want anyone to raise Arthur but her. And that was the way it was.<br />Uncle Arthur reached the age of eighteen years shortly after World War I began. He volunteered and went off to boot camp to train for whatever roll they deemed best for him. It turned out, he was one tough cowboy. He could ride anything with hide and four legs. They set him to breaking and training horses for military use. There was not too many mechanized vehicles at that time. When the Army talked about a Calvary Division, they really meant Calvary, like in horses and mules. The Army bought the raw and even wild stock, because they would be cheaper, and it was Uncle Arthur’s job to see that they were ready for use when the superior officer called.<br />On one occasion, my Dad got to watch his older brother perform. Some of the stock would give up without much of a fight, but then there were some jug heads that would fight to the bitter end. Only giving up after hours of the most physical engagement you can imagine. That happened on the day Dad got to observe his brother “in action.” If my memory serves me correctly, it was a mule he was working with, a large, strong creature that stood quiet and still until his restraints were removed. He would then launch into a low altitude orbit of some of the most intense action you could ever imagine. Dad said Uncle Arthur rode that beast until blood was running out of his nose and ears, and yet he still hung on and maintained his balance on the hurricane deck, as their saddle was called. And like he thought, soon enough, the animal would give in, and Uncle Arthur could pass on another valuable creature to the one who would train him to serve our country.<br />My point is this, what Uncle Arthur was doing was teaching these dumb animals the true meaning of meekness. The horse or mule just a few minutes before was wild and undisciplined. Now their will was broken, and subjected to the one who would be his master. He was just as strong as before, just as fast as before, only now he had learned “meekness.” That is, the strength of the animal was brought under control so he could serve a useful, practical, and necessary roll in the military. That’s what meekness is and does for you and me. We are still just as strong, intelligent, emotional, and even just as spiritual, only now our strength is under the dominion of our dear Lord. Now we say, not my will but thine be done. Now we are useful for eternal work, we are useful for God’s work.<br />Don in GeorgetownPapa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-21376926440645700912007-07-05T06:37:00.000-07:002007-07-05T06:39:56.869-07:00TREASURE WHAT YOU HAVE!<br /> <br /> He would be able to prove himself, finally! Granddad offered Dad a piece of bottom land on which to plant and harvest about twenty five acres of cotton. Dad had to plow it, fertilize it, chop the Johnson grass down so it wouldn’t over run the cotton, sweat out the sun, untimely rains, and even the creek flooding. Finally it all came together and the day of harvest had arrived. The cotton was tall, the leaves about the consistency of tan parchment paper, the bowls had opened, and the cotton was showing snowy white. Dad hitched the team to the wagon before daylight, got plenty of cotton sacks, and carefully slipped the scales under the seat. He wanted to make sure the weights were right, and get all the money coming to him. With the help of a few of his friends, they picked the stalks clean. You could hardly find a white spot in the field when they finished. It’s surprising how well a person can work if the money belongs to him. Anyway, when all was weighed out and expenses paid, Dad had $150 coming to him. That was somewhere around the fall of 1927 or ‘28. Believe it or not, that amounted to a years salary for a family, but this was all Dad’s. It would be a very prosperous and fun year for an eighteen year old. <br /> Now enters Dad’s brother, my Uncle Ray. He had the Sunday afternoon off and decided to spend it with a friend down the road. They loaded up their pockets with .22 caliber bullets and carrying their old single shot rifles they headed for the barn to shoot rats. Something that would offer them fun, and provide a necessary service for the farm. Things were going well until Uncle Ray’s friend fail to practice the safety rules his father had taught him. He fired a shot, broke the .22 down, took out the spent shell, put in the new shell, and then locked it back in place while the muzzle of the rifle was pointed right at Uncle Ray. The gun fired striking him in the abdomen and lodging within a fraction of an inch of his spine. That same bullet is still in his body to this very day. <br /> Of course, the family was devastated, they rushed him to the Dr‘s. office, which was in his home, as quickly as they could. Dr. Yeater, a veteran of World War I, and skilled in wounds of this kind, quickly stopped the bleeding and informed the family that it would be too risky to operate. Uncle Ray was kept immobilized for days until the wound began to heal. The doc looked in on him often and the cost of all of this medical attention was (you may have guessed it by now) $150. Granddad didn’t have the money for the care, he had a family of seven to support. He went to Dad and explained the situation. Although he was highly disappointed he readily agreed to use his money to pay the bills. What looked like a fun year just a few days before would now be reduced to having spending money only when he could find a job. That is, find a job that would pay him money. There was always work to do, you just didn’t get paid for it. <br /> Whether he intended to use this as a character building situation or not is still questionable, even to this day. However, that’s the way it turned out. From that experience Dad learned to treasure what he earned and to carefully administer what he had. “You never know what’s coming to take what you’ve got away from you,” was one of my Dad’s oft repeated warnings. And that’s my point. Treasure what you have right now. You may not get to keep it for long. The more you treasure it now, the easier it is to lose it and not lose your character when its gone. <br />Don in GeorgetownPapa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-1139021248699539082006-02-03T18:33:00.000-08:002006-02-03T18:47:28.716-08:00An Eye for an Eye, and A Tooth for A Tooth. <br /><br />The signs in the newspaper's picture read, "If we all demand an eye for an eye, we'll all be blind." The pictures were taken at a protest against capital punishment rally. I heard an actor quote the same phrase years before. It is a "cute" thing to say. Not very intelligent, but cute. Not well thought out, but cute. But who needs cute. That's for puppies, kitty cats, and little children, not for things as serious as brutality, life, or death. <br />You know of course it refers to the biblical practice of maintaining order in our society. It simply means that if I do something to you intentionally, or accidently causing you to lose your eye, I have to pay. But (and here is where this statement is not well thought out) it protects the victim and the perpetrator. I do have to pay you for the loss of your eye, but you can only require of me one of my eyes and nothing more. <br />Sounds to me, like the fairest form of behavior control ever devised. And that's not cute, it is a well thought out and all around fair way of dealing with criminal elements in our society. If we don't demand an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, only the criminal and brutal will have eyes and teeth.Papa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-1138417484787732692006-01-27T18:59:00.000-08:002006-01-27T19:04:44.806-08:00SHE CALLED ME BABE. <br /><br /> She and her husband John were some of the first people I met when moving <br />to Georgetown. They ran a small grocery store on the square. John took care <br />of the nuts and bolts of the everyday affairs, she kept the books. Her name <br />was Jean. Davidson's Grocery Store was the meeting place of what we used to <br />call "The spit and whittle club." All the old guys (me included) and a few <br />young ones met there to drink coffee and solve the problems of the world. It was <br />the information hub around which Georgetown revolved when I first got here. <br />We met informally every morning and afternoon. <br /> I walked in one day and a tall black man had engaged one of our locals in <br />conversation and when I came through the door, he tried to engage me too. <br />About that time I heard John call someone an "expletive," something about his <br />ancestry, then a whack, like flesh hitting flesh. I looked up in time to see a <br />baseball cap go sailing through the air, and a short black man coming my <br />direction at a rapid pace with a bloody nose. I walked back to the counter and <br />asked, "John, what's wrong?" That (expletive again) tried to rob me. Then he <br />asked me, "Think I out to call the police?' Well, like YEAH! He did, and that <br />excitement lasted us several weeks here in Georgetown. We were fairly laid back in those days. Anyway, John passed away in 1999. The store was sold, and <br />continued to be the hub for a while, but not the same. It eventually shut <br />down and went away. <br /> Jean was left alone, and after a while began to attend Heritage. She <br />came faithfully for a couple of years, but the years and tobacco got to her and <br />she couldn't do that anymore. She died last week, they asked me to conduct her <br />service, which I was happy to do. My memories about her are all good. She <br />loved me, our church, and our youngest son. He loved to go to their store and <br />order the largest Styrofoam container of tea he could get, also, he found out <br />that he could tell her he was my son and get whatever he wanted. She just <br />wrote it down on a pad, and Dad paid later. Only, I'm not sure he knew that. <br />Anyway, when I was ready to order something she would ask, "What can I fix you, <br />Babe?" Or, "Here's you sandwich Babe?" Even while she was attending our <br />church, she always greeted me with a hug, and "How are you Babe?" <br /> What I wonder now is, do you think John has opened a small grocery store <br />on the square in the New Jerusalem? It's a happy thought. If he has, Chris <br />is charging his sandwiches and tea. They say you can't take it with you, but I <br />will have to in order to pay his tab when I get there, and I fully expect Jean to greet me with "How are you Babe? It's good to see you again. Come on <br />in, I've got your sandwich ready.Papa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-1135210386908297772005-12-21T16:12:00.000-08:002005-12-21T16:13:06.923-08:00WALKING THE DOGS<br /><br /><br /><br /> Bettye and I have two little companions. Pepe and Vujii. Pepe is a dachshund and Vujii a Pekinese. They live for their daily walks, but they don’t understand one bit about companionship. As Bettye is preparing for the walk, getting their leashes, etc., they are a bundle of energy. Whining, begging, barking, jumping up and down. Finally they are ready and as we start out the door their feet are spinning on the floor like the tires on an old car trying to get traction in mud. When we open the door they dash out as fast as they can and hit the end of their leash, stand upright on their hind legs, hacking, coughing and gasping for air. They dart here and there, sniffing, investigating, and marking every tree, bush, and clump of weeds they can find. When we get to the park, they are still straining at their leash trying to intimidate the squirrels, ducks, and every bird they can. They lunge at them, trying to start the chase, restrained only by their tether. Finally, about the two mile mark, they settle down. Probably from fatigue, but no more lunging about, pulling and tugging, or going off on tangents. They drop back beside us, content to walk along by our side. When we come to a turn, they look up to see which way we are going. From then on it is a joy to walk along beside them. Now we are enjoying companionship. <br /> My point is this, isn’t that the way it is in our walk with the Lord? In our youth, we are all a bundle of energy, going after this fad, darting down that rabbit trail, and generally sniffing around in side issues that have no baring on our ministry or eternity. We waste the years of our youth in the useless, and then one day we learn the true joy of companionship with the Lord. We slow down, chunk the useless and really begin to enjoy our time with our Heavenly Father. We sigh and think to ourselves, how could I have been so blind, this is what I wanted all along. God just smiles for we have finally learned. <br />Don in GeorgetownPapa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-1134542924126170422005-12-13T22:44:00.000-08:002005-12-13T22:48:44.136-08:00MY MOST MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS<br /><br /> I also remember my first Christmas that I can remember! I had to be around four years of age, and my sister Jo was about two. Dad was working at any job he could find, and our country was trying to work its way out of the great depression. We were living in an apartment on Hemphill street in Ft. Worth and Dad was working at Pick-Wick grocery store. About all I remember about the store was its sign. It was a wooden man with a snowman figure. Both his arms worked up and down, in his hands were paddles and he had a red light for a nose. We had no Christmas tree, our presents were hid under a quilt on the back porch. When it was time for us to get our presents, Dad lifted the quilt, and that was the extent of our celebration. I think I got a tricycle and Joe got a doll, but one thing I didn’t feel was poor and deprived. It was just another day, only in this one we had some new toys. <br /> Our most memorable Christmas was in 1982. Bettye, Stacy, Chris and I were involved in getting our new church off the ground. Christmas vacation could not start until Christmas eve. So, sometime after the Christmas eve services, we loaded all our luggage and Christmas presents into our compact Chevy and headed out to Fresno, California to spend Christmas and New Years with my parents. We planned on driving all night on Christmas eve and all day Christmas. We got as far as Llano, Texas, which was only forty or fifty miles from where we started when we lost the car‘s transmission. The car managed to cripple its way to the only motel in town and sure enough, they had a room. The next morning, the wrecker came and towed us home, there was five of us in the cab of the wrecker counting the driver. The house was dark and cold, we had turned everything off. There was no food in the cabinets, refrigerator, or freezer. Christmas dinner that day consisted of peanut butter sandwiches and sodas. We opened our Christmas gifts we had planned to open in California, and watched TV. Someone has said that problem like that, when everything goes wrong, is a bonding experience. I don’t know about that, but you ask any of our family members who were involved in that Christmas fiasco, which was their most memorable Christmas? They will say, “That Christmas in 1982 whenever thing went wrong!” <br /> What was your most memorable Christmas? <br /> Don in GeorgetownPapa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-1134060018480747922005-12-08T08:39:00.000-08:002005-12-08T08:40:18.496-08:00My most memorable Thanksgiving ever was in 1958. Actually it started <br />around the end of May or first of June in 1957. I was finishing my second year <br />at BBC and was supposed to spend the summer working for my Dad at the Central <br />Baptist Church in Sherman. I had interned for him the summer before. Both Dad <br />and I thought it was a done deal, then when he held a business meet to <br />allocate the funds for my salary the church voted it down. I had quit my job in <br />Springfield, and had no other prospects there in Sherman. So I did what any <br />distraught and rejected young theologue would do, I went fishing. <br /> When I got back from fishing I had a message from Foster Parnell asking <br />me to come to Henderson, Texas and do for him what I had done for Dad the year <br />before. He put me up in a Sunday School class room and I bathed in the <br />baptistery that summer. Mrs. Ruth fixed all my meals and I was a happy camper. <br />During the span of time I was there The Leonard E. Ferrell Family joined the <br />church. It was Mother, Father, younger brother, and one of the most beautiful <br />teenage girls I had ever seen. She was voted most beautiful by her high school <br />class, a majorette, FFA Sweetheart, and a host of other awards. I tried to get <br />our guys to ask her out on a date but they wouldn't, so I did. We hit it off <br />pretty good, and continued to communicate by letter once I got back to BBC. <br />Because of the distance, trying to finish my last year in college, and her <br />trying to finish her last year in high school. Our letters got fewer and further <br />apart and eventually stopped corresponding all together. <br /> I graduated and went to work for Dr. Art Wilson in Wichita, Kansas. The <br />Sunday before Thanksgiving, at the close of the service, Dr. Wilson asked me <br />if I would like to attend the Thanksgiving Fellowship of the BBF. It was being <br />held in Ft. Worth at the First Baptist Church. Of Course, I wanted to go. I <br />hopped a train out of Wichita and Dad picked me up in Gainesville. There was <br />no train station in Sherman. Thanksgiving morning we got up early and drove <br />to Ft. Worth. That old auditorium covered a city block and had at least a <br />dozen doors in order for people to enter from most any direction. <br /> Thoughtlessly, I entered the first door I came to, saw some of BBC <br />buddies, and sat down with them. Soon Bro. Parnell, Mrs. Ruth, and that beautiful <br />teenage girl was with them. I invited her to sit with me during the services <br />and we spent as much time together as we could before we went back home. We <br />started writing again, and in December of the next year, we got married. That <br />will be 46 years ago December 22. That was my most favorite Thanksgiving ever, <br />besides the most memorable. I have had 69 other Thanksgivings, but none tops <br />that one. <br />Bettye's husband in GeorgetownPapa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18663677.post-1131159827073027882005-11-04T18:46:00.000-08:002005-11-04T19:03:47.083-08:00Hey Guys, gals, and fellow bloggers all over the world, my name is Don Ledbetter and I'm the rookie. This is my very first venture into blogging. I hope to get better acquainted in the days (years) to come as I give my views, opinions, and outright dogmatic prognostications on matters both important and trivial. The following is a sample of the wit and wisdom that will be coming out of the hill country in central Texas. <br /><br />I call it The Nap Time Funeral: <br /><br />This time the phone was for Bettye. <br />"Miss Bettye, Lenea's Grandmother passed away; we need someone to play the organ for her service. Can you do it?" When one of your faithful members calls, of course you will do it. The funeral was Sunday afternoon. Not a good time, especially for me. That's nap time. Has been for 50 years. Who, in their right mind messes with a pastor's nap time? <br />Anyway, Bettye consented to play the organ, just one of her many talents, but she asked me to go with her. She really does know about nap time, but how can you say no, especially to Bettye? I have before and had to deal with guilt for the next two weeks. I consented to go, but deep inside was a begrudging bigger than an over-inflated basketball. What a waste of time, I groused. How could she do this to me? More grousing. <br />I went to the dumb funeral and just sat there. What a waste! Then the pastor who was helping conduct the funeral came in. A young, handsome man. He pastors the EV Free Church in our town. Pleasant as all get out. He told me his name and it rang a bell. <br />"Have you or your family attended my church before?" <br />"Yes, but I will talk to you later." <br />So after the service he related to me how his mother attended our church back in the early '80's and when he was nine years old he became a Christian. I baptized him. Now naps, grousing, and all general ill-will vanished. God had a blessing and a special plan to encourage, all reserved in my name and faithfully passed on, even though I had such a bad attitude. <br />My poit is this: no service to and for the Lord is "just routine." It wasn't routine back in the early eighties when I baptized a 9 year old boy. It wasn't when Bettye agreed to play the organ for a funeral scheduled during my nap time. No act of love or obedience, no matter how large or small is ever routine. Serve the Lord with gladness. <br />Don in Georgetown.Papa Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02758996734709567703noreply@blogger.com3