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.

THE VERY FIRST ALAMO BOWL

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.
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.
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.
Don in Georgetown

WASH DAY

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!
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.
Don in Georgetown

LESSONS FROM TOM AND TOM.

“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.
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.
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.
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.

I 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.
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.
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.”
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.
Papa Don

Nostalgia



Art Wilson, me, Terry Sears and Dad.

UNCLE ARTHUR

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.
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.
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.
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.
Don in Georgetown

TREASURE WHAT YOU HAVE!

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.
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.
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.
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.
Don in Georgetown

An Eye for an Eye, and A Tooth for A Tooth.

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.
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.
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.

SHE CALLED ME BABE.

She and her husband John were some of the first people I met when moving
to Georgetown. They ran a small grocery store on the square. John took care
of the nuts and bolts of the everyday affairs, she kept the books. Her name
was Jean. Davidson's Grocery Store was the meeting place of what we used to
call "The spit and whittle club." All the old guys (me included) and a few
young ones met there to drink coffee and solve the problems of the world. It was
the information hub around which Georgetown revolved when I first got here.
We met informally every morning and afternoon.
I walked in one day and a tall black man had engaged one of our locals in
conversation and when I came through the door, he tried to engage me too.
About that time I heard John call someone an "expletive," something about his
ancestry, then a whack, like flesh hitting flesh. I looked up in time to see a
baseball cap go sailing through the air, and a short black man coming my
direction at a rapid pace with a bloody nose. I walked back to the counter and
asked, "John, what's wrong?" That (expletive again) tried to rob me. Then he
asked me, "Think I out to call the police?' Well, like YEAH! He did, and that
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
continued to be the hub for a while, but not the same. It eventually shut
down and went away.
Jean was left alone, and after a while began to attend Heritage. She
came faithfully for a couple of years, but the years and tobacco got to her and
she couldn't do that anymore. She died last week, they asked me to conduct her
service, which I was happy to do. My memories about her are all good. She
loved me, our church, and our youngest son. He loved to go to their store and
order the largest Styrofoam container of tea he could get, also, he found out
that he could tell her he was my son and get whatever he wanted. She just
wrote it down on a pad, and Dad paid later. Only, I'm not sure he knew that.
Anyway, when I was ready to order something she would ask, "What can I fix you,
Babe?" Or, "Here's you sandwich Babe?" Even while she was attending our
church, she always greeted me with a hug, and "How are you Babe?"
What I wonder now is, do you think John has opened a small grocery store
on the square in the New Jerusalem? It's a happy thought. If he has, Chris
is charging his sandwiches and tea. They say you can't take it with you, but I
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
in, I've got your sandwich ready.

WALKING THE DOGS



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.
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.
Don in Georgetown

MY MOST MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS

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.
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!”
What was your most memorable Christmas?
Don in Georgetown

My most memorable Thanksgiving ever was in 1958. Actually it started
around the end of May or first of June in 1957. I was finishing my second year
at BBC and was supposed to spend the summer working for my Dad at the Central
Baptist Church in Sherman. I had interned for him the summer before. Both Dad
and I thought it was a done deal, then when he held a business meet to
allocate the funds for my salary the church voted it down. I had quit my job in
Springfield, and had no other prospects there in Sherman. So I did what any
distraught and rejected young theologue would do, I went fishing.
When I got back from fishing I had a message from Foster Parnell asking
me to come to Henderson, Texas and do for him what I had done for Dad the year
before. He put me up in a Sunday School class room and I bathed in the
baptistery that summer. Mrs. Ruth fixed all my meals and I was a happy camper.
During the span of time I was there The Leonard E. Ferrell Family joined the
church. It was Mother, Father, younger brother, and one of the most beautiful
teenage girls I had ever seen. She was voted most beautiful by her high school
class, a majorette, FFA Sweetheart, and a host of other awards. I tried to get
our guys to ask her out on a date but they wouldn't, so I did. We hit it off
pretty good, and continued to communicate by letter once I got back to BBC.
Because of the distance, trying to finish my last year in college, and her
trying to finish her last year in high school. Our letters got fewer and further
apart and eventually stopped corresponding all together.
I graduated and went to work for Dr. Art Wilson in Wichita, Kansas. The
Sunday before Thanksgiving, at the close of the service, Dr. Wilson asked me
if I would like to attend the Thanksgiving Fellowship of the BBF. It was being
held in Ft. Worth at the First Baptist Church. Of Course, I wanted to go. I
hopped a train out of Wichita and Dad picked me up in Gainesville. There was
no train station in Sherman. Thanksgiving morning we got up early and drove
to Ft. Worth. That old auditorium covered a city block and had at least a
dozen doors in order for people to enter from most any direction.
Thoughtlessly, I entered the first door I came to, saw some of BBC
buddies, and sat down with them. Soon Bro. Parnell, Mrs. Ruth, and that beautiful
teenage girl was with them. I invited her to sit with me during the services
and we spent as much time together as we could before we went back home. We
started writing again, and in December of the next year, we got married. That
will be 46 years ago December 22. That was my most favorite Thanksgiving ever,
besides the most memorable. I have had 69 other Thanksgivings, but none tops
that one.
Bettye's husband in Georgetown

Hey 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.

I call it The Nap Time Funeral:

This time the phone was for Bettye.
"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?
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.
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.
"Have you or your family attended my church before?"
"Yes, but I will talk to you later."
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.
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.
Don in Georgetown.