As Time Marches On

As many are reading this Sunday, June 30th blog, Mel and Gerry are likely in route to the 64th Annual Roustio Family Reunion held at the Shilo, Illinois Community Park. Even though we have lived away from the metro-east area most of our married life, we have only missed a handful of those yearly celebrations. From 1949 until 1954, I looked forward to the day long eating and game- playing event. In 1955, I began taking my girlfriend, Gerry to the clan get gathering and soon thereafter it seemed as though we were the middle generation family-group holding office positions, making the bulk of food and orchestrating the kids' entertainment; not to mention spending a lot of money buying 'goofy' white elephant gifts in financial support to keep the gig going the next year.

In retrospect, it is interesting to note the changing stages of family reunion-roles. From the time I was the kid who ate and played all day... to the 'cool' teen dating guy... to the hands on parent and finally the member of the 'old-fart' group who must watch their sugar in-take as they constantly ask folks to repeat every damn thing they say.

During these latter adult years, I have always embraced the annual opportunity to pay homage and engage the elder Roustio clans-persons. My grandparents and parents were proud, hard working and God-fearing people. I have always been amazed that the little girl that brought to the reunion back in 1955 and married in 1960, would come to know more names of my 150 family-reunion attendees.

I will miss visiting with many relatives who recently died and I will especially feel an aching heart for my mother who just passed six months ago. If I am asked to 'say' a grace-blessing, I I will do my best to be firm with words as I thank God for  this heritage and those who forged the way.

Today, I will be the third oldest person at the festivities; who would've 'thunk' back in the beginning?

"All I Know is What I Read in the Newspaper"...Will Rogers

Hey, sorry about the disappearance; my outside telephone line- feed to computer was 'hit' by lightning and AT & T is slow to admit errors at their end...anyway, I was about to say...

These retirement years offer more time to read newspapers. I usually read the local Decatur Herald-Review and the USA Today; when traveling on the speaker's circuit, I enjoy whatever local print is available. Reading two newspapers each morning is about a 35-minute and three cups of coffee commitment. I have never read the comic section of the newspaper. I spend the least amount of time reading the celebrity birthday list because with each passing year, I seem to know fewer celebrities. I notice that I read the obituaries more carefully and perhaps I am subconsciously doing the 'math-equations' while reading obits. The sport page always fascinates me but I also find myself becoming more cynical of these pro-athletes who have become more greedy and self-centered. The front page is usually a re-hash of the television news the previous night.

I have developed newer newspaper reading interests over the past 10 years; I enjoy the editorial offerings and the 'Letters-to-Editors.' These writings suggest what people are 'thinking' and I like that notion. The medical advice column allows me to ponder similar symptoms while the personal advice articles replaces the omitted comic-section giving me the laughable diversion.

Some newspapers have those call-in sections where readers can give an opinion and often criticize some thing or some one without signing their name. I find that practice in a class lower than the general 'yellow-journalism' that we understand. It would seem somewhat contradictory for a newspaper to demand its reporters to double check sources, on the one hand and turn around and print anonymous comments. Boggles the mind.

 I am always appalled by back-biters, critics and 'mud-slingers' who hide behind anonymity! Likewise, I am disgusted with folks who desire change or wish to right a wrong but refuse to stand-up 'publicly' for the cause or position. Both aforementioned types are cowards.

Take the Time, Make the Call and Rejoice Forever

Had my mother, Lucille lived, she would have been 94 years old on June 23. I miss her voice. I spoke with her at least four times each week during the last fifteen years of her life; I miss her voice. I was about ten years old when I first realized how soothing was her voice and how easy it was to fall asleep as my mother talked with others in a nearby room.  I just thought of something...my heavenly eternity would be hearing my mother's voice in the other room and eternal hell would be hearing Rush Limbaugh's voice.

I urge each reader to consider making that telephone call to a special love one on a regular basis. Text messages may be a method of 'staying-in-touch' but it cannot soothe the soul like the sound of a dear love one's voice.

Recently, I have struggled with feelings of depression. I understand the catalyst for this melancholy mood; I am seventy-four years old and I count far more relatives who have passed than those who remain. This coming Sunday, the Roustio Clan will gather at Shilo, Illinois for the 64th Annual Roustio Family Reunion. Do the math, I attended most of those reunions beginning at age ten. Oh my, the changing faces boggles the mind.

I can usually shake these emotional lows when I ponder upon the strength of my late mother-in law (Vi Bischof) who buried her husband at 54, and lost two sons when they were in their early forties; what strength this woman displayed over the thirty-plus years she carried those heartaches. I also gain an uplifted feeling when I remember that my own mother had to 'push-on' without her sweetheart (my father) the last nineteen years before her death. And every day, I am mindful of three wonderful lady friends in Jacksonville who lost their husbands prematurely and each day they demonstrate joyous spirits. I thank each of them for serving as models and I pray for similar strength.

Happy birthday, Mom.

See Ya Under the Corner Street Light

Last evening, I was enjoying the gentle cool summer breeze while perched upon the backyard swing when I suddenly recalled memories of those youthful summers gone by.  There are many constant themes that transcends the years. The smell of newly mowed grass, the sounds of birds scurrying to find their night time roost and the aroma of a neighbor's grilling supper. As I sat in the swing and darkness began to have its way, I thought that there is something amiss. The streetlight behind me began its mercury vapor illumination and on cue, I suddenly remembered what was missing; there are no children sounds playing on the streets or in nearby yards.

Where are the summer games and accompanying noises? I never see hop-scotch markings on sidewalks. The is not one hiding eyes at the lamp post while friends find hiding places. The sound of a baseball bat falling to the pavement as boys play 3-flies-in in foreign to this adolescent generation. I cannot recall the last time I heard a child say, "You didn't say Mother may I." There is no can being kicked and no one shouts, "1, 2, 3 on Terry behind Miss Leroy's garage." My God, where are the children?

Don't kids realize that they could stay out doors and tell stories, catch lightning bugs or pester the girls down the block? Where are the kids?

Perhaps the climate-control home comfort environment and the fascination with computers and what someone posted on 'facebook trumps those childhood games of days gone by. Maybe this generation of kids will grow up stronger and healthy but should they be a tad bit obese with some health issues, I am sure modern medicine will fix it. Perhaps the children will be void of social skills but what the hell most will work in tiny cubicles and have little need for human interaction. And just maybe the children will lack imagination but surely they can 'google' and read about others' imaginations.

In all fairness, as a 1949 adolescent, I did not have air conditioning in my house, there was no television until 1950 and it only carried three channels; going outside after the supper hour was the natural choice.

I Wish I Knew Not THEIR NAMES

In recent years, attending sporting events, I have different thoughts running through my head while standing and singing the National Anthem. Oh, I still get 'goose-bumps' occasionally when a performer does a particularly fine rendition of that most difficult song. That said, I am beginning to wonder about the true toughness of our nation. Personally, I believe young people are much smarter than those of my generation and my parents, however I think that we have a helluva lot more wimp-ass sissies; No let me re-phrase that thought, I KNOW we have more wimp-ass sissies and the number will be growing.

Jacksonville high school has fired two (2) coaches over the previous three years and both were dismissed because they were 'HARD' with expectations and demands upon their athletes. I have told you before that parents dislike teachers who give a lot of homework and coaches who 'yell.' The entire circumstance firings at Jacksonville are so very transparent that after  three telephone calls, I can now give you names of the parents who 'got' the firing done!! There are no surprises.

I am not picking on Jacksonville high school. Six years ago, I was invited to speak to athletes and parents at an exclusive private high school in the greater Boston metropolitan area. The yearly tuition at this school was $27,000.00 and it was not a school that housed and fed students; nope, just an 8-to-3 attendance school. After my presentation, I joined parents for a reception and question/answer session. One well-educated couple, in their mid-fifties, asked me this question: "Do you think it is okay for us to ask our son's football coach to do more to publicly acknowledge our son and other teammates who are second-team players who get little press recognition.?" I followed with this question before offering my answer: "How old and what grade is your son?" They answered, "He is a 20-year old sophomore at Holy Cross College." I thought but did NOT SAY, 'Are you shitting me?'

The most recent coach fired at Jacksonville high school has a strong won-loss record and during his eight year tenure he claims one IHSA Regional Championship and a shared conference title. Players stated that this coach had high expectations and demands on his players. Funny how we champion the military and its rigorous training. Even stranger how we blow smoke up our own ass talking about how sport can build character and hone survival skills/traits, which are applicable to later life challenges. This is true for fewer each year; more and more wimp-ass kids will be forever dependent upon their crippling parents.

This 'helicoptering-parenting onslaught' is not limited to the sport arena. A few years ago, parents locked horns with the Jacksonville school administration over students being allowed to have cell phones on their person while in the classroom. The parents also held a opposite view regarding wearing hats in the building; the administration changed those 'rules' to accommodate the parents who wish to please their children's wishes.. Therefore, today, should a P E teacher ask some fat-ass kid to do calisthenics and sweat, the kid can immediately text or cell phone his Mommy or Daddy and get that shit straightened out.

If things keep going in this direction, you can expect one day our Nation's WALL guarded by orphans ONLY!

Thanks Dad

I gained my sport competitiveness through my early-youth relationship with my Dad. I was always bugging him to shoot baskets or play catch; naturally, I wanted to impress my Dad and of course I wanted to 'out-do' him if possible. Perhaps from the time I was six years old until I was eleven, I jumped at every opportunity to foot-race my Dad down our side street to a telephone pole and back to our drive way...the experience changed one day. I awakened several years ago, in the mid-night hours thinking about 'THAT' day it  changed and I penned these words:

                                                                               CATCHING UP WITH DAD

I raced down the alley to the telephone pole,
I gave it my all seeking a coveted goal.

My opponent, my Father, my hero no doubt,
Would this be the time I win and then shout?

The races, shooting baskets and backyard games,
I competed against my model to desire the same.

Just once to win against the giant of a man,
To prove to Dad, I will and I can.

One time close and another so near,
Was the edge his age or perhaps in my fear?

Then one day it happened, victory over Dad,
Though the sweetness came laced with the sad.

Many years have gone by and I race no more,
My Father is gone; no need to keep score.

Now I stroll through the park noting others at play,
I watch the young father and son on this day.

They huddle and chat then point to a sign,
'Ready Set,' then they are off to that line.

The lad tries so hard but not up to the task,
Time will change and soon Dad places last.

Oh, these changing roles all part of the plan,
The secret, you know, is to 'race' while you can.

Happy Father's Day; enjoy past memories as you pay-it-forward.

(December 2003...Moja)

                                                                                           

Fleeting; Don't Miss Chances

 I suppose it's natural, this time of year, to reflect on one's parents; Mother's Day is fresh in our rear view mirror and this weekend we salute Fathers. Perhaps when parents are no longer with us, our reflections are even more intense. I always had a loving relationship with my parents. That said, they did not necessarily identify with what or who I became once I left the crib. I did not gravitate into the blue-collar East St. Louis Union Tradesman brotherhood and I would not make a living with manual skills. My father, brothers and most men in our families were blue-collar guys; I was not. Don't misunderstand my position. I worked many summers in  the St. Louis and Peoria factories to supplement my teaching/coaching pay but I did not 'make' my primary livelihood-income from that Trades-employment field.. Nevertheless, I always respected and admired those in my family who developed trade-skills.

On my personal note, I had little to say about the direction I would take in life regarding a 'work-profession.' It was because of sport skills in baseball and basketball that caused me to eventually 'get' a college degree and enter the teaching/coaching profession.  I was the first in our family to receive the college degree and that which I became was 'foreign' to my blue-collar family thinking.

 I felt love from my family but I also sensed their suspicious view of this more 'liberal' thinking offspring. My Dad would often say, especially in the presence of his friends or our family, "You still playing games; when are you going to get a real job?" It was his jab-joke at me. I suspect it was difficult for some to imagine 'making-a-living' coaching children playing games. That said,I know deep inside that he and mom held a pride for all three of their sons.

I have absolutely no regrets  regarding my relationships with parents, grandparents and aunts and uncles. I always gave respect and I always showed love and appreciation to family; no lingering 'woulda-coulda' moments for this fella. I constantly remind my grandchildren to seize every relationship opportunity moment and apply mutual respect as they embrace the family love. I am also quick to encourage those grandkids to follow their dreams and work-desires refusing to be manipulated by others.

It's Anchored By Our MUSIC

Yesterday, June 11, was our 53rd wedding anniversary; much of the credit goes to my wife, Gerry. She was the consummate supporter for a husband's career and let me tell you, a 39-year journey coaching high school athletes certainly is problematic for the coach's spouse. Likewise, my wife was a terrific in-law to my parents and family members. She shouldered the bulk of child rearing because coach-daddy was often practicing, scouting or breaking down scouting reports with staff. I have long ago apologized to her and my children for my absenteeism-fatherhood as I gave my time to others' children. Gerry and I became sweethearts when she was but an 8th grader and I was a ninth grader. We total sixty years together!

"...a million to one that's they say about this love of ours; a million to one," sang Jimmy Charles on his 1960 hit recording. Those lyrics resonated back to the year 1953 when the dark-haired petite girl from the large Catholic family became the object-of-affection of the lanky, skinny blond from the more conservative Methodist roots. The little girl was always 'open,' trusting and unabridged. Her  complete opposite would easily withhold trust, turn on a dime and become aloof and distant. All traits survived to this day!

Nevertheless, as much as the 13-year girl and 14-year old boy differed, they held a commonality of laughter and the acquired romanticism of the fifties made it easy, over a seven year courtship to meld similar hopes and dreams. We would take long walks through the park to find moments alone on a bench near the Jones' Park lagoon. We shared endless conversations about family, religion, parenting and personal desires. Movie moments at the St. Louis Fox Theater, French Village Drive In, football dances, horse back riding and Mississippi Admiral excursion boat ventures accentuated and celebrated the passage of our youthful times.

To this very day, I recall it all even her address: 1632 North 43rd Street, telephone number: Upton 4-3282 and 'special things' that only two people know. The Four Lads sang it best, "January to December, we'll have Moments to Remember..."

Home Sweet Home

I umpired college and high school baseball games for eleven years. I enjoyed the challenge to 'get calls' correct and baseball has always been my first sports' love. Not many 'White' umpires would accept contracts to work games in East St. Louis during the 1970's. I suppose when you are a native of a community, you tend to embrace a denial regarding safety; my goodness 'those ' are the streets and playgrounds of my youth, how dangerous can it be to return?

I always felt comfortable umpiring for East St. Louis baseball coach, Arthur May. He was always at my side the instant I needed to address an unruly crowd. Let me share a quick footnote on East St. Louis baseball per se'. That city produced some great high school teams and many major leagues players. I can personally attest to the incredible youth baseball leagues, high school programs and American Legion teams of the 1940's and 1950's. In time the 'white flight' removed many people with baseball passion and the city became primarily Black with its growing interest in professional basketball. Sadly, East St. Louis high school's baseball today is a 'joke.' It was once suggested to me by a MLB scout that he believed if young Black athletes spent as much time on baseball sandlots as they obviously do on outdoor basketball courts, there would be more Blacks playing pro baseball and many who are truly too small to succeed in the NBA might find $$$ in MLB. I agree.

My final umpiring gig at East Side, Jones' Park Diamond #1 was on a warm May day, 1978. The big cross-town rival games between the Lincoln 'Tigers' and East St. Louis 'Flyers' was the draw and it indeed drew hundreds of fans that day. It would appear that 50% of the East St. Louis population owned German Sheppard dogs. After a lengthy explanation of ground rules that included conversation about a lot of 'imaginary-lines,' I called out, "Play ball," as I assumed my home plate ump duties.

Several times during the first three innings, I had to call time out and move people and dogs back from slow encroachment near the playing field; each time Coach May was at my side offering administrative 'backup.' In the top of the fourth inning, I noticed a male patron walking from the right field area towards the infield; his staggering gate indicated that he was either drunk or' high' on some substance. I call for play suspension and began walking towards the second base area where the inebriated gent was heading as he gestured and shouted incoherently. I arrive at the position and within ten feet of the guy, his eyes suggested that he was not in control of any thing! I had removed my umpires mask and in my most stern-authoritative voice ordered the man from the field. He grumbled some words and slowly staggered towards the second baseman and took the lad's glove as he offered fielding pointers. Another command for him to leave the field seemed to resonate as the man stumbled to the sidelines. Between innings, I asked Coach May, "Hey Man, why were you not at my side helping me remove the drunk?" Coach May response, "Oh shit Mel, that's crazy Willie and he packs heat."

The game over, I found myself standing at my auto's trunk on North Park Drive putting my equipment away as the street lights flickered 'on.' I thought to myself, 'Roustio, you can go home but you're a fool to do so!"

What's In a Name?

I was browsing the grocery store aisle looking for 'Frank's Bavarian Sauerkraut when I overheard two Black gentlemen greet each other using the 'N' word, i.e., "What's up Nigger?" I could not help but recalling radio talk show host, Dr. Laura using the 'N' word  several times on her show and how it caused a major fallout for her. Here's the deal, I can call my grandkids 'nincompoops' but I will have it out with others who call them nincompoops. It is simple logic, we have certain liberties with our 'OWN" but outsiders need not have those immunities. There is another aspect of this derogatory name-referencing that seems permissible. Let me explain. In 1978, I umpired my final baseball game for East St. Louis high school at Jones' Park, East St. Louis, Illinois. We moved shortly thereafter to Jacksonville, Illinois. East St. Louis' baseball coach was a Black man named, Arthur May. After this particular game, Coach May shook my hand as he handed me my check and said, "Mel, you worked a 'nigger-game." The comment was meant as a compliment for umpiring (calling a consistent strike zone) a solid game. I suppose his expression of endorsement was in his bestowing an 'honorary' membership to the brotherhood on me.

I personally dislike negative words but like many, I have been guilty of using them. I once had an Edwardsville basketball player with an Italian background; we all called him  'Wap.'  It was and remains his 'nickname to this day. While coaching, I never allowed my Black players to use the 'N' word

Though our constitution speaks clearly to man's rights considering race, religion and sexual persuasion, the laws cannot legislate appreciation or tolerance for people. Many folks may act out prejudicial attitudes. My hope is with the passing of generations my great-grandchildren kids will see a world of complete assimilation and accompanying tolerance. I recently read a school paper written by one of my middle school grandkids which address race and religious tolerance; nicely done even if the kid is a nincompoop.

PS. #1 Cook a couple links of smoked sausage drain off excess grease; put the sausage with the Bavarian sauerkraut and cook longer; serve with mashed potatoes.
 PS #2 Check out my blog tomorrow, I will tell you of a funny incident which, occurred during that East St. Louis baseball game.

Oh, You Don't Think So!

Blah, Blah, Blah and on and on; I don't know about you readers but there are some debates I have grown weary hearing. Enough already with the 'same-sex' marriage conversation. It is an example of hypocritical American gobbledygook. I heard a gent recently comment that he thought two guys raising a kid would 'screw-up' the kid; how's that heterosexual parenting thing working these days?

We are a country of 'bumpkins' wanting for ourselves and blaming the government if we don't get that which we want but others get it. We complain about taxes but wish for our potholes on our street to be fixed. Some folks go nuts over a woman's right to have an abortion but clamor to be first in line to view a capital punishment. Many people point fingers and blame unemployment problems and excessive welfare expenditures on "lazy dark skinned folks" while ignoring the fact the white-ass farmers benefit from one of the largest government welfare giveaways!!

We lower academic standards thus allowing more bumper-sticker purchases claiming the some one's kid is an 'honor' student. This past month while attending three graduations, I  noted that their is a growing number of high school senior classes over the years producing multiple valedictorians; a joke! It never ceases to amaze me how high schools have so many students with 5.2 GPA's in a school with a 4.0 GPA scale. We seem to be solving some of our parental concerns with education: We lower academic standards so our kids stand a better chance of being on honor roll and we fire coaches more readily who yell at kids or play the 'wrong' kids.

I do find some humor in this journey; Anglo-Saxons came to this country seeking religious freedoms. They set aside their Christ teachings for a bit while they cheated the Native Indians and eventually ran those good for nothing 'Redskins" off OUR land, which we could one day sing about sea-to-shinning sea and ask God to bless it. Of course, we needed to go to another country and capture and enslave Black-folks so we could have our hard labor done by lesser humans while the God's chosen white guys could sip mint juleps on the front porch veranda. Had that damn Republican President Lincoln not freed those 'darkies,' we wouldn't need to pretend that we don't want Mexicans cutting our grass in our gated communities.

Last night, I was putting away lawn chairs and cushions when my neighbor yelled across the fence, "Hey Mel, I hope you know that President Obama is going to cause you to become poor." I hollered back, "AGAIN?! Hell. being poor is like riding a bike; once you get he hang of it , it's NO BIG DEAL!"

Y'all have a nice weekend and if you find yourself nearby Decatur, stop for a spell and we'll have a 'cold-one' as we chat on the backyard swing.

Talk to Me

While in my doctor's office waiting room the other day, I noticed a number of patients using the 'automated' machine to sign-in rather than engage the receptionists. That machine has been in the waiting room for at least six-years and I have yet to use it. The workers don't even bother to suggest the process to me any longer; they know better.

Look, I must pump my own gasoline because I wish to drive my auto and no one else will pump the gas. However, I still have a choice on a couple of matters and I intend to hold fast refusing to use automation, which replaces a salaried employee. My local Wal Mart store (during mid-day hours) now has more 'self-service' checkout lanes open than cashier lines. I refuse to hunt for my food in aisles, check myself out and bag my own food...for goodness sakes, I was a grocery delivery boy for three years, which means, I once 'hunted' for others' groceries, boxed the items and got into an automobile, drove to the customer's house and carried the food into their kitchen.

I first noticed this onslaught of impersonal contact-communication with telephone recording devices several years back. It began with answering machine voices giving instructions before you might possibly speak to a person. Just yesterday, I telephoned a number which was given to me to request a filing-form as part of a class-action lawsuit against the government involving a defective roofing product. I gave the following information 'using the touch number pads:' Name, address, telephone number, year of purchase, installing company, color of shingle and a description of deterioration of the product; I never spoke to another human being! I hope I get the filing papers.

I find this kind of modern day interaction leaving me wanting and frustrated. The reality however, is that my grown children seem to make the adjustments and my grandchildren know only these ways. One of the kids ask me a few weeks ago if I would consider 'texting' correspondence with the kids and grandkids. I said, "Absolutely NO!" When pressed on the matter, I explained, "If you wish to interact with me, TALK to me." We seem to be on the same page and I will say, the kids telephone frequently; it is wonderful 'HEARING' their voices. I hope that they will one day share that feeling.

A Trigger Moment

I suppose it could be my age and the realization that the sand-in-the-hourglass is disproportionately located at the bottom or then it could simply be a longing for relationships gone by; your guess is as good as mine. Nonetheless, my emotions often times are just beneath the surface and some of the strangest things can trigger those feelings. Let me explain. Monday afternoon, my wife and I headed for St. Louis to use one of four-Cardinals' games previously purchased tickets.. We arrived early enough to have diner at Mike Shannon's Restaurant before heading to the stadium to check out the 'Birds and Diamondbacks.

Our seats are located in the second row down the left field foul line about twenty yards from the third baseman; great seats where you best pay attention to line drives. Seated at my right were two young boys who came 'ready' with baseball gloves, Cardinals' jerseys and caps; the older boy was perhaps 11 and his younger cousin likely nine years-old. The elder lad, of course had greater concentration powers on the unfolding of the game while the 9-year old was constantly tracking the cotton-candy vendor and asking his uncle when he could make the purchase.

It was in the sixth inning when a foul ball ricocheted off the wall directly in front of our seats. The ball was retrieved by a field security guard who walked towards our seats and motioned to the 11-year boy at my right and with a wink of his eye tossed to ball into the boy's outstretched baseball mitt. The look on the kid's face was a mix of disbelief, excitement and uncontrolled smiling. He kept trading glances at the 'prize' and others around him as if to seek ownership confirmation from somebody--anybody! At one split second his eyes met mine and I immediately felt a choking in my throat and warm tears swell in these old eyes. I had an instant flash back to the year 1950. My Dad took me to old Sportsman Park in North St. Louis where the Cardinals and the St. Louis Browns both played their home games. For those who may not remember, the 'Browns' were an American League team and would be sold to ownership in Baltimore...and now you know the rest of that story; Orioles!

On that game day, sixty-three years ago, Dad and I arrived at the ballpark early enough to 'watch batting practice.' Unnoticed by me while I was gawking at the sights, my Dad bolted from his seat and ran towards a foul ball, which he garnered and brought to me. He called out my name and flipped the ball at me and I caught it in my 'Mart Marion' (Mr. Shortstop) glove.

 Through blurry warm eyes, I saw my Father's smiling face two nights ago at Busch Stadium and I felt that 'little boy inside;' it was special once AGAIN!

Is EVERYBODY Happy?

Tommy Harper was a itinerant  preacher who traveled his assigned circuit in the 1940's and 1950's. His itinerant ministry finds it's roots in the John Wesley, United Methodist Church and dates back over two hundred years. Whereas you readers never heard Preacher Harper, you have most likely heard of another circuit-rider style preacher named, Billy Graham. I have heard (in person) both Tommy and Billy speak their respective sermons from the pulpit. Tommy's gig was most often a week-long revival and under the 'tent.' I heard Tommy in person more frequently than the notable Rev. Graham. The two pastors had one common theme in every sermon; they gave an 'alter-call' to the congregation; an opportunity to publicly come forward at the end of the sermon and ask God for forgiveness of sins and His merciful saving grace. I can report, factually, that Billy's alter call was and is concise and straightforward whereas, Tommy would linger on that closing hymn, "Just As I Am,"until the cows came home, and you came FORWARD!

My Methodist Church service has changed from those back-in-the-days! Very seldom does the minister invite people 'forward' To Repent and be Saved. Actually, many church service styles have changed. I would be a fool to suggest that the change is bad or good, I shall leave that determination to those who have the background, wisdom and insight on such matters. I will only acknowledge and speak to that which I observe as different than what I experienced and offer my personal speculation.

A number of years ago, I was discussing with one of my children how my maternal grandmother constantly reminded us of Jesus' redeeming grace and His triumphant return. 'Mammy,' as we affectionately called her often said to me when I was a teen going out on a date, "Moe, you know that our Savior, Jesus Christ is going to return a second time; you would not want to be doing something sinful should He chose tonight to return." My daughter was quick to surmise that my Mammy and the Methodist Church's hell fire and damnation messages were designed to frighten and intimidate and scare-the-hell out of followers. She was correct with that summation.  In our current culture the Preachers wish for attendees to 'feel good' and do whatever if it makes you feel good; I suppose that's why  there is coffee and donuts in the lobby. My Methodist Church (I suspect others) kinda treat parishioners as parents treat children; don't RANKLE; when it's time to pick up toys, take a bath and go to bed ask the child, "Don't you think WE should pick up OUR toys and take a bath for bedtime?"

The Methodist Church, today, and I suspect other churches would not have enough folks in the pews if today's feel good sermons' were replaced by those 'get your crap together or go to hell messages!!'

And the Beat Gopes On

My wife and I attended our third consecutive Friday evening high school graduation ceremony this past weekend. This final 2013 exercise was held in the 7,200 seat auditorium at Willow Creek Community Church, Barrington, Illinois; the Barrington High School Class of 2013 was 'in the house.' Our daughter, Dawn (Husband) Shawn's son, Colin was the third grandchild to be graduated from that site. Since 762 graduates were receiving diplomas, we thought we needed to grab our preferred seats one hour ahead of the 7 P.M. schedule start. It was a good move because the pre-graduation entertainment is unbelievable by Barrington high schools extremely talented seniors; every year a new senior group delivers musical performances equal to professional entertainment.

The two and one half hour ceremony was dignified and held a couple of interesting speakers. I especially enjoyed the 'charge' given to the students by Barrington school superintendent, Tom Leonard a former coach himself. Mr. Leonard told the graduates that his favorite all-time movie was the Wizard of Oz.' He suggested that the four central characters in the film held desires that the seniors and perhaps everyone should also embrace. The Tin Man wanted a heart (give and serve and you will find your heart), the Lion wanted courage, (if you are willing to take risks you will find that courage), the Scarecrow wished for brain and Dorothy simply wanted to 'go home.' Of course, the seniors had demonstrated they had 'brains.'  Going home is a normal and healthy desire for everyone; always appreciate from whence you came. If you can, dare to go home and give back something.

There was one more central character in the story Oz that was highlighted by the speaker...surly, you all remember 'TOTO;' Dorothy's dog. The key role of a dog in the graduate's life is the fact that no matter what ups and downs, successes or failures may enter your journey, each day you come home to a DOG, you will find the truest of all unconditional loves. HERE, HERE, I second that notion!!

Loren Roustio and cousin Erica Howell will enter their respective freshmen years at Illinois State University this fall while their cousin, Colin O'Keefe heads to Kalamazoo, Michigan and Western Michigan. Good luck and God speed!

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