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My blog A place for random thoughts |
| I fell in love with the English language in ninth grade. It was because of my teacher, Professor J.D. Huggins. I even signed up for an alternative course, “Business English,” because he was the teacher. In addition to opening up the language for me, Mr. Huggins constantly affirmed my good qualities. He would make occasional comments on what I was doing right…in life as well as in the class. In my senior annual he wrote these words, “Bob, I have a great deal of respect for you.” To this very day, those words are like precious trophies, lovingly placed in the chambers of my heart. |
| Painting with a Roller: I’m what you could rightly call a handy man. I can usually fix things. (Not cars…if my car has a problem, I’m taking it straight to a mechanic.) But household maintenance is pretty easy for me. Is the door stuck? I can fix it. Is the faucet leaking? I can usually fix it. Does it need painting? Surely most ANYONE can paint it! I usually enjoy these simple repair projects. The trick is not to be in a hurry. Begin at a time when you don’t HAVE to finish it on the same day. Then if you run into stressful problems, at least you won’t be expecting a house full of company the next day. You can sleep on it, think about it, seek advice, or ultimately call in the repair man if you can’t succeed. So I repeat. The secret of enjoying home repairs is to take your time. Think about what a sense of accomplishment you are creating for yourself. Do your homework. You could even do the unthinkable…read the owner’s manuel! There is one little chore that never really gives me much pleasure. That is cleaning up the paint roller. Oh yes, it can be done. But it takes a LOT of water and a LOT of patience. So I usually buy the cheaper paint roller, use it once and throw it away. I don’t buy the bottom of the line paint roller. It might not have enough thickness to do the job well. But I have long ago quit buying the real expensive ones. They even seem to have TOO MUCH thickness to do the best job. So I buy a mid-price paint roller, use it once and throw it away. You can really enjoy using a paint roller. It is awkward to be on a ladder trying to use a roller. You have to step down to swish it through the roller pan to get more paint on it. Then you have to return to the ladder to begin painting. The roller also drips easily, so you want to take it straight from the roller pan to the wall surface to avoid excessive dripping. (A good drop cloth is important here.) To avoid using a ladder, buy a simple and wonderful attachment. It is an extension handle. The extension handle attachs to the handle of the paint roller. The extension handle telescopes outward to become as long as you need it. Now you can stand on the floor and reach the highest point of your wall. If you are painting a very large area you might want to try one of those paint rollers that is equipped with a hose and a pump. The pump feeds the roller from the bucket of paint. You just keep on rolling the paint, without having to refill your roller. This doesn’t sound like a good invention to me. It seems to me like this would have its own problems. But my eldest son has done a lot of remodeling, and he swears by this automatic roller. OK. I’m going to throw away the roller, and only keep the roller handle. That takes care of the big clean up task: the roller itself. But what about the roller pan. You can’t just put the top on it. Most roller pans don’t have a pan. They have a large open-air surface. If you have been painting for a couple hours, some of the paint in the roller pan is drying around the edges. My only solution to cleaning the roller pan has been “TAKE YOUR TIME!” Get outside in an area where the paint won’t do any harm. Get a hose and maybe a wire brush. Just take it easy, and keep running water into the roller pan, swishing it around, and using the wire brush on the dried areas. Eventually you will get the roller pan clean. I always look down on “lesser” painters who have layers and layers of paint in their roller pan. They seem too lazy to clean it up properly. I’m sure this works for them, but to me it seems like the roller pan is getting heavier with each use. I just read an interesting idea for the roller pan. Reader’s Digest has a column called “RD Home”. They suggest that you can slide a roller pan into a kitchen trash bag, then press the bag into it to form a liner. When you finish painting, slip off the bag, turn it inside out and toss it in the trash. I can’t wait to try this! It seems like a very good idea. Imagine coming to the clean up phase of painting a room. You don’t have to spend any time at all. You just toss the roller in the trash, then toss the pan cover in the trash. I LIKE IT! |
| “Flashes” of Life: I’m going to begin jotting down a few thoughts on this subject tonight. I know I won’t finish it. It has come to my attention from time to time over the years, and I’d like to develop it. Doug Colligan, in the March, 2005 Reader’s Digest, wrote an article called “Happiness, How to Have It Now.” His idea is to live in the present tense. Part of his theory involves living in a present moment…something that gets you to the present. Awareness of breathing can move you in the right direction. Any repetitive activity that gets us breathing regularly can help. It could be walking, running, swimming. These can have a genuine soothing effect. Colligan asks, “Just how long is a ‘moment’ once we get there? Does it happen with the speed of lightning, the blink of an eye?” Experts have said that any given “moment” lasts three to four seconds, and no more than ten. These “present moments” or “Flashes of Life”, for all their brevity, can be unbelievably rich. In that tiny parcel of time, a lot can happen. I have studied this idea for some years now. I have experienced those rare and wonderful “moments” when it seemed I got a glimpse through a window. I was glimpsing some deeper truth. I was somehow “sampling” the essence of life. Maybe this “flash of life” comes on some wistful tune, or a piece of a tune on the radio, driving in the city. For some reason I hear the notes of a tune, and I am transported to some rich and sweet moment in my spirit. Call it a “flash of life”, or a glimpse through the window of your soul into some purer life reality. Then the joy of that “present moment” lingers sweetly in spirit, maybe for days to come. Colligan mentions a good example. A therapist always shook the hand of each patient at the beginning and end of the session. He noticed one patient who was feeling particularly sad. When the therapist gave him the usual good bye handshake, he also laid his other hand on top of the man’s in a consoling two-handed shake. Though neither person said anything, that simple act transformed their relationship. That handshake stood out as one of the most memorable moments in the entire therapy. Times of crisis can be our defining moments. Discovering you have a fatal illness can put the “here and now” into sharp focus. Everything else becomes only a hope. Deciding not to race through your second grade son’s art work can open your eyes. Sitting down on the floor with your son and asking him why he drew what he drew…this might open up one of those defining moments between father and son. Truly connecting to those “flashes of life” as they fly by is something we all can do. It might just take a bit of practice. Your life could become sprinkled with “Zen rushes”, an arresting sense of tranquility coupled with the heightened awareness that what I’m doing at this moment is exactly what I want to be doing. |
| I've neglected my blogging for a few days here. I lost my dad last week. He was 90 years old, had a wonderful life and died peacefully in his own bed with his wife and loved ones at his side. I couldn't ask for a better life for myself! |
| Terminal Thinking: My dad is at the point of death this week. He is 90 years old. He is a devout Christian, and we are confident he has a home in heaven when he is done on earth. That is a lot of comfort to my family, as we are all Christians. My dad is Robert William Buckner. I’ve told quite a lot of his story in writing my own autobiography, a work still in progress. Daddy’s story is in my portfolio in Writing.Com When I went away to senior college in 1963, I never returned to live in my North Carolina home for any length of time. I was there for some summers, between school, but for the most part my path has led me to states other than where my parents live. In time Daddy and Mother sold our home in North Carolina and moved to the southern Virginia mountains, between Jonesville and Pennington Gap. My little sister Sandy lives there. Daddy and Mother bought a lot next door and built their home. It has proven to be one of the best moves they ever made. Daddy built Sandy’s house. He and Mother went up to Virginia and lived with Phil and Sandy while helping them build their house. Then a few years later they built their own house next door. I said it was one of the best moves they ever made. This has proven true now in Daddy’s ancient years. Sandy retired early from her job as a high school counselor in order to take care of our parents. If it were not for the amazing love and care she and her husband Phil have given, Daddy would have been in a nursing home for over a year. It is hard when children leave the family clan and live in distant states. I believe the ideal is to raise ones children within an easy drive of their grandparents. Grandparents are supposed to ad a second layer of “parenting.” They can interpret a child’s parents to him from time to time. They can give the child unbridled love and attention. It is a healthy thing. My two boys missed all of this. We would travel to Minnesota to visit their maternal grandparents. We would travel to North Carolina, and later to Virginia to visit their paternal grandparents. There was always a lot of love and fondness when we made these visits. Still I believe something was lost in the miles and hours between our families. Now I have a grandson of my own. He lives a short hour and a half away. I’m very grateful for that. Today I’m sitting out on my porch swing in the backyard. Huge Mississippi trees overwhelm my backyard, and the house on that side. It is like a rain forest. How we love this back yard. And I’m thinking about my dad and my family clan in the mountains of southern Virginia. My brother Joe lives up in Kentucky, about three hours away. My brother Clyde is still in North Carolina, about five hours away. Sandy lives next door, and I live in Mississippi, about eleven hours away. It’s hard to be far away when a loved one is at the point of dying. We won’t jump in the car and head up that way. Fourteen months ago my dad had some surgery. It would have been simple for a younger man. But he never really recovered his strength. Added to this he seems to have had a series of mini-strokes. So he needs help getting up and down, and walking. We never though he would live until Christmas, 2004. Each time we have gone home this past year, there was a pretty good chance it would be the last time we would see him alive. Yet he still lives. It has been a pretty good year for my dad. He has eaten three meals a day. He has been able to sit in his favorite chair and read the letters I write him with pictures of his first blood great great grandson. His every need has been lovingly provided by my Mother and Phil and Sandy. So we should have no regrets. He has had a full and active life and has lived to see his children and grandchildren grow up and do well for themselves. I have not suffered the loss of family members. My wife lost her dad when we were still young. He never saw our second son, Tim. We lost my mother-n-law a couple years ago. I have lost grandparents and uncles, but I had never really lived close to them for any period of time. So losing my dad will be a new experience for me. I am already grieving his loss. All of us have done this during the past year. All of us are “ready” for the inevitable. But it’s still hard. Death is the one journey into the unknown that we can’t fully understand or embrace. My brothers and I will probably be the officiating ministers. Clyde will likely be the soloist, as he is a Minister of Music. We are agreed that we’d each like to have a few words to say in the memorial service. This is not the “normal” way to do it. You figure that the local minister will do the memorial service, and that he will offer comfort to the family. Certainly that is the usual way for memorial services. We didn’t want that. Daddy’s church has a new minister. He doesn’t really know a lot about my dad. We just decided that we’d prefer to do it ourselves. It will be emotional. And all of us will probably talk too much. That’s the way ministers are. The love to hear the sound of their own voice. Everyone present will wish they could tell a story or two about “Pa.” He was a humble man of the working class. He was one of the best trim carpenters who ever lived and breathed. He was a farmer and a wonderful gardener. He was a leader in his church and community. And he was the most compassionate father and grandfather on the planet. He was infinitely patient with children. No matter what he was doing, when a child approached he would just start explaining to the child what he was doing. If the child wanted to “help” he would show them how and let them “help.” Because of that I learned wood working, gardening, minor repairs and the multitude of little things my dad taught me. I mentioned that we will not jump into our car and go racing home. That’s because there is nothing needed. Our presence would only add to the work of those caring for my dad. All along we said “I love you.” All along we cared for each other. In our whole family there is a deep bond of trust, love and mutual appreciation. There will not be any struggles about “who gets what.” We are talking to each other daily. Margery and I are keeping our commitments here flexible, so that we can travel at a moment’s notice. We thought we would lose my dad over a year ago, and he is still with us. We cannot know the time of a person’s death. I hope that if I live to be 90 and need some help getting about, there will be someone to love me the way my dad is loved. |
| The Trees of Childhood: Did you climb trees when you were a child? I did. I’m sure there are children who grew up in the city and never climbed a tree. But I can’t imagine such a thing! Some of my sweetest childhood memories are connected to trees. For my first ten years I lived in Vienna, Virginia. It was in Fairfax County, just outside Washington D.C. Our little frame house had a pasture behind it where we always kept a milk cow. My two brothers and I would walk to the far side of that pasture and play under a gigantic Oak tree on a lovely creek. Many happy hours were played away under that tree. As we grew we discovered that we could reach up and catch the lowest limb. Then we could wrap our arms and legs around the limb and make our way up the limb with our back to the ground. We never succeeded in conquering that tree. Our excursions were limited to going part way up that one limb. One day I slipped and fell to the soft grass below the limb. I remember hitting on my head, and the feeling of my neck sort of folding down toward my chest. It was sort of a choking sensation. I wasn’t hurt, and we kept playing. Looking back I realize that this was probably a very lucky incident. I could have broken my spinal column. Years later a chiropractor noted a damaged disk on my upper spine. He asked me if I had ever jammed my neck as a boy. For the first time in my life I recalled that fall. I told him about it. He seemed pleased. I have no idea if there had been neck damage. But the chiropractor got a pretty good bit of my money. When I was ten our family moved to Cleveland County, North Carolina. We had inherited a small farm. My sister Sandy was five years old by then. Clyde was my younger brother. He was just one year younger then I. All four of us played together and worked together. But Clyde and I were the “partners in crime.” I’m sure it was due to our being so close in age. We ran all throughout the pasture lands and wood lands. Daddy had built us a wonderful sandbox. It was about a hundred yards away from our house, in a nice little shaded grove of trees. Our main climbing tree was here. It was a pine tree about twelve inches in diameter. We could hug the tree with our arms and legs and scoot all the way up to the limbs. From there it was easy enough to climb up the limbs to the upper height of the tree. How many times I have sat on the upper limb and pondered life and fun. There is something exhilarating for a boy in climbing a tree. There is a sense of conquering, of overcoming. There is the pure breeze that blows through the limbs and through you hair. You can look down on the lesser creatures below…the animals and your family members. They usually have no idea they are being observed from high above. You can climb down and climb up again, just for the pure joy of it. Or you can rest on your lofty perch and simply enjoy God’s wonderful creation. Just below the cow barn, in the lower pasture, there was a gigantic Poplar tree. It was so big that Clyde and I couldn’t quite join our hands and reach all the way around it. It presented a huge challenge for us. At some point one of us got a bright idea. We discovered we could take a garden hoe and reach up the first tree limb. By hooking the how on that limb, we could then climb up the hoe and get on the limb. After that it was easy. The upper limbs were in easy reach, and we could proceed up to the top of this giant. I would have a heart attack if I ever thought my sons tried climbing a tree like that! This was pretty dangerous. It was so high that we would have never survived a fall from this tree. Clyde and I usually climbed this one together. It was a mighty adventure for us. I imagine we were pretty safe. We were young and strong. We had great balance. We had the blind confidence of invincible childhood. There was only one time that I recall having a near accident in this tree. We were over halfway up the tree when a wasp buzzed by in front of my face. I reflexively leaned backwards to avoid the wasp. There was an instant when I had a dizzying sense of loss of balance. It was not really terrifying to me. But when I was safe on the ground some time later I thought back to that moment. I realized it could have ended badly. Daddy once showed us a neat idea. We were back in the woods cutting firewood. He climbed up a small tree until it bent over and gave him a ride back to the ground. What fun! Clyde and I did that many times and loved it. In the grove of trees around our sandbox there was a small oak tree. It was much larger than the tree Daddy had shown us back in the woods. But I looked at this larger tree and wondered if we could climb high enough in it until it would bend down and give us a ride to the ground. I wanted to try it, but it was a little bit too tall and scary. When Clyde came out to play I shouted, “Guess what! I climbed up in this tree and rode it to the ground. It was FUN!” Not to be outdone, he immediately started climbing the tree. Sure enough it was really tall and scary. But he did in fact succeed in getting high enough to ride it to the ground. I then confessed to my lie, and told him I hadn’t done it. What a convenient time for our mother to have walked up behind us. She heard every word I said. She said, “Well you’re going to do it now. Start climbing!” I did. Enter the next generation. We’re living in Brandon, Mississippi. Our sons are nearly grown. The neighbor kids are Jillian, Kelsy and their little brother Jackson. We adore them. They sneak into the front yard and climb up into our beautiful magnolia tree. My wife always says, “Don’t climb the tree. You might fall and get hurt.” This only ads the element of forbidden adventure to climbing the magnolia tree. My wife says to me, “I wish they wouldn’t climb the tree. I’m afraid they will get hurt.” I always smile and say, “Yes, but they probably won’t get hurt. That’s what kids do.” In time these three little adventurers discover a great forked tree in our back yard. This one is MADE for climbing. Even the little guy, Jackson, can climb this one. My wife says to me, “I wish they wouldn’t climb the tree. I’m afraid they will get hurt.” I always smile and say, “Yes, but they probably won’t get hurt. That’s what kids do.” |
| The "Wee Small Hours": What did the country singer croon? It was something like, "Two O'clock in the morning, and it's gonna be another long, long night." I don't feel that way at all! One benefit of retirement is that I can take a nap most any time I want to. So if I wake up at two O'clock in the morning, maybe I'll be in the mood to write a few words. Alone Time: For the last forty years I've been on the staff of some church or another. An associate pastor doesn't keep "regular hours." You move more toward the needs of people than the time of day. I have loved this job more than life itself. I was born to respond to people. I'm what you'd call a "people person." Having said that, let me mention one DISadvantage of a people job. You don't really get enough "alone time", especially when you're busy raising a family too. Some people have too much alone time. Some singles thrive on their aloneness. Others pine away because they are so lonely. The same is true of aged people. But for me, I think it will be years and years before I experience any regrets about alone time. So here I am at two O'clock in the morning, loving every second of it! |
| I'm 62. When I was young I saw a cartoon where this old guy was counting his change in the presence of a pretty waitress. He was saying, "There's no fool like an old fool, but just don't try to fool THIS old fool." I'd think of this cartoon from time to time. I knew that ONE DAY I would be old enough to use it as a quip. The day has come! Here lately I have found myself using another quip to "save face" when I've done something stupid. I just like to smile and say, "I guess it's my early onset senility." Funny how aging is dreaded by the young. How WRONG we were! Aging has its good and bad side, just like the turbulent teen years did. How many of us would want to return to THOSE years? |
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