The Life and Memories of Coya Creel Eddleman

Note:  The following words are Coya's...with the exception of a place or two where I interjected additional information for clarification.  The words which I interjected are written in italics. 

     My earliest memories are of Pelly, Texas.  We lived on Duke’s Hill, and our house was built on the hill to the point that we kids could walk underneath the porch.  That’s about all I remember about Pelly, because after a short time we moved to Adoue Street in neighboring Goose Creek.  In later years the three communities of Pelly, Baytown, and Goose Creek would consolidate under the name of Baytown.  We lived next door to a family named Barr, who had a son my age named Bobby.  Bobby and I played hide and seek and all the other childhood games.  Shortly, we moved again, this time to Cedar Bayou, an area on the edge of Baytown situated near…Cedar Bayou.  There I roamed the fields with a new friend, Wendell Hunt, who had a horse.  I was fearful of the horse at first, but soon realized that the horse was gentle.  Wendell was very kind to me, and we spent many summer days catching crawfish in the big ditch in front of our house after a big rain.  I soon learned I had to be careful when I picked up a big crawfish.  Its pinchers could wrap around your finger really quickly

    I started the first grade at Cedar Bayou Elementary, and my teacher was Mrs. Hunt.  We had some Hunts as neighbors, but she was no relation to them.  I didn’t like going to school.  Other than going to church and seeing kids there, I had not been around anyone except family.  My sister, Jeanette, took me to school on the first day.  At that time Cedar Bayou School had all grades from first to twelve, so Jeanette dropped me off with Mrs. Hunt and headed to her own class in the high school section.  Mrs. Hunt showed me the table that would be my desk, as well as five other classmates.  As class began, Mrs. Hunt wrote the alphabet on the blackboard and asked us to begin writing the letters on our papers.  The paper had lines, so I didn’t have any problem; that part was easy! 

   But…as I sat there thinking I was in a completely different world, my heart began racing, and I just knew I had to find Jeanette so she could take me home.  So, I just got up, walked out the door, and began running to find Jeanette.  I ran in the front doors of the high school building only to see a hall that seemed to be long and dark.  I went to every door and peeked in to see if Jeanette was there.  I finally found her.  This scene went on for several days to the point that when I opened the front doors of the high school and started running, Jeanette’s class members would yell, “Jeanette, here comes your sister!”  She was so embarrassed!  One time she grabbed me and spanked my bottom right there in front of everybody while I loudly cried.  Finally, however, I settled down, learned to love Mrs. Hunt, and became a good student.  If we ever missed the school bus, though, my sister, Daris, would march us to school, even calling out, “Left! Right! Left! Right!” until we got to school.

    Just as I was to enter the third grade, we moved to 303 Dyer in Baytown.  I finished the third grade at Alamo Elementary in Stewart Heights, but I wanted to be back to my friends at Cedar Bayou.  So I got a transfer and moved back to my old school to begin the fourth grade. Mrs. Gentry was my teacher.  I loved being back with my friends.  I enjoyed school, loved my teachers, and completed the fourth, fifth, and sixth grades without a problem.  I then moved over to the junior high section of Cedar Bayou to begin the seventh grade. 

    One of my first acts in the seventh grade was to sign up for choir.  The first day of choir, the teacher, Mr. Williamson, called the roll.  When he came to “Coya Creel,” he stopped, looked at me with a stern face, and asked, “Are you any kin to C.B. Creel?”  I told him he was my brother.  He looked at me with a glare in his eyes and said, “We’ll have none of that monkey business!”  The class laughed, and I was embarrassed and didn’t know what to say.  Apparently, C.B. had been guilty of a lot of “monkey business” when he was in choir.  However, we all became friends eventually, and I loved choir…but apparently C.B. didn’t.

    I spent two or more weeks each summer in Livingston with Auntie and Granny.  Auntie (Naomi) and Uncle Grady Stephens were Mama’s sister and brother-in-law.  Granny (Ivy McCaghren Gaylord, b. 1876  d. 1921) was Mama’s mother.  Robert Lee Gaylord (b. 1876, d. 1921) was Mama’s father.  During one of my summers there, I met Letha Mae Doyle, daughter of Brother Doyle, the pastor of the Livingston Church at that time.  Letha later married Brother Jerry Ward, one of the evangelists who visited our church in Baytown.  Once, when Letha and I were playing outside, a big thunderstorm suddenly came up. Instead of my going back into their house and waiting it out, I became frightened and felt I just had to get back to Auntie’s house.  I struck out running down the side of Highway 146 praying and promising God that if He would just get me back to Auntie’s house I would forever be good.  As I came running up the long driveway to Auntie’s house, Granny met me on the porch.  She was so concerned and asked, “Child, why didn’t you wait until this little storm blew over before coming home?”  I answered, “I was so afraid and wanted to be home!”

    We were members of Peace Tabernacle in Baytown, and Brother V.A. Guidroz was the pastor.  The Guidroz family had children who were about the same ages as the Creel children.  They had eight in their family and we had ten.  Judy was the closest to my age.  We had lots of good times.  One Sunday I went home with her after church.  Come evening church time, we went back a little early, and Judy said, “Let’s go to the garden and pull us a radish.” (Sister Guidroz had a beautiful garden behind the parsonage.)  So we did.  That radish was so hot, I was on fire, and there was no water to be had.  When Mama arrived at church she wanted to know what I was crying about.  I had to tell her about the radish.  Of course, she said that was what happens when we do things we shouldn’t do!  No pity!

    We had a simple, sweet growing up life.  We were poor but didn’t know it.  The neighbors on Dyer were all good.  Mama worked, and Dad worked, weather permitting.  Dad was a carpenter and worked, I think, through a union shop.  Later, when his health began to fail, he worked as a janitor at the Roseland Park Swimming Pool.  I was eleven years old and got a job working at a shoe shop.  I needed a minor’s release to enable me to work, which Mama signed for me.  I got my Social Security card and earned fifty cents an hour working after school.  Daddy would drive me to work.  By then, his ankles were swelling and he wasn’t feeling very well.  When I was thirteen, I went to work for Herring’s Drug Store on Main Street next to The Style Shop, an up-town ladies’ dress shop.  One of the ladies who was a sales clerk there came into Herring’s and ordered one of our fresh chicken salad sandwiches.  (Mrs. Herring made fresh chicken salad sandwiches every day.)  I served the lady her sandwich, and she immediately lifted the slice of bread and asked, “Where’s the pepper?”  I didn’t know what she meant.  Mrs. Herring walked over and told her that I was new and didn’t know about the pepper. Mrs. Herring picked up the plate and brought me behind the counter and quietly told me the lady always wanted plenty of pepper on her sandwich.  She picked up the pepper shaker, and I thought she was going to dump the whole shaker of pepper on the sandwich!  That’s the way, she said, this customer wants her sandwich.

    I learned to make coffee in a big urn at Herring’s.  When I would arrive at work on Saturday, it was my responsibility to make the coffee.  Mr. Hill showed me how to fill the urn with water, remove the large cloth filter, clean it, and add fresh coffee grounds.  We had hot donuts delivered to us from Patterson’s Bakery across the street every day.  After the coffee was ready, a warm donut along with that hot, fresh coffee was divine!  That’s how I became a coffee drinker!

     By the time we were living on Dyer Street, it was just C.B., Loretta, George, Karen, and I living at home.  C.B. was going to high school and playing football.  After school and football practice each day, he worked at George Smith’s Humble gas station at the end of Dyer Street and North Main.  Mama was working, and C.B. would come home many times for lunch, and I would fry some potatoes (maybe some Spam) and fix him a sandwich.  Sometimes C.B. would need his shoes polished (he was dating Bobbie by then.)  He would start out by saying what a fine job I did with his shoes.  The shoes he was referring to were the shoes that were given to me.  I loved those shoes.  When I first got them, they were a little big, but I grew into them, but then they got a little short!  But it didn’t matter to me; I loved those brown leather, lace up shoes.  I polished them every night!  C.B. saw this and bragged on me so much that he talked me into polishing his own shoes.  He told me he would give me a quarter every time I polished them, and that did the trick.  I polished his shoes every night whether I got the quarter or not.

  By this time, Daddy was unable to work.  One Christmas the Goodfellows Charities brought us a large bag of groceries and toys.  The toy bag had a doll, a fuzzy red cap, a truck, and some puzzles.  I let Loretta and Karen share the doll, and George must have taken the truck.  I took the fuzzy red cap.  It fit so cute on me and tied under my chin.  I do remember feeling sad because we could not have had Christmas without the Goodfellows.  The Goodfellows were a blessing, but I remember feeling in my heart that someday I wanted to be able to do the giving myself.      

    I was thirteen when Daddy died.  I remember him lying in a hospital bed in our living room growing weaker by the day.  The day he died, May 4, 1951, he had been in a coma for hours (didn’t realize it at the time.)  When Myrt came to the house, she immediately went into the kitchen, gathered up whatever was in the cabinets and refrigerator, and began making soup.  While the soup was cooking, she picked up a broom and started sweeping the floor, crying the whole time.  I realized at that moment that Daddy was bad off.  The house began to fill up with family because my brothers and sisters always supported one another.  I’m not sure of the time of day that Daddy died, but I do remember Jeanette sending someone to Lyon’s Grocery in Stewart Heights to get something.  I rode in the car with, I think, C.B. and Bobbie, and sat in the car while they went in.  I couldn’t understand why everyone seemed to be going about their business when Daddy had just died.  For a while afterward, it was hard for me to pick up and live each passing day knowing that things would never be the same.  I didn’t realize that God had His hand on me and knew my future and my needs.  With a praying mother and family, my life was secure.

   One summer our yard needed mowing, and the flower beds that Mama insisted on having needed cleaning.  I was working full time at Herring’s Drugs.  Mama was working, and by now C.B. had gotten married.  To take care of the yard, I hired a neighborhood man to mow and clean our yard.  I don’t remember how much he charged, but I was able to pay whatever it cost.  The yard looked really nice…for about two weeks! 

    When I was in the eighth grade at Cedar Bayou Junior High, I became a cheerleader for the junior high football team.  I was also in the band.  The band would march for the high school football games even though we were junior high schoolers.  C.B. was playing on the high school team, and it was exciting to hear his name called over the loud speaker at the games.  I played the snare drum in the band.  I chose the snare drums because the school furnished the drums.  There was no way I could afford to buy a musical instrument.  Also, the uniforms were furnished with no fee.  The cheerleader skirt and vest were furnished, but I had to pay a fee for use.  I managed to earn enough money to cover the cost.

     During this time we siblings were furnished meals by a program for orphans, so I was able to eat in the school cafeteria every day.  After lunch I was able to buy an ice cream cone for five cents.  There was this cute boy who worked the ice cream counter.  Each time I returned to my table, my girlfriends would say, “Coya, that boy likes you!”  I would look at them and reply, “No way! He’s too old for me.  He’s in high school.”  They just laughed.  That went on for a while until I began to realize that they were right.  We began chatting, and he would give me an extra dip of ice cream and a big wink.  The girl friends said, “Wow! Coya, he likes you, he has a new car, and he’s very nice.”  They apparently knew him from Cedar Bayou Baptist Church where he and his parents attended.  Soon, Don Eddleman asked me out for a date.  He picked me up about 6:30 on a Friday evening, and we went to Princess Drive In on Decker Drive and got hamburgers and French fries.   We visited there for a while, and then he took me back home about 8:00.  On the next date, he came to church with me to a young peoples’ function.  We began dating every Saturday night, usually to a youth church function or just to eat out somewhere.  We really didn’t care where we went…just so we were together.  Don was 18 and I was 14 when we became engaged; I was fifteen when we married.  Within a few years, we were blessed with two beautiful children: Pamela (January 4, 1958) and Donald (May 12, 1961.)

    Don and I enjoyed 56 beautiful years together.  Before we were married, my Aunt Lizzie (Daddy’s twin sister) told me that if I would “put that marrying business behind me” and finish school, she would see to it that I was able to go to college.  She, a retired school teacher, and her husband, Uncle John had no children.  I would visit them for a couple of weeks every summer.  But, as we know now, her talk didn’t change my mind about “that marrying business.”  She always told me, “Coya, you’ll probably have a houseful of kids by the time you’re 25.”  Her fears of that event never came to pass, but I always appreciated their love and concern.

    In 1955 I was working for Franklin’s Dress Shop.  O.E. and R.L. Downing were brothers whose families were attending Peace Tabernacle.  By then, Don and I were attending there, also.  The Downings owned Downing Roofing Company, a business located just down the street from our church.  One Sunday morning, R.L. told me he would like to speak to me after church, so Don and I waited in front of the church.  R.L. had a lot of responsibilities with our church, so he was usually one of the last people to leave.  He began by saying, “I know you are working at Franklin’s, but we are needing to hire a full time secretary.”  O.E.’s wife, Reba, was working as secretary at the time but was ready to go back to fulltime housewife.  Of course, I was certainly interested.  A secretary wasn’t on her feet all day meeting the public!  Plus, the environment would be nice, because both O.E. and R.L. were perfect gentlemen.  I became proficient with the telephone, especially the calls that came in on rainy days.  These people always wanted immediate repair service!    During my employment with Downing Roofing Company, I was able to become better acquainted with the Downing families.  R.L. and Ethel had small children who would come visit while they waited for R.L. to come in from a job.   It was a pleasure to see how they adored their dad and waited patiently to get a hug from him.  The oldest, Bobby, was nearly grown (he thought.)  He was a brilliant young man, very mature for his age. He loved coffee.  I can’t remember just how old he was, but I kept all the coffee fixings in the adjoining room to the office.  I kept the cream and sugar packets handy but also had a box of sugar cubes nearby.  Bobby would go into the room, fix his coffee, come back into the office to visit, and comment, “This sure is good coffee!”    This went on for a few days until I realized all the sugar cubes were gone, because Bobby loved his coffee really sweet.  I had to laugh, but I just kept buying the boxes of sugar cubes.  Bobby had two sisters at this time, Judy and Kathy.  Later, another sister, Mary would come along.  To this day, I love these kids.

    I worked for Downing Roofing Company for about six years, during which time I had my daughter, Pam.  I went back to work when she was four weeks old, thanks to wonderful neighbors, the Vanovers (Roy and Beatrice with their two older kids, Patsy and David,) who lived next door to us on Windy Lane.  Beatrice (or Vanover, as we called her) wanted to care for Pam while I worked.  This family loved Pam and treated her as their own.  Patsy eventually taught at James Bowie Elementary while David went to college. Pam became so much a part of their family that when David went off to college, he took a photo of Pam and said she was his sister!  Roy loved to let Pam hang on to his finger while she walked up and down their front walk.  Vanover always had beautiful flowers growing, and Roy would let Pam pick one of the blooms.

   Today, in this part of my life, there is so much that I could say but just don’t know how.  God has been so good to me.  When Don passed away suddenly on March 4, 2010, it was the most jolting, life changing event that ever came my way, yet I never lost my faith in God.  That event will forever be embedded in my memory, and I won’t write down all the details because it causes my heart to restrict even now.  I just need to say that I know that God has had His hand upon me each day of my life.  He knows what is in store for each of us.  Of that terrible day of Don’s passing, I remember telling the doctors that I just needed to talk to Don.  They were telling Pam and me (Donald had not arrived yet) that Don was brain dead.  Everybody who knows me knows how I depended on Don always.  There I was, and after 56 years of marriage being completely dependent upon him, I couldn’t ask him what I should do.  “Oh, wow! I sure need you now, Sweet Jesus!” I prayed.  I have to say…along with my children, family, church family, and lifelong friends, God has brought me to this day.  It has now been four years since I lost Don, and I still believe that God is in control.  I have faith, and I’m so glad I know Him.

    During this time my son, Donald, has been absolutely awesome.  Pam and I have wondered many time, “What would we have done without Donald?”  In the midst of his grief over losing his dad, he handled every detail that had to be done.  He and Pam organized all the details of Don’s funeral.  They, along with the grandchildren, were grieving, but with dignity each one played an important part of making sure Don’s homecoming was beautiful.  The song “I’ll Fly Away” sings about when He takes us home “…To a land where joy shall never end.”  We sang the song at Don’s memorial service.  It is comforting to know God took Don home in his time.

    I want to tell about how Don and I became lifelong friends with Hazel and Wilburn Bracht.  Don worked with Wilburn at Phillips Petroleum throwing fertilizer bags.  Phillips was having a company picnic one Saturday.  Wilburn and Don had to work, but Hazel and I were to meet them that evening.  Hazel came by to pick me up.  We were living on Alford Street at the time.  I had never met Hazel at that time, and I was pregnant with Pam.  It was the summer of 1957.  Hazel and I visited in the car on the way to the picnic, and our friendship grew from that day onward.  We’ve had many wonderful, precious times together.  To this day, Wilburn and Hazel are just as precious to me as any of my siblings.  The same goes for their daughter, Cindy.  Cindy and her husband, John, have two children, and their families are precious to me also.  Time and age makes our friendships more cherished with each passing day.

    I wish Hazel, Wilburn, and my children could add their memories to my story.  I’m sure they could add some really interesting moments.

An Unusual Church Service

 

    This little essay is meant primarily for those church-going folk of the Pentecostal ilk; however, if you consider yourself to be a believer who enjoys a somewhat spontaneous church service and thinks that God can actually take an active, personal interest in your wellbeing, you’re welcome to read on. It is a description of a recent church service I had the privilege to attend along with a few personal observations about what it tells me about the church in general and the direction it is going.

     The Pentecostal faith in general is blessed with pastors and evangelists who are dedicated, passionate, and truly concerned about the souls with whom they come in contact.  Their messages to the various congregations are usually intense, uplifting, and designed to help their followers walk the straight and narrow in their quest for salvation.  Services are usually concluded with the congregation feeling encouraged, blessed, and forgiven.  Occasionally, services end differently…not badly, just differently.
     It was just such an evening service not too many days ago.  The minister, an evangelist, stepped to the pulpit and delivered a soul searching message to the listeners.  This time however, at the end of his message there was not the usual loud praising and shouting accompanied by the obligatory cacophonic music.  Rather, while preaching of dedication, commitment, and sacrifice, he broached on the concept of “travailing” in one’s search for God’s will.  “Travail” can be a noun or verb, but its primary meaning is “very hard work.”  The Scriptures use the word “travail” when describing a woman giving birth or when a soul is experiencing a period of extreme adversity.  It also uses the same term when describing the “travailing” church as it gives birth to new souls into the Kingdom. As the evangelist begin to reach the end of his sermon, there was an interesting process of events.  Listeners from all over the congregation began to walk to the front altar area to kneel and pray.  No music…no order or plea from the pulpit to come forward…just an instantaneous response from those who wished to draw closer to their God.  Within a few moments a strange sound began to rise from those in the altar area.  It was not the sound of loud praise or joyous shouting, but more of a low moaning or a loud groaning.  It reached a crescendo that filled the large auditorium.
    At this point, I have a confession…I did not go to the front.  I am anticipating hip surgery in a few weeks and I was in such pain I could barely walk, so I was sitting in the back row of the church, praying as fervently as I could.  As I was sitting there, I looked up just as a woman sat down next to me.  This lady, middle aged, has been a respected member of our church for a few years, but, compared to us grizzled old veterans, is still relatively new (anything under 15 years is new to oldsters) to the church.  I was stunned at the question she asked me.
   “Brother Downing,” she asked intensely, “what is happening?  Are we in mourning for something?  Why are so many crying?  I have never been in a service like this.”  It was clear she did not recognize the soul searching that many people were experiencing at the moment.  In a few words, I attempted to explain to her that those who were weeping or appeared distraught were not expressing grief, but were simply reaching out to God in a spirit of sacrifice and deeper worship.  After a little more explanation, she seemed relieved and expressed again that she had never been in such a service.
     In talking with some of my fellow oldsters later, the service and its impact was the topic of discussion, and the general consensus was that this kind of service which calls a person to go beyond the standard level of praise was occurring less and less, often with the unfortunate result being we have church goers who have never progressed beyond the infancy stage in their spiritual maturity.  Why are we experiencing fewer services and sermons which call the members to a higher level of dedication and service?
     I think the reason is very clear, and, to put it into a somewhat youthful vernacular…these types of services are not “fun.”  Think about these facts:  The primary demographic target of any sort of church outreach is the 18-25 year old age bracket.  Most church music is written by 20-somethings for 20-somethings.  Most church services are choreographed to be high energy, highly active, pulsating periods of praise.  And why not?  The youth live for excitement and activity, and the best way to draw them to church is to offer the same level of energy.  Besides, joyous praise is inherent in a Christian’s walk with God anyway.  It would be hard to experience “joy unspeakable” as described in the Scriptures without some sort of active praise.  This essay is not meant to denigrate nor minimize the need for enthusiastic praise in any way.  The song says it clearly, “When I think of the goodness of Jesus and all He has done for me, my soul cries out ‘hallelujah!’ Praise God for saving me!”  A sinner saved by the grace of God cannot help but praise.
    But the service which calls us to offer sacrifice, travail, or greater spiritual dedication does not cause us to shout, dance, scream, yell, or praise, and therein lies the problem.  A call to sacrifice is not a popular sermon for a minister or a congregation because it does not appeal to our normal human quest for enjoyment.  It is not popular because it requires both minister and member to go beyond praise and into the realm of worship, and the process of worship goes far beyond what we refer to as praise. The words "praise" and "worship" are NOT synonymous nor interchangeable.  A recent Pentecostal Herald magazine had as its primary subject the need for praise and worship in our churches, and I was astounded to discover that in most of the articles the writers didn’t have the foggiest idea that there was any difference in the two terms.  In the issue, writers emphasized the need for worship while quoting scriptures which discussed praise and vice versa.  And yet the two concepts are worlds apart.
    Praise is the enthusiastic recognition of God’s blessings and is evidenced in practically every book in the Bible.   Psalm 150:6  “Praise Him with the psaltry…harp…timbrel…dance…stringed instruments…organ…loud cymbols.  Let everything that has breath praise the Lord!”  It’s hard to praise quietly.
     Worship involves an active dedication to God.  It is not a measurement of decibels but a measurement of your actions.   I Chronicles 16:29,  “Worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness.”  Psalm 95:6,  “Oh come, let us worship and bow down.  Let us kneel.”    Matthew 2:11,  “And when they were come into the house, they…fell down and worshipped him.”    Every instance of worship mentioned in the Bible involved some combination of altar, bowing, and dedication.  It was a reverential act of commitment.  Worship is much more intense, personal, and introspective, and occurs only when we have gone beyond the level of simple praise.   It is through the communion of worship that we both gain strength to face adversity and also truly communicate with our God.   Praise alone will not sustain a soul bent on being faithful to God.
    In Ecclesiastes 3:1, the preacher eloquently tells us, “To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”   He lists a litany of events which each of us faces during our human existence on this earth.  Being careful not to add to the scriptures, I would like to offer this also:  There is a time to praise and a time to worship.  We need both.

     

 

The Ice Route...by R. L. Creel

Note:  The Creel family is making an attempt to preserve some of the stories and experiences of the original Creel siblings of Jim and Leora Creel.  The following story was told by R.L.Creel to Rocky Creel and Bobby Downing at the Creel Christmas Gathering in December 2013.  Bobby captured the story with his phone, and I have transcribed the story to paper.  The following events took place in the early 1940's.

     Lemuel and I used to run an ice truck out there on Tri-Cities Beach Road.  One year Lemuel couldn’t go, so I ran the route for him.  I was driving there one day and looked over there, and there was a bunch of women standing in a window and they were naked as jaybirds.  Of course, you know, I had to make three or four trips by there. Later on, I had to go in that house make a delivery there, and, boy, those women didn’t want to show their faces at all.

     At four o’clock in the morning, I went into many a house, moved stuff out of the top of the icebox where the ice goes, put the ice back in there, load it back down, and leave out.  Back door was wide open, not locked at all.   That was a common thing back in those days, ‘cause they didn’t want to get up at four o’clock in the morning.  They trusted us ice men to come in, close the door, and make everything right.  But they would have stuff in the icebox and you’d have to move it out of the way to put the ice in there.  I was about sixteen years old…I graduated when I was seventeen so I was about sixteen.

     My uncle…cousin…first cousin (I’ll get it right in a minute)…he had a route out there.  Then Lemuel took it over, and when Lemuel couldn’t go, then I went.  We went all the way out Tri-Cities Beach Road and some of Baytown, too.  We had most of those carhop places…what do you call them?...drive-ins.  We’d load them up with ice, and then we started hitting the homes all the way out Tri-Cities Beach Road, so we had a pretty good route.

    We got the ice from the American Ice Company; they had a big plant up there.  We’d go up there and back our truck up there and get four-five blocks of ice in three hundred pound blocks that could be cut into twenty-five pound blocks.  Daddy worked up there at the ice plant, and I was up there many a night helping him... pull the ice out, run it through the cutter, stand it up, clean it up so people could come get their ice the next morning.  So I’d work with him till about four o’clock in the morning, then go lay down and sleep a while, and then get up for school.

     Then when Daddy got down in his back and couldn’t pick up those three hundred pound blocks of ice and stand them on end…well, there’s actually a trick to it.  If you get a (garbled) down there and step back and pull on it, it’s not too hard.  But just to reach down and pull it up, it’s a heck of a load.  A three hundred pound block of ice…we’d stand it up, run it through a machine, then have to lay it down and run it through again.  We’d cut it into twenty-five pound blocks.  Actually the top was fifty pound blocks, then twenty five, twenty-five , twenty-five on the bottom.  So when the trucks came for ice the next morning, we had the ice all ready, and they’d buy it in three hundred pound blocks. You put it in their trucks and they’d deliver it to their homes.

     Lemuel and I delivered ice to the drive-ins; that was our big business.  We had a good route.  We did this all up through high school.  Well, almost through high school.   My last junior year before I graduated, I worked the summer months at the (M???) store in Pelly, selling paints and clothes.  Then I went to my last year in school and graduated, and it wasn’t too long after that I went into the service.

Daddy worked at the ice plant, and he was known as the engineer.  He was the one who dropped the big cans in the water.  He had about a fifty by hundred foot thing of ice water that you’d drop these cans into the water and then freeze them.  You had a machine that pulled them up and the ice would come sliding off.  Then you had to pick it up and run it through the machine.  Daddy worked there for several years…up until I got out of high school.  He hurt his back there several times, and I’d go up there at night and help him, lay down at four o’clock, sleep awhile, and get up and go to school.  ‘Cause if you didn’t work you didn’t get paid.  There was no salary.  It was daily work…if you worked you got paid; if you didn’t work you didn’t get paid.  I did that several nights during my senior year.

     After my senior year, I did construction work because I wanted to make more money.  One day I came home, and the world was getting pretty hot (wartime), and my Uncle Keenan, he was already at Hondo (military base), asked me, “R. L., how high’s your number (military draft number)?”  I told him it was coming up pretty soon to be drafted.  He said,  “They got a thirty day list here where you can go where you want to…so why don’t you come to Hondo?  I can get you in with me in the motor pool.”   I went and enlisted, and, sure enough, the put me at Hondo in the post office.  I worked in the post office three years, and then after that they called us all in one day and said they were shipping us out.  One busload went to the West Coast, one went to the East Coast, and I went to Wisconsin, up north.  This was the Air Force (Army Air Corp in 1944)…I was in the ground crew; I didn’t fly.  This was in ’44 and ’45.  I went into the service in ’42.   The ground crew did the service work…I didn’t fly.

     When I was in Hondo, I got acquainted with those old ranchers around Hondo town, and they were a wild bunch, always trying to “fix me up.” 

     I never went overseas.  But when I came back from Wisconsin, I came through Saint Louis, and was expecting to go overseas.  At the train station, everybody was on the phones, and suddenly it got real quiet, and we looked at each other wondering what was going on, and then there was a big announcement, “War’s Over!”  Five days later I was home.  I’ll never forget, when I got on the train, the old conductor yelled, “All aboard for Saint Louie…and Hooston, Texas!”  He called it, “Hooston!”

The Day Kennedy Died...November 22, 1963

    In August of 1963 I entered the United States Air Force. Looking back and knowing what I know now, I should have joined during a more favorable season of the year. Basic training in any branch of the service is grueling enough, but in San Antonio during the summer the blistering heat makes even resting uncomfortable. I can remember waking up more than one morning during basic to find my cot wet with my sweat from the insufferable nights.
      But like most green troops, I survived the ordeal and came home a little leaner and with much shorter hair to my bride of two years. I had been assigned to attend Indiana University in Bloomington, Indiana, to study Russian, for what reason I had not yet determined. All I knew at the time was that the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (Russia, in general) was our cold war adversary, and I was going to be involved in the game somewhere.

     Arriving home in mid-November, Shirley and I began preparing for our journey northward to Indiana. We divided our time between our parents’ homes as we packed and planned. It was the first time we would be putting any distance between us and home (Baytown), and while it was exciting, it was also a little disconcerting. We both have very strong family ties.

     On Friday, November 22, 1963, we were visiting my parents at their rural property north of Baytown. It was around noon, and Shirley was helping my mother prepare a bit of lunch. Dad was at work at Downing Roofing Company, and I was in his barn tinkering around with something…I think it was his tractor…or maybe mower.

     About 12:45, Shirley suddenly ran into the barn, and yelled, “Bob! The president’s been shot!” We both ran back to the house and huddled up close to the radio. Yes, it was the radio. As far as I know, my mother and dad never owned a television. We listened intently as the events of the day played out, and by evening we knew the basic details of the tragedy which had taken place in Dallas. Being in the military, even as a raw recruit, I listened closely as the announcement went forth for any military personnel on leave and away from their bases of assignment to stand ready for any orders to return to their units. But no such order ever was issued.

     Before the sudden events of the day, I had been only loosely following the movements of President Kennedy. It has been forgotten now, but the reason for his political swing through the southern states and Texas was an attempt to shore up his sagging popularity in the South. Some of his New England liberal stances had not gone over well in the Bible Belt, and so his trip was a push to reveal his personal charm to the southern populace and blunt some of the political criticism.

     The next few days consisted of flurries of news bulletins and on the scene descriptions of the honoring and eventual burial of President Kennedy. On the day of the state funeral, we listened as the then-famous Walter Cronkite in his quiet, melodic voice described the funeral procession down Pennsylvania Avenue, and, as his voice broke with emotion, we, too, felt lumps in our throats and tears in our eyes. Needless to say, the entire nation stopped to view the proceedings on their black and white televisions…with the exception of those to whom television was a bane and who therefore were at the same time affixed to their radios. It would be years later before I actually saw the videos of Kennedy’s trip to Dallas and the ensuing days of mourning and funeral. “Life” magazine, the photo documentary magazine of the day, became a required purchase for everyone with its issue published a few days after the funeral. I had my copy for 45 years before selling it on eBay.

     Though all of us felt the tragedy of losing our president, when Vice-President Lyndon Johnson was sworn in as our next president aboard Air Force One, we in Texas felt a little bit of relief in knowing that the nation was in good hands with a fellow Texan at the helm. Little did we know that President Johnson within 18 months would begin a major buildup of troops in Viet Nam creating a war which would last more than ten years and cost more than 60,000 U.S. casualties. The eventual result was to cost President Johnson his chance for a second term in office and creat a civil turmoil in the United States which lingers to this day.

     A few months after Kennedy’s death, Shirley and I were living in Bloomington, Indiana, where I was attending Indiana University.  On this particular day, we were camping at a park enjoying a beautiful summer day. A car rolled by our camp site and the occupants, noticing our Texas plates on our car, yelled, “President killers, go home!” For a while Texas was judged harshly in the eyes of the nation.

     A few years ago, I had the opportunity to visit the book storage building in Dallas and stand at the very window where Lee Harvey Oswald pulled the trigger and took the life of President Kennedy. It was a very sobering and thoughtful moment as I looked out on the street and plaza and imagined that day when the big Lincoln convertible slowly made its way past the crowds. The first controversy concerning Oswald was how he could fire three rounds at the president in seven seconds…with the conclusion being that there had to be another shooter. But anyone who has fired a rifle will tell you that three shots in seven seconds are easily managed, even with a bolt action rifle like Oswald had. Though there have been many conspiracy theories advanced in the last sixty years, the evidence is still conclusive that Oswald acted alone. One macabre thing I saw the day I visited Dealey Plaza…a hawker across the street was selling photos of the Kennedy autopsy for $10.00. Only in Texas……

     I have read several articles in the last few days discussing how our country would be today if Kennedy had lived. It’s all conjecture, of course, but I think that Kennedy, being from the somewhat more liberal northeast, would have probably been a little less quick on the trigger building up our troops in Viet Nam than Johnson and perhaps the eventual disastrous outcome there may have been averted. He had weathered the Cuban Missile Crisis without bloodshed and had experience in dealing with the communists.  However, it was Kennedy who first ordered a military response to North Vietnam’s gunboat attacks on our destroyers in the Gulf of Tonkin, so the Kennedy/Johnson comparison can go on indefinitely.

     What Kennedy had more than any other president was personal charm.  Brandishing a boyish appearance complete with tousled hair and armed with an attractive wife, a successful family, and a military resume as a World War II hero, he embodied the new America…young, handsome, and capable. The “Age of Camelot” as his presidency has come to be called may never be repeated.  Sixty years...it doesn't seem possible.

            Interesting Facts Concerning the John Kennedy and Abraham Lincoln Assassinations

  (1)  Lincoln was elected in 1860: Kennedy was elected in 1960.
  (2)  There are seven letters in each last name.
  (3)  Both presidents were slain on Friday in the presence of their wives.
  (4)  Both were directly concerned with Civil Rights.
  (5)  Both presidents had the legality of their elections contested.
  (6)  Kennedy's secretary, a person named Lincoln, warned him not to go to Dallas.
  (7)  Lincoln's secretary, a person named Kennedy, warned him not to go to the theater.
  (8)  Both of their successors to the presidency were named Johnson.
  (9)  The successors, Andrew Johnson and Lyndon Johnson, both have thirteen letters in their names.
(10)  Both Johnsons were Southern Democrats who served in the U.S. Senate.
(11)  Andrew Johnson was born in 1808; Lyndon Johnson was born in 1908.
(12)  The assassins, Booth and Oswald, were both southerners who favored unpopular causes.
(13)  Oswald shot Kennedy from a warehouse and hid in a theater.
(14)  Booth shot Lincoln from a theater and hid in a warehouse.
(15)  Both Booth and Oswald were killed before their trials could be arranged.
(16)  Lincoln and Kennedy were both carried in their funerals on the same horse drawn caisson.
(17)  Booth and Oswald were born 100 years apart.
(18)  The names, Lee Harvey Oswald and John Wilkes Booth, have eighteen letters.

The Rise and Fall of Christian Music

    Any person with religious inclinations and ideals who attends nearly any kind of church is familiar with the music of the church known academically as hymnology. It would be hard for the modern church attendee to grasp the idea that there was a time when hymn singing was not an integral part of the church service and, in fact, in some groups actually forbidden. The study of hymnology to a degree parallels the evolution of man, not in the naturalistic sense, but in the spiritual. It represents a fascinating insight into the relationship that man has felt between himself and the Eternal God. 

     The Book of Psalms was probably the first collection of writings which eventually became known as hymns. It is believed to have been written during and after the Babylonian Exile and was probably used both in public and private worship. The importance of hymns can be verified in the scriptures as we read of Jesus and his disciples singing a hymn before the Last Supper. Paul in his writings gives evidence of the significance of Christian song when he tells the church to “…sing with grace in your hearts toward the Lord.”

     Hymns were evident in England long before the Renaissance. The Normans introduced carol singing during the Early English Period of the thirteenth century. During the Middle English Period, the hymns that were circulated dealt mainly with Christ, Christmas, or the Virgin Mary. It was during the fifteenth century, however, that singing as an art form came into focus. The humanitarian influences of the time were quickly put into verse and song by the gifted religious leaders of the time. The evolution of the modern hymn was energized with the birth of Protestantism, although congregational singing was apparent long before either John Calvin or Martin Luther. It took a man named John Hus to give the progression of the hymn a great leap forward. Hus was the first to promote the idea of group singing and gave his followers the first ever published book of hymns. His first recorded hymn book is dated 1505. Thus the modern hymn book had its humble beginnings more than 500 years ago.

     Martin Luther loved the old German folk songs and began to use the old metric form of music, creating verses which promoted the doctrines and inspirations of the new faith. Luther believed that a church service should have “…plenty of hearty singing.” Calvin, on the other hand, considered folk singing frivolous and believed that no words could be more fittingly sung in praise than the songs taken directly from the scriptures. He believed that hymns should be based on two factors: simplicity, because the people were simple, and modesty, because they were worshiping a sovereign God. In the 1740s an evangelical movement swept through the Church of England and became known as Methodism. The new Methodism movement enthusiastically endorsed congregational singing. It was led by the father of Methodist hymnology, John Wesley, although the same credit is sometimes given to his brother, Charles Wesley. In their lifetimes, the Wesleys published over 6,500 hymns, many of which are still church musical staples today. 

     To some scholars, the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were the golden age in the development of congregational singing. The early 1900s saw, in the United States and later in other areas of the world, a new evangelistic movement called Pentecostalism spreading like wildfire. The movement was marked by several distinct characteristics, but most evident to the observer was enthusiastic congregational singing. Though the hymns that were sung were, even at that time, old and well worn, they were sung with a conviction and depth of worship that had not been previously evident. The believers at the time would have told you that the enthusiasm was there because of a new experience and a new relationship they had established with their God. 

     By 1950, every congregation had a person assigned to select the songs of praise for each service. Hymnals were available for everyone to use, and each member was expected and encouraged to participate in the congregational singing. The music instrumentation was minimal: a piano or guitar as a base, and perhaps additionally an organ. The purpose of the music was to encourage congregational worship through congregational participation. In many smaller congregations, musical talent was limited, but in the simplicity of singing, a congregational member could become part of the whole church body and draw spiritual strength from his/her community of believers and a communion with God. The act of singing became a musical prayer of thanksgiving, worship, and honor. 

     In the mid 1970s, however, the focus of congregational singing began to blur. Musicians had become much more sophisticated and skilled in other instruments besides the basic piano, organ, and guitar, and, with the explosion of the Communications Age, musical influences outside of Christendom began to influence those who affected the music of the church. Taking advantage of the revolution of electronics and sound systems, massive musical concerts of every genre from bluegrass to hard rock drew thousands of enthusiastic spectators with many concerts being held outdoors to accommodate the throngs of attendees who crowded the stage during the concert and swung, swayed, and gyrated to the thundering music. Flashing lights, strobes, and wispy smoke created a surreal atmosphere.  Church musical directors observed with unfeigned envy the success of these spectacles and began to integrate the concert template into the regular church service. Congregational music began to morph from an exercise in spiritual bonding with fellow worshippers to a spectator sport. 

     Skillful presentation, rather that audience participation, became the objective of the musicians. Songs were presented as demonstrations of skill rather than a call to the congregation to participate. Praise was encouraged, but preferably it would be in enthusiastic reaction to the skillful presentation of the singers rather than the spontaneous worship a congregation might experience in musical prayer. Ignoring Calvin’s suggestion that congregational music needed to be simple and modest in execution, musicians created music which was increasingly more sophisticated: arrhythmic, atonal, and freely scripted (non rhyming.) The musically unsophisticated congregational member was not able to follow or understand the music that was being presented. 

     The result of this approach to church music has been the withdrawal of a majority of the members of any congregation from participation during the musical portion of a worship service. During this "worship" period of a church service, outstanding musicians and singers present songs of incredible difficulty with great skill. As these musicians perform albeit with great enthusiasm, the youth, as if on key, crowd the front of the stage and, in rhythm with the flashing lights, thundering beat, and deafening music, swing and sway in allegedly spiritual bliss.  Once the cacaphony of music dies off, the youthful participants dutifully go back to their seats and sit quietly.  Other than the energetic youth, one will generally observe less than fifteen percent of the remaining congregation reacting to the music. There will be handclapping and some praise, but in general the adult church members are detached and nonresponding. The spiritual uniting of the members of the church with their leaders and their God is nowhere to be seen, and, as a result, a major purpose of church attendance is unrealized. 

     Is presentational music the death knell of Christian music?...or for that matter, the church? Probably not…but it is a step in the wrong direction. The purpose of the ministry, of music, and of every department of the church is to encourage an active relationship between each individual congregational member and his/her God. Though there is praise in presentational music, it is akin to watching a movie. It may be presented in high definition and 3-D and be magnificently presented, but it’s not real…it’s only an image viewed from the comfort of a seat. With no unifying spirit of communion, it does not encourage participation, and is, in the final analysis, detrimental to the overall progress of the church. 

     There was a time when church members stood and made audible prayer requests during a service. There was a time when church members stood and freely gave their testimonies of praise and worship during a service. There was a time when church members were encouraged to come to the rostrum and sing in the choir during song service, regardless of skill. And there was a time when church members came to church and sang the familiar songs of Zion in musical praise to their Creator.

     But no more. Pity.

A Tale of Nails

       Since I have now arrived at the septuagenarian stage of my life, it has for awhile seemed abundantly clear to me that I have experienced about all of life there is to experience. I mean, if you haven’t done something by the time you reach seventy-plus years of age, it probably ain’t going to happen, and dreaming about it will not get it done. Even if the opportunity arose that you could indulge in a new experience, your body has become so creaky, and the mind so mushy that the very attempt to experience something new makes one just want to take a nap. The comfort zone becomes so narrow that any deviation is met with alarm.
      Let me say before I go any further that during my entire life I have always been considered a masculine sort of guy. Even as a mere youth, I enjoyed playing in dirt, picking on girls, climbing trees, and making obnoxious noises. As I progressed into adulthood, I enjoyed cars, fishing, hunting, sports, and even girls. But I also enjoyed being dirty, greasy, sweaty, and sort of generally unkempt. I mean, dirt under the fingernails or scruffy hair never really bothered me that much.

     Now that I am the picture of refinement with impeccable speech and decorum, I can proudly say (somewhat secretly) that I haven’t abandoned my roots. I am still distracted by a sporty, stylish car that passes me. I had a boss in the car business who used to describe a good looking car by saying, “It just stands up and says hello to you!” After years of appraising trade-in vehicles for dealerships, to this day when I look at a car, a number always pops into my head as to its value. Girls…i.e. women…are a different kettle of fish. When you’ve got the best, who needs the rest? End of story. However, I still enjoy spending time with guys as we make remarkably visionary statements about every subject known to man. Lastly, I had always been an active participant in various sports, although I have now pretty well retired from strenuous activities.

      Being a man’s man who considers beauty shops a sort of no-man’s land and a real old time barber shop one of the last bastions of real manhood, I have always been a person who looked with amused disdain upon men who had their hair styled, while with pride I took care of my own hair and trimmed my own nails, both hand and feet. The age problem, however, has made it difficult for me to even put on my socks, much less to trim my toenails.

     My wife came to the rescue for me, however, on a recent Fathers’ Day when she presented me with a gift certificate for a massage and a pedicure. The massage I can take or leave, but the idea of a pedicure made alarm bells go off in my head. To walk into the very heart of enemy territory…especially a guy of my…um…maturity, made me equate this gift as akin to getting a gift certificate for a root canal. I could imagine the outcry of the women as this bull entered their china closet. However, since my wife had shown very limited enthusiasm for helping me with the nail trimming, I decided that I would go to the pedicure shop (whatever you call it), plug in my music, keep my head down, and endure the humiliation.

      So, one morning recently, at 10:00 sharp I walked nervously through the doors of Vintage Nails. I was greeted by this fellow, very stylishly coiffured and dressed, with a big beaming smile, who said, “Welcome to Vintage Nails! How can we help?”  I asked, “Do you do pedicures for old guys?” To which he laughed and replied, “Of course, one moment, please,” and he disappeared.  I nearly bolted for the door.

     But then this charming, beautiful Vietnamese lady walked out, and it was love at fir…..no, wait that’s a different story. Anyway, the lady invited me back into her room (parlor? lair?), and I followed like an obedient puppy. I was placed in a chair with more buttons than the seat in an F-16, and she without asking removed my shoes and socks…and pulled UP my pants legs to my knees. “You come here often?” she asked, and I replied, “No, as a matter of fact, this is my first time…in fact it’s my first time for a pedicure in my life.” She jumped up and squealed sometime in Vietnamese, and suddenly all these women were coming out of the back room, squealing, laughing, and pointing at me. Each one looked at me and asked, “First time?” I started to run, but she was holding my feet down in some water and wouldn’t let me get up. Trapped!…so I meekly replied, “Yes, ma’am.” My Vietnamese captor exclaimed, “I take good care of you!” So I just mumbled, “Please be gentle.”

     Anyway, she put something in the water (probably Ajax with Ammonia) and allowed my feet to soak for about ten minutes while she talked. The water was warm, the chair was really comfortable, she was easy on the eyes, and suddenly I felt my fears beginning to lessen. I learned she was 47 years old (looked 35), had escaped Viet Nam in a boat 25 years ago, made her way to the United States, taught herself English, married a successful businessman, and was a living example of the American dream. After the soaking, she began to massage my feet, and trim, clip, cut, buff, and otherwise beautify my poor toenails. I glanced at her feet (she was wearing sandals,) and her feet and nails were perfect. I asked her, “Can you make my feet like yours?” She laughed and replied, “Not today, but you come back, and I will.”

     After she had taken care of the nails, she spread some kind of lotion over my feet and legs up to my knees that smelled like oranges, but creamy with like grains of sand in it. She began to massage my feet and calves, and whatever anxieties I had about the session began to fade like the end of a black and white movie. It felt….good. Just so my Friday breakfast buddies will be reminded once more…because they did ask me…I did not yell, “Green light!” at that moment. (Whatever that means…) It was about this time that I made a friend for life. She said something complimentary to me (I forget what) and I replied with “Cam on ban,” which is “thank you” in Vietnamese. God bless Google Translate. You would have thought she had just met her long lost father. In my experiences I have found that in dealing with people whose primary language is not English, learning just a few of their home language words can establish almost instant friendships.

     Anyway, once we got rid of the sandy orange lotion, she wrapped my legs and feet in hot towels, all the time massaging, and then, after removing the towels and applying some kind of smooth lotion, she massaged my legs again with some smoothly rounded, palm-sized rocks which had been heated. Back home sixty years ago my ancestors would have said, “It wuz plumb fittin’!”

     Somewhere along this time, she asked me if I would like a manicure to go with the pedicure, and honestly, at that juncture I would have agreed to about anything. With the manicure, just about everything which I described that occurred with my feet occurred to my hands and arms. I admit it…it was heavenly! At the end, I bade Ty (her name) farewell with the promise that, “Yes, I shall return.”

     The only mistake I made during this whole pedicure/manicure episode was…I told a few people. Well, maybe more than a few, since I posted it on Facebook, so I know that at least my 21 friends are aware of it. But I fear that my manly, masculine, macho image has been damaged forever. I want to set my friends’ fears at rest, however. I may not drive around with a set of horns on the front of my car anymore, or I may have forgotten a few batting averages or names of NFL players. The Rockets or Astros or Texans may not interest me as much as before. I may not go fishing or hunting as much as before. I may not know or care as much about guns or fear Democrats as much as you do. I may not talk about my wife in disparaging terms as much as you do (and you know who you are…). BUT I am still a man and am willing and anxious to do man stuff as often as possible.

     Well...except Thursday mornings….that’s my pedicure time.

Principles and Politics

    In the latter years of the Vietnam Conflict, the United States military unofficially adopted a controversial tactical strategy in a desperate attempt to halt the encroachments of the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese troops into the villages of South Vietnam as they slowly but surely advanced toward the capital city of Saigon and capture of the entire country. The United States in the late ‘60s had begun massive sweeps of the countryside outside Saigon using grandiose nomenclatures like “Operation Thunder” with the noble intent of clearing areas and villages of the dreaded Viet Cong and restoring order and peace to the allegedly loyal citizens of the target areas. By clearing areas of the enemy, the objective was to slowly recapture the countryside and save South Vietnam from a communist takeover.

    The United States soon learned that the task was comparable to holding back the tide with a mop. Moving into a village, the US military would find a quaint, idyllic Vietnamese citizenry busy with all the duties of a township with nary a sign of the enemy…especially confusing when just a few hours earlier military intelligence had indicated that the place was a beehive of enemy activity. Compounding the difficulty was trying to identify the enemy at all…many Viet Cong troops dressed in the standard clothing of the country villager and became part of the village populace simply by hiding any trace of weaponry. The US military would search a village, and occasionally the enemy would make the mistake of unsuccessfully hiding their weapons and retributions quickly followed, but, more times than not, the US military was frustrated in its lack of engagement with the enemy. This frustration led to a logical conclusion: if military intelligence had positive proof that a village was a haven for the enemy, and there seemed to be no evidence that the local citizens were being cooperative in identifying the enemy, the village was put to the torch and burned to the ground. This military policy was bluntly explained one evening on national news when a military official was asked about the burning of a village, and he replied, “In order to save the village, we had to destroy it.”

    Much has been written in recent years of the general frustration of the United States citizenry with its government. Though we pride ourselves with our democratic process and look with disdain at other not -freely-elected governments around the globe, we are still disappointed at the seeming inability of the U.S. government to face the issues confronting our country today and come up with solutions to our problems. It is not a problem which has surfaced only since Joe Biden became president; it has extended backward through several previous administrations, and the prognosis for the future is not encouraging. In the richest country in the world, we have one of the highest percentages in the world of children who nightly go to bed hungry, of citizens who cannot afford proper health care, and of elderly who have no place to go for security.

    Democracy, by its very name is…well…democratic. While it is a form of government founded upon the concept of rule by the majority, it is also founded upon the principle that any governmental decision will be made with general welfare of the population in mind. Democracy by its very modus operandi requires compromise, and every law and every decision are amalgamations of the corporate minds which joined together to make the decision. The problem with democracy is that it occasionally clashes with individual principle. Consider the hypothetical situation of an elected official who has sworn to his constituents “No new taxes!” and then has to consider a proposed bill which would take care of a serious problem in the country…but the final version of the bill as drawn up by his associates contains a tax increase. Although it will ease a problem in the country, does he vote to pass the law and in doing so override his principles, or does he stand firm, waving his flag of unbent principle, and let the country suffer the consequences? In today’s political climate, we have many politicians who have adopted the strategy of “destroying the village in order to save it.” Rather than reach a political compromise on an issue which would reflect the general pulse of the populace, many lawmakers would rather see the country suffer than renege on an unwise commitment or pledge made in the heat of political campaigning…a commitment or pledge which should have never been made in the first place.

    Unfortunately for our country, both major political parties have adopted the “destroy to save” philosophy, and it depends upon who is in power as to what role each party plays. With the current Democratic president and Democratic majority in Congress, the Republicans have adopted the knee-jerk reflex of “No!” to anything President Biden remotely suggests. Knowing that the 2024 elections are on the horizon and seeing the light at the end of the Biden presidential term in January 2025, Republicans are digging in their heels and throwing out every possible stumbling block to any potential political success for the Democrats, and as a result the country founders with high prices, porous borders, crumbling infrastructure, and rising crime. Please understand…I am not a Democrat and am not a fan of President Biden.  He and the Democrats have done their fair share of uncompromising destruction. Although blessed with a friendly Senate and Democratic president, the Democratic Party has disdained the Republicans and refused to reach across the aisle and offer an olive branch of peace and compromise. As a result, many of the Democratic goals so loftily presented at the beginning of the Biden administration have never gotten off the ground.

    During the George W. Bush presidency, the tables were turned, and it was the Democrats who were stumbling blocks, and any legislation which may have benefited President Bush or the Republican Party was soundly squashed…in the name of “principle,” and Bush, being loyal to Republican “principles” was not anxious to cooperate with the Democratic Congress.

    The last president to publicly reach across the aisle to the benefit of the nation was probably Bill Clinton. Faced with a Republican Congress after the midterm elections, he cooperated with Republican leaders, cajoled Democratic legislators, and helped to create an economy which rebounded and gave the United States its last balanced budget that it probably will ever see. The fiscal success was due to both Republicans and Democrats, still guided by their principles, considering the welfare of the country and compromising to reach an agreement. President George H.W. Bush faced a similar predicament years earlier. Although he had famously made the statement “No new taxes!” during the presidential campaign, after entering office and understanding the financial situation of the nation, Bush signed a fiscal bill which raised taxes and helped balance the federal budget. It cost him political points with those who had uncompromising principles and the “destroy to save” philosophy, but it was better for the country.

    There is a place for uncompromising principles. In my spiritual life, I have principles of behavior and a biblical belief which I am not willing to change; however, my personal spiritual principles are my own. In the political arena, assuming that there exists a true democracy, the politician does not serve to promulgate his/her own principles. A politician works to promote and protect his constituents, and every decision should be based on that ideal. What our country needs are legislators who cannot be bought, who do not vote with an eye toward reelection, who do not make impossible-to-fulfill promises, who seek to improve the general welfare of their citizens, and who are willing to work for the general good of the United States of America.  They are a vanishing breed.