WOW!!! What a world we are currently living in. Unless you have been under a rock for the past few months it is hard to escape the reality of what corona virus has and is doing to the world. Since the invention of social media it only takes minutes to hear about terrorist attacks, earthquakes, school massacres, etc. We immediately think OMG, but it happened there and not here. Corona virus on the other hand has become the judge and juror for where to go and when to go. It is taking no prisoners. At first it was the elderly that was most susceptible to the virus. Then the Millennium’s , thinking they were invincible became the next age group the monster attacked. With exception of a few children , they seem less susceptible to the virus ( thank God–and I do). In the caverns of my mind from college Psychology 101, I do remember a term, ” mind over matter”. When the professor asked for comments, I responded “If you are half crazy already paranoia will take full control”. Not sure if he agreed or not, but I got my “C” and life was good. My opinion paranoia may be tougher to address than the virus itself. Thinking you may have the symptoms pushes the mental envelope even though you are otherwise perfectly healthy. I try not to over think the ramifications of the virus, but on the other hand I do follow the rules of the road. ( Is that an oxymoron ???).

Other than stay-at-home, wash your hands, and keep your social distance, there is no antidote at this time. God bless the medical profession, the first responders and those putting themselves in Harms Way to keep the world as safe as possible.

If there is a positive to be had from this world turning crisis it is family, friends, and neighbors. Yes, we get bored looking at the same family members, the same four walls, the same reruns, and wondering ” why can’t I go to Wal- Mart “? But then ( wait for it)————- the light bulb comes on and suddenly your creative juices kick in. You begin doing things that have been on the back burner for years. Painting, yard work, exercise, reading, cooking ( even here) , assisting a preschool teacher to fine tune her ZOOM presentation. And yes, helping this old guy balance this blog with pictures. Isn’t it time to stop and smell the roses?? Not necessarily flowers, but thankful for life itself. As desperate as times are “The Man Upstairs” still provides us with a world of simple and beautiful pleasures. Allow me to share a few of those pleasures that before the Monster were taken for granted.

I think I am correct, but it is my understanding when interviewing for employment the employer cannot ask your religious preference. Since my interviewing days are well behind me, I can declare I was raised as a Baptist. One of my mom’s favorite sayings ” Once a Baptist always a Baptist”. My mom being a staunch believer, there was no room for discussion in this matter. God forbid you interrupted her when discussing religion with a “but, but”. Her soft brown eyes became lasers. My dad had the maturity to excuse himself to the front porch to enjoy a chew of Red Man tobacco without being forced into an amen from the brown laser eyes.

If it was Sunday and unless you were comatose, it was Sunday School and preaching. My mother taught a Sunday School class so my two sisters and I could feel her presence even though she was two doors down. Unlike Las Vegas “what happened in the Sunday School class did not stay in the Sunday School class”. Our Sunday School teacher had what was referred to as a “sentence prayer”. She would call on a random person to begin the prayer and then proceed around the room, each child giving a short prayer. When it came my turn I was in “lala” land and simply said amen. The class erupted in laughter. My teacher, being the God fearing person she was threw me under the bus quicker than a drug addict helping you look for the wallet he just stole. Some advise to young Baptist children. If your mother has laser eyes regarding religion, do not make the same mistake I made on numerous occasions. Quote, ” mom can you just spank me and not preach at the same time”? All you are doing is doubling down on the spanking and the Bible verses ” spare the rod and spoil the child”. I think my mom had her Bible bookmarked on that scripture for easy referencing.

I do have a vivid memory of one such event that even to this day I cannot help but laugh. It was the ritual of baptizing into the Baptist Church. In the Baptist Church you are submerged in the baptismal pool located directly behind the pulpit. Peepsie was the lady to be baptized. Her name was indicative of her body type, tall and willowy. I was in my most reverent mood as Peepsie entered the pool being aided by the pastor. As she entered the pool her pleated frock rose to the top like a parachute opening. As she attempted to gain her composure with the frock, the pastor lost his balance and both went under the water. The next body part to appear was Peepsie’s two bare feet sticking straight up in the air. My sister made reference to the Thanksgiving turkey. As sacred as this ritual is, even God had a slight smile on His face. Yes, I lost it and of course paid the piper later.

I have many fond memories of my Baptist upbringing. One was my mother’s faith in her maker. Secondly, my sisters and I knew better than to let our behavior become the talk of the church. On my part, that was difficult at times. My explanation of ” the devil made me do it” soon ran its course. Let me be clear, by no means am I being blasphemous toward any religion or doctrine. For me a person’s belief is personal. If they want to share it, that is their prerogative. I do believe God has a sense of humor, otherwise Christmas lights would never get tangled and husbands would be right some of the time.

Aretha Franklin —R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Being raised in a small Southern town there was an unwritten code of conduct that within reason almost hung under the Ten Commandments in the church: RESPECT. In this order, family, pastors/law enforcement, teacher, and the elderly. As a young boy I was quick to learn the terms ” yes ma’am and yes sir”.

Having taught seven years in the North Carolina Public School System, I felt teaching still made the “C” list…….WRONG. In my previous blog I eluded to Abe Lincoln’s quote, ” some of the people some of the time”, etc. A truer statement could not be said about “my” teaching experiences. Emphasis on “my”. For the record, in those seven years my life crossed paths with some of the most wonderful, unique educators and students I still remember to this day.

Why teaching you say ???? In my early twenties as an educator I envisioned being an Aristotle, Vince Lombardi, and John F. Kennedy all wrapped up into one personality. Now that you have stopped laughing, let me continue. All of you ( I hope) are familiar with the WWJD ( if not— What Would Jesus Do) bracelets. That was somewhat my approach teaching. One day your ego is so inflated because you think I have broken their (students) shell. The next day you think, ” is this the same class from yesterday”? Totally deflated with that “deer in the headlights” stare. During the mid-sixties ( BBG–Before Bill Gates)you had three levels of students: those who wanted to learn, those who might learn, and those who could care less about learning. WHAT MUST I DO, WHAT MUST I DO?? With all that diversity in a class room you do what any red bloodied teacher would do, have a mock trial.

No Mildred do not turn down the T.V. , the boy said mock trial. Mildred heard correctly. We had a judge, jury, attorneys, witnesses, a crime, and reporters with updates every day. I in my infinite wisdom appointed the judge. Willard was the toughest, take no crap from anyone personality in the class. After a one-on-one with Willard letting him know the duties of the judge, it resonated with him like a winning field goal in the closing seconds of the super bowl. For once in his hard upbringing life, he did not need to fight for respect. In a mock up trial in a high school in the mid-sixties with a gavel in hand Willard was given respect. My tough guy played the role of judge that still makes me tear up a little. For a short period of time Willard was Aristotle, Lombardi, and JFK. Me too.

Side note: There has never been a teacher that did not have memorable moments in the class room. Mine came during a class on North Carolina history. We were studying a colonial governor by the name of Gabriel Johnston. I had a student that was close to a failing grade, so being the softy I am we made a deal. Wendell was to do a paper on Gabriel Johnston for extra credit. Two days later Wendell was prepared to give his report. The first sentence out of his mouth was, ” Gabriel was an archangel”. Yep, you got it. Wendell overlooked the last name of the governor. In my most militaristic voice I announced Wendell is giving us a report on Gabriel the archangel. Without a hitch Wendell proceeded to read his paper on Gabriel. At the end of the report with quizzical looks all around, we said amen and thanked Wendell for the spiritual uplifting. He did get his extra credit and passed the class with a resounding 70 or D or what ever grade that would relate to in today’s world of education.

“When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things”.

Our current political arena ( Republican, Democrat, Independent) reminds me of Lincoln’s famous quote,” you can fool some of the people some of the time and some of the people all the time, but you cannot fool all the people all the time”. There are three topics that always open up Pandora’s Box: religion, marriage, and politics. In my old age I have yet to master any of these, but because of my first amendment right here goes.

Trump / Sanders-Warren-Biden-Buttigieg, -McConnell / Pelosi, -Schiff / Cruz. No friends, these are not members of the Olympic dream team. These are the elected ” children” that no matter good, bad or indifferent are some of the catalyst responsible for dividing our country. Can you imagine John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, Ben Franklin, and John Hancock having a cup of ale discussing the Declaration of Independence. ” I know we raise hell at each other in open meetings, but at the end of the day in closed sessions we shut down our laptops, put our ego in the closet and do what is best for all the country. ( Country today should be synonymous with black, white, red, and yellow.) Two-hundred and forty-four years ago the founding fathers must have known in the twenty-first century America would be controlled by a group of the most egotistical, self-centered, power hungry group of dumb ass’s money can buy. Emphasis on money. How much is enough???? I have never witnessed a Brink’s armored car following the hearse to the cemetery.

I have always done my civic duty and voted in most elections. Each time I do my due diligence watching CNN and Fox. Of course it does not take a rocket scientist to determine which network pushes the Donkey and which pushes the Elephant. Here’s a thought for a bumper sticker for both parties, ” Talk To The Hand”. If I do not agree to your political philosophy, we only agree to disagree ( chicken or the egg ). Is is possible in the year 2024′, one of the elite universities could offer a curriculum in Doctorate of Presidential OJT Studies ( on the job training). It is a sad state of affairs when you evaluate all the candidates and come to the conclusion, ” he or she is not my first choice, but it is better than the other option”. Ever heard ” heads I win, tails you lose”.

“What just happened”? Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s and here we are two weeks into 2020. A few days ago I sat down with a nice glass of merlot ( an appreciated gift from a family member) and reflected on my most memorable time over the holidays. To all those who showered me with wine, family pictures, shoes, and goodies all are being put to good use. However what impressed me most ( hold on-hold on) were my grandchildren.

My wife and I have a total of eleven grandchildren. At family gatherings it looks like a bus stop for a tour group filing out to see the Grand Canyon. The gender break down, nine girls and two guys. Needless to say when presents are being opened by the females this old guy on occasion comments ” if that is a skirt the maker forgot to make the bottom half”. And I am reminded, ” this is what everyone is wearing”.

The ages range from teenagers to young college graduates and college students. Two grads. now, three in the process. What is impressive is the social culture each brings to the table. Teenagers seem to know as much about the world of adulthood as the young adults know about being a teenager. Conversation bounces around the room like Putin addressing the United Nation. ” Did I hear what I thought I heard”? It reminds me of the Pac Man video where he is trying to eat the world. Yes young people there was a video game called Pac Man.

Here is the “WOW” factor with MY grandchildren:

My oldest has been a college golf coach for several years. Not only can she play the game, she has the uncanny ability to take a complicated game and make you understand it is more mental than physical. She and I were playing around a few years back and I asked if she could give me any pointers to help my game? Her reply, ” have you ever considered another pastime”?

Two of my GC’s. are well on their way to become teachers. Parents rest easy , I know these two personalities. With their savvy and compassion for children they are in good hands.

One of my GC’s is a freshman at a major university and is on the women’s swim team. Odds are All-American status is in the near future and she may just participate in the Olympic Games one day.

Four down and more to come. One of my GC’s. is a criminal justice grad. She interned with the ATF her senior year in college and soon discovered the men and women that make our world safe are so unappreciated. This was not a deterrent, just not the right fix at this time. She now has a budding career as a marketer for a major wine supplier in NC.

Now for the rest of the brood as I loving refer too as the “young and restless”. Trying to follow there conversation at Christmas, ” Did I hear what I thought I heard”? If I were a betting man the world is their’s for the taking, All smarter than it may appear on the surface at times, but lurking below that shell is the hope of tomorrow. We all know the story of the frog and princess. Among these GC.’s , I see engineers, or scientist, doctors, teachers, and yes maybe a career in baseball. As long as it is associated with a Yankee organization. (Forgive me Orioles.) I know what you are thinking. “Hey old guy, how can you sit in your rocker and be so self assured”? Simple, I know the stuff their parents are made of. ( Did I just end a sentence with a preposition?) To my Rad GC.’S. , you catch my drift.

PS: As long as golf carts have pencils with erasers, I will continue to play my defunct golf game. As of today, only two golf courses have requested me to leave.

A few days before Halloween I needed to run an errand to one of the big box hardware stores. Upon entering what to my wondering eyes should appear but Santa Claus and eight tiny reindeer, with all the Christmas fixing. Only thing missing was “It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas”. Not being as agile as in previous years, my inter self wanted to let out a death defying karate yell and take a flying leap on the newly decorated flocked Christmas tree.

The jump from Labor Day in early September to Christmas trees in October tears at ever fiber of my being. Norman Rockwell would be hard pressed making a living in today’s world. I can imagine Norman saying, ” Hey guys, my next meal depends on portraits of family values”.

A few years ago I asked an attorney friend if Christmas stress was grounds for divorce? His reply, ” you must have a wife like mine seeking the perfect tree, perfect decorations, and perfect gifts, right down to the postman”. To use a lawyers vernacular, ” I rest my case”. Years ago shortly after Thanksgiving ( remember Thanksgiving where you gave thanks for your blessings and any mention of Christmas banished you from the table.) I would begin the task of hiding all the sharp pointed instruments in the home. Two reasons, first you could cut the stress factor with a knife, second you could cut the stress factor with a knife.

A side note and word of advice to all those college coaches recruiting potential football players. Visit a big box store of your choosing. Video the moves and tenacity of a woman going for the last gift to complete her shopping list. God help anyone between her and the mission. Those abilities are what you should be looking for in a recruit.

A couple of years ago in a very weak moment I was talked into accompanying my better half to a mall four days before the big day. Upon arriving, I came out of my shopping coma berating myself for being so weak minded. Faking bad knees and bad back, I immediately found the nearest seating section near Starbucks. As predicted, ninety-percent of the occupants were husbands and/or boy friends hoodwinked into thinking, ” it’s only one store she needs to visit”. When the wives were out of hearing distance I took a straw vote. “How many of you feel money is the perfect Christmas gift”? The vote was a unanimous yes, but a few of the younger men checked their six before voting. You may not be aware, but women have the same hearing senses that dogs have.

I may sound like Scrooge, but I do love the seasons and the chaos it brings. I also love the fact with age comes wisdom. For me, relaxing with a cup of cheer, listening to a Christmas album by Michael Buble’ . Also the happiness or disappointment for the right or wrong gift, the laughter of family and friends, and the sigh of relief when you think, “is it all over”? As the last ribbon and shred of wrapping paper hits the floor the realization kicks in. Where and when did society make such a mockery of Christmas. Maybe mankind needs to revisit how it all began. Many years ago a baby was born in a manger bringing hope, peace and promise to all the world. That is the real “reason for the season”.

Small towns seem to have one thing in common, they are not a mecca for things to do. Maybe a good thing being from a small town is one’s ability to use your imagination. When given lemons, make lemonade. Our town did have the traditional hamburger grill with a pool hall in the back. Since gambling did take place on various games of pool, the local pastors and their flocks considered pool halls phase one to hell’s gate. Gate two to hell, attending the local theater on Sunday afternoon. Not sure which issue was more complex, opening a business on Sunday or going from a dry county to a wet county (being able to buy beer during the week). Gate three to hell, patronizing the several illicit watering holes ( referred to as a dive). Dives were places of business where one could indulge in gambling ( poker, blackjack, Texas draw, etc.) and wet one’s whistle with illegal moonshine. Two fingers of “shine” would cost two dollars with chaser. Bonded whiskey cost a whopping fifty-cents more. Clientele was usually local. At times a card shark would pop in, but God forbid he was caught cheating. The owner/barkeep was well versed in his clientele. There were the happy drunks. After two drinks, everyone became their friend. Of course, the good old boys talking farming , sports, or a day in the textile mill. And last but not least, the trouble makers. These were the ones after two drinks let their mouths overload their butt. The meek all of a sudden became the heavyweight champion of the world. Butt whippings were pretty common place and generally forgotten the next day. Several of my family members were founding participants of getting and giving butt whippings.

Fishing, hunting, and local high school sports rounding out things to do. Almost everyone had shotguns ,rifles and a plywood fishing boat. Swamps, rivers, and open fields offered a treasure trove of fishing and hunting. The only two rules: eat what you shoot or catch and make sure the gates are closed behind you. Aside from church and work, high school sports was the heartbeat of a small town. Most of the schools we competed against were prototypes of my town. Bragging rights for a victory in football, basketball, or baseball games made the locals feel like royalty whenever the opportunity arose. Winning on a Friday night made going to the barber shop on Saturday more enjoyable. Lots of back slapping , great game, and “keep it going” talk. However, God forbid if you lost to a rival town. You avoided the public until your next victory even if you desperately needed a haircut.

For years North Carolina has been considered a hotbed for Southern folklore. Those of us drawn to “fact or fiction” are familiar with the Maco -Light (Joe Baldwin), the Indian legend from the Dismal Swamp, and the Beast of Bladenboro. At your next social, light some candles, pour some wine, grab an afghan and indulge in North Carolina folklore. Trust me, if the young and old do not experience chill bumps, check your driveway for a UFO. My hometown was no different from numerous small towns with its own in-house unexplained happenings.

Two of the best storytellers were my grandfathers, Troy and Joe (my namesake). Both were very different personalities. Troy was more of a “devil make care” personality. He loved his moonshine and at times his long periods of absence from the family, but was lovable and easy to forgive. His stories usually began with ” true story”, which we swallowed line, hook, and sinker. Joe on the other hand was a quite man of few words. Almost mysterious in his appearance, tall and thin with the ever present five o’clock shadow. Joe wore his Indiana Jones hat low almost covering the piercing blue eyes. His voice was much like his demeanor, soft and slow. This made his stories more believable requiring you to hang onto every word.

Troy at times would be asked to perform an unusual service for a dying man. Just before they experienced what was referred too as the death rattle ( last breath) , the family asked if he would shave the person in preparation for the undertaker. According to the story this particular person had wronged his neighbors, abused his family, and lived on the wrong side of the law for his own selfish gain. Troy had almost finished shaving the man, when his eyes opened in terrifying horror His last words were, ” I see the devil coming for me”. He died minutes later.

On the mill village almost every neighbor was considered family. Being a close knit community, when a family member was near death comfort was offered by sitting up with the family. It was a somber ritual that could last well into the night. The sitting room was dimmed with very little conversation . Every thirty minutes or so, a family member would quietly check to see if the relative was still breathing. The focal point of the sitting room was the mantle. Here was the history of the family in pictures, usually comprised of a single family picture. Late in the evening suddenly a small dim light appeared from nowhere in the sitting room. It moved around the room, bobbing up and down heading toward the mantle. The mysterious light settled on the family picture directly on the face of the dying family member. Within minutes of this unexplained happening, the family member passed away.

Joe lived a stone’s throw from the cotton mill. Just down the small dirt road was an elderly lady that walked her milk cow to a pasture every morning and returning for it later in the evening. Weather on the porch on not, you could always tell when the lady was passing by the constant clatter of the cow bell. The mutual greeting in the evening was a slight wave or a nod of the head just to be neighborly. Sitting on his porch after work, Joe realized he had not seen the little lady for a few weeks. It was later he got the word she had passed away and the family sold the milk cow. Years after her death, Joe was sitting on his porch as night was settling in. At first he heard the rattle of the cow bell, then an apparition on the little lady walking her milk cow. As quickly as it appeared it was gone. The apparition was so real, Joe walked to the small dirt road to see if there were hoof tracks. There was nothing to be found.

Unless you were raised in a textile town where cotton was king, the terms “lint head” and cotton mill villages may be new to you. Lint head was the reference used when you were raised in the village. If you lived on the mill village it was an accepted practice to poke fun at each other as being a “lint head”, somewhat a badge of courage. However if you did not reside in the village, being called a “lint head” were fighting words.

I was raised in a small Southern textile town with a population of 600 people. To my knowledge the U.S. Government never did take a census, so it could have been more or less 600 citizens. As faith or geography would have it, the town was divided by the Southern Railroad System. One side of the tracks was the affluent neighborhood comprised of textile executives and business owners. The locals referred to this neighborhood as Front Street. It was imminent of the “Old South”. Larger than life mansions with pristine yards, large oak trees and more than one car in the driveway. Southern Living Magazine in today’s world would be drooling for a photo op. of the homes that lined Front Street.

The other side of the tracks was where the blue collar (to phrase a term) workers resided. The homes were small in design but well kept. The one thing in common was a front porch that spanned the length of the residence. The porches were the social gathering place for religion, gossip, and topics such as, “if that my was son or daughter doing that I would skin their britches”. The latter was never spoken in the presence of the parents of the misfit culprits.

Then there was the village. The houses were located so close to the mill, you could hear the machinery running at night. This of course was by design by the mill owners. The workers were within walking distance of the workplace and had no excuses for being absent. The houses were wood frame structures consisting of a living, room, kitchen, and two or three bedrooms. As long as you were an employee of the mill, you had a roof over your head courtesy of the mill owners. If you decided to look for greener pastures (other employment) you would be asked to vacate the premises. The homes were heated with a fireplace or an oil heater. Water for bathing, cleaning, and cooking came from a manual water pump near the back porch. The facility was the outhouse with a natural septic tank. A common phrase, ” if you are going to the toilet, be careful of spiders”. A Sears & Roebuck catalog was the preferred reading material in the outhouse. No matter your social standing in town, everyone had a Sears & Roebuck catalog. It offered the dream of, “wish I may, wish I might have my wish come true tonight”.

The laborious task of washing clothes was a family affair. Within reason it was always on a Saturday, weather permitting. There were five basic steps for wash day:

Step 1. build a fire around the cast iron wash pot to heat the water-step 2, dissolving the lye soap in the hot water-step 3, using a paddle to agitate the clothes in a swirling motion to insure proper cleaning-step 4, ring the clothes out by hand and hang on the clothes line-step 5, bring the dried clothes in for ironing. Presidents was given to the clothes you would be wearing to church on Sunday. And today we often wonder, “what happened to the weekend”. Duh!!!!

Thinking back to those Saturday’s of days gone by, it was at times tedious labor and hardships, but the aroma of clean clothes drying in a slight breeze was one of the simple pleasures of life. It is often I reminiscence of the blood, sweat and tears endured in my up bringing. However in retrospect in some form or fashion they all became a labor of love.

Welcome to Joe’s Bakers Dozen

If you clicked on Bakers Dozen searching for a bread or doughnut recipe, sorry wrong pew. You may want to google Krispy Kreme.

Actually a bakers dozen dates back to Henry II (1154-1189). Bakers in that time period were held accountable for the exact weights for the breads they sold. If it was determined the breads did not meet the weight standard, bakers were punished for the mistake. To avoid that possibility bakers would put an extra loaf of bread in the bag to overcome any form of punishment. So the term Bakers Dozen.

Now in my mid seventies with various employment careers as an educator, a probation officer and finally retiring from the private business sector, I decided to stick my toe in the water and try blogging. Playing the devil’s advocate, I understand the thought process of ” how can a country bumpkin from a small Southern town begin to spark my interest with trivia I could easily find on Wikipedia”? Like millions of folks I know a little bit about a lot of things and very little about tons of things. My life has been a roller coaster of people, places and things. Many of these are in direct correlation for my thinning grey hair. Damon Runyon wrote short stories about the characters and social status of life on N.Y.’s Broadway. To imply this blog is remotely close to Mr. Runyon’s portrayal of those characters is a far stretch of one’s imagination. It does however give one inspiration to ” walk a mile in his shoes”. The Dozen is a cornucopia of my experiences that good or bad have shaped my life. My leap of faith blogging may have the same results as Edward John Smith, Captain of the Titanic. By under estimating the tip of the iceberg, I could go down on my maiden voyage.