Who's stopping me?

The World Has Gone Insane Blog has no party affiliation. It is not a political effort. It’s merely me typing thoughts and stories as they come to me. For me it’s therapeutic. For readers I hope it is relatable, accessible, thoughtful, and insightful. I was compelled to write the first entry because my soul demanded that I confess my powerlessness to help my daughter in the face of her personal hurdles and society’s expectations from her. I wanted to speak truth to injustice. In this case the state mandated end of grade test. A small injustice from the perspective of most, perhaps. But on that day at that moment it was all I could see from my perspective. And only in clearing it from my brain by scrawling it on this screen could I see past it. 

It felt good.

Just three months ago I wrote a small eulogy of sorts for my mother’s funeral . We wanted the service to feel personal. We wanted a family member to say some words. My brothers were playing music. My sister would be at my father’s side. So that left me. During the planning meeting at the church when the subject came up, I nearly let the moment pass. In a family with big personalities I am used to sitting on the sideline. I’ve been comfortable in that role. But an overwhelming desire for a personal statement from one of my mother’s children caused me to speak up. I wasn’t sure I could write anything that would measure up. I had no idea if I could speak to a congregation of what was certain to be a couple of hundred people without freezing up. I didn’t know if at that very moment I would be overcome with emotion and break down in the pulpit.

But I was not operating of my own accord at this point. Something or someone was intervening on my behalf and I let it happen. And in letting that happen I think a cycle was broken. That something or someone that was intervening was me. I had been stopping myself from intervening in my own life. Maybe I’m just realizing the extent to which I have interfered in my own life. Someone has been in my way. Someone has put up roadblocks. Someone has told me that I can’t write, that I can’t stand up and deliver a eulogy at my own mother’s funeral. Turns out, that someone was me. So now these thoughts are cleared from my brain. Just as I could not see past the unfairness of my daughter’s school situation until I had freed those thoughts on paper, I could not see past my own fears until I typed this keystroke just now.  

When I sat down in front of this laptop I was going to write about the real injustices that are battering us from all sides right now. I was going to speak out about violence, and hate, and my feeling of powerlessness in the face of these things. But maybe I’m not powerless. Maybe I’m stopping myself from seeing where my real power comes from. It comes from within.

So the best way I know to make a difference right now is to share what I wrote and stood solidly in the pulpit and said at my mother’s funeral:

My mother would say,

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world”

I      wouldn’t      miss     it      for     the      world

This is something that Mom said. This is something that Mom said.     A LOT!

I can hear her say it.  if I close my eyes, right now, in my head.

 (pause)

 And I can hear the way she said it. I can hear her motherly, grandmotherly, and yes her SOUTHERN way of saying it.

“I wouldn’t miss it …for the …Wor-ald” That’s two syllables in Wor-ald.

Some of you might be wondering what the heck I’m talking about.  MOST of YOU?  Probably not.  Because what         was      IT       that my mother would not miss for the world?  Well… You name it.  If it was something that was important to you as a friend, as a son, or daughter or grandchild or great grandchild…. she-was-NOT – going –to- miss it! Mom was on a journey and she did not want to miss a minute of it.

IT could be something of profound importance. Someone’s graduation or wedding. BIG Milestone birthdays for friends, cousins, nephews and nieces.  Anniversary parties, class reunions, Family Reunions, Church Homecomings, music performances by her sons, …. Any celebration of a happy event for someone that she loved, you can BET that she would not miss it! She loved to share in the happiness of others.

(pause)

But she also understood the importance of sharing sadness and grief. Just as we have come here today to share our loss with each other.

(pause)

For all the world…she would not miss offering support to those in need of comforting. She would not miss delivering meals for Friendship Trays to those who could not prepare their own. Even as she was battling her own cancer.

As reading buddies in CMS schools both of my parents made lasting and loving connections with the children they worked with. One student often called and asked to bring his family over  to visit my parents . THIS made them HAPPY! They wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Little things also were not to be missed. Would Nana come to the grand opening of Phat DJ’s, a make believe restaurant, created by her first wave of grandchildren?  She wouldn’t miss it.  Rocking the grandkids to sleep?  Giving them their bottle?  Feeding them in the high chair?  Having Papa take their picture in her own grandmother’s rocking horse? Taking the second wave of grandchildren and great-grandchildren to The Nature Museum, To discovery Place? To Ben and Jerrys? I get exhausted just thinking about all the things that she would not dreamed of missing!

I could go on and on… the traditions, the holidays, camping in the pop-up, Disney World, the Moravian Love Feast.

Through Her Example She taught us the importance of participating fully in this world that God has placed us in.

I never asked my mother if she had any regrets.

She rarely expressed her disappointments. 

As it is with all families, we have had our share of tragedies, illness, and loss. 

When Mom was diagnosed with Ovarian cancer, she began talking about being on a journey of faith.  This is language straight from the covenant drafted by Myers Park Baptist Church: It begins, “We, are a people, on a journey of faith.”.  Mom understood that each person was on a journey of their own. For her, it rarely took her beyond the borders of the Carolinas.  Hers was a journey of connecting with new and different people, a journey to express her faith through service to others.  Often to strangers.  But mostly her journey of faith was about being part of a family. A daughter, a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a great-grandmother.  Her journey culminated, as our friend David put it, “in becoming the grand matriarch of the Franklin clan”

And I can assure YOU that she would not have missed that journey for the world.

Everyone Needs a Place Like The Par 4 or "There's a Tear in my Beer"

  

"In the last year that the Par 4 was in existence, a Cuban refugee, Hermes Entenza, lived next door at the Honeycutt's. We went to the Par 4 once. Hermes' only livelihood was painting. I asked him to paint me a picture and when he asked of what, I said "the Par 4". This is it."
Robert H. Lee

"There's a tear in my beer 

'cause I'm cryin' for you, dear   

You are on my lonely mind. "

Hank Williams

I hopped up on the barstool next to my friend who had arrived just before me at our regular hang-out.  Before my butt hit the vinyl covered cushion, my Miller High Life was being placed in front of me on the bar. It was that kind of place. They knew your beer and watched the door to see who was coming in so they could grab it from the icy cold cooler and serve it before you had a chance to ask.  There was no need for questions about how you would pay. If you had been there before you were automatically added to a little recipe file box of index cards. Each card had someone’s name written on it. And each card had a series of hash-marks which kept track of how many beers you had drank. When you paid, which was whenever you happened to have some funds available, they simply scratched through the corresponding hash-marks with the number of beers you paid for. 

All beers were one dollar, so no need for pulling out a calculator.

I grabbed the salt shaker from the counter and salted the rim of my bottle, took a swig, and turned to my friend.  “I found the perfect job for me in the paper today!” I exclaimed. He half-laughed and smiled as he retorted, “What? They are looking for someone to sit on a barstool, drink beer, and philosophize?”  Hahaha.  This quick answer had me laughing already. It’s why I came here to this little pub named The Par 4.  It was a place to laugh.  It was a place for the broken-hearted to come and have fun. A place to be yourself. If laughter and camaraderie have healing powers, then this was a place to fix your broken heart.

Joe

My own broken heart had lead me here.  After a break-up of a three-year long relationship I had nowhere to spend my weekend nights.  My ex-girlfriend and I had hung out with other couples and spending time with a bunch of lovebirds was the last thing I wanted to do.  I was living with my parents as I was trying to wrap up college.  We lived on a lake surrounded by farm land and dotted with small towns.  There were only three bars in the area. The Par 4 seemed like an unlikely place for me to go, but I was desperate to have company.  I walked in to the dimly lit pub which had previously been a Pure Oil gas station and service bay.  Jimmy was bartending that first night. His step-father and mother owned the joint. He was the only person in the place and obviously hungry for company as well.

As I drank my first cold brew, Jimmy told me about his recent break-up with his fiancé. She was also the mother of his son.  Jimmy was the same age as me. I told him about the fresh heartache I had suffered and we were fast friends.  The next beer was on him. And the next. Jimmy needed to talk and I had nothing else to do so that made me a good listener.  I needed to talk and Jimmy was stuck behind the bar I sat at, so he was a good listener too. We came from different worlds. I was a wannabe hippie that went to college and Jimmy was already a Dad and working to support himself. But that did not matter, because heartbreak does not discriminate.

The bar was uniquely situated just inside the local college town. A prestigious college well known for high academic standards. Just on the other side of the town line was another town.  These communities sat side by side for hundreds of years and were polar opposites in most every way.  The other town was a mill town. Old textile factories or whatever manufacturing had moved into those factories employed everyone who lived there. They were working people. They ran machines, worked odd shifts, and drove forklifts.  They came to The Par 4 after long hours of standing on their feet or moving heavy objects onto trucks. They came to sit, relax, and laugh with friends.  I don’t remember any of the Managers from these plants frequenting the establishment. Nor did the professors from the college. But the Professor’s kids that were my age were regulars.  The occasional group of students would nervously come in, but I’m not sure that they had a full appreciation for the beauty of this dive.  No doubt, it was a dive. Concrete floors, the old car lifts buried beneath the them. The barstool's rips were repaired with black electrical tape.  There were pickled eggs, Penrose sausages, and Sardines on the menu. Well, there wasn’t a menu, but the delicacies were prominently displayed on the shelf behind the bar.  Oh, and they had pickled pig’s feet as well.

Me (wannabe hippie) John (intellectual who hunted and split wood)

I made new friends. Good people.  Some that I had gone to high school with who were wrapping up their higher education as well. Some of my new friends were twenty years older and looked thirty years older. Factory work ages you. Some were extreme intellectuals who grew up hunting and splitting wood. A few were former city people, like myself, who had moved to the lake after the interstate was completed. I even made my first friend from across the pond.  My very proper British friend came here because it reminded him of pubs back home.  But we all had a few things in common; we liked to drink beer, we liked to laugh, we craved company. No matter which town you came from we all liked to discuss deep matters on occasion.

 

The bartenders became like family to me. Of course Jimmy. There was Nancy, Margaret (the owner), Mac (the other owner), and my favorite of all known simply as Slab.  Slab was a huge man with a huger heart. He poured beer into little paper cups so that he could drink along with us as he tended bar. He told jokes and heaved great belly laughs as he slapped his hand on the counter at the delivery of the punch line.  He was slightly hard of hearing so every time we played Liar’s Poker he would need a little clarification from time to time.  I might say, “I have six eights.” Slab would look at his dollar bill, scratch his head and ask,” Did you sat Aces or Eights?” I would reply, “Eights.” Still there would be a bewildered look on Slab’s face. “Snowmen?” he would ask. Smiling, I answered, “Yes. Six snowmen.” At that, Slab would call Moose and we would all examine each other’s bills to see if the total number of snowmen added up to six.

Slab (RIP David Stinson)

Slab was completely unaware of the concept of political correctness.  When he used offensive words I was comfortable enough to engage him in a conversation about why I thought that particular word was offensive. He always listened politely and seemed to consider my opinion. I doubt it had much lasting impact, but that was the kind of place this was.  He could say it and I could raise my objection, but we understood that we were different individuals and our own circumstances had brought us to this point. There was no need to judge.

The first time I brought my future wife to the place, I had warned her in advance about the potential for something offensive to be said.  We sat at the bar and I introduced her to Slabbie. He served our beers and looked quizzically at my date, who resembled the cover photo of Anne Frank that we are all familiar with. I could tell that Slab sensed that there was something different about her. I was getting worried. Was Slab anti-Semitic?

Clearly puzzled he bluntly asked, “What are you? An Injun?” 

Oh, man! I burst out laughing. My future wife looked at me with wide eyes, smiling. “What?” she asked. I knew this was a case where an interpreter was needed.  I said, “Slab thinks that you are a Native American.” She laughed. Slab was still looking for an answer.  He seemed unable to put his finger on what was ethnically different about my girlfriend. In those towns you were either of Scots-Irish descent or African-American. I explained that she was Jewish with Eastern European ancestry.  He seemed satisfied and returned to drinking from his paper cup.  

By the end of that evening he had drunk so many little paper cups that he eventually was standing on one of the swiveling barstools, doing the twist to the song blaring from the juke box: 

"Here she comes now sayin' Mony Mony" 

Some nut suggested that Slab “take it off, take it all off” and he obliged by dropping his pants!  After witnessing the largest pair of Fruit of the Looms we had ever seen, my date and I made a quick exit out the backdoor, practically falling on one another. 

Laughing out loud.

Not every night at the Par was fun and games.  Whenever humans gather there is bound to be tension. Especially when alcohol is involved. There were fights, that typically ended with men hugging and saying how much they loved each other. There were nights when a woman that was a former Austrian Nazi would get drunk and spew hateful and racist words. There were nights when Margaret, the owner, would get so wasted that she couldn’t walk or talk.  Her son Jimmy the bartender would ask me if I could take her home.  I would drive her nearly passed out self to their trailer on the lake where I would have to support her on the walk to the door. 

Jimmy would cross a few hash-marks off my tab.

There were sad nights when I watched Elvie the waitress pour her tip earnings from the steakhouse into the poker machine. There were also nights when she would hit a jackpot and clap with excitement and then spend all her winnings buying beers for the whole place.

Elvie, Tommy, and The Poker Machine

Driving drunk people home was a regular assignment for me.  Johnny, the perpetually unemployed ex-owner of The Par, was one of my regular riders.  He was strong and imposing.  Sometimes it was difficult to get him out of the car.  Under the influence he would tell me how he loved me like a son, only to barely remember my name the next time we saw each other. 

There were plenty of characters in this place and they kept me company and kept me laughing as I transitioned into the next phase in my life.

The TV show Cheers featured a bar where “Everybody knows your name.” It was posh in comparison to The Par 4. But it rang true for me that there are times in our lives where we need a place like this. A place to be with people, to laugh, and see that “our troubles are all the same.”