All I left with was the ability to correctly pronounce “enthusiasm.”

You can get either of my books at http://stores.lulu.com/planorandy.

Hope you like them.

Randy

I was having lunch the other day with my childhood-friend-turned-billionaire, Tycoon Pendergrass, when the subject of the baseball park in Dubach came up.  ..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

"You do you realize that we had one the finest baseball parks in the state of ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Louisiana," Ty said.  "It was one of the only high school parks at the time with lights in the outfield, a manned scoreboard, and a press box."

He's right, you know, and I hadn't thought of that park in years.

Before Coach Doug Colvin, I can't remember who saw to it that parcel of land was a source of community pride.  I know that Coach Billy Henderson succeeded Coach Colvin and not a single blade of grass suffered for it. 

When you played baseball for either, an additional position was that of grounds keeper.  After each game or practice, we had to "drag the field" which meant being draft horses behind this wooden frame with spikes on the underside and pull it along the infield.   Outfielders and pitchers usually did that while the infielders hand-raked their position. 

I practically grew up in that ballpark.  I guess it all started age five or six when I played Peewee baseball.  I still remember the day my friend-since-the-first-grade-but-not-a-billionaire-yet Ronnie Smith told me they were starting a league and that I needed to choose what position I wanted to play.

There was one small problem:  I didn't know that baseball had positions.  Heck, I'm not even sure that I knew the bases were numbered.  But as a child, I can now openly stipulate that I was somewhat sheltered and as a result tended to be a tad on the dumb side. 

Since then, my stupidity has grown to a new level.  In fact, you could fill the Caspian Sea with the things I don't know.   Like just the other day, I asked a pretty stupid question of a friend of mine, someone I consider to be a fairly bright fellow.  

He stared at me for a minute, and then remarked, "Man, you are sucking all the dumb out of the room."   

Now you would think that statement would hurt my feelings, but no.  In fact, I'm proud to finally be getting the respect I so richly deserve.  You can't get to my level of stupidity overnight. 

Now, back to the ball park.

Whether or not we had any talent for baseball or even knew the bases were numbered, nearly every kid in town signed up that year to play baseball.  And I think there was a rule in the book somewhere to that every kid had to play at least a full inning. 

Probably shortly after I asked my coach why the outfield positions weren't also numbered, he put me in right field.  That's where they put players of my caliber so we don't cause too much damage.

At that age, playing right field is downright boring.  I was so far away from the action they were kind enough to help me by yelling "RANDY? BALL!" whenever I had something concerning baseball was headed my way.

That wake up call was quite necessary too because I might be sitting down, tossing my glove up in the air, or just staring off into space. 

Like me, Stephen Norris was exiled to right field one day when a ground ball was hit out to him.  He went to chase after the ball and slipped down.  We were all laughing when we heard him yell "Snake!"

I'll bet you a Ken Griffey, Jr. baseball card that Stephen Norris was the only kid in history to have a water moccasin contribute to an inside-the-park home run.  Makes you wonder how they would have scored that.

Another memorable right field occurrence involved William Fuller.  Nothing as interesting as slipping on snake mind you, but during one game he was chasing after a ball when his cap blew off. 

Instead of continuing to run bareheaded, he went back and retrieved his cap, put it back on, straightened it, then went on to get the ball.  Meanwhile the batter is rounding the bases.

Later back in the dugout, we could only nod in agreement when William gave his plausible explanation: "Mama'll kill me if I get my cap dirty." 

Ha.  And that was just one of the hundreds of memories I have of growing up in one of the finest ballparks in all of North Louisiana. 

I guess it all hits us from time to time, this thing called depression.  It hits me too, but not to the extent it does others.  I'll get sad from time to time about something, but it never lasts for very long.  Usually some kind words or a pat on the back from a friend helps me through it. 

What the medical community calls clinical depression is much more serious, like a sad cold that turns into pneumonia.

Several of my family members and friends suffer from depression.  Some have been diagnosed and are being treated. Some have not and need to be.  Some are taking Zoloft, Lexapro, or some other depression fighting drugs.

The list of people who have suffered from depression is quite long and varied by profession.  It includes political leaders like Abraham Lincoln and Winston Churchill, actors Heath Ledger, Harrison Ford, and Emma Thompson, and musicians Billy Joel, Brian Wilson, and Kurt Cobain.

Actor Owen Wilson's recent attempted suicide was attributed to frequent bouts with depression.  Nirvana grunge rocker, Kurt Cobain, was successful in taking his life.  They had both reached that point where the happiness scale had become so tilted to one side that it made life seem unbearable and undesirable.

Mike Wallace from 60 Minutes discussed what it was like to suffer from depression.  He said it was like everything that made him happy was buried somewhere in a Mason jar so deep in the ground that he couldn't get to it.  Only after he was able to treat his illness with medication could he open "the jar" and find the happiness he'd lost. 

Winston Churchill called depression the "black dog."  When he found himself feeling the affects he would tell others that "the black dog's in the house."  Long before there was a drug like Zoloft, Winnie self-medicated with Scotch to help him keep the black dog a bay.

Let me tell you, when you're trying to help someone who is dealing with depression, you can feel pretty helpless.  There's no bleeding to stop, no wound to suture.  There's just nothing you can kiss and make feel better.   

I'm not a doctor.  Ha.  I don't even play one on TV.  But let me share with you a few dos and don'ts that I've learned about becoming a part of a depression sufferer's support network:

Do

Help them to understand that staying in bed all day or self-medicating is a clear sign that something is wrong

As you would with any other illness, encourage them to seek treatment for theirs

If prescribed, encourage them to stay on their medication

Learn to listen patiently

Don't

Tell them that they should just snap out of it

Tell them that they have nothing to be depressed about

Try to find logic in an illogical mind.  To them, they are acting logically

Wait too long

I'll leave you with a piece I wrote some years back about no one in particular, but someone definitely suffering from depression.  It's called "Don't Pet the Black Dog." 

Black dog stopped by today

Stared at me with not much to say

Then he started bayin' at the moon

Sure sign he won't be leavin' here soon

Locked the door left the key by the bed

To get away from the voices inside my head

Black dog said to pay 'em no mind

Hearing that's a real bad sign

He's here now and he's gonna stay

Black dog ridin' the rest of the way

Dog's in the valley, dog's on the hill

Black dog testin' every inch of my will

Black dog curled up at the foot of my bed

Waitin' to see if I'm living or dead

When you see the black dog, you got the blues

Don't pet the black dog, don't make the front page news

Well it looks like my comatose song writing career may have felt a slight twinge in its little finger today. Just when I had started to think I couldn't get Velcro to stick, I got an e-mail from my co-writer Ann Wilson-Hardin up in Lipp Loch, Oklahoma. 

She said that a publisher had contacted her about getting the rights to one of our songs. 

First I had to check the calendar to see if it was April Fool's Day, and it wasn't, so I wrote her back and told her that, while they had already caught the Unabomber, it would be wise to check this guy out to see if he was some wild-eyed maniac living in a super-small cabin up in the mountains. 

Another reason I suggested the scrutiny is because, so far, Annie and I have successfully kept our musical talents so well hidden that it would be easier for a publisher to find Jimmy Hoffa.

I think it was Mark Twain who once said, "I wouldn't join a club that would have me as a member."  Well, along those same lines, I'm not real sure I want to sign a deal with a publisher who would have me under contract.

Although we've co-written several songs together, Annie and I don't always see eye to eye.  Well, let's just say we have our musical differences.  Okay, it would be closer to the truth if I said that we get along more like Lenin and McCarthy than the famous Beatles songwriting duo. 

When I thought she just might be the Ann Wilson, the lead singer for Heart, I contacted Annie over the Internet.  Of course, if I'd been thinking, I would have known that Heart's Ann Wilson would never be caught dead in Oklahoma unless she'd been placed there under the witness protection program. 

Because I don't play an instrument, typically Annie writes the melody while I write most of the words.  One of these days I'm going to teach myself to play the guitar.  My brother Benji has a Masters Degree in classical guitar from SMU; so you'd think I could learn a few chords. 

But I'm not totally devoid of musical talent.  If I can ever find out where my wife, Elmo, hid my harmonicas, I could still play you a mean version of "Love Me Do." 

She started hiding them because every time I played the harmonica, my Sheltie dog Miles (named after the jazz great Miles Davis) would howl then bite me on the ankle. 

She said my playing hurt his ears.  I thought it was because he a Rolling Stones fan.

It would be easy to quit trying to break into the music business.  Very few do and there's a saying in Nashville that you've got to be present to win.  Meaning unless you look and sing like Tim McGraw, don't try and mail in your talent.  Come here and starve for a while like the rest of us – pay your dues.

That always sounded fair to me, but since I look more like Boxcar Willie these days than Tim McGraw, I think it's better that I stay put and hold on to my day job a while longer.

I heard another story about how tough it is to break into Nashville:  a middle-aged man came over to the table where country music super star Vince Gill and a few of his friends were sitting.  He inquired of Vince how he could break into the music business. 

Vince was cordial with his advice, but after the gentleman walked away, he remarked to his friends, "Don't he know this is a young man's town?"

Not that our age would stop us, I just don't think Annie or I have any plans to move to Nashville. 

So I guess me and the Queen of Loch Lipp will just have to keep on mailing them in. 

Who knows, one day we might get lucky and this new Unapublisher will make us famous!

I've been seeing a nutritionist lately to try and lose some weight and get my blood sugar under control. 

I've always taken pride in my knowing what I'm going to die from eating.  I always felt sorry for the healthy eaters who can only guess at what contributed to their demise. 

My nutritionist, we'll call him Günter, is the ideal in an Aryan sense. He's about 6'1" tall, blonde, blue eyed, and built like a whippet, the kinda guy who could eat a fat rendering plant whole and not gain a pound. 

He's a bit on the stern side and quite dogmatic in his approach to nutrition.  In our meetings, he's prone to frowning at me like a teacher you told a dog ate your homework. 

Our dietary exchange goes something like this:

Günter:  Mr. Rogers, the diet plan we designed for you, you did understand the object was to lose weight?

Me:  Yes, well sure, I thought that…

Günter:  Good, now that we got that straight.  Mr. Rogers, are you eating rice – perhaps Uncle Ben's Instant?

Me:  Well, I am from Louisiana and, yes, I do like rice, why?  Is that okay?

Günter:  Yes, absolutely, but you'll need to start throwing the rice out and just eat the box.  What about fried chicken?

Me:  Well again, I'm from Louisiana, and…it doesn't come in a box unless I drive thru KFC?

Günter:  Right, but you'll need to start removing the meat from the bone and just eat the bone.  We've included a generous amount of bone marrow for you in your diet plan.

Me:  Uh huh, so what can I eat?

Günter:  You're free to eat anything in moderation so long as it has no detectable flavor and brings you little if no enjoyment.  Once we get you looking like a Holocaust survivor or better yet Paris Hilton, we'll add back in some of the foods you like, maybe a baked chicken wing.  Would you like that?

Me:  Long as it doesn't come in a box…

I don't think you'll find much of the food I grew up eating in any South Beach diet book.  North to south, Louisiana's food is as diverse as its people.  While living in North La., I ate traditional southern food.  Later when I lived down south in Houma and New Orleans, I enjoyed Cajun and Creole style cooking. 

The first time I saw gumbo I was age 13 and on a FFA trip to Lafayette.  It looked to me like a bowl of dirty ditch water drowning a fair amount of rice and bugs.  It took courage to taste the first spoonful. 

They say the first line of every Cajun recipe is "start by making a roux."  I believe it. 

Up in the Piney Hills, we can't poke too much fun.  Lord knows, we'll deep fry a walnut on you in a heartbeat.  

I love my kind of food, and that's probably what got me in trouble with my nutritionist.  Anything fried is pretty much off my diet now and anything that remotely resembles a carbohydrate.  I can't have hot water cornbread, but I can have the hot water.

But I promise you, if I'm ever get sent to the state penitentiary, and the warden gives me my choice for a last meal, I would ask for Southern fried chicken, hot water cornbread, black-eyed peas, sliced Vidalia onion and tomato sprinkled with black pepper, yellow squash, turnip greens (with pepper sauce), and 'nana pudding for desert.  Oh, and lots of sweetea to drink.  Sweetea is really sweet tea pronounced as one word as in, "You want sweetea with that?"

After enjoying that meal, if the warden asked me if I had any last words, I'd say, you bet, "Take that, Günter.  Hah!"

Note:  I've been asked to give the commencement address at my old high school. Will continue to polish up until May 23rd, when it's time to deliver it. R

THANK YOU,

WELL, FIRST OF ALL, I WANT TO THANK MS. LALA COOPER AND PRINCIPAL MABRY FOR INVITING ME HERE ON GRADUATION NIGHT TO MAKE A FEW REMARKS.

SOME MONTHS AGO, WHEN MS. COOPER INVITED ME TO SPEAK, I COULDN'T HELP BUT THINK ABOUT ALL THE DUBACH HIGH SCHOOL TEACHERS OF MINE THAT HAD TO PASS AWAY IN ORDER FOR ME TO BE UP HERE TONIGHT.

I KNOW THAT ANY ONE OF THEM, IF THEY WERE STILL ALIVE, WOULD SURELY HAVE PUT THEIR FOOT DOWN AND SAID, NO, ANYBODY BUT HIM!

BUT, NOW THERE GONE, AND I'M HERE… [Pause]

THE FIRST THING I WANT TO DO TONIGHT IS SAY SOMETHING DIRECTLY TO THOSE WHO ARE ABOUT TO GRADUATE.

A COUPLE OF THINGS REALLY:

FIRST, YOU CAN RELAX.

I KNOW THAT YOU'RE READY TO GET OUT OF HERE. I'VE TIMED MY SPEECH AND IT DOESN'T TAKE MORE THAN AN HOUR AND A HALF TO GIVE.

SECONDLY, AND MORE SERIOUSLY

I KNOW THAT YOU'VE HEARD THAT THE 3 MOST BEAUTIFUL WORDS IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE ARE "I LOVE YOU," RIGHT?

BUT NOT ALWAYS…

ON GRADUATION NIGHT, THE 3 WORDS YOU WANT TO HEAR ARE: [PAUSE]

YOU MADE IT!

WEARING A MAROON CAP AND GOWN, IT WAS 34 YEARS AGO I SAT RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE TONIGHT.

IT WAS 34 YEARS AGO THAT I WALKED ACROSS THIS STAGE AS AN HONOR GRADUATE OF DUBACH HIGH SCHOOL.

WE DIDN'T HAVE AC IN THIS GYM THEN, AND IT WAS HOT. I WAS SWEATING PRETTY GOOD.

I ALSO REMEMBER BEING SCARED.

I WAS SCARED AT THE THOUGHT OF LEAVING MY COMFORT ZONE. ARE ANY OF YOU FEELING THAT WAY RIGHT NOW?

AND I HAD QUITE A COMFORT ZONE.

DADDY FIXED ME BREAFAST EVERY MORNING. SOMETIMES IT WAS JUST A COUPLE OF PIECES OF TOAST, MAYBE SOME COLD CERAL OR OAT MEAL.

BUT SOMETHING WAS ALWAYS ON THE TABLE IN THE MORNING BEFORE SCHOOL.

MAMA ALWAYS HAD CLEAN CLOTHES LAID OUT FOR ME TO WEAR. ALL I HAD TO DO WAS GET UP AND GO TO SCHOOL

ONCE I GOT TO SCHOOL, MY DAY WAS LAID OUT FOR ME TOO.

FIRST I REPORTED TO HOME ROOM, THEN ATTENDED VARIOUS CLASSES, MAYBE A STUDY HALL, RECESS, LUNCH, PE, THEN USUALLY SOMETHING TO DO AFTER SCHOOL WITH SPORTS (BASEBALL OR BASKETBALL)

I JUST DIDN'T HAVE TOO MUCH TO WORRY ABOUT.

BUT ON THE NIGHT OF MY GRADUATION, RIGHT HERE WHERE WE ARE TONIGHT, I WAS BOTH WORRIED AND SCARED.

I WAS WORRIED ABOUT WHAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN TO ME FROM HERE ON OUT.

THE AUTHOR OF THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING, NORMAN VINCENT PEALE, ONCE WROTE ABOUT HOW A BABY MUST FEEL IN THE WOMB.

IN THE WOMB, A BABY IS ALL WARM AND COMFORTABLE. THEN IT COMES TIME TO BE BORN AND THE BABY THINKS, "WAIT A MINUTE, I'M ALL WARM AND COMFORTABLE, WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME?"

THEN THE BABY COMES INTO THE WORLD, LOOKS AROUND, SPENDS A LITTLE TIME, AND STARTS TO THINK, "HEY, THIS AIN'T SO BAD. "IN FACT, I LIKE THIS. THIS'LL DO JUST FINE."

YOU COULD NEVER HAVE CONVINCED THAT BABY THAT, WHILE WARM IN ITS WOMB, THAT ANYTHING OUTSIDE COULD BE JUST AS GOOD.

THAT BABY HAD TO BE BORN TO FIND THAT OUT.

IT HAD TO LEAVE ONE WORLD IN ORDER TO ENTER ANOTHER

THIRTY FOUR YEARS AGO I WAS WARM AND COMFORTABLE IN MY SURROUNDINGS HERE.

SITTING RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE, I WAS WAITING TO BE BORN OF DUBACH HIGH SCHOOL.

JUST LIKE THAT BABY, IT WAS MY TIME TO BE BORN.

SCARED THOUGH I WAS, IT WAS TIME FOR ME TO ENTER INTO ANOTHER WORLD, INTO ANOTHER STAGE OF MY LIFE.

THE NIGHT I WALKED OUT OF THIS GYM, I HAD NO IDEA WHAT LIFE HAD IN STORE FOR ME. (PAUSE)

BUT YOU KNOW WHAT? IT WASN'T SO BAD…

ALL I HAD TO DO WAS REMEMBER TO HONOR THOSE WHO LOVED ME ENOUGH TO EDUCATE ME

ALL I HAD TO DO WAS REMEMBER TO HONOR THOSE WHO HAD GIVEN ME A MORAL COMPASS TO FOLLOW.

ALL I HAD TO DO WAS REMEMBER TO HONOR THOSE WHO HAD FIXED MY BREAKFAST AND MADE SURE THAT I HAD CLEAN CLOTHES TO WEAR.

ALL I HAD TO DO WAS BELIEVE IN MYSELF AND REMEMBER THAT I HAD BEEN WELL PREPARED FOR LIFE. [PAUSE]

IT'S AMAZING HOW MUCH SMARTER MY PARENTS GOT AFTER I HAD BEEN OUT A FEW YEARS.

ONCE I DISCOVERED THAT CLOTHES DON'T WASH THEMSELVES, FOOD DOESN'T MAGICALLY APPEAR ON THE TABLE…

ONCE I REALIZED THAT I HAD TO GET MYSELF UP WHEN THE ALARM CLOCK WENT OFF…

THAT'S WHEN I KNEW (FOR SURE) THAT I HAD BEEN RAISED BY TWO GENIUSES. [PAUSE]

I SAW A MOVIE NOT TOO LONG AGO STARRING MORGAN FREEMAN AND JACK NICHOLSON. IT WAS CALLED THE BUCKET LIST.

ONE SCENE IN PARTICULAR HAD MORGAN EXPLAINING TO JACK HOW TO GAIN ACCESS INTO EGYPTIAN HEAVEN.

HE SAID, YOU MUST FIRST ANSWER TWO QUESTIONS.

THE FIRST QUESTION IS: DID YOU FIND JOY IN YOUR LIFE?

THE SECOND QUESTION IS: DID YOU BRING JOY TO THE LIVES OF OTHERS? [PAUSE]

I WANT TO TAKE THE SECOND QUESTION FIRST.

IF YOU RECALL THAT I SAID THAT LIFE AFTER GRADUATION WASN'T SO BAD BECAUSE I REMEMBERED THOSE LESSONS I WAS TAUGHT.

ONE SUCH LESSON CAME FROM MY MOTHER.

SHE TAUGHT ME THAT, FOR ALL THE THINGS OUT OF OUR CONTROL, THERE IS ONE THING OF WHICH WE WILL ALWAYS BE IN CONTROL. [PAUSE]

AND THAT IS WHETHER OR NOT TO BE A KIND PERSON. [PAUSE]

DID YOU BRING JOY INTO THE LIVES OF OTHERS?

WHEN YOUR LIFE IS OVER AND YOU'RE STANDING AT THE GATES OF HEAVEN, DON'T YOU WANT TO BE ABLE TO ANSWER THAT QUESTION YES? [PAUSE]

WHETHER OR NOT YOU LEAVE HERE TONIGHT TO GRADUATE FROM MED SCHOOL OR DIG DITCHES FOR A LIVING, IS REALLY NOT AS IMPORTANT TO SOCIETY AS YOU MIGHT THINK.

IN THE END, SOCIETY WILL JUDGE YOU ON HOW WELL YOU TREATED YOUR FELLOW MAN.

DID YOU BRING JOY INTO THE LIVES OF OTHERS?

EACH ONE OF YOU WILL LEAVE HERE TONIGHT GIVEN A PIECE OF PAPER THAT (IN A WAY) WELCOMES YOU INTO SOCIETY.

YOU MADE IT.

YOU WILL ALSO LEAVE HERE TONIGHT WITH A GIFT GOD GAVE YOU ON DAY ONE. A GIFT YOU WERE BORN WITH. [PAUSE]

YOU CAN BE KIND. YOU CAN BRING JOY INTO THE LIVES OF OTHERS. [PAUSE]

YOU MAY NOW HAVE GUESSED NOW WHY I TOOK THE SECOND QUESTION FIRST.

IF YOU CAN ANSWER (YES) TO THE SECOND QUESTION: DID YOU BRING JOY INTO THE LIVES OF OTHERS? THEN YOU ALSO HAVE THE ANSWER TO THE FIRST QUESTION.

IF YOU CAN BRING JOY INTO THE LIVES OF OTHERS, YOU WILL FIND JOY IN YOUR LIFE AS WELL. [PAUSE]

IN CLOSING, THE BEST OF LUCK TO THE NEW GRADUATES OF DUBACH HIGH SCHOOL.

YOU'RE FOLLOWING IN A LONG LINE OF THOSE WHO LEARNED THEIR LESSONS WELL. PLEASE REMEMBER TO HONOR THE MEMORY OF THOSE WHO TAUGHT YOU THOSE LESSONS AND YOU WILL DO WELL IN WHATEVER YOU DECIDE TO DO.

AND, AS FAR AS TONIGHT GOES? YOU MADE IT. GOODNIGHT AND MAY GOD BLESS YOU ALL.

If you were traveling through downtown Dubach headed in the direction of the old cotton gin, you passed the Butler's home on your left.  The building next to their home with the almost-always-open door was the cleaners they owned and operated. 

They had to leave the door open during the day to let the heat out from the dryers and the presses.

If you could stand shopping in the heat, they also sold clothes in there.  Back in the 60's, that's where I could go buy a pair of white double-knit bell-bottomed pants, a wide leather belt, or a god-awful loud shirt with a collar so wide it could choke me during a strong wind.  

Whenever Mama went to the post office, I would take that opportunity to scoot across the street to the cleaners and the red soft drink machine that sat on their front stoop.   

It was the kind you put your money in then open up a door to pull the drink out.   I would sit cross-legged in the green and white metal lawn chair, sip my cold Coke, and watch for Mama to come out of the post office. 

They had a metal bottle rack mounted on the wall and every kid in town knew to place their empties there when they were finished.  I guess when you grow up in a small town with very few locked doors; kids just sorta learn to adopt the honor system. 

I was more concerned that Mama wouldn't give me enough time to finish my drink and that I'd have to place a half-full bottle in the rack before rejoining her.       

Ms. Monette was the matriarch of the Butler family and one of my mother's best friends.  She was a member of the card-playing, coffee-drinking coterie that Mama referred to simply and collectively as "the girls." 

On Saturday mornings, Mama and Ms. Monette would sit and drink coffee while their youngest son Tony and I watched cartoons.    

For as long as I can remember, their family had something to do with the laundry business. 

During my high school days, their oldest son, Jimmy, gave me a weekend job at their washateria across the street from Tech.  I was in charge of making change for the washers and dryers, sweeping the floors, and making sure no one made off with the small black and white television I watched most of the time.

Martha Lou was their middle child.  She was a couple of years older than me.  I hadn't seen her since high school.  Harvey Davis called me one day to tell me that she was very sick and that she had called and asked him to be on of her pallbearers.    I've never heard of someone doing that.  It must have taken a great deal of inner strength.

The newspaper said she went to Tech to become a nurse and that one of her passions was caring for the elderly at Alpine Nursing Home.  In that role, I imagine that she helped many of their residents depart our world. 

I'm reminded of a verse from an old Blood, Sweat & Tears song:

I'm not scared of dying

And I don't really care

If it's peace you find in dying

Then let the time be near

When the time is near, I believe Martha Lou, and others who work with the elderly, the sick and the dying, are the very first angels we see. 

With a soft voice and the warm touch of a hand, these first angels help prepare us for our walk through the valley of the shadow of death.  They help us to find peace in dying. 

Martha Lou Butler Gallemore left us on April 10, 2008 to be with the other angels.

May she rest in peace.

It looks like our old home place in Dubach is about to be sold to a soon-to-be-married couple.  How great is that?  If you have to see the house you grew up in sold, what better way to pass the baton of memories than to a young couple just starting out? 

As I think back on the time I spent growing up in that house, I must face the fact that some of the memories are sad.  When my baby sister, Laura Ann, died they placed her little coffin on the stereo in our living room.  In fine Southern tradition, people came by to see her and brought us more food than we could ever eat. 

I didn't know the lady who sat with me at our kitchen table and cut my meat up for me and introduced me to the joy of ketchup.  I'm old enough to cut my own meat now, but unless it might appear to be an insult to the cook, I still like a little dab of ketchup on the side.

Laura Ann died of a childhood flu that was going around at the time.  Years later Mama shared with me that I had the same flu but survived.  "You were just older and stronger than she was," she said. 

I don't know why Mama waited until I was 40 to tell me about that, but I'm glad she did, because I would have felt guilty that for some reason I made it and my baby sister didn't.  It takes a lot of maturity on my part to deal with that even now. 

We had a little tea cup and saucer that sat atop a coffee table in that living room.  On it read, "Our Little Angel."  Growing up, it always made me think of Laura Ann.

I don't remember too much about being sick at the time other than having a high fever and feeling the weight of the world on my chest.  I could hear people in the room whispering and wondered why they couldn't talk louder so I could hear what they were saying.

Granny Colvin came over and sat by my bedside and occasionally wiped my face with a damp washcloth trying to get the fever to break.  While my mother could remove layers of skin with a washcloth, Granny always had the gentlest touch.  I much preferred getting a face washing from my maternal grandmother.  Before she became an angel, you'd think that Granny could have passed that technique down to her daughter and saved me a few layers of skin.

Another angel in my life was my next door neighbor and surrogate grandmother  - MaMaw Davidson.  Whether it was just to take a nap on her couch or to get a cold Coke from her refrigerator, she was always there for me. 

Once when I had a wart pop up on my hand, Mama said, "Go next door and show it to MaMaw, she'll take it off.  She's a witch, you know?"  What mother meant was that it was a well known fact that MaMaw had powers that bordered on the supernatural. 

I showed the wart to MaMaw.  She asked me to go bring her a broom straw.  She ran the end of the straw around the wart a couple of times and mumbled something.  Then she went into her bedroom and shut the door.  Later she came back and handed me a small bag closed with a draw string.

"Now don't open this, she said.  Just ride your bike down to the fork in the road and toss this where the road starts to split.  Remember, don't look inside…"

The fork in the road was only about a quarter of a mile down the road and an easy bike ride from my house.  I didn't look into the bag and did what MaMaw told me to do.  Some time later the wart was gone.  It just fell off. 

I never asked MaMaw how she did it but I figured it had something to do with first making me believe that it would happen just the way she said.

I believe that angels come to us in all shapes and sizes.  One could be in the form of a gentle grandmother, a baby sister, or even a mystical neighbor lady with a cold drink and warm couch. 

My Daddy turned 90 today.  He was born in 1916 which incidentally was about the time they decided to pour dirt.  We threw him a birthday party yesterday at the Russ House.  He looked really distinguished in his red sweater all surrounded by his friends, relatives, and co-inhabitants of the Jefferson Avenue Mansion for the Mature.

Brother Benji serenaded the group with his guitar and piano.  My big sister Jean brought a cake that she got at Super1.  It looked like a big U.S. flag and on it was written "Happy Birthday Jake."  It was almost too pretty to eat.  She also put together a really nice photo album with all our family pictures in it.  I compiled a book for him of the stories I've written for the Morning Paper.  That should help him fall asleep easier.

Whenever he can, Daddy loves to go for a drive in the country.  Being a carpenter's son, he enjoys showing us homes and churches he helped build.  So Sunday his three boys: Jimmy, Benji, and I loaded him up in the little gray Honda and went for a spin. 

Since he grew up around the Arcadia-Bienville-Simsboro area, I asked him if he could show us where Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow were ambushed and killed.  "You bet I can," he said.  After about 30 minutes into the drive he said, "You might want to stop and ask somebody."  I respectively commented, "Why, you never did."

"Besides, no man worth his salt, young or old, asks for directions or turns around, ask Columbus."

It was all true.  As a kid traveling to Dallas with him and Mama on Old 80 was like crossing the desert in a lost wagon train.  He acted like every place to stop and get something to eat or go to the bathroom had one of the cow skulls hanging on it.  "Poison, no, can't stop there, must keep going.  We'll stop after you've passed out from hunger and wet yourself." 

I can't tell you how many times I woke up on the back seat of his Buick to find a hamburger or cold corn dog under my nose.

I think a lot of who Daddy is came from his growing up during the Great Depression of the 1930's.  If you made it through those hard times you knew what it was like to do without.  You also knew having a car, house, and food on the table was a blessing not to be taken for granted. 

I once asked Daddy why he worked at the same job for so many years.  He said, "To feed my family, maybe I don't get the question."  No Daddy, that was such a stupid question to put to a man who always considered putting food on the family table to be his top priority.  I should have known better than to ask it.

To keep a job as a carpenter during the Great Depression, he told me once that you had to be able to start a nail with the first blow and sink it with the second.  If you couldn't there were a couple men waiting at the bottom of the ladder that wanted your job.  Competition for any paying job back then was fierce

Many times I saw Daddy go to work sore, hurt, and sick.  In our family, to miss school, you had better be bleeding from at least two orifices and have a temperature to match molten lava.  Anything short of that, you played hurt.  I can't tell you how many cold rainy mornings I wished my daddy had been an accountant.

He told me when he was a kid; if a nickel fell between the cracks in the floor you had to crawl down under the house and go get it.  "Nickels were hard to come by," he said. 

Now I've walked around my share of pennies, but even now when I see a nickel on the ground, I pick it up.  That's the way I was brought up and it's a hard habit to break.

Daddy really did walk a mile to catch the bus and farther than that on occasion to attend school.  Our getting an education was very important to him.  I'm embarrassed to say that I am the only one of my siblings without an advanced college degree.  Mainly I was afraid to go back lest they tell me I didn't really didn't earn my degree in the first place. 

In lieu of my getting my MBA though I did write him a song called "Carpenter's Son."  Its chorus pays tribute to his belief in the importance of getting an education.

The one thing daddy wanted most was to put his kids through school

He showed us how to live our lives with a level and a rule

He taught us how to make things square in everything we do

Daddy, we grew up straight and strong and we owe it all to you

That day we went riding out in the country, we never did find where Bonnie and Clyde made history.  We did something better than that – we took a ride with history.

Happy 90^th birthday Daddy, we love you.