Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain...

​ We all have something in common. It doesn’t matter who you are, what you believe, or what you do for a living. That one thing we all have in common are memories.  Our lives are shaped by the way we remember our past.    Sometimes the memories are good. Sometimes they are bad. How we look at those memories sets the precedent for our future. I write about good memories, but the bad memories are just below the surface.  I keep most of those to myself. Nobody needs to or wants to know about the bad things that have happened to me. I don’t define myself by bad memories. Bad memories affect us, but I decided long ago that bad things happen for reasons beyond my control. I don’t dwell on those things if I can avoid it.  I remember after getting the local newspaper every evening, my dad would tell us if someone he knew was in the obituaries. Usually there was a small bio that mentioned the deceased’s love for family and friends, where they worked, and their hobbies. ...

Swattin’ Flies with Grandpa      In his later years, my grandpa’s one mission in life, I believe, was to kill every fly on the face of the Earth.    James Townsend spent most of his summer evenings sitting in a vinyl chair out on his front porch, and I often sat nearby in the “visitor” chair.    He would come out of the house, reach up into the porch rafters, pull down an old flyswatter, and place it near his chair.  With his feet up, he sat telling stories and drinking tea.    He’d turn his head toward me while he talked, but his eyes were always darting around the porch as he searched for man’s worst enemy. The fly.     When a fly landed within reach, Grandpa would snatch the swatter from its perch faster than John Wayne had ever drawn a gun in the westerns we used to watch together on Saturday afternoons.    Wham! There was one less fly to bother people sitting on his porch.  Thousands of flies fell each ...

​ When I think about my grandparents, I have four different types of memories.  I only visited my Grandma Sutton a few times a year. My earliest memory of her is at my dad’s childhood home. I’m sitting in the kitchen listening to my mom and my grandma talk. I’m not sure what they were talking about because I heard adults talking to each other like adults on Charlie Brown specials. Waaah, waaa, wa, Waah, wa. There was a pitcher pump inside the kitchen. She gave me a container of strawberry yogurt from the 60’s style refrigerator. I’ve always liked strawberry yogurt. I can hear her voice, but there’s not many specific memories.  I never got to meet my grandpa Sutton. I feel like I knew him, though. I’ve heard stories about him since I was very little. Recently I’ve written down several of them before I forget them. I’ve got so many questions I would like to ask him, but I can’t. I rely on what my aunt and my dad have told me. My grandpa Townsend told me my grandpa Sutton carried...

​        I woke up this morning with a question. “Why am I here right now?”     I’ll ask myself that question dozens of times throughout my day. Sometimes, the good Lord answers that question. Sometimes, He smiles and tells me he has given me enough clues to figure it out on my own.          He puts people in my path that change my path, or I change theirs. Twice in my life, he put a pastor of a church in my path that changed my point of view. Their honesty touched my soul. I’m a better man having walked the path with them.          Twice he’s put a pastor in my path that changed my view of religion and people in general.     They spoke in the name of God, but they acted in their own self interest. You can do anything in the name of God and consider yourself forgiven. It may not be the case, but my job is not to judge but to categorize.          What does that mean?...