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April 2014

 

 

Random Acts of Kindness

Every day, life’s hustle and bustle happens all around us, usually at hyper-speed and certainly in a flash of living Technicolor™. Dozens, if not hundreds, of times weekly, we are presented many opportunities, with just small effort, to make someone’s life a bit better. A helping hand, a kind word, or just a smile can change the trajectory of another’s day—maybe even his or her life.

If most of us found ourselves exposed to a major life-changing event such as witnessing a car wreck, a burning building, or someone being mugged, we would certainly help, maybe by getting involved hands-on or maybe it would be by something as simple as calling 911. But we would help; that is just how we good ol’Southern boys and girls were raised.

This month’s Rambling is not about those life-changing moments. Today, I want to ramble a bit about the thousands of random acts of kindness that can be witnessed around us daily.

This short video explains graphically how a single act of kindness can begin a domino effect—a tsunami of kindness, if you will. And like the ripples from a single stone tossed into a pond, you never know where or whom the ripples of that random act of kindness might reach. 

Before you continue this Rambling, please click on the following video.

 

 

I have a challenge for the Classes of 1967, ‘69, ’70, and ‘71. Collectively, we have more than 650 active classmates on our four websites. Just imagine if we each found just a few ways each month to perform a random act of kindness toward another. That would be almost 12,000 acts of kindness in the last nine months of 2014.

But, wait a minute. Remember the video—the construction worker who helped the young skateboarder? His single random act of kindness set in motion a chain reaction of kindness. Can you remember how many?

1. The construction worker helped a skateboarder.
2. The skateboarder carried a woman’s packages across the street.
3. She gave a girl a coin for the parking meter.
4. The girl returned the wallet to the man who dropped it.
5. That man then helped unload a suitcase.
6. The suitcase owner bought an extra hotdog.
7. The hotdog vendor offered the bottle of water, also for the homeless man.
8. The homeless man returned a girl’s phone.
9. The girl bought flowers for the woman eating alone.
10. The flower vendor gave a flower to the girl.
11. The woman left the server a $100 tip.
12. The server gave a glass of water to the same construction worker who began this chain reaction of kindness. 

Eleven acts of kindness followed an initial random act of kindness. 

If our four classes are capable of 12,000 acts of kindness this year, 

is it impossible to believe that we, too, could see eleven additional acts to follow ours? Why, that would be more than 130,000 acts of kindness this year. What if the number is only half that amo

unt? What if it is double?

In my younger days, I was quick to blow the horn when I found myself behind one of our Yankee snowbird guests clogging up our beach roads. With each horn honk of the horn, I told them to get out of my way. I was busy, and I reminded them that some of us were

not

on vacation. Three years ago, I lost my mother, and two years ago, my father. Now, when I see someone else’s mother or father doing 30 miles an hour in a 40-mile-an-hour zone, I instinctively think, would I want someone tailgating and beeping at my mother?

Maybe that is the way we should approach our random acts of kindness. How would I feel if someone took the time to walk my mother across the street, return her wallet, or buy her flowers? When I look at a random act of kindness through those eyes, it does not feel qu

ite so random. 

So, you see, the same baby boomer generation that has changed everything it has touched from cradle to grave can again change the world… one random act of kindness at a time. And remember,your act of kindness does not have to be life-changing. A simple gesture of kindness can unleash an avalanche of kindness that sweeps up everyone in its path, enveloping each it touches with an unexpected, but sometimes desperately needed, random act of kindness.

 

I dare you to be kind to someone today. 

 

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

 

Richard Parker

 

 

 

 

 

One Day

Matisyahu

Sometimes I lay

Under the moon

And thank God I'm breathing

Then I pray

Don't take me soon

Cause I'm here for a reason

 

Sometimes in my tears I drown

But I never let it get me down

So when negativity surrounds

I know some day it'll all turn around

 

Because

All my life I've been waiting for

I've been praying for

For the people to say

That we don't wanna fight no more

They'll be no more wars

And our children will play

 

One day, One day, One day, One day, One day, One day

 

It's not about

Win or lose

Because we all lose

When they feed on the souls of the innocent

Blood drenched pavement

Keep on moving, though the waters stay raging

In this maze you can lose your way (your way)

It might drive you crazy but don't let it faze you no way (no way)

 

Sometimes in my tears I drown (I drown)

But I never let it get me down (get me down)

So my negativity surrounds (surrounds)

I know some day it'll all turn around

 

Because

All my life I've been waiting for

I've been praying for

For the people to say

That we don't wanna fight no more

 

They'll be no more war

And our children will play

 

One day, One day, One day, One day, One day, One day

 

One day this all will change

Treat people the same

Stop with the violence

Down with the hate

One day we'll all be free

And proud to be

Under the same sun

Singing songs of freedom like

One day, One day, One day, One day, One day, One day

 

All my life I've been waiting for

I've been praying for

For the people to say

That we don't wanna fight no more

They'll be no more wars

And our children will play

 

One day, One day, One day, One day, One day, One day

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Febuary 2014

 

This month Richard Rambles about

 

 

“The Friends of Our Youth”

 

 

The friends of your youth, some would say, are your only true friends. For they knew you before the world had its way with you… before the discovery of your imperfections wrought by or at least chosen through your journey. 

 

They were a friend before you knew limitations… before your vocabulary included no or can’t and certainly before careful or slow. 

 

For these friends of your youth, you will always have a smile that lights a room, a twinkle of expectation in your eye, a throw-caution-to-the-wind attitude… and a 28-inch waist.

 

For most of us, in those sun-soaked beach days of the sixties, our primary wish was simple—to be older. And it is with good reason we wasted our wishes on this dream of shifting our life into a chronological hyperdrive. Because once we were older, we would have the freedom that only a driver’s license could bring. Once older, we could do all those other things adults could do. And yes, that included love. Oh, yes, we could love. 

 

Now that we are older, wouldn’t you know it… our wish is to be younger. The irony of it all—first, we want to add years and then to shed those years and more. Truthfully, youth is certainly wasted on the young. 

 

I guess in our fictitious, just out-of-reach perfect world, we would somehow be both young and old… at the same time. But alas, we now know that is not how it works. 

 

Now that our childhood wish has been granted (be careful what you wish for, you just might get it), we see that it comes with an unforeseen byproduct, the silver lining to our cloud, if you will—a great gift really. We have so painfully acquired this gift, the gift of knowledge. Yes, these six decades have provided us with boatloads of knowledge about people, places, and things—knowledge about life and, of course, about love, that lump-in-the-throat jump from the high dive, near-drowning experience that changes everything. The love that allows you to remember vividly, a half century later, that red dress she wore on your first date or what song was playing on WQAM as he made his 11th trip around Bill’s Burger, showing you off.

 

Our earliest version of love was referred to as puppy love, meaning that we, the puppies, were too young to understand real love, much less be in love. But all you have to do is flip through the Santa Lucian to see the host of paired pups who still share their lives and love to disprove that theory in spades.

 

You only get a few moments that can change your life. One of those life-changing moments is falling in love. Love can change you quickly and forever because it is so powerful and all encompassing. 

 

There is the man and woman love that often can determine whether your life will be happy or sad, sharing or selfish, bright and half-full, or dark and half-empty. 

 

Many of us had to swing at that pitch a few times before we were safely on base, whereas others knocked that first pitch out of the park as a puppy.

 

Then, there is the love of a friend. In the days of our youth, it was more difficult, much more difficult, to use the word love when talking about a friend. It seemed out of place. Or maybe it was our adolescent minds, still bombarded with a truckload of raging hormones causing girls to develop curves and boys to notice, that prevented us from calling something as simple and pure as a dear friendship, love. But today, we can recognize that old friendship for what it is—love.

 

In any case, our unwillingness to use the “L” word as a juvenile seems to have spurred us to overcompensate in our sixties if a recent gathering of twenty-two poker pals is any indication. The phrase “love you, brother” was used so often that any self-respecting hippie would have thought he was at a Haight-Ashbury love-in.

 

 

Yes, there was an abundance of lovin’ and huggin’ going on, but none was as strong as when one of our old friends emerged from death’s doorway. Clearly, we all loved our old friend David Feibelman.

 

One could argue that this love of a friend, especially a lifelong friend, is as strong and enduring as the man and woman variety. If you want an example of that, you only have to look at the way so many have rallied around Feibs. 

 

Bobby, I promised you that I would not make you and Tammy feel the heat of the spotlight, and I am a man of my word. But what I will say is that the grumpy persona you have so carefully honed throughout the years is pretty much shot… you old softie. 

Mitch, only a few of us know your heartfelt offer, and it will stay that way. You are and have been a friend to so many—must be why you were “blessed” with four deuces after a straight flush… or maybe it was just a bad shuffle. 

 

Or you, Janie, who dropped what you were doing to make sure Bobby wasn’t alone during surgery. 

 

These old friendships are not germane to just our class. Lynn, Dan, Mary Jo, and so many more demonstrated it. I just realized I have dug myself into a hole of guaranteeing that I will forget someone. So just remember you did not do what you did for recognition, which makes your actions and even your quiet prayers so loving. 

 

These life-defining moments are fleeting, oh so fleeting, and then they are gone. Often, they are not recognized until viewed in the rearview mirror of life. 

But one thing we all know is that falling in love with someone can begin with something oh so simple—a kind 

word, a helping hand, a red dress, or just sitting quietly when someone is in need. 

 

So, I have an idea. Why don’t we commit this next year, 2014, to being a friend? To making it all but impossible for someone not to fall in love with us. If it is one of your classmates, that is fine, but maybe it will be the friend at work, down the street, or at your church. 

 

With no expectation of reciprocation, with no ulterior motives, give them no choice but to fall head over heels… in love with you.

 

And you know, with all this love flowing, I predict a good 2014.

 

Keepin' the Spirit Alive

 

Richard Parker

 

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January 2014

 

As we welcome 2014 full of its unlimited possibilities, we want to give all Eagles from all classes a New Year’s gift—the keys to their very own

radio station. 

 

 

 

I would like to give a special thanks David Barnes for raising his hand and volunteering to help with the WDMH Radio project.  Send David an email thanking him for his contribution to the WDMH Radio rollout.  It is David's voice you'll hear announcing this first show. 

 

Maybe your 2014 Resolution should be to raise your hand also.  We can use your help on the class website, making phone calls, collecting old photos and a bunch of other simple tasks.  Don't worry about your knowledge level, it is your willingness to help that matters.  Just email Richard at Richard@ESAnow.com if you want to help.

 

 

We hope you enjoy this, our first installment on our ongoing musical walk down memory lane. So, turn up your speakers loud enough to make your grandkids think you have really lost it this time. Punch the Play Button on the Paul Revere and the Radiers video below and try to now scream Groovy too many time, as you settle back and enjoy.  But be sure to keep your eyes wide open, because you just might see some familiar faces.

 

 

FYI - Part of the YouTube business model is to drop in ads at the bottom of videos like ours (see below example).  

To Remove the Ads just click the X at the top right of the Ad

 

Also the Open Brackets at the bottom right, just to the right of the YouTube logo will allow you to view the show in Full Screen - the best way to view it.

 

Ready, Set, Click the Play Button

(Please Take the Survey On the Navigation Bar to the Left)
 

 

 

 

Happy New Year Eagles

 

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Ready or Not Here Comes 1990, 2000, 2010, 2014

 

Do you hear that roaring sound? It’s not a runaway freight train, but 2014  coming in like a bull in a china shop. So, ready, or not, another lap around the Sun is about to begin. 

How is that even possible? Wasn’t it just a few years ago that we were all buying big cans of pork and beans and the Sam’s Club size of double-A battery packs, preparing for the impending Armageddon with the catchy name Y2K. That reminds me of a quote from Will Rogers: “Of the things I’ve feared the most in my life, every now and then, one of them actually occurred.” Oh, well, moving on.

So what are your New Year’s resolutions? I mean, besides being skinny and rich by June. FYI, I gave up on both those resolutions long ago, but that does not mean I’ve given up on all New Year’s resolutions. So, here is a peek into a few of my 2014 resolutions.

 I resolve to remember that work is what I do, not who I am.

I resolve to let my kids and grandkids make their own decisions, no matter how they seem through a pair of 62-year-old eyes.

I resolve to be emotional—crying when I feel sad, laughing when I’m happy, and becoming easy with bear hugs, leaving little doubt about my feeling for the huggee. And I further resolve to take a nap when all this emotion ties me out.

I resolve to be quick to say, “I love you.” I find the older I get, the easier it is to love and tell others when it applies to them. This goes for both men and women. Flashback: Can you imagine one of us guys calling out between third and fourth period, “Hey, Bobby, I love you”? So, to all the husbands of my Class of ‘70 female classmates, just chill out; I’m harmless. And it’s likely that I do love your wife, maybe even before you did.

I resolve to pay special attention to old friendships, understanding that you can always make a new friend, but not an old one.

I resolve to use my talents to make others’ lives just a little brighter. I have learned over 60+ years that we get better at the things we do, each day—a honing of our talents, if you will. Although I might not be able to run, jump, or surf as I did at 17, my mind is still “tarp as a shack.” And giving credit where credit is due, I recognize what talents I do have come from God. He gave them to me or allowed me to develop them, and therefore, it makes sense that He wants me to share those talents with you, my classmates, my neighbors, family, and church. Actually, this website began as my feeble attempt to do just that.

I resolve to help at least one young person significantly in 2014, controlling my urge to tell him that his hat is on backward and his pants are falling down in favor of listening to him and offering encouragement, when possible.

I resolve to help foster communications between people with whom I do not agree and myself. I remember a time in our country when Democrats and Republicans could speak to each other. When our elected officials could stick to their principles but still search for a middle ground on which to compromise and in the process lead our country. It is said that all politics are local. If that is the case, then it makes sense that the way to begin to fix these big political problems should also begin locally. So, I volunteer to get that ball rollin’.

I resolve to find new and creative ways to keep you, the great Class of 1970, coming back to this website. It amazes me when I realize that in the last three years, we have had 41,000 logins to the website, 8,100 e-mails sent among classmates through the website, and 42 Spotlights and Ramblings written and posted. We now average 10 to 15 logins daily with some days exceeding 50, but the most impressive part is that 43 years after graduation, if one of us is in need, you can count on the rest of us to rally. 

So, with life happening everywhere you look, how can 250 old friends be expected to make time to visit the Class of ‘70 site every month? Glad you asked. What if I gave the Class of ‘70 the keys to your own radio station? 

Classmates, I give you…

 

And although you won’t hear our WDMH DJ with a smooth silky baritone voice whispering

 

This is Mrs. Barr’s little baby boy,

195 lb. of jiving joy,

Saying be ye round 

Or be ye square,

We got sooooound 

To rock a bear.

 

But I can tell you that you should enjoy this, our first installment in our musical walk down memory lane airing soon. And, keep your eyes open; you just might see some familiar faces. I’ll post the show in a few days.

 

Oh, yeah, and for those of you who just cannot help yourselves from making those old standbys, the top 10 most popular New Year’s resolutions, I offer you this Parade Magazine article that comes with a corresponding app for each resolution, proving once and for all that those 20-something smarties were right when they said, “There is an app for that.”

http://www.parade.com/243793/viannguyen/10-most-popular-new-years-resolutions-with-apps-to-help-achieve-them/

Happy 2014, Class of ‘70, and don’t waste it.

(Please Take the Survey On the Navigation Bar to the Left)

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

Rchard

 

 

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Coming in January of 2014 

 

 

It Will Keep Ya Dancin'

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Grandpa, Tell Me ‘Bout the Good Old Days

(Christmas 2013 Recycled from Christmas 2011)

I made myself a promise when I launched this website in 2010, that I would generate at least one “fresh/new” Rambling or Spotlight each month.  I look at it like my gift back to the 400 some odd classmates that began this long and winding road with me, now more than four decades ago.  I had and have no intention of “recycling” articles.  After all, I love to write (hopefully that is apparent) so by golly write I will.  

At the beginning of the month we posted Doc’s third and final installment in his cross-country magical mystery tour.  Therefore, this is technically the second article for December 2013.  So with that in mind, I’d like to renege a bit on the promise I made myself and “recycle” at least “a portion” of my December 2011 article;  “GrandPa Tell Me Bout’ the Good Old Days”.

 

I have a simple wish list for Christmas this year. In fact, I’m now down to a single wish on my got-to-have-this-or-I’ll-die list which by the way has shrunk noticeably over the past few decades. I wish us American all would just lighten up a bit and learn to respect others’ views, whether political or religious, whether we agree with them or think they could not be further off base. As another year draws to a close, we should all strive to cultivate a newfound civility when it comes to others. Who knows, if it begins with us, it might just be paid forward all the way to Washington DC. Now, wouldn’t that be a nice Christmas present?

 

But being civil to others does not mean I must give up my belief to prevent them from being exposed to those beliefs, and vice versa. I believe that Americans have morphed into copping the feeling that all we have to say is I’m offended, and a horde of lawyers will swing into action to prevent our feelings from being hurt. I think we should all learn to stop taking ourselves so darn seriously. My feelings were hurt when I asked one or more of you young ladies out in high school and got a “thanks, but no thanks” or when my Little League coach decided to have me make sure the bench in our dugout did not run away while our team took the field. But, guess what? I survived both and a thousand more twists and turns that life and others have thrown my way, and let me check… yes… it’s true… no lasting scars to body or mind.

 

One of my favorite TV shows is CBS’ Sunday Morning, and one of my favorite commentators is Ben Stein. Actually I have met Ben several times; the first at the Republican National Convention in 2000 while I was serving with the Florida Delegation.  We both are writers and speakers, (in the same way the giant redwood and a scrub oak are both trees) but it mean we have a more than just our politics in common.  

 

I recently ran into Ben in the Atlanta airport and spent about an hour sitting down and catching up.  Ben is really a wonderful and gracious man and fun spend time with. 

 

During our airport meeting I pulled out my computer and showed him this “GrandPa Tell Me Bout’ the Good Old Days” article where I intertwined his “Christmas Commentary”  into my article.  He seemed genuinely excited to read it.  We talk about our Class of 70 website as he thumbed through it asking more than a few questions.  

 

He commented that high school friendships were among the strongest we ever make. I could not agree more.

 

He told me of three of his Montgomery Blair High School (Silver Springs Maryland) classmates; Carl Bernstein of Washington Post/Watergate fame (Class of 62), Goldie Hawn (Class of 63) and Sylvester Stallone who was in his Montgomery Blair, Jr. High.

 

He reminisced that he was a speech writer for President Nixon, trying to help navigate the administration’s course through the unfolding Watergate scandal, while his high school pal Bernstein was bringing the administration to its knees with his investigative reporting.  Guys, you can’t make this kind of stuff up.  

 

 

The following is a small excerpt from a commentary he wrote a few years ago, and I think he can teach us a lot about tolerance and not taking our views or ourselves too darn seriously.

 

My confession: I am a Jew, and every single one of my ancestors was Jewish. And it does not bother me even a little bit when people call those beautiful lit up, bejeweled trees, Christmas trees. I don't feel threatened. I don't feel discriminated against. That's what they are—Christmas trees.

 

It doesn't bother me a bit when people say, “Merry Christmas” to me. I don't think they are slighting me or getting ready to put me in a ghetto. In fact, I kind of like it. It shows that we are all brothers and sisters celebrating this happy time of year. It doesn't bother me at all that there is a manger scene on display at a key intersection near my beach house in Malibu. If people want a crèche, it's just as fine with me as is the Menorah a few hundred yards away.

 

I don't like getting pushed around for being a Jew, and I don't think Christians like getting pushed around for being Christians. I think people who believe in God are sick and tired of getting pushed around, period. I have no idea where the concept came from that America is an explicitly atheist country. I can't find it in the Constitution and I don't like it being shoved down my throat. Or maybe I can put it another way: where did the idea come from that we should worship celebrities, and we aren't allowed to worship God as we understand him? I guess that's a sign that I'm getting old too. But there are a lot of us who are wondering where these celebrities came from and where the America we knew went to.

 

I raise a Christmas toast, or should I say a Hanukkah toast, to my friend Ben. I don’t believe this wonderful season is about a Winter Festival or the ever politically correct Happy Holidays; it is about Christmas, complete with Nativity scenes, Christmas trees, colored lights, children’s smiles, and Christmas Eve church services. And I do believe that I can celebrate Christmas without doing harm to a Buddhist, Muslim, or for that matter, an atheist.

 

Our generation has seen so much fade away—door-to-door trick-or treating, drive-in movies, saying Merry Christmas, simple forgiveness, and some might say civility. All have gone or are going the way of Little Joe and the Cartwright boys. But we are still here; my fingers can still type; and my shaky memory still allows me to remember most of what I wanted to say when I began writing this rambling, so there is still hope. But, yes, things have changed—a lot.

I love the lyrics of the country song “Grandpa (Tell Me ‘Bout the Good Old Days)”by the Judds.

Grandpa, tell me 'bout the good old days
Sometimes it feels like this world’s gone crazy
Grandpa, take me back to yesterday
When the line between right and wrong
Didn't seem so hazy

(Chorus)

Did lovers really fall in love to stay
And stand beside each other, come what may
Was a promise really something people kept
Not just something they would say
Did families really bow their heads to pray
Did daddies really never go away
Whoa oh, Grandpa, tell me 'bout the good old days

Grandpa, everything is changing fast
We call it progress, but I just don't know
And, Grandpa, let's wander back into the past
And paint me the picture of long ago

We are all old enough to remember when lawyers worked their entire career, writing wills and closing real estate transactions, and like politicians of that era, both were respected. When almost nothing we bought came with a warning label. When your main concern after tripping in a store was looking to see if someone saw what a klutz you were, instead of quickly finding a way to blame someone else in an effort to unjustly become the new owner of the place.

 

Yes, in a couple of generations, life has changed from the Andy of Mayberry world where we learned to ride our spider bikes into the fast-paced, text versus talk, reality TV, random violence world our grandkids now inhabit. Lest you think I am some backward-thinking old fuddy-duddy, viewing life only in the rear-view mirror, I’ll admit that much of the change we have seen has been positive—technology (don’t touch my iPhone), increased life expectancy (getting more important by the day), equal pay for women and racial equality (both too slow in coming), and … and… and…give me a minute; I’m thinking. There has to be more. Well, that can be ammo for a future rambling.

 

Anyway, we, the class of 1970, are tied together with the threads of a long since passed life of drive-in burger joints (can you say Bill’s Burger), school spirit (say Go Eagles), TV rabbit ears (with or without the aluminum foil wadded on the ends), and where Peyton Place was as close to pornography as you were likely to see. A time when kids played outside until dark with no one worrying about them and went home on their own at dusk for a dinner that everyone sat down for at the same time. When your next-door neighbor had standing permission from your parents to swat your butt if you misbehaved (without threat of lawsuits or Protective Child Services being called) and when you began every reply to an elder with yes, sir or no, ma’am. When the song “Dixie,” the Bible, nor Christmas offended anyone, and no one was surprised to hear a prayer over the PA system during homeroom and before the football game.

 

We built the foundation of our lives on those times. For better or worse, they helped make us become what we are, now some half century later. So, this Christmas, why not go out of your way to spread just a dash of civility and practice a bit of tolerance. If you want to have a positive impact on the future, maybe you should do something a bit different this year. Maybe Christmas afternoon, after the gifts are opened and as your midday nap looms, you should pick up your grandbabies and tell them:

 

How lovers really fall in love to stay
And stood beside each other, come what may
How a promise was really something people kept
Not just something they would say
How families really bowed their heads to pray
And daddies really never went away
Go on, Grandpa, tell ‘em ‘bout our good old Ft. Pierce days

 

Love is more of a decision than an emotion; decide to love.

 

Merry Christmas to The Class of 1970,

Richard

 

 

 

  

 

 

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It Is Not About the Turkey-You Turkey

 

Well, here it comes—Thanksgiving 2013. Maybe I’m mistaken, but wasn’t it Thanksgiving 1988 just a couple of years ago? As difficult as it is for me to believe, 1988 Turkey Day was a quarter of a century ago. OMG, what is happing to us?  It is like we’ve collectively “fallen and we can’t get up”.  No, that is another TV commercial.  Yet I digress.  But then again, why do you think I call these Ramblings? 

This is the first year that my wife Joan and I will not the center of our family’s holiday festivities. Having sold our Melbourne Beach home of 23 years a mere 3 months ago, we are now “off to see the Wizard,” motor coach and all. After talking it through, we have decided not to go back to… uh… home. Wait a minute, isn’t home now where we park it? So, this year, I know our turkey might be a bit smaller, but that does not mean that I have any less thankfulness. Come to think about it, I have much to be thankful for.

I am thankful that I have family to miss during the holidays; many do not.

I am thankful that I have a wonderful wife to share my life with, whereas so many are alone.

I am thankful that I can gripe and complain about the craziness going on in Washington (both sides of the aisle); in many countries, that can cost you your freedom or more.

I am thankful for my health, whereas so many live in constant pain.

I am thankful that I have a long list of new churches to visit, as we search for a new church home in our new South Alabama home; I know millions live without that option.

I am thankful that we have all the things we could want and so much of what we don’t need that it takes two storage units to hold it all—a bit embarrassing knowing so many have so little.

I am thankful for a brain that still works well and the humility to know I’m not that smart; many have lost or are losing the wonderful memories that make their life a thing to cherish.

I’m thankful that I have the sight to see the sunrise and the vision to cherish what possibilities that day might bring; so many cannot or will not.

I am thankful I can hear the bird outside my window, the wind rustling through the trees, an old dog barking, a young child laughing, whereas so many live in a silent world.

I’m thankful for the disappointments life has given me so, by contrast, it helps me more enjoy life’s delights.

I am thankful that in my lifetime, I was fortunate enough to experience trick-or-treating without fear, neighbors who cared about me almost as much as my parents did, doors that were never locked, drive-in movies, Lums steamed-in-beer hot dogs, and an Indian that was burned every year.

I’m thankful that I’ve learned how important it is to be positive and think differently.

I am reminded of a story that makes my point better than I could say it:

One thing I am most thankful for is that 43 years after we left the hallowed halls of McCarty High, I have more classmates that I call friend than I did then. For that, I am truly thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving My Friends

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive

Richard Parker (Class of 1970)

For More Ramblings Click on the "Past Rambling" Button on the Yellow Navigation Button to the Left

 

 

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Every Generation Has Its Innocence Assassinated

I remember November 22, 1963. Just two days earlier, I celebrated my 12th birthday. We lived in New Orleans as my father attended the Baptist Bible Institute, preparing for the pastorate. We lived with the families of many other pastors-to-be in student housing. I will never forget the look on my mom’s face: red swollen eyes, furrowed brow, and handkerchief in hand, as she came to retrieve me from my sandlot football game with my fellow PKs in waiting. She pulled her sweater tight against the rapidly dropping temperature and damp north wind that clipped across Lake Pontchartrain. I instinctively knew something was wrong. I could have never fathomed how wrong.

Her face and the faces of the other adults I saw over the next few days is what I remember the most. Those hollow stares gave gravity to the events that would ultimately change the direction of a nation, yea a world, for the rest of my life.

Before that fateful November day, our country seemed somehow younger and more optimistic. This charming and articulate young president elected at only 43 seemed the right man to lead the WWII generation into the prosperity for which postwar America was destined. But, as three rapid shots rang out in Dallas, that man became frozen in time at the age of 46.

Our parents’ generation seemed to age before our eyes, unable or unwilling to move forward with the zeal and excitement they processed in the days of Camelot. Like a car shifted into neutral, they collectively lost their forward motion, their bright-eyed assurance of a positive improving future, and at least for a moment, settled back with a long sigh and rested. Their optimism was replaced with cynicism. Their dreams of what could be were dashed on the jagged rock of what was.

We boomers in our youth, as youth always seem to do, began to look to our future with a bit less trust for the world that our parents and grandparents prepared to hand to us. Stained at least somewhat by the fact that a single man with a $20 mail-order rifle could change our world forever, we lost at least a bit of trust, and we rebelled.

We rebelled against much of what our parents’ world came packaged with—against their morals, their wars, their clothes and music, and even their values. We felt we somehow knew better and learned “not to trust anyone over 30.” As we chanted defiantly, “Hell, no, we won’t go,” our hair grew longer and our patience shorter. Ozzie and Harriet were packed away with Camelot, as we stepped into the love-the-one-you’re-with era, clad in our generation’s uniform of the day: bellbottom jeans, beads, and flowers in our hair. We had it all figured out.

That innocence remained intact until the JFK assassination for our generation—9/11—stole the same optimistic excitement that Oswald’s three quick shots stole from our parents.

All this happened in only 50 very short years.

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

 

Richard Parker (DMHS Class of 1970)

 

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Your Butterfly Effect

We never know the impact the little things we do or don’t do may have on the lives of other; even the unborn.

In 1963, Edward Lorenz, an American mathematician, offered a hypothesis to the esteemed New York Academy of Sciences, which he later named “The Butterfly Effect.” The effect related to the theoretical example of a single butterfly flapping its wings, which moved molecules in the air, and like one billiard ball hitting another, these molecules began a chain reaction that ultimately led to a typhoon forming on another continent. Granted, on the surface, this sounds esoteric and most unlikely. So unlikely that Lorenz was promptly laughed off the Academy stage.

The Butterfly effect in chaos theory is the “sensitive dependence on initial conditions.” More simply stated, this means that even very small moves or changes at one location or time can result in great differences at another location or time. Further, these future results are unpredictable. Today, these results are called deterministic chaos, or simply chaos.

The butterfly effect spawned a science-fiction psychological thriller by the same name released in 2004 and starring Ashton Kutcher and Amy Smart. It also inspired my fellow author/speaker Andy Andrews to write the New York Times bestseller, The Butterfly Effect: How Your Life Matters, which is a short read. In less than an hour, Andy shows, using two powerful examples, how everything we do in our life, every move we make, every action we take, matters.

For this Rambling, I share one of Andy’s examples. In 2004, ABC News named Norman Borlaug, then 91, “Person of the Week.” Although you might be unfamiliar with the name, it is reported that he is responsible for saving more than two billion lives through his work to hybridize high-yield, disease-resistant corn and wheat to grow well in dry climates. Borlaug’s hybridized crops soon were growing worldwide; Western Africa to the plains of Siberia and everywhere saw these amazing seeds thrive and regenerate.

However, if you take a closer look at the butterfly effect on Norman’s life, and you might think that someone else deserved the “Person of the Week” moniker—someone such as Henry Wallace. Although I’m certain that few of us recognize Wallace’s name, he was Vice President of the United States under Franklin Roosevelt. Yes, I understand that because of the atomic bomb, we immediately think of the Vice President who followed Roosevelt into the Oval Office—Harry Truman.

However, let’s look at a little American history here. Roosevelt had three vice presidents. The second vice president who served from 1941 to 1945 was Henry Wallace whom was named Secretary of Agriculture after he was dropped from the reelection ticket for Truman.

During his tenure at the Department of Agriculture, he opened a facility in Mexico whose goal was the hybridization of corn and wheat for arid climates. Secretary Wallace was solely responsible for hiring young Norman Borlaug to run this Mexican research facility in the 1940s.

Although history remembers Norman Borlaug, an eventual Nobel Prize winner, because his life’s work was the catalyst for saving the lives of two-billion people, maybe Henry Wallace deserved the credit… Or could it have been George Washington Carver?

Yes, we each know about Carver’s work with peanuts, but what you might be unaware of is that when Carver was 19 studying at Iowa State University, one of his professors allowed his 6-year-old son to go on what they described as “weekend botanical expeditions” with his brightest student, George Washington Carver. The 6-year-old boy’s name was Henry Wallace. Wallace later wrote that while he was still a boy, Carver installed in him his lifelong love of plants and a vision that plants could change the planet.

Think of George Washington Carver’s butterfly effect as he so profoundly affected the life of the young Wallace and along the way developed more than 260 uses for the peanut and almost 90 uses of the sweet potato. Maybe George Washington Carver deserved to be named Person of the Week. Again, it might have been that Missouri farmer…

The farmer’s name was Moses, and although he lived in the South, he was very much opposed to the concept of slavery, not a popular stance for a Southerner during the Civil War. His vocal condemnation of slavery made him a target for Quantrill’s Raiders, the sadistic group of criminals who cloaked themselves in the gray uniforms of the Confederacy as they terrorized Yankee soldiers and Southerners alike.

In 1864, Quantrill and his Raiders rode through Moses’ farm, burning several buildings and killing several of the farm’s inhabitants. George’s mother Mary Washington was kidnapped by the Raiders but refused to let go of her newborn son; both were taken.

There’s a strong friendship between Mary Washington and Moses’ wife Susan. She was distraught over losing her friend Mary and began a letter-writing campaign to area farms asking for information about Mary and her infant son. Eventually, she succeeded in setting up a meeting with Quantrill.

Moses rode the farm's last horse into Kansas for the late-night meeting. The white Southern farmer offered Quantrill the only thing he had of value—his horse. They took his horse, and in return, the bandits tossed on the ground a filthy wet burlap sack. As the thunder of hooves became fainter and fainter, Moses pulled from the bag a naked, cold, and almost dead black baby boy.

The only way to keep the baby warm was by placing him inside his shirt skin to skin, as he walked a full day back to his farm. Moses and Susan committed that they would do all in their power to see that this tiny boy was cared for and educated to honor the memory of his loving mother Mary. On that first evening, Moses and Susan gave the boy their last name Carver.

So, you could say that Moses saved the two-billion people, or are maybe it was Susan. Unless it was…

Yes, if we could go back and drill into each of these people’s lives, we would learn even more details—details that shaped their lives. I believe we can all agree there were many people responsible for saving those two billion lives, to either a large or a small extent.

How about you? How far forward would we have to look to find someone who, because of you, made a difference? How many people yet unborn will live a better life because you were here? As Andy says in his book, "Every single thing that you do does in fact matter."

You are a unique person created by God to differ from anyone else who ever lived. You have your unique way of looking at things, of taking action, of making a difference. You have always had, and you still have, the seeds of greatness deep inside you. The question is how you will use those seeds. Will your seeds save two billion as the seeds developed by Borlaug did? Or will you make someone else’s life just a little bit better.  So I encourage each of the Class of 1971 to flap their butterfly wings and create your own typhoon.

I close this Rambling with the same words Andy used to close his book. “Your life… and what you do with it today… matter forever.”

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

Richard Parker

I encourage you to read Andy’s book The Butterfly Effect.

http://www.andyandrews.com/ms/the-butterfly-effect/

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    Let's Hang On To What We've Got

Let's hang on to what we've got
Don't let go girl, we've got a lot
Got a lot o' love between us
hang on, hang on, hang on to what we've got

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4GEzSQOhS40\

 

I know I am a fortunate man. In fact, a bit more than fortunate, some would say. Blessed might be a better word choice for this slightly rotund wordsmith. For as I’ve managed to hang on by my fingernails to this big blue marble as its made now sixty-one very quick trips around the sun, I recognize that I’ve been able to hang on to more than just my grip. And of course, 50 percent of the challenge is, as Frankie Valli said, hanging on to what you’ve already got in this ever-changing world.

I’ve managed to hang on to so much that, at times, I feel a bit like a pack rat. I’ve held on to a wonderful woman who has shared my life for now thirty-two years, although sometimes, I am sure she has questioned her decision in that little arrangement. Until this year, I was able to hang on to two loving parents who always cheered me from the sidelines of my life, postponing the category of orphan for more than six decades. I’ve held on and, at times, held my breath as I’ve watched my two boys become men, and three grandkids follow that trek toward adulthood. As for the boys, it could not happen fast enough, and the grandkids somehow made that leap from cradle to college in somewhere around eleven days.

 

Then, there’s you. Yes, somehow, I have managed to hang on to all of you—more than two hundred graying kids I grew up with. A bunch of kids who still think it is cool just to hang out as we hang on. To pick up the phone and call just to say, “What’s shakin’, dude?” One of those kids gave me a jingle and swung by my motor coach on his way to New Orleans. Doc, you were a great thirty-second anniversary gift for Joan and I. Weren’t the Oysters Fenton great?

 

My good fortune has stretched over a lifetime.  Not only have I been able to hang on to all these great people in my life, I was even lucky in my geographic destiny.  Imagine my surprise when three score ago, I emerged from my comfy nine-month incubator stay to discover that I had won the birthplace lottery—born in America, and better yet, to find this bouncing baby boy was Southern to boot. Well, it just don’t get no better than that, ya’ll.  And you can count on the fact that my Southern roots are at the top of the list of things I intend to hang on to.

After spending my career in the financial industry, the last decade has been spent in and around the luxury RV resort business. And because RVers travel, I have met thousands, mostly snowbirds fleeing the frozen tundra for a few months in the sunny South, or so they say. But, are they really after the sun? I hypothesize it might be more than just those warm rays on a cold winter day. I think, maybe, they just want to spend time with God’s folk—Southerners.

You see, it’s not difficult to argue that we Southerners are just downright good people. Not perfect, mind you, but as a group, pretty much at the top of the heap of the seven billion inhabitants of this crazy mixed-up world we share.

I think part of the reason is that, as a group, we were simply raised better. We were taught to recognize what is truly important in life. To recognize the little things and be thankful for them. To add at least a dash of the Golden Rule when dealing with others, something you might find in short supply on the streets of New York or Philadelphia.

We Southerners are partial to a cool breeze on a summer night as it wafts through Spanish moss swaying from a live oak, fast horses, mint juleps, rockers on front porches, and peaches. Some would say we have our own language. If you get a mess of Southerners in one place, you can be pretty sure you’re going to hear, “Well, I never,” “Hey to your mamma and daddy,” “I reckon so,” We’re fixin’ to,” “I might could of,” “mean as a snake,” or the cornerstone statement of Southern pity, “Well, bless his little heart.”

Speaking from a man’s viewpoint, there are of course those Southern girls. Yes, I must admit it. I love G.R.I.T.S. (Girls Raised in the South). You see, these Southern girls know from their raisin’ that macaroni and cheese is really a vegetable, that they are the cutest when they are just a little bit sassy, they like their okra fried, their BBQ prepared by Jim Huck, and they always reply with a respectful “Yes, ma’am,” no matter how stupid they think that Yankee is. They prefer daisies in a Mason jar to roses in Waterford crystal, love their mama, and they are sure their daddy hung the moon in his spare time. And the only thing sweeter than their iced tea is their smile.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=74rOqQL402Y

Southern girls make things so easy to understand. Yes, you never have to wonder where you stand with a Southern girl. I overheard two sixty-something Southern belles talking the other day and could not help smiling as one said, “Since food replaced sex in my life, I can’t even get into my own pants.” After a short chuckle, the other replied, “Well, honey, I figure the Lord don’t want me to have a waistline anymore, so in seeking His will, I have changed my prayer. Now, it is “Lord, if you won’t make me skinny, so be it, but will You please make my friends fat?” Amen, sister!

Then, there is that good, old-fashioned, Southern cookin’. It is said that you are what you eat. If that is true, when I wandered the halls of DMHS, I must have been fast, cheap, and easy, and on a side note, I’m sure I smelled like a Lum’s hot dog steamed in beer. Today, carrying forward that “you are what you eat” thought would defiantly make me as Southern as biscuits and gravy.

You see, to be real Southern food, it takes more than taste and texture; it also must have location. In most Southern homes, everyone seems to gather in the kitchen. And the Southern kitchen is a special place where the bacon is sizzlin’, the grits are simmerin’, fried chicken is a-poppin’, green beans are boilin’, biscuits are bakin’, collards are stewin’, nana puddin’ is sittin’, and a pecan pie is coolin’ on an open windowsill. And all this activity is laced together with a heapin’ helpin’ of love.

Now, all that Southern food tends to add a midge of girth to many Southern boys and girls. My Southern doctor, Doc Beauregard, has for years “recommended” that I “trim a few pounds.” Now, Southerners pretty much shoot straight, and Doc Beauregard is no different. I remember his most recent prescription when, with a sigh, he moved his glasses atop his head and pronounced, “Well, Richard, I’ve done all I can do to get your weight down. Now, all I can suggest is for you to learn to be jolly.” But I do have an excuse; with the way my memory has slipped, I just sometimes plum forget that I already ate. Lately, I’m just happy when I find my glasses before I forget what I wanted to read.

In the South, everyone has a dog. And how can you trust anyone who doesn’t like something that laughs with its tail?http://https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eiEPb36mSq0

 

In the South, we are known for our small towns dotted throughout Dixie. There’s a lot to say for small towns. Where your neighbors know you from the cradle to the grave and where you were just as likely to get a spanking from the momma next door if she caught you misbehavin’ as from your own. In a small town, if you don’t know what you are doing, you can count on the fact that someone else always does. For all these reasons and more, I’m hanging on to my Southern roots.

So, in closing, let me state the obvious. If you, as I do, love Southern women, raise your glass, and to the rest of you, raise your standards.

 

 

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

Richard

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Life’s a Series of Moments

As the years flow by like the receding tide from the Indian River Lagoon through the jetty-lined Ft. Pierce inlet, I am struck by how our lives really boil down to a series of moments—some good, some not so, some special, and some forgotten shortly after they occur. This series of separate and oh-so-different moments weave to form the tapestry of our lives.

Thinking back on my life and the many things I’ve done right, and not so, I am reminded of the catchy little tune for the recent TV commercial for the new HP laser printer: “It ain’t what you do… it’s the way that you do it.” Some of us, me included, have really done it.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BduCTDh0SRY

At last week’s All-Class Party sponsored by the Classes of ‘69, ’70, and ’71, I chatted with a high-school girlfriend, and we talked about all that had happened in our lives over the past four decades. I am unsure, but as she left, I could have sworn that I heard her praying a little prayer: “Lord, thank you for not sticking me with him. It is not what he does; it is the way that he does it.”

I’m also almost certain that I’ve heard my sweet wife of thirty plus years uttering the same sort of comment: “I feel like killing him… not for what he does, but the way he does it.” Anyway, I think it is time for me to get off this thought tributary and back to the main river again.

In my younger years, these moments of my life all too often slipped by without notice. Today, I work hard on preventing that at all cost. The young Richard was too busy earning a living and trying to be cool to pay much attention to many of these seemingly unimportant moments. The older more refined RP looks for reasons to stop and be thankful to absorb it all like a dry sponge.

That younger version would never think of shedding a tear in public or professing his love for anyone of the male persuasion. The graying, plumper variety can tear up at the site of a puppy or a baby and can cry like that proverbial baby at something as commonplace as The Star-Spangled Banner, a flag-draped coffin, or a text from a busy grandbaby. I never hang the phone up after talking to Lester, Bobby, Ricky, or Doc without telling them I love them. Hey, guys, can you imagine us saying that in the shower after gym class? Yes, time changes much.

I had a few of those life moments at last week’s All-Class Party. One of those new moments was before the party as I spent a couple of very pleasant hours with Sheila and Greg Simmons.(Grego for many of you who grew up loving that gravel voice, crooked smile, and bright eyes. By the way, for the record, the gravel voice belongs to Grego, not Sheila.)

 

Before the party, I had another moment with Ricky and Beannie Silverstein who showed up an hour early just in case their old buddy needed a helping hand. I did. Beannie as always helped, and Ricky as always told her and me how we could do it better. Remember, Ricky, it ain’t what you do, but the way that you do it.

 

During the party, I had several special moments. Hearing Gina Turner’s laugh, I never get tired of that laugh. I think we should send her to the United Nations – I am sure worldwide peace would breakout as a result. Then there was Buckwheat trying to again explain which of the Walters twins are which - I give up on that one. There was seeing Robin Blanton, Ford Sloan & Colleen McDonald for the first time in 43 years, spending time with Mike Broom and his brother Larry (don’t scare us like that Larry), Fast Eddie’s rapid-fire stories (that will never change), Vic, Rick and Jimmie Anne’s kindness and hard work, Robin's smile, Joel Swain’s slow deep Southern draw (watch out ladies), celebrating Kathy Simmons birthday (great timing – or at least on your parents part), meeting Diane’s beau Jeff (if he still loves you after meeting us, he is a keeper), Kenny and Audrey trying to pay me to take their photo (BTW it takes more than $20 bucks), Christal and Mike classing up the joint, Cindie’s hug (thanks Heav), and seeing David Smith forgot to age. And then there was the realization that the big kids in the Class of 69 were not so big anymore and the little kids in 71, turned out OK after all, even if they did take their high school away.

The one and only Gina Turner

 

Kenny and Audrey with the payoff to Richard

Christal and Mike

Vic the Class of 71's fearless leader

 

Cindie and Heav

 

The 1969 Gang

The Boys are Back in Town

Dale, Ricky, Richard, Doc and Ford

 

But there was two very special moments that standout that night. The first was seeing Debra Pitts and Doc McKinney. We all know they both have had some not-so-pleasant moments this year, each having battled cancer. I have been uplifted by both and so impressed by the courage shown by each and by their positive mental attitudes. This photo of the two of them together, hugging and smiling—well, that, my friends, was a very special moment I shall cherish for a long time.

Doc & Debra - Lookin' Good Guys

The other was seeing Kathy Thomas who has also had a difficult time over the last few months. Know you are in our prayers Kathy and it was great seeing you.

After the party, Bobby Harrell offered his coach as my home-away-from-home for the night. Because his Gator-crazed beauty of a wife Tammy was at the Florida/Georgia game trying to shake a pissed-off Bulldog from her ankle, I took him up on his gracious offer. We spent a few hours outside his coach engulfed in a cool clear Florida night, not a cloud in the sky, reminiscing of the separately experienced and jointly shared moments of our lives, as we together created a few new ones. Bobby, you thought I could not find a cigar in Ft. Pierce after 10:00 p.m. “Hey, man, how did you get in here… we are close”.

Yes, all these special and unique moments comprise the sum of that which has become our journey—the journey of life. Each one of these thoughts and events, times and places, people and memories are all connected—in our heads and in our hearts. Be these moments big or small, whether they make a big splash in the pool of our life or a single almost unnoticeable ripple, they are all still connected, all still related, all part of the landscape that lines this long and winding road we have traveled for now six decades.

So, as we near our retirement years and this next chapter of our lives, it is helpful to remember that everything we do today, next Wednesday, next year, and all the years still to come are moments we will look back on one day. The question is whether we look back with joy or regret. Will our journey be enhanced or worsened by those moments? The choice is ours to make, and the moments are ours to spend as we choose.

I think this older version of Richard will choose to make as many of these moments as memorable as possible. So, if you have the misfortune to find yourself in the same space and time as yours truly, watch out because you might wind up smack dab in the middle of one of my moments… or maybe me in yours.

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive One Moment at a Time

 

Richard Parker, Class of 70