A Guy Named Joe

photo by James Loasch /flikr

 

Grief sometimes doesn’t knock on the door. She just slips in when we least expect her. We all know something about loss and goodbyes and changes everywhere. Sometimes we lose health--breasts, prostates, disabilities and we grieve. Sometimes our kids go off the college and rattling around the empty house we grieve. Saying goodbye to parents and friends turns us inside out. There must be enormous grief from all those left behind after 900,000 have died from this cursed virus. We get scared when we read the headlines and wonder about our country. Isn’t this a grief? I often think the rage and anger of the last few years is grief bottled up, poured out, irate. Sometimes eating holes in our hearts.

Joe's gone

I met  a friend the other day who said, “I’ve got to get a haircut.” Having little hair but still it must be cut—I  said, “Even I have to get my hair cut.” “Who do you go to?” He asked. “I go to a guy in Central and he’s great.” “Joe? He died last week.” “Joe died. I can’t believe that. I loved just talking to him. It is hard for me to believe that he is gone.”

Since then I have thought of Joe and that he has gone. Not that close in many ways but he was my barber. And one my visits to his Barber chair barber chair we talked about everything. Well, almost everything. We were poles apart politically so we tip-toed away from that topic. But we talked about everything else. Sports. The weather. Hair and lack of hair. His sister so sick. Religion and what it meant to him. How his wife did Income tax for a lot of people. That they had been married for 55 years. That he had taught school all over our county and was Principal more than once. 

The Barber

He told me he got his barber license when he was 14. Proudly he said that at that time he was the youngest practicing barber in South Carolina. When he retired from teaching he didn’t really retire. He owned the Clemson House Barber Shop and that long line that came in week after week—came to sit in Joe’s chair. 

Word came that the University was going to tear down the Clemson House which was a Clemson landmark. He told me the last day when we would have to close his shop. Hmm I thought. This would be a great story. So I called The Greenville News and told them there was a powerful story about the closing of the Clemson House and the Barber shop owner, Joe. The day the Barber shop was to close I visited the shop. There was a reporter there from the paper and a photographer with him. Days later on the front page of the Greenville paper was a picture of the barber Joe and his shop and an extraordinary story.

Joe moves his shop

Joe wasn’t finished barbering. He opened a shop on the outskirts of Central. Surely nobody would come that distance for a haircut. I was wrong. I came with a whole lot of other customers. He barbered until he died. He was 78 years old. 

So lately I have been paddling around in my grief over Joe. I still find it hard to believe when I head toward his barber shop he won’t be there.

James Agee wrote a book years ago, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men. Joe and many others could have been in that book. Long ago I learned that up and down these roads of doctors and sanitation workers and the guys that cut our grass and old men whose sons would bring them in to sit in Joe’s chair for a haircut Forget the headlines for the moment. Pause and think of all those others out there whose fingerprints are on our lives. I tip my hat to that number who have helped so many of us through the years. And especially today I remember a guy named Joe.

Joe Tankersley

JAnuary 10, 1944 - January 22, 2022

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Anniversary - Memory Time for the Lovette's

 

Well, it all began on a first date in I think 1959. We went to Mario’s Restaurant in St. Matthews with her twin sister and date. She wore a dark green dress with black stripes. The lights were low but I could see her face through the flickering candle lights. I thought then—and still do—she was the prettiest girl I had ever seen. I did not believe she would go out with me. 

Later—much later I sat with her in my old green dodge and pulled out this little box that held the slither of a diamond. "Will you marry me?” I asked. And she said: “I will if you make me three promises: I don’t have to pray in public, I don’t have to lead the WMU and I never have to teach Sunday School.” I nodded. Yes. Yes.

So January 28, 1961 we got married in Louisville with 8” inches of snow on the ground. I don’t remember being happier.

That summer I was  called to a small church in Philpot, Kentucky. My first Sunday we got trapped behind a convoy in Fort

Knox traveling to Owensboro, Kentucky. I thought we would never get there. I kept moaning: “We’ll never make it.” And she said what she would say a thousand times: “We will. It’s going to be all right.”

The church with the tiny steeple stood on alternate Highway 54. Which ought to tell you something. We had a bell with a rope hanging down when you came in it rang  when it was time for church. We had an outhouse at back. When it rained the water would come all the way up to the church’s top steps. So this city boy and this city girl began our ministry.

That first Sunday the church had what they called: Opening Assembly. Everybody gathered in the sanctuary. An old woman turned and looked at my wife and said: “Are you going to be President of the WMU?” “I don’t think so"  And the woman snarled, “Well, the last one did.” Welcome to Philpot. 

This 21-year-old-music major got a job as a third grade teacher. No training. No education courses. Just a job. Where the boys were mean and the girls were placid and chaos ensued. She came home and said, “I put cursive on the board and they didn’t know what that was.” There were a whole lot of tears that first year.

Our first child was born there. And I came into her room the Nurse handed me a

curly red-headed girl . My wife roused up and said: “Let me see your ears.” Yep. They looked just like mine.

We moved to Southside, Virginia after three years in Kentucky. And one snowy January night our second child was born: a red-headed boy. Guess what? My wife said: “Let

me see his ears.” And she said: “Oh no.” We kept him ears and all.  

I broke my promise in Virginia when she became President of the WMU. And women was heard to say: “They had a WMU.” The church survived.

After four years we moved to Georgetown, Kentucky. A small experimental church which became my first Camelot. Great church. In the middle of the Hippie time, Woodstock and wild barefoot college kids. We bought our first house there. A little white house with green shutters. 

While there someone told us about a fine seven-foot grand piano that had been refurbished. After borrowing on our insurance we bought that piano for a thousand dollars. We still have it.

Clemson came calling after six years in Georgetown. My son was so impressed by the nailed-down seats and a balcony where he would sail bulletin airplanes off into the downstairs. 

Gayle taught piano lessons and piano lessons. How do you teach 40 kids a week, feed your family and keep the house from falling apart? Not a McDonald's in sight. While there we sent our red-headed girl off to University of Louisville. Later we would send our second red-head off to the Art Institute in Chicago. Those were hard, hard days.

Rattling around on our house with no kids was hard, too. And so we moved to a church in Memphis. Gayle loved the city, taught mostly wealthy Jewish kids and taught in the Preparatory Music Department at Rhodes College. Work there was difficult—mostly me . We still have friends there. So we left after three years on a cold December Sunday without a place to go.I was 55 years old and scared. And Gayle said the same thing she had said in that first church. “Oh, we are going to make it. You’re good and you’ll get another church.” I did.

We moved to a small inner-city church in Birmingham about a mile from where four little girls lost their lives in a church bombing. We were there 8 years smack dab in the middle of the AIDS crisis. Gayle and a friend took meals on wheels to very sick men with AIDS. Thdy loved her. Theat church stretched us those 8 years. Hard and great.

The church threw a retirement party for us in 2000. And people came from every church we had ever served. Friends and members spoke that night. And the wife of the College President said:’ Gayle Lovette has always been my role model.” And a young woman Pastor said: “When I grow up I want to be just like Gayle.” 

Weeks later we took a trip to Paris with friends. And looking out our apartment window one night in Paris I asked her: “Did you ever think we would make out to Paris?” And she said, “Oh yes, I knew we would.”

Those retirement years were filled with 8 Interim churches. And finally Gayle said, “OK, let’s go home. We have lived in condos, apartments, old Parsonages and I want to go home." We did.

In 2011 We moved back to Clemson. That seven-foot grand is still in our living room. She joined the Choir. Water aerobics. Still plays her piano every day. Loves, loves her two red-heads and our two granddaughters. 

Judy Collins sings plaintivly: “Who knows where the time goes?” And we wonder too. 

One time, speaking of a friend William Barclay said: “If they cut me open they would find your name in big letters on my heart.” That's how I feel about the girl I married.

Enough said. Thanks for the memories. My my, the memories keep coming as we celebrate our 63rd anniversary.  

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette. blogspot.com

I Remember Dr. King

Memory is a funny thing. An event comes along and it takes you back, back to other times and other places. On this day when so many of us remember Dr. King I have another memory which seems strangely unrelated. 

My brother and I decided to take a cruise. We'd never done this together and we planned this trip. There were many things that I recall from that time together.  But on the ship every night there would be Karaoke in a darkened theatre. That first night we wandered into to that room that was full of people waiting, waiting. Like most Karaoke events some of those folk before the mike should have stayed in the audience. But there was a pause and someone said: "We want Bill to sing." Others picked up the chant: "We want Bill and we want him to sing: "I Believe I can Fly." And so this middle age man with thinning hair stepped up to the mike, cleared his  throat and began to sing. A hush fell across the audience. Even the servers taking drink orders stopped. And somewhere I heard someone sobbed. And people in the audience began to hum and then began to sing along with Bill: "I believe I could fly..." Every night we would go back to that theatre and without fail someone would yell, "We want Bill to sing and we want him to sing: "I believe I can fly." And sing he did: 

 "I used to think that I could not go on

And life was nothing but an awful song

But now I know the meaning of true love

 I'm leaning on the everlasting arms.

                                         +         +       +      +      +

I believe I can fly I believe I can touch the sky

I think about it every night and day

Spread my wings and fly away 

I believe I can soar

I can see me running through that open door

I believe I can fly

I believe I can fly

I believe I can fly..."

It's what we all want, isn't it? To believe despite the harshness of life and so many things wrong that somehow we will make it through despite the strictures of life because we really do believe we can fly.

The song was so popular in 1997 that it was number two on the Billboard charts for six weeks. The song went all the way to top the charts in eight countries. The Rolling Stones said it was one of the 500 Greatest Songs of all time.

And today as we pause to remember Dr. King's birthday I thought of this song. Underneath it all Dr. King kept this strong faith that all of us are in this together.  Old birds and young birds. All kinds of birds small and large. No one was left out.

That dream is still with us and on this day my prayers for this tattered country and broken world we really can hang on. Because of what kept Dr. King going and all those others was that longing: "We shall overcome, We shall overcome one day...".

And so on this day I remember the song, I remember my late brother singing it all the way home and I remember that darkened theater when we all sang together: "I believe I can fly."

                                               photo courtesy of Meriwether Lewis Elementary School / flikr 

                                           --Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com                                 

Happy Birthday Matthew

 

Really don’t know what to say. It’s Matthew’s birthday. He came roaring into the world January 3, 1968. Red headed, restless even then. Imaginative beyond measure. Interested in everything: Tammy Faye…school—especially Mrs. Perkins who taught a third-grader how to read. Ernest Angley…Big Wheels…Neighbors he would walk down the street knock on doors and introduce himself. They all loved him. He worshipped  “The Love Boat”and especially the character that kept pointing: “La Plane”…”La Plane.” He  had a cape where he ran down the street or the church balcony saying: Shazam…Shazam. He watched his Grandmother making biscuits and fried chicken. To this day he carries those recipes in his head and we are the recipients still every Thanksgiving and Christmas of those goodies.

 A little later on he discovered Art and his teacher Brenda.  He won awards for his art work and landed at the Art Institute in Chicago. From Clemson to Chicago was  a very long way. My wife and I were so scared when we turned around to go home and left him in Chicago. He took to it like a duck  to to water. He worked one summer at Habitat for Humanity and got to know Jimmy Carter. Mama, he said, when  you get out of bed you look just like Rosalind looks—so tired. He met Mark in his bank and that was the beginning of a relationship that has lasted over 30 years. I had their wedding in Philadelphia one morning. Just me and my wife and two friends. Tears ran down all our faces as we stood there on holy ground.

You don’t want to hear all his accomplishments. Like anybody’s child you remember and that memory, despite all the and downs, brings you great joy. 

I guess this brag sheet is enough. But on this day I remember Matthew my son and I am very glad.

                                     Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

It's Christmas Folks!

When I first saw this sculptured piece—I said yes. Jesus gave us the story. You know it. A son left home in a huff. He broke his Father’s heart. No letters…no phone calls—just silence. The Father did not know where his boy was. The Father must’ve looked out the window a hundred times. No sign. He could be dead for all he knew. Still no word. 

And then the Father saw a speck in the distance and then a figure and he knew who it was. He gathered up his robes and ran down the road. “My son…”he said: “My son!”As the young man got closer the old father saw there were lines in his face. His eyes seemed hollow. Ragged clothes if you could call them that. And the smell—It was awful. The boy had no sandals. And his eyes looked down.

Still not looking up the son said: “Father I am ashamed. I have sinned, you will never believe all the things I have done. Nothing worked out. The money you gave me is all gone. I was finally so hungry I ate what the pigs had left. Could you possibly take me back as maybe one of your servants?”

The old Father put his arms out. His face looked old. He shook his head. None of that talk. We thought you were dead and here you stand.  He yelled back to the servants: Bring him a robe—a good one. Put a fine ring on his finger. Bring him some clothes. Bring sandals for his dirty feet. “But Father” the boy said: “ I am so sorry…” The old man said, “No…no. You are my son and I love you more than you will ever know. Let’s go to the house.”He held the boy tight.

Why do I write this on this day? Because it is a Christmas story. Forget the manger and the donkey. And little lord Jesus asleep in the hay. Those things are so important but that’s not the essence of Christmas. This holy day really is arms wide open, brushing away all that any of us have done. 

It was Christmas at Church and this thin teenager dressed poorly stood in the line for Communion. As it was her time to reach out her hands she stopped. “A couple of weeks ago you said in a sermon that God even forgives prostitutes. Is that right?” The Priest said: “Yes.” the girl with arms covered with tattoos put her hands on her face and sobbed.

This is Christmas and this day we can leave it all behind. The secrets. The things we are ashamed of. The disappointments. The failures. Sins. Everything. Every thing.

And on this day when the virus has killed too many of us and we are not sure of the future God is here. Outside those church doors a world still convulses because of the too-muchness of it all. 

Remember as you leave this day and tip-toe into the future God is here. And remember every day the ragged boy and the arms outstretched for us all.

            

          --Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

It's Christmas Eve and we're all looking for a Home

          photo by russellstreet / flikr

"Come home, come home

All who are weary come home;

Earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling,

O sinner, come home."

--gospel song

It’s Christmas Eve and tonight most churches will be almost filled. This pandemic still scares a lot of people. But from all over many will come. Janie with her five-old daughter. The Business man who has dragged his wife and four daughters to this service. Bill trying desperately to kick drugs. Too many rehabs.There’s the little old woman with blue hair there with her Bible. She sits alone. All over the house there are children straining their necks wondering what will happen. Joe sits in the corner gay but has never come out. The Chinese couple with one child. The husband with  his wife who comes in holding tight with her slow dementia shuffle.  The widow who lost her sister and her husband from the virus this awful year. 

What do we say to all of these and to us, too?  We settle down as the lights flicker. The best way that I know to write about this Christmas Eve is to tell you a story. This story is so beautiful and powerful that it has been told everywhere. Pete Hamill, a journalist wrote these words…

Three boys and three girls from New York boarded a bus on 34th Street. They were going to Fort Lauderdale where they hoped it would be warm and fun. They carried with them a big bottle of wine and a bag of sandwiches. The kids began to play a game by looking at the people on the bus and wondering who they were. And they pointed to this man in the brown suit on the third row. Who he was and where was he going?

Somewhere around Washington the bus stopped at Howard Johnson’s and most of the bus got off. But this man just sat there and finally got up and went into the restaurant and took a booth.. The kids from New York  began to whisper: “Who do you think he is? A derelict, maybe he had run away from his wife. He didn’t look like a serial killer. “ 

When they got back on the bus and one of the girls sat next to him. “What’s your name?”she asked. “Vingo.” What’s yours?” “Mary Anne.”“We’re going to Florida. Can’t wait. We’ve never been there.” It’’s beautiful the man replied. The girls leaned close and asked him if he lived there? “I did”, he answered. And then he began to tell her his story…

He has been in jail in New York for four years and now he was going home. Are you married? He said he didn’t know. You don’t know? 

And he said he told his wife that when he left if she wanted to start over with someone else he would understand. If the kids started asking questions try not to say too much. He never heard a word. “And so you’re going home, now knowing?” He nodded.  He told her that last week as his parole was coming through he wrote her saying: “I’ll be coming that way on a Greyhound Bus.” 

He didn’t know if his wife would take him back. Vingo told Mary Anne they used to live in Brunswick and there was a huge oak tree there—very famous. Vingo wrote and said if you want to see me me tie a yellow  ribbon on that tree and I’ll get off the bus. If not, he would keep going.

Mary Anne she moved back where her friends sat. She told them the story about the man and Brunswick and the yellow ribbon. The kids started looking out the window for Brunswick and that tree.Then it was ten miles and five miles and closer and closer. The kids started laughing and clapping and crying and even dancing in the aisle. But Vingo just sat there stunned. 

The tree was covered with yellow handkerchiefs. Twenty, thirty maybe more. Those handkerchiefs just fluttered in the wind. The old con got up and made his way off the bus to go home. The kids yelled and clapped as he left.

As I remembered this old story I thought about all of us everywhere sitting in some candle-lit church. And all those others who wold never come. This night of nights is for us all. As we leave the service and head for home I hope we will remember that yellow ribbon and the One whose arms still takes all in.

courtesy of flikr

 Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

My Christmas Surprise--Advent IV

 

Everybody has a Christmas story. There is something about this season that stirs memories and sends us back to other times and other places. The McKenzies were my neighbors.They lived across the street from our house in a tumble down house that needed  lot of work. They were only renting but this was their home. They loved it and tried to fix it up. The task was just too much. They had four children-stair steps. Mr. McKenzie worked in a mill six hard days a week. His wife stayed home with the children. They lived from paycheck to paycheck. And then tragedy struck. Mr.McKenzie broke his leg. And it was so serious the Doctor said it is a miracle they didn't have to amputate. He he would he laid up for months. I had no idea how they would live but the church was good and somehow they got by. 

Christmas was coming and our little church tried to help them with their Christmas. This home would have only a little Christmas. The Father was disabled and his paycheck stopped. 

We visited them occasionally and became friends. So Christmas Day was coming fast. And so Christmas Eve some of us gathered a huge basket and put not only food for Christmas but for days to come. After it was dark on Christmas Eve we sneaked over and left the basket at their door.

Christmas morning there was a knock on our door. I opened it and Mr. McKenzie on crutches was standing there smiling. He said somebody left a great basket of fruit and other things and we want to share our Christmas box with you.  And his wife handed us a huge sack of some of the items we had out on their porch the night before. They said Merry Christmas, turned and left. 

I stood there with my wife not knowing what to say. This couple with so little shared part of their Christmas with us. Isn’t this what Christmas is all about? We share with what we have with someone who need. We pass it on.

I’ve thought a lot about this stormy time in which we live. The anger and lies and greed and the lack of common decency makes it hard to celebrate this holy season. But Jesus said:“Inasmuch as you do this to the least of these…you do it to me.” 

Looking back to that Christmas long ago I think as that man hobbled back to his house on his crutches. Maybe I was unaware of the face of Jesus that cold Christmas morning but who knows? On that special day he may have been at our house after all. 

This must have been say, 50 years ago. But a funny thing sitting here, wondering what to say in this piece I remember that long-ago morning and I am glad.

--photo by runran / flikr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com