FAMINE IN BETHLEHEM

(repost from December 4, 2009)Reggie and I were born 6 years apart, so I was always the little kid brother. That continued even after we were grown and when in comparison to him, I was no longer “little.”

Though born to the same parents, we didn’t look much alike, but his imprint was strong upon my life. I liked the cars he liked, the clothes he wore, and we enjoyed the same kind of humor. I was blessed by God with an above average intellect, but Reggie was far superior to me in that area. But in size, my weight began to surpass his when I was in junior high school.

One Christmas memory I think about with a warm smile, involves Reggie and me, his “little” brother. He had recently graduated from high school and I was in the seventh grade.

Our church in New York always had a children’s play at Christmas. Though, written from a different perspective each year, it always included the basic presentation of the Christmas story. One year I was a priest, waiting for the coming of the Messiah, and to this day, I remember that I sang an old hymn, “Day is Dying in the West.” I’m sure this is one of those classics you sing each year (if you have ever heard of it)! The words are powerful, though. The chorus says, “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of hosts. Heaven and earth are full of Thee, Heaven and earth are praising Thee, O Lord, Most High!”

But this particular year, I was a shepherd. You know, the way we picture poor shepherds, wearing burlap sacks with holes cut in them for our heads and arms. I was rather large compared to the other shepherds. Their sacks were loose fitting with little arms sticking out. Mine wasn’t too small, but was filled rather well.

I’m sure I didn’t appreciate Reggie’s comment then, though I have had many laughs about it down through the years. He looked at us and said wryly, “It looks like there has been a famine in Bethlehem.” Then after a pause, he finished, “And Sammy caused it!”

That Little Bag of Goodies

I don’t remember a name for that little bag of goodies, but it was a tradition when I was a child to receive one at church on Christmas Eve. My mouth watered during the service in anticipation of things eaten only at Christmas, and waiting for me when the service was over.


The bag was just an ordinary brown lunch bag, but “oh”, how special it was. Most of the time, the goody bag had an orange, a tangerine, an apple, a variety of unshelled nuts, and some candy. Those English walnuts, pecans and Brazil nuts (innocently called by another name) and hazel nuts were only eaten at Christmas. Chocolate drops and peppermint sticks were rarely seen except at this time of the year. Just like many things in life, that which is rare is most valued.

When we moved away from West Virginia, we lost this tradition in my family. Perhaps my relatives will tell me if it still continues, but just now, on Christmas Eve, as I was reminiscing, I remembered something wonderful that my children will never understand as being such a treat – That Little Bag of Goodies.

The Wishbook

I have learned this truth. For most things in this world, the anticipation of ownership is far more pleasant than actual possession, especially when you are a child and Christmas is coming.


The Sears and Roebuck Wishbook, and the J. C Penney Christmas Catalog are becoming collectibles on Ebay, but none that I ever handled had a chance to survive after Christmas. These on Ebay must have been saved by families without children. As for mine, favorite pages were marked, edges turned down, and hours of handling each day until December 25th absolutely wore them out.

Of course, many of my dream toys never materialized. I was one of 5 children and was “too old for my wants to hurt me.” I always loved and appreciated my gifts, though, and my parents did a great job of making me happy.

But a month of dreaming with the catalog had it’s own good memories. It made December a special "month" of Christmas wishes and not just "one day" when some of the dreams became reality.

Yes, I’m computer literate enough to know that the Wishbook exists online, but bookmarking a website somehow loses the joy of holding the book in your hands or taking it to bed with you with a flashlight, under the covers.

Wheatfield Street, North Tonawanda, NY

It’s hard to provide a place for a family with 5 children, but my parents did the best they could and we ended up in the upstairs apartment at the corner of Wheatfield and Simson Streets in North Tonawanda., NY.

The building was almost falling down, but with hard work, my parents made it clean and livable. It was on the “other side of the tracks” literally, with the tracks only a block away, and River Road a block away in the other direction. I could not imagine that the house was still there after 50 years, but Googlemaps street view allowed me to see today that it is still standing, though greatly renovated by necessity.

The neighborhood was interesting, and I have always imagined it to be like West Side Story. There were no gangs, but Puerto Ricans lived downstairs. They kept to themselves, not understanding English, and we didn’t know any Spanish. We really didn’t know they were there except for the days they fried plaintains. Our house reeked, and we didn’t like the smell, but it was a part of life on Wheatfield Street.

A beautiful ditzy brunette, Sophie Stroud (Maria), lived a few houses away and I had a crush on her, though I never let anyone know. We used to sit on the steps and talk all evening until she had to go home. I was super shy around girls, but I enjoyed spending time with her.

An older cousin lived with us for a while and he fit the West Side story cast, too. He loved Elvis Presley and tried to look like him. He always wore jeans and a T shirt. Jimmy Acord also had a “car” - I mean a real car. It was a customized 57 Ford. It was black with gold scallops on the hood and on other parts of the car. It had fenderskirts and a continental kit and a beautiful sounding, powerful engine. He was so cool to a junior higher like me!

A block away, at the corner of River Road and Wheatfield was Molnar’s Restaurant and Bar. I was not allowed to go down there, (we are Baptists, you know), but Pauley Molnar was a younger friend. He had an older sister my age, Gail, who I felt was a little uppity and was very proud of her status at school as one of the most intelligent students. I, of course, was recently from West Virginia and it took a full two weeks for the school to move me from the remedial class (dumb hillbilly) into the honors class. Bluefield, West Virginia does have a good school system. I don’t think Gail ever accepted me being in honors classes with her.

Pauley, on the other hand, loved me. I was a couple of years older and he was always trying to impress me. The main thing I remember about him was that he was allowed to get a soft drink at the restaurant any time he wanted, (I was so jealous), but all he ever wanted was Koolaid at my house. He thought it was such a treat.

Across the street was Snopkowski’s Junk Yard; not cars, but very similar to Fred Sanford’s place on TV. I suppose you could find just about any used item in the world at that place. Buddy Snopkowski was really my buddy and we spent summer days together playing in a field beside his house, and roller skating. My cousin Jackie Saunders lived about 5 blocks away and he came over to skate with us.

And that leads me to my reason for reminiscing about Wheatfield Street. Today, I heard part of a hit song from 1971-72 by “Melanie” Safka about roller skates and a key, and I remembered those old metal wheeled skates we had. You had to clamp them to your shoes and tighten them with a special key. Of course, the song came much later than my memories, for I was in 7th grade. That was 1960-61.

Does anyone else remember skating like that? Certainly not young people with nylon and rubber wheeled rollerblades. We actually wore those metal wheels off playing “skate tag” on the cement parking lot at Buddy’s house on Wheatfield Street.

Chocolate Milk Memory

What is there about the human brain that can relive an event from many years ago, being triggered by just a taste or a smell?


Today I took a small drink of chocolate milk and was transported to the fall of 1962. Not only that, but I was suddenly in Bluefield, West Virginia at Fairview Junior High School. That’s a rather long distance from Northeast Florida, but it was very real in my mind. No, it was not a vision, nor was it anything that most people do not experience from time to time. It was just a taste of chocolate milk - store bought - and a wonderful memory returned.

We lived on a small farm in Bluefield and usually had a few cows, so milk was abundantly available at the Jewell house. It was that good kind that really gave you a white mustache because of all the butterfat content that is lost when it is processed. But chocolate milk had to be purchased at the store, and it was never on the grocery list. When I had it, it was a special treat. Mother sometimes made hot cocoa in the winter, but, as good as it was, it was not quite the same.

Why at Fairview, you may wonder? Well, I guess I do too, because I have no idea who provided chocolate milk for the football team after the games. It’s funny, though, I have no recollection of any actual football games. I was a benchwarmer. I remember a couple of times being on the bus, especially how quiet it was all the way home when we lost. But I knew there was going to be chocolate milk and chicken salad sandwiches when we returned to the school.

Oh, by the way, we raised chickens on the farm, too, and fried chicken was always on the menu, but I never remember Mother making chicken salad. So a good chicken salad sandwich can mess with my mind in the same way and bring back thoughts of my Junior High days.

My memory is always the same, however. With that one small taste today, I shivered, remembering a cold, damp, rainy night, just outside the back door of the gym, a chicken salad sandwich in one hand and that smooth, rich, chocolate milk in the other. Did we win or lose that night? It doesn’t matter. But someone made me feel really special as a football player for the Fairview Falcons.

I could drink chocolate milk every day if I wanted to, but I just save it for special occasions when I want to feel young again.

Saints Who Touched My Life - "Sweet Virgil" Peterson

I don’t know why Elmer became out of vogue as a man’s name, but I suspect it was because of Elmer Fudd.

It certainly wasn’t because of Elmer Peterson, EXCEPT in the minds of a group of young men at First Baptist Church of North Tonawanda, New York. He was such a godly man, but teenagers can be cruel and Elmer certainly had his idiosyncrasies. He loved to sing and was included as a church soloist to keep from hurting his feelings, I suppose. His voice wasn’t that bad, but he had a strange way of quickly moving his head up and down to create his vibrato, and this was secretly mocked by the boys in Christian Service Brigade. He loved working with us and drove miles from his home to be one of our leaders.

Elmer had a Volkswagen. Sometimes some of us would ride with him and he usually forgot to put it in first gear when we stopped. Starting in second or third would make the car shake like he did when he sang.

He got his nickname from singing. At our Boys Brigade meeting one December, we were singing Christmas carols led by Mr. Peterson. A little used verse of Silent Night speaks of the angels watching over Baby Jesus. It says something like – “their sweet vigils keep.” He mistakenly sang “sweet virgils” and a new name was born. From that time on, Elmer Peterson was “Sweet Virgil.”

Honestly, I was a pretty good kid, respected my elders, and would not defy them in any way, but there is a streak of that old nature in me, and nicknames were so important to a teenage boy.

There was so much to laugh at “Sweet Virgil” about, but as I look back, I know his passion for the things of God left a positive impact on my Christian life. I have learned that God uses anyone who is surrendered to Him, but He has produced a lot of unusual people and “Sweet Virgil” was definitely one of those. But he has a dear place in my heart. I thank God for the influence of this godly man, even though I still smile at the thought of “Sweet Virgil” Peterson.

Saints Who Touched My Life - "Slow Norm" Carpenter

Norm Carpenter had a Bible College background and worked as our youth leader at First Baptist Church, North Tonawanda, New York, but he was not a preacher. I don’t remember any of his Bible studies, although I’m sure he delivered many to my youth group. I do remember his love for the Lord and his desire that we love Him, too. He made us learn the books of the Bible and almost every youth meeting included a trip around the room with each of us being required to recite the next Bible book in order. I believe that is where my knowledge of the Bible books began.


Norm owned the local bus company - not travel buses, or school buses - but city buses. My Dad drove part time for him for a while and my brother Bob worked as a bus mechanic before he was able to get into the printing trade. What I remember most about the buses, though, is when we would bounce along on one of his rattling buses to other churches in Western New York for youth rallies, and he was not “slow Norm Carpenter” when he drove the bus.

After 40 years of pastoring, as I consider the input of this man on my life, I realize that as a teenager, the consistency of his faith and the love shown to me and the others in the group, indeed made an imprint that fashioned my walk with God.

As with most teens, (and adults are guilty, too), we forget that the impressions of men and women of faith mold us so slowly that we can’t really go back to one moment or one message that made an immediate change.

The one incident I do remember clearly was not a spiritual one, at least on my part. It was in response to something Norm said to us about dating. He said, “I didn’t kiss my wife until we were married.” My response was, “You really were slow, weren’t you.” We all laughed, and a new name was born, “slow Norm”.

To this day, I’m not sure if he was telling an old joke and didn’t get to finish it. You see, I kissed my sweetheart many times before our wedding day, but I, too, didn’t kiss my wife until we were married. Obviously, she wasn’t my wife until we were married.

You were a great man of God, but were you really “slow” Norm Carpenter?

Confessions of an Erring Bible College Student

After 41 years, it’s time to confess that my wife and I blatantly broke the rules at Piedmont Bible College, by single dating before she became my wife. But in my defense, it would have been difficult to have a chaperone in my 1960 MGA and I wanted to drive in the snow so much and show off for my girlfriend.

Driving in snow was not new to me, having come to North Carolina in January of 1969 from that snow capitol of Buffalo, New York. It really wasn’t that much snow, maybe 6 inches, but Winston-Salem had been essentially shut down and slipping and sliding on nearly deserted streets was just too appealing for a Yankee boy.

I don’t actually remember how we rendezvoused but soon we were driving all around town performing controlled slides and spinouts. Unfortunately, in my mischief, we found ourselves outside the city limits, which was also an infraction of the rules. But we didn’t expect to be caught because no one would be out on those snow covered roads. We became stuck in the snow several times, but with my knowledge of rocking the car, we became “unstuck” every time.

Finally, however, I was confronted with a major problem, not caused by the snow, but by the melting snow. Hitting a large puddle, my car began to sputter and stalled. This had happened before and I immediately knew that the remedy was not a major one, but would require some time to repair. We didn’t have much time before the sun would set and we would be guilty of a third misdemeanor.

Three strikes and you are out, I had heard. “Be sure your sins will find you out”, the Bible says. For the first time, I began to panic and came to a place of prayer and true repentance. God is merciful, I can assure you. I was able to dry the distributor, restart the car, and get back to school, and to this day, I have avoided prosecution. I hope the “statute of limitations” has expired and I will not disbarred from the pastorate after 40 years.

But it was so much fun!!

Tribute to a Godly Father

I used my Dad as an illustration in my Father’s Day sermon today.  I hadn’t planned it, or even thought about it, but he was the perfect illustration of a man of God.  So often we use that term as an appellation for a gospel minister, and thereby falsely teach that being a man of God is something that is beyond the reach of the ordinary working man.

Of course, I would not say that Dad was an ordinary man, but he was not called to be a preacher.  I remember him saying once that if he ever preached a sermon, it would be on Hebrews 11, and would be about the first king of Israel, Saul, who should have been a part of that great Honor Roll of faith.  He even gave it the title, “The Man who Missed God’s Honor Roll.”.  I rarely preach from that passage that I don’t remember him sharing that with me.

And so today, as I came to this passage, speaking about Noah, a wonderful example of a godly father, I remembered a fresh experience that illustrated that God uses ordinary men to impact the lives of generations.

Just recently, we were able to fellowship with some dear friends from our college days, Lindsay and Barbara Poteat.  Lindsay shared with us that he had come to faith in Christ and had been mentored by a man who had ended his ministry on earth in Knoxville, Tennessee.  I only knew one pastor from Knoxville, and was surprised to hear that the man who had had such an impact on his life was the man I knew.  I was aware of this man’s location of service because my older brother, Reginald, had lived in Knoxville for a time.  But we had met Terry Taylor many years before in Bluefield, West Virginia.  He was in college and was in my Dad’s Sunday School class.

My first thoughts were - I would like to tell Dad - and then, I would like to tell Reg.  But then I realized, they already knew.  All three are now enjoying the thrill of heaven together.  I don’t know how much of an influence my Dad had on Terry’s life, but he had been one faithful godly man who had touched one, who had touched others, who was still touching others through his ministry.

And so my Dad was a perfect illustration of a godly Christian father and I used his testimony to challenge us to be Godly Fathers.

Thank you, Dad, for your faithful walk with God.

My Mother on her knees and other memories from Matheny

I wonder why some events are imprinted so strongly on our memories and others seem to fade into the mists of forgetfulness.  It isn’t always that we remember the most exciting or important things, and tend to forget the insignificant ones.  As a matter of fact, many times it is the unimportant and simple that have a hallowed place in our memories.

My recollections of Matheny, West Virginia, the place of my birth are few.  Of course, I don’t remember my birth, but I was told that it was in our home there and not in a hospital.  We moved to Bluefield shortly before my 6^th birthday, so these few memories are from my preschool years.

There was a lady whose name I don’t know, that often called out to me as she walked past our home to the general store just down the dirt road.  It was one of those little playful taunts that children like to echo so this happened very often, nearly every day.   I would be playing at my favorite tree.  It was a small sapling with smooth bark and several branches about five feet above the ground.  I couldn’t actually grasp the tree, but it was small enough to allow my little preschool hand to hook on to it as it became my merry go round.   I loved my tree.  I would run round and round as fast as I could go without falling and then repeat it again.  I did this so often that I nearly wore the bark off that tree.  Then I would hear that friendly voice from across the fence say, “Sammy, you’re a slowpoke.”  It didn’t hurt my feelings because I knew it was in jest.  It didn’t happen very many times, though, until I would look for her coming down the road and I would stop and repeat it back, “No, you’re a slow poke.  You’re a slowpoke.”

Other memories are just quick snippets of time, whose chronology is unknown.  Dad firing a German luger into the creek;  Bobby Lee, my oldest brother, with his friends, placing empty potted meat cans on fence posts and firing them high into the air with firecrackers;  a discovery of an  open pack of cigarettes in an old cash register in a shed behind the house (they had been my Dad’s last when he decided to stop smoking); and a radio/phonograph console being taken from the back seat of our car and placed in the living room in the house.

But I guess my very first remembrance of life was of my Mother kneeling on the cold, hard, linoleum floor in the kitchen, undoubtedly asking God for a closer relationship to me.  Anyone who knew Margaret knew she did love the Lord and this picture might not be out of place in their minds.  Going to church and praising God was just as natural as breathing, and her commitment remained true until she saw Jesus face to face a few years ago.  But if you thought she was praying, you need to hear what I was hearing.  You see, I was under the table and she was saying, “Sammy, come out of there.  You’re not supposed to eat a whole stick of butter like that.”  Yes, that is really my first moment of self-realization, me, a partially eaten stick of butter, and my Mother trying to coax me out from under the table.  What great hopes for the future!

I don’t think I was spanked for my mischief, but I learned very early that I was supposed to get my butter from pound cake and not directly from the wrapper. 

My Memories of Papaw Jewell

Because we moved away to the big city of Bluefield when I was nearly 6 years old, and later moved to the really big city of Buffalo, New York, when I was becoming a teenager, I don’t have a lot of memories of Papaw Jewell. The ones I have are perhaps more precious because they are few.


I remember his hugs when we visited and can even hear the sound of his voice as he called me Sammy. Smoking seemed prevalent among my uncles and older cousins, but I don’t remember ever seeing Papaw smoke. Do I remember that correctly?

Papaw loved the Lord, and I can remember him saying grace in a rhythmic pattern that almost seemed like singing. Perhaps that is why my Dad on occasions sounded just like him. One of my brothers shared that he met Papaw early one morning coming down from the mountain and asked where he had been. He said he had been spending some time with the Lord. That walk with God was evident in his life and ultimately in the lives of his descendants.  I am so grateful.

He went to bed early and rose early. His day seemed to be governed more by the sun than by the clock. When we spent the night, he would try to sit up to entertain us "city folks", but he would invariably begin to fall asleep sitting in his chair.

For some reason, I recall him telling my Dad about what was going on at the courthouse in Pineville. Someone in some county department was complaining that he had money left over in his budget and was trying to decide what to spend it on. Papaw had told the man to give it back, whereupon the politician said, “If I give it back, they will cut back my budget for next year.” I didn’t fully understand the meaning of the story until much later. Papaw was not happy with the answer.

And of course, I remember Papaw’s big breakfasts, filled with foods that would plug the arteries of any modern day American – fried pork chops, fried bacon, fried sausage, and fried eggs. It did get to him finally, in his early nineties.

My middle name is Harrison. For the longest time, I didn’t appreciate what seemed to me to be an odd name until it came in vogue with celebrity Harrison Ford. I knew I was named for Papaw, but somehow I forgot. Mamaw had her own pronunciation of his name, and "Harson" wasn't exactly Harrison in my ears.  Now, to me it is an honor to carry his middle name as my middle name because of the man he was.

After growing up, getting married and becoming a pastor, I had the chance to preach in front of Papaw once. My delivery certainly must have seemed bland compared to what he had experienced and he was perfectly candid when he asked me with all sincerity, “Sammy, are you God-called or did you go to college.” I knew what he was thinking and was not offended by his question. I simply said, “Papaw, God called me to preach, but I did go to college for some training.”

I took my family to visit him at the hospital not long before his “home going”. We gathered around his bed and sang for him. I don’t remember the song, and he probably didn’t hear a sound because of his deafness. Others in the hospital came to the door to listen, and Papaw just smiled. He knew we were singing about his Savior and that’s what counted.

Who can accurately assess the greatness of a simple man who walks with God? Surely only God, who knows all, and I'm certain he said to William Harrison Jewell, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Enter thou into the joy of the Lord.”

Spending the Night on Jesse Mountain

Even today, going from Bluefield, West Virginia to Jesse, West Virginia through Montcalm, Matoaka and across Herndon Mountain takes an hour and a half, covering the 60 miles or so with an average speed of 40 miles per hour. It’s not safe to go any faster except on a few straightaways. That’s one of the ways I remember traveling to Mamaw and Papaw Jewell’s house. It could be a hot ride in the summer. Of course air conditioning was unheard of and even with the windows down, the slow ride made it seem like a much longer trip. It wasn’t too bad in the colder months, though, but you didn’t want to make that trip if snow might be in the forecast.


I remember being on Jesse Mountain one cold fall day when my breath hung in the air like smoke from a cigarette. I was even pretending to be smoking when we were called in for supper. Although Mamaw was a great cook, I don’t remember many ordinary meals at her house. My two memories are Sunday dinners, when everyone came and the table was like a church homecoming meal, and breakfast, which was a story by itself.

Not long after supper, we sat in the front room which had a coal fire in a potbelly stove that made that room almost too warm. It was the only room with heat, except for the kitchen which was warmed by Mamaw’s precious wood cook stove.

There wasn’t much to do after dark and we sat there in the living room watching Papaw’s head bobbing as he fought to stay awake. Eventually, Dad and Mother would insist that it was late enough for us all to go to bed. None of us were sleepy, but we had to pretend so they would be willing to go to bed.

I remember going to the back bedroom and being tucked in to the most unusually comforting bed I ever slept in. The mattress was a feather tick and after sinking into place, I was covered with several quilts. It became warm and snuggly in a short time and I was very comfortable, except for my cold nose. I remember the weight of those quilts that seemed so heavy that I was trapped in place. But I didn’t feel confined. Instead, I just felt secure.

I was always enthralled by the gun rack that was behind that bedroom door and dreamed on many occasions about having Papaw’s 30-30 Winchester saddle gun. He used it for deer hunting, but my dream was to put it on the back of a horse and become a cowboy. It was beautiful and was kept that way with his loving care. On one occasion, Papaw was telling about the great tragedy that had happened on a recent deer hunt when a discarded cigarette had landed in the bed of the truck on his gun case and a fire had messed up the stock on his beloved gun. I ran to the bedroom, expecting the worst. I looked on the rack to see what kind of damage had come to “my” saddle gun, only to find a black burned spot not any larger than a dime. And that was only a surface wound.

I couldn’t see the gun in the darkness of the room, but not being sleepy allowed me to dream of my “home on the range”. And by the way, I don’t think I ever touched that gun for real.

My other memory of that bedroom was a wind up alarm clock that sounded like Big Ben. At least it sounded that loud to me because I was used to sleeping in a quiet room, except for the breathing and occasional snoring of my three older brothers who shared it with me.

So even after the sandman showed up and I became drowsy, I would stay awake longer because of that clock. Eventually though, I did fall asleep.

Then came the knock on the door and the loud call for breakfast that included, “Are you going to sleep all day?” It was still dark, long before my waking time, but the wonderful smell of pork chops, bacon, sausage, gravy and eggs wakened every taste bud and made me able to brave getting out of the warm bed, stepping on to a cold wooden floor and trying to get on my cold blue jeans and shirt. It was warm in the kitchen since Mamaw had been cooking for a long time. Cracker Barrel, lower your head in shame, because as good as you are, you can’t hold a candle to this mountain woman’s breakfast. This was Papaw’s biggest meal of the day, I think, and oh, how I loved it when we were able to spend the night, and then eat breakfast, on Jesse Mountain.

The Lesson of the Sandspur

I am told that young ladies often dream about their wedding day and this first day of June, 2008, was indeed a storybook day. It was warm, as early summer usually is in Florida, but the ocean breeze made the weather delightful for a planned beach wedding.


Tom and Kristin planned this day beautifully, even ordering fresh flowers from Hawaii to make it special. Music would be provided by musicians from Orlando’s Holy Land Experience where Tom and Kristin had met as performers, and the best man was Jesus.

It was such a beautiful day that there were some fears that the public beach at Marineland might become crowded with people and this might interfere with the pristine beauty of the ceremony. But just as God often does, a short early afternoon thunderstorm cleared the beach just prior to the wedding. The storm was gone, but clouds remained to shield the wedding from direct sunlight. This even made picture taking easier for the photographers, Kristin’s friends who traveled from Pensacola to participate in and record the special event.

I picked Kristin up at a beautiful condominium a short distance away that had been graciously provided by friends of the family. Her Prince Charming was waiting beneath the arbor near the beautiful Atlantic as we arrived just over the sand dunes out of sight.

Crossing a quaint little weather beaten bridge over the dunes, we stepped into the sand and removed our shoes. Taking my arm, we only advanced a few steps when Kristin abruptly stopped with a small cry of pain. She had stepped on a sandspur. For a brief moment, as she pulled it from her foot, she was shocked to reality from her dream wedding day. We often say, “Pinch me. I think I am dreaming.” As I thought later on this little incident, I came to the conclusion that an awesome God who had brought this day together for two of his children, placed that sandspur in that exact spot to say for a brief moment, “This is not a dream. It is very real. This is what I planned all along for you as you waited for my perfect will.”

Mr and Mrs. Tom Cartwright

My First Fly Ball

Wesley Mabrey always had the most beautiful baseball gloves. He worked at the Bluefield Orioles club house and whenever a player was called from the farm club there in West Virginia to the big leagues, they often left quickly or felt that by going to the majors, they deserved a new glove. So they often left their old one behind in the club house.


That’s how Wesley was always able to provide first quality gear for us at our farm club. Our farm club really was a farm. In a pasture behind Don Harry’s house, we could play baseball. The infield was fairly level, but right field gradually sloped upwards to 20 or 30 feet higher than the infield. On the other hand, left field was lower than the infield by at least 10 feet. That meant that the outfield fence sloped upwards considerably from left to right. But it was a place to play ball and we just had to deal with it.

I was the youngest of four brothers and also younger than the Mabrey boys, except for Joel who was a little younger than I.

Joel and I were watching this particular day because the older boys were intently playing a “big boy” game that excluded us. We were hardly old enough for little league so we would get in the way. But I noticed that one baseball glove was lying on the ground. It certainly wasn’t one of Wesley’s good ones. It was an old first baseman’s mitt that looked as if it had seen its better days. When I put it on, it seemed as long as my arm, but worse than that, it was for a lefty. I was determined, however, to crash this game so I slipped out towards second base.

It was right then that I heard the crack of a bat and looked up to see a ball that seemed to be higher than the clouds. It was beginning its descent, coming right at me. Should I run and hide or try to be brave and face it down? “Keep your eye on the ball”, they always said, and I was trying. As I stuck out this huge old glove that was on the wrong hand, I must admit that I didn’t keep my eye on the ball all the way down. My eyes were closed when I felt the impact and heard the smack.

I had caught my first fly ball! Everyone began to cheer even though I should not have been on the field. Even the batter, Phylis Mabrey’s husband, cheered for me.

I’m sure that I am the only one in the world that remembers that historical moment, but it is indelibly imprinted on my memory. What a day! The beginning of my long and mediocre baseball career.

Teach Us To Pray

TEACH US TO PRAY  (In honor of Kristin Jewell Cartwright's St. Patricks Day Birthday)


We had been married nearly four years, when God blessed us with a little girl. It wasn’t that we intended to wait that long. In fact, Patsy had become quite frustrated with the whole matter, and questioned if she would ever have a child.

It became worse after her brother Tim’s wife, Layne, had their firstborn, Michael, in December of 1972. Then, Linda found out only a couple of months later that she was expecting a third child who would be born in November.

Why not us?

She found comfort in a verse of Scripture, John 16:24. “Hitherto have ye asked nothing in my name: ask, and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full.” Asking God for her joy to be full, became our prayer. Only a few months later, Patsy knew that she was carrying our firstborn.

As pastor of Jefferson Baptist Church in Jefferson, South Carolina, this became every member’s baby. It was not surprising, then, that Kristin decided to come on Sunday. Early in the morning, I had to call a deacon to say that it was too late to ask someone to preach for me, so they would have to dismiss everyone after Sunday School. This meant that EVERYONE knew that we were at the hospital. No cell phones then, but we received many calls as we were waiting for the main labor to come.

Late in the afternoon, Kristin Michelle entered the world bringing “full joy” to Patsy and me.

Oh, I didn’t tell you about our conversation the night before. Being in a small church, as pastor, I was also in charge of printing the bulletin. I brought Patsy a copy and showed her the picture of a little girl praying, and the caption which read, TEACH US TO PRAY followed by the verse “ask and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full.” John 16:24

My First Mountain Dew

I heard stories from my mother about an uncle who nearly got in trouble during prohibition for making Mountain Dew. It seems that Granny Sanders begged the sheriff to give up looking for evidence against one of her sons because she was a widow and needed him to help provide for her. So Chal didn’t go to prison and the “worm”, hidden in the center post of the kitchen table was never found by the authorities. I think Uncle Chal decided to give up his lawless ways from that time on.

Of course, though that was an interesting true story, it has nothing to do with my first Mountain Dew. That happened in the mountains of West Virginia, and my story takes place much later on the flatlands of Western New York.

My cousin, Joe Savovic, rode a bicycle nearly a mile from his house to mine to tell me that the Pepsi Distributor near his house was introducing a new drink at a gas station on the corner of Erie and Niagara Falls Boulevard. They were selling it cheap. It was called Mountain Dew and was something like Sundrop, a locally sold drink that we liked.

Joe was always finding new things and would, several years later, introduce me to the Burger King Whopper. But that’s a different story, too.

I remember well, going to the gas station to buy this amazing new drink. It was in a 16 ounce green throw-away bottle. Sixteen ounces was good! Most drinks were in 12 ounce bottles that had to be returned for deposit. And the 4 more ounces made it an even better buy. I think the price was one dollar for twelve drinks, about 8 cents a piece. Of course, with inflation, that made it about 60 cents per drink in today’s money.

We struggled to get them home on our bikes and then I tried for the first time what my son today calls “the nectar of the gods”.

Yes, it was good, and so is the memory.  It began a lovefest that has lasted nearly 50 years.  But I suppose Uncle Chal would think that this Mountain Dew doesn’t have enough kick to really "tickle yore innards."

My 1950 Ford Bobsled

I’m sure my brother Bob can clarify the details on the accident because I wasn’t there. I just remember the talk about Reg topping the hill just past Bailey Memorial Baptist Church and hitting a car that had stopped on the road to find a hubcap. Fred Parsons had been following too fast, I heard, and nearly caused it to be a three car pile up, but somehow managed to control his 1958 Buick and missed Bob’s 1950 Ford and the other car involved. Fred said it was a miracle.

Reg and Tom got a new front end for Bob's car from a junk yard and put it back together. The new front was green, however, and didn’t match the blue car.  Bob couldn’t afford to get it painted right away, but Ross Stump and Tom both tell me that Dave Thomas, an artistic friend, decided that a tiger’s head would make a great addition to the front of the new hood until it could be painted. I now may think it was tacky, but when you are about 10 years old, it had to be about the coolest thing in the world.

The old hood was discarded but stayed around to be discovered several years later by me. It became a great snow toy. I suppose you need to know what this Ford hood looked like to fully appreciate how this became my 1950 Ford Bobsled.

Dad’s farm in Bluefield, West Virginia, was fifty acres of trees and rocks, except for the big hayfield, the large garden, the sink hole beside the house, and a small apple orchard in front of the sinkhole between the house and the barn. That orchard and the sinkhole became my bobsled course.

I tied a rope on the front of the hood to pull my sled and also to use as something to hold while riding, much like the bridle of a horse. It wasn’t much control, but by leaning left or right, I could manage some direction. I didn’t have trouble negotiating the few apple trees in my path, but there were lots of trees and undergrowth on the side of the sinkhole. The sinkhole wasn’t bottomless, but was apparently formed centuries before when limestone caves collapsed. So it was a smooth ride through the orchard, followed by an exciting dropoff at the end.

I was no fool, so I knew I needed protection. I think it was my brother Tom who had gotten a good football helmet somewhere that he had painted gold. And of course, it was winter, so I had a large winter jacket that was lined with a soft quilted type of material. Boots and gloves completed the bobsled outfit.

I am amazed now to think about my recklessness and realize that I hit some trees really hard (the hood was already bent, however), but I never got hurt, except for some scratches from the undergrowth. But it was really fun and exciting.

Just now, as I am writing 50 years later, I had to chuckle, because I had never seen the obvious pun --- It was Bob’s hood, that became my 1950 Ford “Bob”sled.