Love Begets Love

I'm alive today because God created me, and while I've made choices and wrong decisions throughout my life, He had a plan already worked out for me. Before He created the world, He had us on His mind, and set a plan in motion. It included paying an ultimate price. He allowed His Word...His Life...His Bosom, to be placed into the world to have done to it what only the world can do....die. Guess what? The Plan worked! The Grave could not hold LOVE. You may have questions about why a God would allow such horrible things to happen in this life, but that is the wrong perspective. There is another dimension, and God has provided THE WAY to it! Why? BECAUSE LOVE BEGETS LOVE.

March is Women's History Month

     Today has been a very interesting day. I went to the campus library at noon to await an unknown event. My curiosity began to arise as I watched students begin to congregate. I noticed that the lounge area seating seemed to be the focal point and the chairs were occupied by mostly females. After a sizable crowd developed, I pulled out my phone to shoot some video of the various conversations taking place. Moments later, a girl arose from her chair and stepped onto a lounge area table. She began to recite words of what sounded like a poet. An applause followed as she finished and took her seat. I did not recognize the words she spoke, but I suddenly realized what this event was about when a second young lady stepped onto the table and began to utter a few words. I did not instantly recognize it until the words, "and ain't I a woman?" were spoken. March is Women's History Month, and nothing to me best paints the power of a woman better than that speech by Sojourner Truth. The students who participated in the event did an outstanding job.

     Later in class, we discussed a video about the portrayal of women in the media. It seems that everywhere you look, from beer and shampoo commercials to music videos and news channels, the objectification of women is ever-present. It is a basic human trait for anyone, especially for women, to want to be desirable, but the notion that women bring this objectification upon themselves makes me angry. I must confess that I am fairly typical when it comes to being a man. I think that, of all God's creation, a woman is His finest handiwork, and yes, I like to look at them. However, I don't buy into the American stereotype of what beauty is, especially the idea that only thin is beautiful (Uh, Adele? Hello!). I certainly do not consider beauty to be the only quality of a woman.

     Before you call B.S. on me, let me explain. I have been very fortunate in that I have had some very strong, powerful women in my life. My great-aunt, Louise Copeland, was a church pastor who chose not to  marry, and dedicated her life to people. She endured the persecution and criticism of men who claimed she had no business standing behind a pulpit, and she did it with the gracefulness of a queen. My sister, while in college, became the first female president of student government in 25 years at Southeast Missouri State University. She also challenged a local hotel owner in Cartersville many years ago who put out an ad seeking help from male applicants only--she accepted the position. Of course, I must mention my mom. She is as humble and meek as anybody I know. She is scared to death of storms, but when "life" storms are inevitable, she becomes the superpower that remains strong when everybody else freaks out.

     I could mention many other women in my life who have displayed a true example of the strength and power that women hold. The trait that stands out most for me about all of these women is grace under pressure. They remain beautiful, inside and out, even as they struggle in what some say is a man's world. Many men need to gain a little more perspective concerning women. They are mothers. They are daughters. They are sisters. They are advocates. Most times, they are the true leaders behind the great stories of history in which men have taken the credit. Ain't that a woman?

A little about me...

I speak very little, but not because I have a shortage of words.

I talk out loud to myself and yes, I answer myself.

I love people (especially kids and the elderly).

I laugh at myself way more than you ever will.

I sometimes think evil thoughts, but I don't take ownership.

I love thrift stores, coffee shops, and live music.

I value my heritage.

I dream big. I daydream bigger.

I believe in second chances--and third, fourth, and fifth chances.

I love free stuff.

I love science.

I love chaos.

I love chimichangas.

I fly by the seat of my pants.

I am horrible at returning phone calls.

I hate stepping on cracks.

I love figuring things out for myself.

I love to explore.

My favorite Disney movie is the Lion King.

I'm a Leo. I love attention but hate being the center of it.

I love surprise endings.

I love good news.

I hate drama.

I hate shopping at Walmart.

I love people-watching at Walmart.

I love to read cereal boxes.

I like to pee outside.

I like peppers that are so hot it makes me drool.

I love to sneeze.

I love girls who wear flip-flops.

I think flip-flops should be worn only by girls.

I love talking to complete strangers.

I think I have insomnia.

I believe in grace. Lots and lots of grace.

I'm thinking of not voting in the next presidential election.

I don't mind criticism.

I think it's midnight and I must submit this post immediately.

I think hope is what drives me more than anything.

I hope I get credit for this blog.

Oh, did I mention that I am the world's best procrastinator?

The Kennesaw Old-Timer's Club

As I walk into KB's, I notice Ol' Curtis shaming yet another unsuspecting young lion who thought he could come in from out of town and prove his table skills. The jukebox is spitting out beats not usually played this time of day, and Red's compadres are strutting around, twirling their sticks like they are auditioning for The Color of Money II. Curtis notices me coming in and gives me a sly wink and a grin as he hobbles around the table. I shook my head and snickered. I go to the bar to chat with Tommy while he fixes my usual water with a splash of lime and cranberry.

"Apple-bottom jeans, boots with the f-urrrr..."


"Who played that song!? I'm swingin' on somebody if I hear that shit again," came a voice from the back corner. I knew from experience that it had probably been played for the fifth time today from one of the outsiders. Tommy slides my drink to me and shakes his head like he was trying his best to avoid any sarcasm about the daily drama. We stop for a moment to watch the entertainment on the smoke-stained felt. I barely take the first sip of my water and Red is already racking the balls. "It takes Curtis ten minutes to walk around a 9-foot table and only two minutes to clear it? How does that happen?" a barfly asks. Oh well, watching the Tom Cruise cue-twirling stop, the knees lock, and the demeanors drop was entertainment enough.

Curtis is a member of the Old-Timer's Club (as I like to call it). The old Kennesaw natives have their own table next to the bar. Tommy keeps their personal cups filled with coffee, tea, and lemonade. Most of the time, I come here during the day to shoot alone. I've always made a point to find a table in close proximity to the old-timers so I can listen to the story-telling. All of the people-watching I do can easily be taken in at a distance, and the conversations on the other side of the bar I couldn't care less about. I love to hear the stories of this Civil War town during post-World War II and the Civil Rights Era. I take in every word when they talk about memorable 9-ball games they played against Johnny the "Scorpion" Archer, a legendary pool champion and hall-of-famer who cut his teeth on that very table. Most of the old-timers never venture to the other side of the pool hall, but Curtis loved spending time with the "youngsters".

I met Ol' Curtis one Sunday afternoon about 2 years ago. I've known of him for much longer than that. I'll never forget the first game of pool I played with him. I had been coming in here for the last few years to cope with the never-ending heartache and depression I had dealt with over the better part of a decade. I've played pool since I was a kid, but only recently discovered the therapeutic value of the game, at least when played alone. One of those days, Curtis asked if he could join me. I could tell right away that something was different about him. He didn't act like the others. He always wore the same warm, squinty-eyed smile, even when the money rollers attempted to harass him. 

It was that game when I began the process of thinking with a different outlook. I listened in amazement as I wondered if anybody else in the room had ever truly took the time to hear this man speak. As we casually played, he revealed story after story, each one giving another small detail about his life. He began a war story and I asked, "Are you a veteran?" 

"World War II", he replied.

"Wow, how old are you?"

"Ninety-three," he said.

Ninety-three? I couldn't believe my ears. He looks every bit of seventy. His white hair was well-combed to the side. His cheeks were rosy. He was a little slow, sure, but he was beating kids nearly a fifth his age. I asked him, "Why don't you show up to play when all the other old-timers do on Sunday?"
"Because I don't leave church until the sanctuary is clean," was his response. My eyes shifted from left to right as I struggled to understand what he said. 

"You go to church?" 

"Yes, sir. I clean it and mow the grass, too. Been doin' that since my wife died three years ago...married her when I was twenty-three."

I could feel my chest starting to tremble inside. I can't even begin to imagine what it's like to lose a wife after being married for that long. The old jukebox was faithfully on cue with a house favorite that plays about this time every week. I stopped the conversation, finished the game--and won. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat as I listened to Cash sing Sunday Mornin' Coming Down. He let out a chuckle and invited me to the old-timers table. 

I don't think I could have felt more excitement if I had won an Oscar. I was a member of the Kennesaw Old-Timer's Club. Of course, the initiation had only begun, but my game improved immensely while I spent more time at the "real" table. I learned to play One Pocket, the chess game of billiards, and Straight Pool, the game Paul Newman played in The Hustler. 

"Where do you live?" Gene asked. 

"Cedartown," I replied.

"So, do you know Wayne?"

"Sure do. He taught me how to play real pool."

He asked, "What's real pool?"

"Snooker," I said. He cut his eyes and grinned. He realized that I really did know Wayne, because Cedartown does have a snooker table. I knew that I had answered wisely, but I couldn't help replaying the conversation I had with Curtis in the back of my mind.

 It's been two years since I've played a game of pool. Curtis had restored a little bit of hope and set the stage for something different to happen. I've been tempted to go back to KB's to see the old man. My heart sinks when I think about whether he will still be there or not. He hasn't been the only significant influence in my life over the past few years, but he definitely sparked a kairos moment that has brought me to where I am now. Curtis taught me more than how to be a better pool player. He taught me how to be a sniper. With pin-point accuracy he took his shot and hit me before I knew what happened, when I least suspected it, and without being noticed. Many of my church-going friends will frown upon the subject matter posted here, but I don't care. This ain't no gentleman's war.

In conclusion, here's a word of advice that you might need in the future:
Never try to hustle an old man from Kennesaw.


(Thanks, Curtis)

Big Bird?

Today, my English professor informed me that my next blog post will be my response to a picture she showed us in class. I must say, Ms. Lindberg has quite a sense of humor. I know she enjoyed the reaction on our faces when she presented the image. I thought I was viewing a Warshak image in a psychological exam. I give up. Go ahead and mark it zero, dude. Thanks a lot, Ms. Lindberg.

So, I'm not sure how to respond to this picture. I think it's a homeless person that must have beat somebody up and took their Big Bird costume, except he doesn't look like Big Bird. The exotic plumage is a little different. And it looks like he sewed some of his grandmother's patchwork to it. He seems to be celebrating. He looks very triumphant despite posing in front of  a very decrepit building with wood siding. With his arms wide open and his face to the sky, he seems to be shouting. I think he is saying, "Who's got the most insane pair of pajamas now, yo!" Graffiti on the wall reads: "Ms. Sweat." I'm glad Ms. Lindberg is not a psychologist. Can I stop here? Dear God.

That's all I've got. This has been an experience. I think I need to get in the shower and wash the weirdness off.

Oh, yeah. We discussed the picture. Turns out, it was a Native American costume for a Mardi Gras celebration. Hmmmm....I'm going home now. Tomorrow I will be going to Barne's & Noble to purchase my copy of "IQ for Dummies."