Pentecostal – Mostly From Memory

Old Men

I want to be an old man one day. I want to drive a squeaky clean pickup truck to meet my friends for breakfast at Jack’s at 5:30 in the morning. I’ll eat a steak biscuit unless the bologna biscuits are on sale. We’ll sit at the round table and laugh about the good old days when gas was only .89¢ when we started driving. When a stranger walks in we’ll ask if anybody knows him. And if they don’t, we’ll get to know him. We’ll have nicknames for all the little kids because we might not remember their real names. That will endear them to us. After breakfast we will piddle in our gardens, or go horse trade old guitars and guns.

I met a man yesterday who was 98 years old. He drove himself to the Council on Aging. I’m not sure if he came to hear me sing, or if he just came out of habit because old men have routines. But he stayed and talked to me in the atmosphere that lingers after the songs are over but everyone remains quiet, intently listening. He was still sharp in his mind. That’s the kind of old man I want to be.

I met another old man that cycled 100 miles when he turned 90. A spry old sinewy man, tough as woodpecker lips-that is the kind of thing that old men say. I hope to be a fit old man. Not the kind that wears shorts so everyone has to look their old nasty bird legs. There are some things in life a man ought not have to look at.

I want to be an old man that can tell a good story. Can’t nobody tell a story like an old man. And I might start carrying around little candies to hand out at church for children in case my eyebrows scare them.

I just lost one of my favorite old men, Bro. Boney. I wasn’t expecting it, and I’m still not over it. He was one the kind of old men that shook everyone’s hand at the church. He did that with purpose. He had a way of making people feel like they belonged there. He’d been coming to Thanksgiving with my family for the past few years. He’d sing snatches of those old hymns and I’d accompany on the guitar in the corner until our wives would calm us down. One year the power went out, so we couldn’t be ignored. Everyone joined in and sang along. It was a good night.

One year he brought a BB Gun to the church while we cooked a bunch of turkey breasts for Thanksgiving. It was something that you would expect an 8 year old boy to do, but there he was, the oldest man present, plinking away at cans. I just thought that was hilarious. I kept this picture as his contact picture on my phone. I always have the hardest time deleting contacts of friends that have died.

The hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of righteousness. Proverbs 16:31

Old men are a blessing, otherwise God would not have cursed the house of Eli by denying them old men.

Wherefore the Lord God of Israel saith, I said indeed that thy house, and the house of thy father, should walk before me for ever: but now the Lord saith, Be it far from me; for them that honour me I will honour, and they that despise me shall be lightly esteemed. Behold, the days come, that I will cut off thine arm, and the arm of thy father’s house, that there shall not be an old man in thine house. And thou shalt see an enemy in my habitation, in all the wealth which God shall give Israel: and there shall not be an old man in thine house for ever. And the man of thine, whom I shall not cut off from mine altar, shall be to consume thine eyes, and to grieve thine heart: and all the increase of thine house shall die in the flower of their age. I Samuel 2:30-33

I want to be the kind of old man that young men want to get next to in the prayer room before church. The kind of old man that makes children laugh. That gives good gifts. That speaks the truth in love. That cares. That loves the same woman for decades and raises godly children.

I guess the best way to be the kind of old man you want to be is to be the kind of young man you ought to be.

Church Clothes: An Essay on Discomfort

Do you remember when you were a little kid and your momma would make you wear really uncomfortable clothes to church?

I’m supposed to be packing my church clothes for a Youth Conference that I am attending later this week, but I am procrastinating. This is what I do when I procrastinate: write essays. This essay is about church clothes. Having been going to church for 37 years-and 9 months before that-I have a long and conflicting relationship with church clothes. I was raised-and firmly believe- that you ought to dress your best when going up to the House of The Lord. Whether that is a pair of cowboy boots and your cleanest blue jeans, or a business suit and tie. This is the rub: I really enjoy looking nice in a suit and whatnot, but I also really enjoy being comfortable. And unless you are just the picture of health with a trim figure like a Greek statue, or have you enough money to pay someone to make you a suit of clothes that fit your exact body proportions, there is a strong chance that your suit is just going to be plain uncomfortable.

I’m not convinced that comfort should be the first priority when dressing for church.

Do you remember when you were a little kid and your momma would make you wear really uncomfortable clothes to church? I remember one Easter having to wear a button up shirt and these teal dress pants. I hated them. I looked like I stepped off of page 37 of a JC Penney catalog from 1992. Not only was I required to endure these clothes all through church, but I wasn’t allowed to change until after the egg hunt at Uncle Dave’s. I still think that is how a lot of people feel about dressing for church.

Most of the time, I do not really pay attention to what other people wear. And from a scientific study I did in college on this topic where I wore the same suit and tie for a solid week to see if anyone would say anything, I don’t think most people pay attention either. But it is hard to not notice when someone feels uncomfortable in their clothes. Especially a suit. I used to look out my window at work down at the courthouse steps and watch young men walk unsure of themselves in an ill-fitting suit to a matter of grave concern. You see uncomfortable people at funerals and weddings, their awkward conversations informed by clothes that they don’t really understand how to behave in.

There is a way to wear a suit like a lawyer or like you have a court date.

Here is a people watching experiment for you to try on a Sunday afternoon: go out to eat at the most crowded restaurant you can find right after church. Better yet, go to a buffet. Try to guess which people went to church and which people just decided to go get some Chinese food. It should be easy to tell by what they are wearing. I made a Bingo card for you to fill out.

Suit & T-Shirt	Tucked in Polo	Elderly couple with matching died hair	Gold-buttoned blazer	Hebrew letters on an article of clothing
Penny Loafers	Suit & Tie	Paisley	Sun dress	Church Logo T-Shirt
Cowboy boots	Braided belt	Child in a sailor suit	Seersucker	“Praise the Lord!” Greeting
Bow Tie	Wingtip shoes	“Production Team” T-Shirt	Suspenders	Pleated Khakis
High Heels	Western Shirt	Combover	Church Logo Hat	Square toed dress shoes

Uncomfortable: that is how dressing for church felt until I started paying attention to girls around about Middle School. It was then that I quit depending on Mom to tie my tie and started wanting to pick out my own suits and dress shoes. I think everyone goes through an identity crisis sometime during Middle School. Being interested in dressing yourself, while not knowing how to dress. The real conflict can be articulated thus: I don’t know what I want to wear, but I know it isn’t what Mom has been choosing. It takes a while to realize that your Mom had pretty good taste. Aside from maybe the teal Easter pants.

I got these hickory stripe tuxedo pants from Zach. I don’t know if I ever got cooler than that.

I’m less worried about my clothes and more interested in that guitar that I might’ve should’ve kept. Alas, it didn’t sound near as good as it looked. I suppose there is a lesson to be drawn from that.

Fashion is so fickle. When I was a teenager I probably spent far too much money on dress clothes. Trying to be fashionable, or cool. Some of those clothes are cool again, but probably won’t be for long. I will see teenagers this week at PEAK wearing stuff similar to what I wore 25 years ago.

My sartorial ideals have always been too lofty for my meager salary.

It took me a long-a very long-time to figure out exactly what kind of church clothes (or any clothes for that matter) that I wanted to wear. But Today, I feel that I am closest to my real essence when I am wearing a suit and tie. Ultimately, I think I accidentally took less cues from my peers and current fashion trends and more from history while establishing my wardrobe standards. And it happened by seeing old photographs not necessarily related to fashion from say 1962 or 1937 of a men in suits and realizing I would wear that today. When you take this classic approach, you are making a statement: I’m going to wear this and be confident and comfortable no matter what is trendy. This means that you may or may not be in style as the years pass. But what you will be, is established. And possible timeless. And we need more established people.

Well, I have to go pack.

Ramblin’

Ice cream with your Dad. If that’s not entertainment, I don’t know what is.

In a town with one red light there wasn’t much in the way of entertainment. There was Smith’s, or to the locals, “Smiss”, the grocery store, but even if you were really taking your time and got stuck behind somebody’s grandmother who was shopping for a family reunion, you could see the whole store in less that ten minutes. Come to think of it, I’m not really sure what entertainment means. I suppose that it’s what you do for fun whenever you are caught up with all the chores at home. So when all the grass was cut, or there were no pecans left to pick up, Dad would take us what he called Rambling. It was Dad’s form of entertainment. Essentially, my brother Zach and I would pile into Dad’s red Mazda pickup truck and drive around back roads for the better part of the day.

It was always a surprise to go rambling, not something that we worked up to, like fishing, but something that could be done rather quickly when you discover that you’ve found time, but not made time. I never knew where we were going, although I was relatively certain that we’d stop at the store to get a cold “drank”. Dad would get a Pepsi, Zach a Dr. Pepper. I would get a Grapico. We’d set in the truck and enjoy our drinks. After the policeman pulled Dad over because he saw one of us standing up right next to Dad, we had to start wearing our seat belts. Being the youngest, I had to set in the middle with both legs hanging over into the passenger floorboard, so as to be out of the way of Dad shifting the gears. I remember being really worried about learning how to drive as I watched Dad press the clutch and shift the gears in that little truck. How was he so coordinated? How did he know when to shift them?

“You can listen and the motor will tell you when to shift the gears.”

I would do my best to listen to the motor through the hissy static of the AM radio broadcasting the Braves game. I was so intent that I would hum along to the pitch of the engine as he accelerated through the gears after stopping at a lonely stop sign on some back road. I was mesmerized by Dad’s ability to drive with only his thumbs.

There were various destinations although I don’t recall guessing, I was just along for the ride. We’d often go to the Logan Martin Dam and climb across the guardrail to peer down to the rocks amongst the stench of dead fish where the men cast out into the churning water hoping for a catch. There was an old man there named Mr. Bird. He was always there, but if he wasn’t fishing, you might as well pack up your tackle and go home.

Sometimes we went to visit a distant relative who removed an oxygen tube to take a drag on a cigarette. I only remember these people because Dad took me to see them. They would have never been able to make it to the barbecue at the next major holiday. But I remember them, if only faintly through the eyes of a child. They’re gone now, and I wonder how many stories with them.

We would visit ancient cemeteries so Dad could point out where a great grandfather was buried. I could barely read then, but I wish I would have taken better notes. It was interesting to see the graves of people who had been born in the 18th century. Dad taught us proper cemetery etiquette: don’t holler, and don’t step on anyone’s grave.

We ate a few times when we went rambling. I remember going to Jill’s restaurant in Leeds one day. Dad came walking back from the counter with two ice cream cones half a foot high. Ice cream with your Dad. If that’s not entertainment, I don’t know what is.

Through rambling, Dad immersed us in the art of looking out the window while you’re riding in a car. He taught us how to spot a Red Tailed Hawk, and where to look for a Great Blue Heron. It’s still a thrill to be able to point out a herd of deer on the side of the road, or a redbird on a fencepost. You can always tell when you’re riding with someone who never did any recreational riding. They won’t appreciate your superior observations skills, and will usually complain about watching the road, or make some remark about traffic before looking back down at their phones.

I go rambling sometimes with my two kids now that Sarah is letting them both ride in the truck. We drive slowly by the waterfall, neither of them can argue that it’s not on their side since everyone is on the same row. Wes usually rides in the middle with his feet over in the passenger floorboard so I can shift gears. I’m still a little wary of these new automatics. We’ll get some ice cream and I’ll point at the hawks.

Support

Your patronage is greatly appreciated.

$5.00