The Stuff Inside

 

 

Rick and I decided one summer night, while we camped in the Great Smoky Mountains, to hike up Deep Creek Trail in search of the synchronized fireflies.  In the Great Smokies, every year for about ten days, late May to early June, these little creatures, called fireflies, display their show.  The most popular place to view them is around Elkmont, but as the crowds grew to watch the spectacle, the National Park was forced to limit visitation, and now issues permits via a lottery system.  Rick and I both had researched and had come to discover that the synchronized fireflies were not only unique to Elkmont but had been seen in many places throughout the National Park.  One of the places mentioned was Deep Creek, where we just so happened to be.

It was late, when Rick and I headed out of camp and maneuvered through the woods to the trail head of Deep Creek.  We left our headlamps off, not wanting to disturb the show we had come so far to see.

As we walked, the forest seemed to come alive around us.  Cicadas sang their evening song, crickets chirped from the shadows, and a soft breeze whispered through the leaves.

Our hike eventually brought us to Tom Branch Falls.   We stopped, found a place to stand quietly, and waited.

Then, against the backdrop of the black forest, something magical happened.

The hillside began to glow!

Eight seconds on

Four seconds off.

Eight seconds on.  Then off.

Hundreds, then thousands of tiny neon-green lights blinked in perfect rhythm, as if the forest itself had found a heartbeat.

I stood there watching, and suddenly I was transported back nearly forty years, to a night when my daughter was only five years old.

We had been sitting in our backyard watching fireflies dance through the darkness.  I suggested we catch some, just as I did when I was a boy.  Soon we had a jar filled with them.

We sat on the patio, watching the little jar mysteriously light up.

On-Off-On.

My daughter looked at me with the wonderfully curious expression only a five-year-old can have.

“What makes them light up, Daddy?”

Being a pharmacist and having an extensive background in chemistry, I launched into my best scientific explanation.  I told her about chemical reactions, bioluminescence, and how the light was part of a mating signal.

She listened carefully; her little brow furrowed in concentration.

Then came the question that stopped my scientific lecture cold.

With an Aire of enlightenment, she says, “Oh! So, it’s the stuff inside them?”

I grinned.

“Yes, I said.  “It’s simply the stuff inside.”

Now, forty years later, standing beside Rick in the darkness of the forest, I watched those same little creatures perform their ancient dance.

Rick broke the silence.

“What makes them light up?”

I smiled in the darkness, and responded, “I once was told be an authority on the subject, that it’s the stuff inside.”

We both laughed

And for a moment, standing there beneath that glowing hillside, I wasn’t an old man hiking through the woods with a buddy.

I was a young father sitting on a patio with his five-year-old daughter, watching a jar of fireflies come alive.

Some things change with time.

Some things don’t.

And sometimes, the simplest explanation is still the best one.

It’s the Stuff Inside.

I Remember When

 

I remember when life seemed to move at the pace of a summer breeze. In the 1960’s, five cents could buy an ice-cold Coke, and an empty afternoon was all we needed for adventure. We played tic-tac-toe on scraps of paper, wore the grass thin with hide-and-seek, stumbled through blind man’s bluff, and hopped from square to square on chalk-drawn hopscotch.  We laughed until the streetlights came on, and somehow, that was enough.

Then came the late ’60s, and childhood gave way to horsepower and chrome. Pontiac GTOs, Mustangs, Camaros, and Chevelles lined the parking lots. They drank gas at eight miles per gallon, but no one cared. Gas was barely 30 cents a gallon, and freedom was measured by the miles ahead.

Friday nights belonged to high school football beneath bright stadium lights. Saturdays meant sock hops, drive-in diners, drive-in movies, hot dogs wrapped in paper, crispy onion rings, and cherry Cokes shared through two straws. Those were the days when forever seemed just around the corner.

But adulthood has a way of arriving without asking permission.

A place called Vietnam suddenly became part of everyday conversation. Young men traded letter jackets for uniforms. Some came home carrying invisible burdens and too many never came home at all. College dreams, student deferments, carefully planned futures—all could disappear in four short years.

Life marched on anyway.

 College brought Pabst Blue Ribbon, Budweiser, and bowls of hunch punch filled weekends, offering young adults the illusion that tomorrow would somehow take care of itself. We believed we had all the time in the world.

Then came marriage. We promised “till death do us part,” never imagining that even forever could sometimes have an expiration date.

Fatherhood changed everything.

The moment I held my daughter, my dreams became less about me and more about her. Responsibility became purpose. Work became necessity. Careers offered security, but they quietly stole pieces of life that could never be reclaimed. First steps I barely saw. Birthdays missed because of business trips. Vacations shortened by deadlines. Precious moments traded for promotions and paychecks.

I remember when.

Now, in the twilight of my life, I sit quietly with memories that remain as vivid as the day they were made. The fears that once kept me awake. The joys that made my heart soar. The unexpected turns I never could have planned. The victories that seemed enormous and the failures that taught me who I was.

An ordinary life, somehow, became extraordinary. 

I’ve learned that life isn’t measured by the money we earned, the cars we drove, or the titles we carried. It’s measured by the hands we held, the people we loved, the tears we wiped away, and the memories that refuse to fade.

As I close my eyes, I can still hear the cheers from those Friday night football games, the rumble of a GTO pulling away from a drive-in, the laughter of children playing until dusk, and the tiny footsteps of my little girl running into my arms.

Those moments never really left.

They simply became…

“I remember when.”

Let Freedom Ring

 

Even at four years old, Troy began to realize what the flag stood for.  It represented his freedom! Troy was born on January 11, 1925, the youngest of four children. Raised in poverty, he learned early the values of hard work, faith in God, and love of country. When he was fourteen, he defended his mother from his abusive father and sent him away for good. From then on, Troy and his siblings worked together to help support their family, never seeing themselves as victims, but as people determined to build a better life.

Through delivering groceries, collecting bottles, and doing whatever work he could find, Troy discovered that success comes through perseverance. America did not promise an easy life. It offered something greater. The freedom to earn one through hard work and determination.

At just seventeen, with his mother’s permission, Troy enlisted in the U.S. Army during World War II. He fought in New Guinea and the Philippines, took part in multiple beach assaults, and earned five military decorations, including two Bronze Stars and a Silver Star. He learned firsthand that freedom is never free. It is preserved by the courage and sacrifice of those willing to defend it.

Returning home, Troy found that his mother had passed away. Despite hardship and loss, he never pitied himself. Instead, he remained grateful for the opportunities America provided. Until his death on July 11, 2012, he stood proudly whenever the flag was raised and the National Anthem was played. He believed that the greatest gift this nation offered was not wealth or comfort, but freedom for every person to pursue their own destiny.

Troy was my father, my hero, and my friend.  He taught me to love this country and what it stood for.  He taught me the simple ideal, for which he fought for his entire life and for which this Republic represents.  Our Freedom!

 

Best Present Ever

Father's Day came and went, but one memory kept rolling back into my mind. A birthday present my dad gave me 64 years ago.

I was about to turn ten, which was a big deal. Double digits! I had one goal, convince my parents I desperately needed a brand-new red Sting-Ray bike with a black banana seat and ape-hanger handlebars.

Dad looked up from his newspaper just long enough to say, "What's wrong with the bike you've got?"

Everything, I thought.

My bike was an archaeological artifact. Heavy as a tractor, covered in scratches, rust, dents, and sporting fake gas tank that fooled absolutely no one. My friends were popping wheelies on shiny Sting-Rays while I was making my bike sound faster by clipping playing cards to the spokes.

As my birthday approached, my parents sent me to stay with a friend for a few days. Looking back, I probably should have been suspicious.

Birthday morning arrived. Pancakes, bacon, happy birthdays... then Dad quietly slipped into the garage.

This is it, I thought. My Sting-Ray has arrived.

I heard a bike rolling toward the kitchen.

It was...my old bike.

Only now it had been sanded, painted fire-engine red, stripped of its fenders and fake gas tank, and fitted with a brand-new black banana seat. Dad proudly pointed out every improvement.

To ten-year-old me, it looked like someone had cut the roof off an old pickup, painted it red, slapped a Corvette emblem on the hood, and called it a sports car.

I was crushed.

But then I looked at my dad.

He wasn't seeing an old bike. He was seeing two days of hard work, love, determination, and pride. He had taken what we had and transformed it into the very best gift he could give.

That wasn't the Sting-Ray bike I'd wanted.

It was something far better. It was loving effort and care for his son.

Best present ever.

Thanks, Dad.

A Story of Forty-five Years

Forty-five years ago, Rhonda and I stood at the beginning of a journey with hearts full of dreams.  We imagined a good life, one filled with happiness, success, good health, deep love, and lasting friendship.  We did not know what the years would bring, but we knew one thing for certain: we would face them together.

There were the good days, the hard days that tested our strength.  There were long days, fleeting days, busy days, and boring days.  Sweet days filled with laughter and tired days when simply making it through together was enough.  There were moments so ordinary they barely seemed worth noticing, yet somehow, they became the memories we treasure most.

Over forty-five years, we learned that marriage is not a collection of perfect moments, but a beautiful mixture of the messy and the magical.  It is patience and forgiveness, joy and sorrow, holding on and letting go.  It is two lives woven together so tightly that the story belongs to neither one alone.

And now, as we look back through the pages of our life together, we see that every chapter mattered.  The triumphs, the struggles, the quiet moments, and the celebrations all became part of something larger than we could have imagined.

They are the pages of our story.  A story of friendship, faithfulness, respect, and love.  Forty-five years later, it remains the greatest story we have ever written together.

Happy 45^th Anniversary to my beautiful Wife and co-author of our story! 

PaPaw The Time Traveler

 PaPaw The Time Traveler

I sit on my back deck just after sunrise, with coffee cup in hand, and a fleece, faintly smelling of cedar and campfire smoke, pulled tightly around me.  The world is quiet except for the distant hum of traffic, a few birds heralding the new day, and the soft creak of the rocking chair beneath me.  I stare at the sky as if it owes me an explanation.

Seventy-four!  The number felt impossible! It’s my birthday and I’m not sure if I should celebrate or mourn.

I remember the days when I would joyously celebrate my birthday, but now I can’t help but feel sad.  Maybe it’s because every year on my birthday, the guest list inside my memory grows longer than the one around my table.  Friends who laughed beside me in college, drinking buddies, fishing partners, cousins, brothers in everything except blood, one by one, they disappeared into framed photographs and cemetery stones.

The back door creaks open and my Grandson, Wilson comes running to my side with a toothless grin.  In his hand he has colored a crude birthday card. Peppa Pig, one tall, one short.  He had labeled one Papaw and the other Wilson.  In haphazard print he had written, Happy Birthday Papaw, Love Wilson.

The six-year-old climbed onto my lap and studied my face intently as I deciphered his work of art. There is no better feeling than to feel the innocent love a young child can give with such ease and no hesitation. The sadness of my memories began to fade as I savored this short moment with him.  Wilson continued to stare at me as if I was some kind of museum exhibit.

Finally, he asked, “Papaw…..were you alive when they invented cars?”

I laughed.  “Yes, buddy.  Barely.”

His eyes got huge. “REALLY?!”

Now the youngster was fully invested and quickly questions again, “Did you know Abraham Lincoln?”

I smile, “No.”

“Did you fight dinosaurs?”

“No.”

“Did TVs used to be black and white because color hadn’t been invented yet?”

It was at this point, I decided to have a little fun.

“Well,” I said, “when I was your age, we only had one crayon.  Dusty Brown.”

He gasped.  “That’s horrr-i—ble.”

A few minutes later, as his young mind tried to imagine my life at his age, he looked at me seriously, and said, “Papaw are you sad because you’re old?”

“Maybe a little.”

Then he patted my hand gently like I was a war hero or a rescued pioneer and says in a conspiratory whisper, “Papaw…. I think it’s great you lived all those olden days. Don’t be sad, because if you didn’t get old, you couldn’t be my Papaw!”

And for the rest of the day, every time someone came by the house, he proudly announced, “This is my Papaw.  He’s seventy-four and he’s still working perfectly!”

HONKY-TONK ENGLISH

I first met Juan when he came by my house to give me a quote on a remodel project, in the suburbs of Atlanta.  He stepped out of his truck, a dented white pickup that looked like it had lived at least three separate lives.  He greeted me with a confident, “Mister Jeff, my friend!  Today….we fix everything.  No problem.  Like a country song, yes?”

                  That should have been my first warning.

                  Juan, an immigrant from south of the border, was a building contractor by trade, spoke English in a way that was both impressive and deeply confusing.  He had learned it, as he proudly told me, by listening to country music while driving a taxi in Texas.

                  “I learn from the best teachers,” he said, nodding seriously.  “George Strait….. Alan Jackson…and one man named Toby, who is very angry but….God bless…so patriotic.”

                  Now, I prided myself on my Spanish.  I’d studied it, practiced it, even had used it ordering food, without accidentally asking for a shoe instead of soup.  But standing there with Juan, I quickly realized I was about as fluent as a toddler with a phrasebook.

                  Our conversations became a linguistic jambalaya – half English, half Spanish, and half wild gesturing. Yes, that’s three halves!  That’s how confusing it was.

                  One morning, I asked him, “Juan, did the materials arrive?”

                  He nodded thoughtfully, “Si… the madera is here. But …..how you say…. The truck, she broke my corazón.”

                  “Your heart?”  I asked.

                  He shook his head.  “No, no.  The axle. 

                  Another time, I tried to explain a design change, with my limited Spanish, “Necesitamos mover la Puerta….uh…. two feet….hacia la izquierda. »

                  He squints, processing.  Then lights up.

                  “Ah!  You mean…. We take the door; we put her on the road again, like no good honky tonkying woman?”

                  I gesture widely and say, “No, we move the honky tonkying lady right here!”  and I take a pencil and mark the location on the two-by-four. 

                  He nods smiling and jots a few notes on his note pad.

                  I wonder if he is writing a new country music song. He is wondering if I realize the new position, I so eloquently instructed, would now be directly above a central air vent.

                  His crew, who spoke even less English, would watch us like we were performing some kind of experimental theater.  Juan would translate for them, but not quite accurately.

                  The moment that truly defined Juan happened late one Saturday afternoon.  We’d wrapped up a long week, and he leaned against the countertop, which he had built, and studied the job, like a cowboy surveying his land.

                  “Mr. Jeff,” he said, “In life….. you build things, you lose things… sometimes you fix things.  Is like a country song, always.”

                  I nodded.  “That’s….actually pretty accurate.”

                  He smiled, then added, “Aso, if something goes wrong….you blame the truck.”

                  “The truck?”  I question.

                  “Yes”, he said firmly.  “Always the truck.  Even if there is no truck.”

                  I laughed.  “That might be the most useful Spanish/English lesson you’ve given me.”

                  He grinned.  “Next week, I teach you about love, whiskey, and drywall.”

                  And that’s how I learned that fluency isn’t about perfect grammar or the right words.  Sometimes, it’s about meeting somewhere in the middle-with a little Spanish, a little English, a lot of hand gestures. …..and just enough country music to make everything make sense.