Sunday, Sept. 25
Meeting in St. Louis This week I’m writing from the Am. Christian Fiction Writers Conference in St. Louis. The Elephant Test Right outside my St. Louis hotel window is the Mississippi River. Just north of the Gateway Arch is the Eads Bridge. When it was built in the late 19th Century, it was longest arch bridge in the world and the first built with majority steel construction. The builder, James Eads, was famous for this first bridge to cross the Mississippi as well as the father of Mississippi River navigation. You can learn more about this fascinating man in the book, Rising Tide. It tells the story of Eads as well as the Flood of 1927. St. Louis residents were scared to cross on the Eads bridge as it neared completion. They feared that it was unstable. Eads procured a “test elephant.” This elephant, led by its trainer, crossed the bridge as citizens on both sides watched. It was believed that elephants had an inner sense on if a structure was safe and wouldn’t go forward if it wasn’t. Of course the test elephant crossed safely and the Eads Bridge passed its test. Next Eads sent trains across on its center tracks. Soon folks became comfortable with the new bridge and crossed it with no thought. The railroad tracks have been removed. The bridge has been resurfaced. It’s still carrying traffic across the Mighty Mississippi. What lessons do you see in the test elephant story? What spiritual story is hidden there? I’d love to hear from you.
Chapters 1 & 2 A Spent Bullet
Printed below are chapters 1 and 2 of our novel, A Spent Bullet. You can learn more at http://www.creekbank.net. Also, keep in touch through Facebook (friend page Curt Iles and fan page Creekbank Stories and Curt Iles) as well as Twitter. Part I The Battle for the Bullet “I want the mistakes made down in Louisiana, not over in Europe. If it doesn’t work, find out what we need to make it work.” – General George C. Marshall Chief of Staff, U.S. Army Spring 1941 “Monday I go to Louisiana . . . The old-timers say we are going to a God-awful spot complete with mud, malaria, mosquitoes, and misery.” – Colonel Dwight D. Eisenhower August 5, 1941 Chapter 1 The Bullet “How unhappy is he who cannot forgive himself.” – Publilius Syrus Wednesday, August 13, 1941 DeRidder, Louisiana Elizabeth Reed had only met one soldier she liked, and he had wounded her deeply. So when the blond G.I. tossed the bullet, she didn’t flinch even as it landed at her feet. The soldier leaned out of a crowded Army truck. “You’re beautiful. Write me.” He pointed at her feet. “The bullet—write me.” The empty cartridge had a note folded inside. The bullet-tossing practice was called “yoo-hooing” and was an attempt to get the attention—and addresses—of local girls. A loud wolf whistle from the truck grated on her like fingernails across the slate board in her classroom. The same soldier called out, “I’d love a kiss from a pretty Southern girl like you.” Elizabeth coolly nodded at a large matronly woman near her. “Are you talking to me or her?” The troop truck exploded in laughter. She fanned away the dust. “Soldiers. They’re all the same.” Traffic began moving and the smoking truck rattled across the railroad tracks. Her ten-year-old brother Ben, behind her, had missed the tossed bullet. He spied it just as Elizabeth drew her foot back to kick it. “What’s that?” “A soldier threw it. It’s a note stuck in an empty cartridge.” As he knelt, she pulled him away. “Leave it alone. It might blow up.” “Lizzie, you’re playing with me.” He bounced on his toes at the three-o’clock train’s whistle. “They’re here.” Yelling from the convoy’s last truck replaced the whistle. Elizabeth clamped her hands over Ben’s ears. “Sometimes what they say isn’t for fresh ears.” He twisted loose. “My ears ain’t fresh.” “Benjamin Franklin Reed, you’re impossible. It’s aren’t—not ain’t.” “Well, either way, my ears ain’t fresh.” A soldier yelled from the truck, “Is this Detroit?” “Nope, this is DeRidder, Louisianer.” Ben had always been allergic to silence. Elizabeth bent down. “We live in Louisiana, not Louisianer.” “Ain’t that what I said?” His face was pinched. “Is this how you’ll be treating me in your classroom?” Grabbing him in a playful headlock, she goosed him until he said, “Uncle.” Elizabeth looked up at a tall grinning soldier. “I’ll wrassle you next if you’re through with him,” he said in a rich west-Texas drawl. She felt her face flushing. “I believe I could whip you too.” She grabbed Ben’s hand. “Come on. Our train’s here.” “Where are y’all going?” Texas said. She cringed when Ben said, “We’re here to pick up some chicks.” The soldier laughed. “Well, count me in.” Elizabeth pulled on Ben’s shirtsleeve. “Let’s go before the train leaves.” He knelt on the sidewalk. “But what about the bullet?” “Leave it.” He was slowly rolling the cuff of his overalls. “Come on Ben. A dollar’s waiting on a dime.” He scampered forward. “Poppa says that there are three things a soldier likes best: dogs, kids, and pretty girls.” “In that order?” “Probably not.” “Well Ben, which one are you?” “I’m not a dog or a pretty girl, so I guess I fit in as a ‘kid.’” He squeezed her hand. “And if I eyed those soldiers right, you definitely fit the ‘pretty girl’ part.” “You think so?” She hurried on ahead. Ben stepped in front of her. “Lizzie, are you mad at me?” She froze. “Why would I be mad at you? I love you like a son.” She licked her fingers, trying to tame the unruly cowlick in his dark hair. “But I’m your brother, not your son.” “You’re ten years younger than me, so I guess you’re kind of both.” “You seem mad at someone. Is it those soldiers?” She drew in a long breath. “I’m not mad at them . . . just tired of them.” “Is it ’cause they’re men?” “Who’s been talking to you?” “Well, Peg said . . . some soldier hurt you.” “Is that so?” “She claimed being your twin lets her see into your heart—says you got wounded by a soldier—said you were eligible for a Purple Heart.” Her jaw tightened. “Maybe a broken heart, but not a purple one.” She looked around. “Peg said she’d meet us here before the train arrived.” As they neared the depot, she rubbed Ben’s ear. “Watch for those army trucks.” He was digging in his pocket, so she repeated, “Watch for those trucks.” “I will.” Her twin sister Peg’s words hung like the dust in the air. Hurt by a soldier. Wounded. Elizabeth heard her own voice bouncing in her soul. It’s your own fault. You don’t have anyone to blame but yourself. She bit her lip. It would not happen again. Chapter 2 Bad News CLOSE VOTE EXTENDS SERVICE TERM FOR THOUSANDS OF SOLDIERS (Washington) By a vote of 203-202 yesterday, Congress removed restrictions pertaining to federalized National Guard units. This close vote means National Guard soldiers will have their terms extended and may be moved to locations outside the United States. Private Harry Miller had never hated a place like he hated Louisiana. As his National Guard convoy reached the end of the paved road outside DeRidder’s city limits, he braced himself for the teeth-jarring washboard road. Through the chalky red dust covering them,
My Genesis Finalist story: As the Crow Flies
As the Crow Flies Chapter One Copyright 2011 Curt Iles and Creekbank Stories My name is Nancy Cotten, and I was born into a family of thieves. That explains why Daddy kept looking over his shoulder when our horse-drawn wagon reached the ferry at Hineston. “We’ll be safe across the Calcasieu River,” He said, nodding at the towering trees. “They call this ‘No Man’s Land’ and claim the law don’t come past here.” Daddy, who now called himself Henry Cotten, had pulled off one of his schemes in the Red River town of Alexandria just before Christmas of 1882. When he’d scammed several citizens, we’d cleared out one step ahead of the law. While we waited for the river ferry to return, four crows circled behind our wagon, cawing something fierce. Momma handed my baby brother, Fred, to me. “They’re a sign from God for us not to cross.” I saw Daddy’s hackles rise and he lifted his hand. Daddy raised his hand. “I don’t want to hear no more of that.” She waited until he walked down to the river, then turned to me. “Nancy, it’s a sign we’re headed for trouble.” The crows landed and were picking about in the red clay road. “They’ve been following us for the last mile.” One of the crows, cawing harshly, hopped nearer. “That one there with the bad wing. It’s trying to tell us something.” I tried not to show the irritation blistering in my heart. “Momma. . . .” “It’s a murder of crows.” “A murder of crows?” “That’s what you call a group of crows: a murder.” “I thought they were a flock?” She gestured at the birds. “That’s a murder of crows and it only means.…” I studied her face and saw the old darkness descending. She was dropping into that deep place where she sometimes stayed for days or weeks. She counted the crows out loud. “One . . . two . . . three . . . four,” and turned to me. “Four of them will die.” “Four what?” “Four men are going to die near here.” “When?” “Soon.” “How?” She was studying the crows. “I don’t rightly know yet.” She pointed out the cawing crow with the bad wing. “Listen. It’s laughing at us.” “Momma, are you getting sick again?” “I may be. The black dogs are barking at me.” It was how she often described the inky depression she often sank into. She glanced back at the birds. “Those black crows are roosting in my hair and …” She hushed as Daddy climbed back on the wagon, I wanted to hug her, but this wasn’t the time. He peeked behind the wagon but wasn’t looking for crows: he was making sure a Rapides Parish Sheriff’s posse hadn’t caught up with us. He clucked to the horses and they waded down to the river and reluctantly boarded the creaky ferry. Momma shivered. “Henry, do you think this will get us across?” He scanned the far bank. “They say it’s nothin’ but open country for fifty miles and no law until Texas. Sounds like my kind of place.” I saw Momma’s mouth move and gently placed my hand on hers. The terror in her eyes told me that even if no one else believed the omen, she did. The Calcasieu wasn’t a large river at all. Regardless, it seemed as though we were wading into Caesar’s Rubicon. I felt that once we were across, there’d be no turning back. Our future—good or bad—stretched westward. I held my breath as the leaky ferry slipped into the river’s swift current. When we finally bumped against the far bank, Daddy hurriedly unloaded. “It’s time to catch fire out of here.” He was in some kind of a hurry to get out of civilized Louisiana and onto what he considered “safe footing.” Once we reached level ground above the bluff, he pulled the team to the side of the rutted trail and crawled under the wagon. “That back axle bearing’s not going to take us much further.” Baby Fred was fretting in the wagon and Momma sighed. “I’m sure tired of hearing that squealing.” “You talking about the axle or that baby?” Daddy’s voice had that edge to it. “Both.” Her one word answer told me another of their fights was brewing. “If you hadn’t let us run out of axle grease.” He squirmed out from under the wagon. “Woman, shut your mouth now.” “It wouldn’t hurt to ask a passing wagon for a little grease.” He drew his fist back. “Shut up or else I’ll shut you up.” I quietly slipped off with a bucket to draw some water and escape the coming storm. I’d turned fifteen two months ago, and it was now the week of Christmas. We’d been traveling like this for as long as I could remember. We’d stay somewhere long enough to make a little money or run afoul of the law, then move on westward. Cotten wasn’t even our real family name. We’d changed our names before arriving in Louisiana during the late summer of 1882. Our wagon was the last one in a snaking line of eight wagons. As we crawled through the cotton fields of the Red River area near Alexandria, Daddy announced. “Our new name’s going to be ‘Cotten.’ That’s C-O-T-T-E-N. That should throw off those folks in Natchez if they’re looking for us.” I didn’t have much school learning but had devoured anything I could read and knew that cotton was spelled with two o’s, but he wouldn’t listen—or maybe just didn’t care—he only wanted to get shed of the past and get away from the law and those folks he’d stolen from in Natchez, and Starkville, and a dozen other towns in our past. The road past the Calcasieu was called the Sugartown Road. Sugartown, about forty miles ahead as the crow flies, was one of the few actual towns in the No Man’s Land. That was Daddy’s
Sun. Sept. 18
Water Running I lean on my congas during Sunday morning choir practice. Behind me I hear a sound sweeter than the music Water is running. The baptistry is filling. Someone—actually three “someones”—are being baptized today. Three young people who’ve made a decision. A decision to follow Jesus and show it publicly. My guitar partner, Vance Gill, whispers, “Baptizing today.” And I recall the wonderful day when he and I were baptized together. I felt as if we were wading into the Jordan Following Jesus into the cold water. Our way of showing where our heart was And where we planned for our hearts to stay. I often tell others, “It wasn’t about my salvation. It was all about my obedience.” Obedience to Jesus and his call on my life. Yep, water is running today at Dry Creek Baptist Church. It’s a good day.
A Spent Bullet Historical Fiction Proposal
Link on this page: http://is.gd/5t3e73 A SPENT BULLET Louisiana 1941 S.C. “Curt” Iles Represented by Chip MacGregor MacGregor Literary Working Title: A SPENT BULLET/Louisiana 1941 Curt Iles The Big Idea We all have a past but it’s our choice to live there or move forward. A Spent Bullet is the story of two young people who face this decision at a time when the entire world is shaking beneath their feet. I. THE CONTENT A. Genre: Historical Fiction B. Benefits A Spent Bullet will entertain readers with warm and memorable stories from the months prior to Pearl Harbor. It will educate readers about the historic Louisiana Army Maneuvers and the young soldiers and rural civilians who met, mixed, and often married. Finally, A Spent Bullet will encourage readers that it’s possible to move forward from a dark past. They will learn that overcoming adversity and tenacity are parts of personal and spiritual growth. C. Overview and Synopsis One word Moving! One sentence Elizabeth Reed and Harry Reed each have a past—their choices now are to move past them. One Paragraph Louisiana 1941. Elizabeth Reed is a young schoolteacher who dislikes soldiers. Harry Miller is a Wisconsin soldier who hates Louisiana. When they meet and fall in love, the tension is as thick as the Louisiana summer humidity. One Page Synopsis Premise: Can two young people from diverse backgrounds and each carrying dark secrets, find love during the difficult days leading up to Pearl Harbor? ELIZABETH REED has had it with soldiers. It’s 1941 and thousands of them have flooded her home area for what’s being called the Great Louisiana Army Maneuvers. Elizabeth, a twenty-year-old schoolteacher, dislikes soldiers due to being used by an officer during her college years. She has returned to her hometown—carrying a dark secret—resigned to life as an unmarried elementary teacher. Her life changes on an August afternoon when a soldier tosses a bullet from a passing convoy. The empty cartridge contains a note that will set in motion a series of bizarre events. Elizabeth refuses to pick up the spent bullet and doesn’t see her younger brother BEN retrieve it. He takes the bullet to her grandmother who cooks up a plot to get Elizabeth into a relationship. The note contains the name and address of Private HARRY MILLER, a Wisconsin soldier who detests three things: the Army, Louisiana, and Helen, his fiancé in Milwaukee, who just sent a Dear John letter. Private Miller didn’t know his name was on the tossed bullet as fellow soldiers did it as a joke. Through the scheming of Ben and Elizabeth’s grandmother, a written correspondence begins between Elizabeth (with the grandmother writing “for her”) and Harry. On the day before the “battle” begins, a tropical storm settles over the battle areas. As Harry’s unit fights in the rain and mud, he observes various events that tell much about the army and its men. We follow his unit as they march north, and Harry realizes that in spite of his dislike of military life, he is the type of soldier others look to in battle. This portion of the story reveals Harry’s growth from self-centeredness and self-pity to one of duty and discipline. With the battle over, Harry rushes to accept Elizabeth’s written invitation to meet her. Arriving, he quickly learns that Elizabeth knows nothing about any letters. As the day unfolds, everything that can go wrong does. Harry leaves at the end of the day, vowing to never return. The next day what will be called the “Battle of Shreveport” begins and Harry’s company is thrust into the middle of the fighting. During their movement north, Harry makes a heroic effort to save a drowning soldier and in the process finds the courage to capture Elizabeth Reed’s heart. After five days of marching and battle, a truce is called, ending the Louisiana Maneuvers. Full of newfound courage, Harry returns determined to capture the beautiful teacher’s heart. A front porch music session kindles Elizabeth’s love toward Harry. The next week, a tragic accident occurs: an Army truck strikes and kills Elizabeth’s brother Ben. Harry observes how this simple country family’s shaky yet solid faith weathers a crisis. Elizabeth’s mother and her unconditional forgiveness of the Negro soldier who struck her son especially touch him. As Elizabeth shares the source of her faith with Harry, she realizes the most difficult part of repentance is often forgiving oneself from past mistakes. During the days leading up to his unit returning to Wisconsin, Harry proposes to Elizabeth while atop a stalled Ferris Wheel. Eventually, she accepts and they plan a quick wedding. On his last weekend before their wedding, Harry chooses to be baptized in the cold water of Bundick Creek. It’s his way of signifying what has happened in his heart. That afternoon, following a family tradition, Elizabeth takes Harry to a grove of old trees in the nearby swamp. He carves their initials and wedding date into the bark. He runs his hand over the carved date: 12-7-41 and says, “Well, no one else may remember next Sunday, but we will: December 7, 1941.” The plot of this story is woven from true stories told by the many “Harry and Elizabeths” who met, fell in love, and married during the 1941 Louisiana Maneuvers. D. The Manuscript Manuscript status: Completed Word count: 95,000 words A Spent Bullet is currently being independently published through Westbow Press. A Spent Bullet is the first in the “Louisiana Skies” Series: Working Titles: Book 2 As You Were December 7, 1941 wasn’t a good day to marry a soldier. Can new love survive years apart? Book 3 The Lake “Country comes to the city.” The adventures of two rural sisters in war-time New Orleans. Book 4 The Harvest It shouldn’t happen but it did: During the Louisiana rice harvest of 1944, a German P.O.W. and a farm girl fall in love and it quickly gets complicated. II. THE MARKET A. Timing and Interest There is great
Help me choose
Below are two devotions. I plan to enter one of them in an upcoming writing contest. I like them both. I’d like the input of readers like you. Honestly, let me know which one tugs at your heart most. As always, I’m open to any suggestions you have. Enjoy! A Man of His Word It is better not to vow than to make a vow and not fulfill it. Ecclesiastes 5:5 NIV Fess Parker was one of my childhood heroes. To me, he was Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone. I had an authentic coonskin cap that I wore until my mother burned it due to its rancid smell. His recent death reminded me of early television and its influence on those of my generation.. A letter I read the week after Parker’s death in the Ft. Worth Star Telegram let me know I’d picked a good hero in him. This excerpt was written by John Dyphrit of North Richland Hills, Texas. “I was in Vietnam in the late 60’s when Fess Parker came for a visit… doing the celebrity thing and shaking hands. We presented him with a coin that had our unit insignia on it. He told us that he would keep it with him as long as he lived. “Fast forward thirty-something years. I went on a trip to Los Olivios, California, the location for Fess Parker’s winery. I was invited to have lunch with Fess. At lunch I finally got the nerve to ask Fess about the coin. He looked at me and stared for at least a minute before reaching into his pocket. ‘You mean this coin? I told you that I would keep it for as long as I lived and I have.’” A man of his word. They picked a good man to play the role of Davy Crockett. May the same be said of each of us. If we promise it, let’s do it. God calls each of us to be men and women of our word. We are judged by our words and especially our promises. May He help us to be faithful and keepers of our promises. It is far better to promise little and deliver much than it is to promise much and deliver little. Quote for the day It is not the oath that makes us believe the man, but the man the oath. ~Aeschylus Prayer: Lord, teach me to think before I speak and teach me to carefully make promises and commitments. Help me fulfill the words of my mouth with the actions of my life. Amen _____________________________________________________________________________________ Lessons from a Gravedigger Today’s Proverb: Proverbs 18:9 “The one who is truly lazy in his work is brother to a vandal.” It was the first trip to the cemetery for my two grandsons, Noah and Jude. I knew it wouldn’t be their last. Life is full of trips to the cemetery. Ages five and three may be young but it’s a good time to realize that life involves death. Earlier that morning we’d ridden the four-wheeler past our dog cemetery where my beloved Ivory and Eddie are buried. Noah and Jude asked many questions about the dogs and where they are now. Walking now through Dry Creek Cemetery, I knew much more difficult questions were in store. I showed them the graves of my family: my dad, grandparents, and other beloved relatives. We made a side trip to the grave of their great-great-great-great-great grandmother, Nancy Wagnon. I explained that her husband, Andrew Jackson Wagnon, wasn’t buried here because he’d died in the Civil War. We walked to the SW corner of the Cemetery where a grave was being dug for a burial. Noah and Jude stared down into the yawning hole as I tried to explain how the body of Mr. John Hunt would be lowered in a coffin into that grave. The head gravedigger, Kevin Kingan, explained to the boys how he did his job. His words probably will be forgotten by my grandsons, but not by me. “Boys, I dig about four hundred graves each year and I always try to remember one thing: I try to do it as if it was the grave of my mother.” He shoveled a scoop of red clay aside. “It takes me about thirty extra minutes to do it right but I put in the extra time. It’s worth it.” He tamped down the dirt around the concrete vault. “I just pretend it’s my mother’s grave and that helps me do it right.” I recalled the wise words of Solomon in Ecclesiastes 9: 10, “Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.” I spend my days around what the world would deem simple people: pulpwood haulers, single moms, meat cutters, dairymen, carpenters, and gravediggers. These hard-working blue collar workers have so much to teach us if we stop and listen. The value of an honest day’s work. The pride of a job done well. The reminder that digging a grave is not just a job but an act of love toward a family of strangers. Completed as if it was done for your mother. Thanks Kevin for your lesson. “Whatever you do, work at it with all of your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men.” Colossians 3: 23-25, Prayer: Lord, help me approach every task as a holy assignment from you. Help me assign it so you may say, “Well done . . .” Amen.
Sept. 1, 1941 was Labor Day
This is from my new novel, A Spent Bullet. It details an emotional day for Louisiana schoolteacher Elizabeth Reed and her family. Enjoy! To help you get in place: Elizabeth Reed, a 20 year old single schoolteacher lives with her family in Bundick, La. The start of school has been delayed due to the ongoing Louisiana Army Maneuvers. Her younger brother, Jimmy Earl, has joined the Army against his parent’s wishes. Sept. 1st is a traumatic day for the family as they travel to the train depot in DeRidder. Chapter 20 Labor Day Monday, September 1, 1941 It was the day Elizabeth had come to dread. September 1st. What made it even worse was that she couldn’t tell anyone why. Last year—1940—the first of September had fallen on Sunday. She’d skipped church and spent the day in bed, saying that she had a stomach virus. But that wasn’t the truth. It wasn’t a virus—it was a broken heart. She carried the pain inside everyday, but it seemed to erupt anew when September rolled around. After today, she’d have an additional reason to cringe: Jimmy Earl was catching the train to Shreveport and to boot camp at Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri. He’d been accepted into the Air Corps and couldn’t wait to get away. Elizabeth fully understood. She’d had her own chance just two weeks ago. She’d intended to be on this same train for Shreveport, but when it came time to grab the opportunity, she’d hesitated, and now it was out of reach. She reminded herself: I did the right thing in staying. But this morning, it didn’t feel as if she had. She sat on the edge of the bed, looking out the window at a flock of noisy crows hopping around in the yard. Suddenly one flew off and she thought of the words of David in one of the Psalms, “If only I had wings like a bird, I’d fly away.” If only they drafted women. It would be her no-choice way out of Bundick. But she knew better. No matter where she was today, it would still be September 1st and she would still be lugging her broken heart. It had been broken two years ago today: Sept. 1, 1939. The anniversary—or more accurately, the birthday—was something she’d deal with the rest of her life. Ironically this year’s September 1st would fall on Labor Day. She’d gone into labor on this day two years ago. Once her pregnancy began to show toward the end of the spring semester of 1939, she’d moved to Shreveport to live with her best friend at college, Dora Jo Cook. Her own family in Bundick believed she was working a summer job in Shreveport. When the fall semester began, she told her family she had scarlet fever and needed to stay in Shreveport. The labor pains began on the morning of September 1st. During her long day of labor at Charity Hospital, the first news arrived about Germany’s invasion of Poland. A nurse moved a radio into the hall as they listened to sobering updates of a new European war. She’dsigned all of the papers weeks before so she wouldn’t change her mind. After they returned her to the hospital room after the baby’s delivery, the nurse said, “Would you like to hold the baby before . . .?” She’d planned not to, but at that moment said, “Yes.” She held him for about ten minutes, amazed that what she’d carried inside her body for nine months was in her arms. He was a part of her as she was of him. His tiny hand grasped her finger. Elizabeth knew life would never be the same after today, but it had to be done. She reminded herself that her decision wasn’t a selfish one, but the best for the baby. The door opened and the stone-faced nurse came to the bed. Elizabeth kissed him before carefully handing him to her and turning her face to the wall. The door opened again, it closed, and he was gone. The walls closed in on her like a vise and she’d never been so lonely in her life. Two years later, she still wasn’t convinced she’d done the right thing. On this new September morning, the old self-accusations flew about in her mind just like the cawing crows in the yard. She rubbed her eyes. You’re going to drive yourself crazy if you don’t let it go. Her mother knocked lightly at her door. “Baby, are you all right?” “Yes, Momma. I’m just not feeling too fresh this morning.” “Well, if you’re going with us to the train, you’ll need to get moving.” “Yes Ma’am. I’ll be right out.” After a quick breakfast, the Reed family loaded up in Rob Lindsey’s Model A for the trip to DeRidder. Elizabeth, sitting in the back, watched Jimmy Earl slowly circling the yard as if it might be a long time before he stood there again. Jimmy Earl, you can’t stand by the same river twice. Ben leaned out the window. “You’re not bringing a suitcase?” “Nope. I won’t need it where I’m going.” As he climbed into the car, quietness settled over the family; even Ben didn’t say a word. The silence said it all: nothing would be the same after today. It wasn’t just a change for Jimmy Earl; it would affect everyone in this car. The DeRidder train depot was a mass of activity. Soldiers were milling about, waiting for the northbound train’s arrival. Jimmy entered the depot to finalize his ticket. Momma, stifling tears, scanned the crowd of soldiers. “Lord, don’t they all look young.” The soldiers parted as a black car backed up to the depot landing. A hush fell and Elizabeth saw why. It was a hearse. Four soldiers unloaded a flag-draped wooden coffin. Soldiers and civilians alike removed their hats as the coffin was carried from the vehicle to the train. Elizabeth grabbed Ben’s hand as he said, “What
Wed. Aug. 31
“A Father’s Love” This is a favorite story of readers as well as one I use often in speaking. It’s the best kind of story: funny then touching. I’ve seen listeners go from laughing to crying in a minute. Enjoy! Curt Hear the audio read by the author: 05 A father’s Love It’s graduation night at our high school. My wife DeDe and I are sitting in the reserved seating section at the football stadium. Our son Clint is graduating tonight and it is a very special night. Most of the fifty plus graduates who’ll march across the stage have traveled throughout their school journey together. It’s hard to believe that thirteen years ago they were in Kindergarten and I was watching many of them play T-ball. I always feel sorry for kids who don’t get to attend a K-12 school. To start school with a group and finish twelfth grade with most of them creates a special bond among students. They know each other as well as their teachers. Due to this, they hold a special camaraderie that urban students can never quite understand. We’ve settled in and gotten comfortable in our chairs down on the track. I look around for our principal Mr. Cooley. Graduation night is one of the most stressful nights for a high school principal. As a former school administrator, you never know what a student, parent, or visitor may do on this night of celebration and success. I’ve seen or heard of it all – senior boys coming by, one by one, putting a pebble in the principal’s palm as he shakes their hand and presents their diploma. The principal must keep stopping and putting the pebbles down to perform the ceremonial duties of handing out the diplomas. Then there are the loudmouths who will wait until that “pregnant pause” in the ceremony and holler out something. Two years ago at my oldest son Clay’s graduation, a fellow graduate named Chad walked up to receive his diploma. It was a Kodak moment because Chad had labored a long time to get on this stage. A smattering of surprised applause broke out when his name was mentioned. Most of us had never expected to see him walk across this stage. We were all happy and I thought about how many teachers and adults had pushed, taught, and begged to get Chad to this moment. Just as he was handed his diploma, someone way up in the stadium with good lungs hollered, “Run, Chad, run before they take it back!” Even the principal had to laugh at that. So sitting here as an ex-principal, I can relax and enjoy the night. My only concern is that Clint is making a speech and I have no idea what he’ll say. But I’m confident our man will do just fine. It’s now about fifteen minutes before the ceremony begins. I look behind me to see the stands filling up. There is a murmur of anticipation throughout the crowd on this beautiful May evening. That’s when I first see him…. A man in a cowboy hat strides to the podium on stage. Removing his hat, he leans into the microphone and blows on it. Yes, it’s on… and he literally has the stage to himself, as well as the mike. Most people haven’t even noticed him. I look around for Mr. Cooley, but don’t see him anywhere near. For the thousandth time since I left the school ten years ago, I’m glad I’m no longer a principal. Then our man at the mike begins to sing. With no accompaniment he sings, “Son, let me tell you about a father’s love, A secret that my father said was between just us. You see, Daddies don’t just love their children every now and then, It’s a love without end, Amen. It’s a love without end, Amen.” I faintly recognize the tune and remember it – It’s the chorus of a George Strait song entitled, “A Father’s Love.” Then about the same time, I recognize the singer on stage – it’s Greg Fontenot. Greg’s son David is graduating tonight. David is a favorite of all of us – a wonderful smile and winning personality, an excellent athlete as well as a good student. Although I don’t know Mr. Fontenot extremely well, I’ve always enjoyed visiting with him. He is an expert in a trade that always brings respect in rural areas- he is an excellent welder. He is also a true country man as evidenced by the fact that on the side of his welding truck is painted, “I ain’t J.R. and this ain’t Dallas… But I can sure plow, plant, and hoe. …and God bless.” By now Mr. Fontenot is singing the first stanza. He has now captured the attention of most of the crowd. Glancing around, some are sniggering; others sit in gape-jawed wonder. Someone behind me says, “I believe he’s drunk.” But watching closely, I can tell that Greg’s not drunk, he’s just singing a George Strait song from his heart. I got sent home from school one day with a shiner on my eye. Fighting was against the rules and it didn’t matter why. When dad got home I told that story just like I’d rehearsed, then stood on those trembling knees, expecting the very worst… …and he said, Son, let me tell you about a father’s love, A secret that my father said was between just us. You see, Daddies don’t just love their children every now and then; It’s a love without end, Amen. It’s a love without end, Amen. And Mr. Fontenot is singing this song well, which is not easily done acapella. He has a fine country singing voice that does justice to this song. As Greg Fontenot begins the second verse, it is very evident that he has practiced and prepared for this night a long time. He continues, When I became a father in the spring of ’81, There was
Mon. Aug. 29
My new pastor, José Canseco Written in 2009 . . . My youngest son, Terry, left excitedly this morning for the New Orleans Superdome. He was headed to the LSU-Ohio State football game. His cousin, Brady Glaser, is on the team and gave Terry a ticket. The problem I have is who he went with: He left at daylight with José Canseco and I’m not sure I trust this man taking my son off. Let me tell you about José and you’ll probably share my concern—In 1990, I served my one and only year as principal at East Beauregard High. The superintendent sent a teacher to our school who had “taught” at every school in the parish. He told me, “Get her to teach… or fire her.” This lady, whom I will call “Mrs. Jones” was sad and pitiful. She could not, and would not, teach. She could not control even a small class of middle school students. That school year was fortunately her last year to teach in Beauregard Parish. I spent lots of time in her classroom trying to work with her. I believe my year with “Mrs. Jones” is when I became fully bald! About the end of the first six weeks, I visited her sixth grade enrichment class of about twelve students. When I walked in, the room was in chaos. The students were all over the room and Mrs. Jones was screaming at them. Seeing me, they quickly got in their seats and she quieted down as well. I decided I would lead the class on this day, so I opened her gradebook and began calling roll. Amazingly, I looked down the list—there above the name of student Sarah Cooley was a familiar, but unfamiliar name: José Canseco. Below it were other names I knew, but did not associate with our school: Michael Jordan was on roll as well as his teammate Scottie Pippen, and followed by Jerry Rice. Becky Young, whom I had graduated with her mother, was followed by Steve Young, who just happened to be quarterback of the San Francisco 49ers. I began taking roll with the first name, “José Canseco.” There was no answer and the students nervously began looking around. “José Canseco?” Only silence. “José, are you here?” Every eye in the classroom, including Mrs. Jones, turned toward a skinny sixth grade boy. Finally, he sheepishly raised his hand, “Here.” It was Charlie Bailey. I had attended school with both of his parents and knew his family on both sides for three generations back. “Well, José, I’m glad you’re with us. How are the Oakland A’s managing without you in the lineup today?” One by one, each boy answered by his ‘roll call name.’ I don’t remember much else, but Charlie Bailey says I took them all in the hall and tore their butts up. If I did, it was ‘just desserts.’ Why is this story on my mind? Well, this morning, my baby son, Terry, left for New Orleans with José Cansceo. Well, it was really Charlie Bailey. (Whom I often still call “José”.) Charlie, a successful timber buyer with his father, is the youth director at our church. He and his wife, Meghan, are the parents of a year old son, Samuel. “José,” I mean Charlie, never made the major leagues, but he has done well. He is a fine man and I’m extremely proud of him. I just hope José Canseco and Terry will behave themselves in the big city of New Orleans. By the way, Go Tigers!
Tues. Aug. 23
Professor Cavanaugh’s Best Lecture Audio of “Prof Cavanaugh” I stood in the hallway outside the Louisiana College biology department’s second floor office, waiting to see Professor Cavanaugh. I’d been standing nervously for several minutes, my chemistry book under one arm, and a class drop sheet in the other. Professor Charles J. Cavanaugh was a Louisiana College institution. “Prof” as he was affectionately known, had taught biology there for over thirty years. He was the most beloved and respected teacher at Louisiana College. At first glance he seemed to be an unassuming and ordinary man. However on my first day of biology class, when he strode to the podium and began lecturing without any notes, it was obvious I was in the presence of greatness. This man was a master teacher, who blended a serious love of teaching with a kindly smile and a sharp sense of humor. Prof. Cavanaugh taught both of my freshmen biology courses. Without a doubt, he was the most awe-inspiring teacher I’d ever encountered. Never once in those two semesters did I see him use any notes- everything came from his memory and years of experience. His unique method of teaching made the material seem to come alive. Students in his classes never came in late or talked during the lectures. To be in his lectures was to be in the presence of a master at work. He was so admired and respected at Louisiana College that the school renamed the Science and Math Building as “Cavanaugh Hall,” even while he was still an active teacher working there. So, I had some what of a reason to be nervous as I stood outside the office door of this legend. The reason I was here was out of sheer desperation. The previous year, I had selected science education as my major- largely due to the powerful influence of Prof. Cavanaugh’s biology teaching. However, during my trek toward this goal of being a science teacher, I had run into a seemingly insurmountable obstacle- it was called Chemistry 105. Being from a rural school, my chemistry background was pretty weak. In fact after two weeks of class, they’d covered everything I knew, plus a heck of a lot I didn’t. I desperately found myself drowning in a raging sea of formulas, equations, and complex problems. I was distraught, discouraged, and felt hopeless. I really felt confused and lost. Realistically, I fully understood I probably could not pass this course- not just this semester, but most likely never. I saw my dream of teaching science going down the drain. With resignation, I went by the registrars’ office and picked up a drop slip. My plan was to take the test tomorrow, and after I failed it, simply drop the Chemistry class the next day. After picking up the drop slip, I impulsively went to Cavanaugh Hall and decided to see Prof. Cavanaugh, before heading back to my dorm to lick my wounds. So, there I stood there peering in the window of his office, I saw him walking back and forth, gathering papers. My courage melted and I turned to leave. I told myself he probably wouldn’t even remember me from last year’s classes. But before I could chicken out and leave, Professor Cavanaugh came walking out the door. Impulsively, I blurted out, “Could I talk to you?” I’m sure my voice and face had the sound and look of desperation. Prof. Cavanaugh stopped with an armload of papers and smiled as he said, “Sure.” So, I began my tale of woe to this kindly old gentleman. I shared how I really felt it was God’s will for me to become a science teacher. However, with my inability to grasp chemistry, I saw no course but to drop the class and leave behind my dream of science teaching. Before I could continue, he interrupted me and spoke. His kindly smile tightened as he firmly said, “God’s will? God’s will?” Son, I’ll tell you what God’s will is for you- Get in there, work, and pass chemistry. That’s what God’s will is for you!” He didn’t say it unkindly, but he said it with definite conviction. His face had turned slightly red as he passionately issued this challenge to me. I really don’t know if he said anything else, because I was in such shock. I’d come for encouragement from this great man and instead had received a brief, brisk, and clear lecture. Prof. Cavanaugh turned and strode down the hallway, leaving me in the wake of the words he’d just spoken. I felt about two inches tall and it was as if my own grandpa had just given me a stern lecture. Well, I studied Chemistry hard that night. I took the test the next day simply determined to do my best. Miraculously, I passed it! Well to be perfectly honest, I passed it with the lowest possible D, but much to my shock, I had really passed this test. But the greatest miracle was what happened inside me. I decided that very day as to how nothing was going to stop me from achieving my goal of teaching. Prof’s challenge in the hallway had lit the fire of determination in me. I was going to pass this course or die trying. One day, a month or so later in Chemistry lab, my teacher, Dr. Dennis Watson, called me to the side and as he eyed me suspiciously said, “What’s happened to you?” I really believe he thought I’d either had a brain transplant or was a very crafty cheater. The fact that I eventually made an A in both the lecture and lab was no great reflection on me, but rather a tribute to the fire Professor Cavanaugh’s speech lit in me. His “lecture” in the hallway of the building bearing his name taught me this spiritual truth, which is so important to grasp: Most of the time God’s will is much simpler than we choose
8/18/11 Lessons from a Gravedigger
Lessons from a Gravedigger Today’s Proverb: Proverbs 18:9 “The one who is truly lazy in his work is brother to a vandal.” It was the first trip to the cemetery for my two grandsons, Noah and Jude. As we got out of my truck, I knew it wouldn’t be their last. Life is full of trips to the cemetery. Ages five and three may be young but it’s a good time to realize that life involves death. Earlier that morning we’d ridden the four-wheeler past our dog cemetery where my beloved Ivory and Eddie are buried. Noah and Jude asked many questions about the dogs and where they are now. Walking now through Dry Creek Cemetery, I knew much more difficult questions were in store. I showed them the graves of my family: my dad (the boys loved the softball and horseshoe beside his gravemarker) as well as my grandparents and uncle and great uncle. We made a side trip to the grave of their great-great-great-great-great grandmother, Nancy Wagnon. I explained that her husband, Andrew Jackson Wagnon, wasn’t buried here because he’d died in the Civil War. We made our way to the SW corner of the Cemetery where a grave was being dug for a burial later today. Noah and Jude stared down into the yawning hole as I tried to explain how the body of Mr. John Hunt would be lowered in a coffin into that grave. The head gravedigger, Kevin Kingan, explained to the boys how he did his job. His words probably will be forgotten by my grandsons, but I won’t. “Boys, I dig about four hundred graves each year and I always try to remember one thing: I try to do a great job as if this is the grave of my mother.” He shoveled a scoop of red clay aside. “It takes me about thirty extra minutes to do it right but I put in the extra time. It’s worth it.” He tamped down the dirt around the concrete vault. “I just pretend it’s my mother’s grave. That helps me do it right.” I spend my days around what the world would deem simple people: pulpwood haulers, single moms, meat cutters, dairymen, carpenters, and gravediggers. These hard-working blue collar workers have so much to teach. The value of an honest day’s work. The pride of a job done well. The reminder that this digging a grave is not just a job but an act of love toward a family of strangers. Completed as if it was done for your mother. Thanks Kevin for your lesson. Ecclesiastes 9: 10, “Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.” Colossians 3: 23-25, “Whatever you do, work at it with all of your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men.”
What storms reveal . . .
“It took the storm to reveal this flaw and it revealed it in an unmistakable, and for the tree, in a fatal way. It kind of reminds me about life. There are plenty of storms in life… many external like a hurricane, while others are internal… but regardless of the location of the storm, it will reveal the internal character of the person. “ If there is weakness, no matter how well hidden, the storm will reveal the truth.” From “The Miller Oak” Hearts across the Water by Curt Iles The Miller Oak The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago. The next best time is today. The morning after Rita passed through I couldn’t wait to get out and survey the damage. As I’d driven around our community the day before I wondered aloud what things would look like post-storm in our hometown. So on Saturday morning when there was a lull in the action, I ventured out. There were three things I wanted to check first. I wanted to see if the three grand trees of Dry Creek had survived the storm. If you’ve read any of my earlier books, you know how I love trees. They are among some of the best gifts God gives us in the natural world. And I was worried about three of them. First of all, the evergreen cedar tree at the cemetery was on my mind. This tall gnarled tree is over one hundred years old. As I shared in The Old House, it was planted near the first grave in what was then Spears Cemetery, now called Dry Creek Cemetery. It has lost limbs in recent storms and I wondered if Rita was to be its demise. However, it survived pretty well intact. The second grand tree of Dry Creek is the huge sycamore that stands between Dry Creek Bible Church’s three buildings. This aged tree dates back to the early days when this property was part of Dry Creek High School. It is broad and majestic and has limbs as large as the trunk of some trees. Early on Saturday morning before our phone service went out, Pastor Sam Burchard called me. He and his family had wisely evacuated out of state. Sam’s first question was, “How did our church and buildings fare in the storm?” Before I could answer, he breathlessly he added, “What about the big sycamore between our house and the church?” Sam’s voice showed his concern. I knew he fully expected that this giant tree had crashed on at least one of the buildings. “Sam, the giant sycamore is still standing as fine as ever.” It was sure good to spread some positive news on this. Dry Creek community would have been a little poorer without the cemetery cedar and the Bible Church sycamore. The third grand Dry Creek tree is my favorite. It is huge cherry bark oak that sits at the entrance of the Camp. It is perfectly shaped and majestic. Cherry bark oaks are members of the red oak family of which there are a dozen species. They produce the highest quality lumber of any red oaks and are highly valued by sawmills. According to my resident forester, my son Clint, cherrybark oaks grade higher because of their strength, absence of knots, resistant to rot, and “clear wood.” Firewood cutters love the red oaks because of their ease in splitting due to the rich red heart in the center of the trunk. Since Rita we’ve laughed and given our community forecast: Dry Creek Forecast: Plenty of firewood this winter! That is true, so true. All throughout our community there are hundreds of trees of every size, species, and shape, all laid low to the ground by Rita. Some toppled over with their root system exposed. Others, especially the pines, snapped off at heights ten to twelve feet above the ground. Most are laying facing the northwest, mute testimony to the hurricane-force southeast winds that accompanied the “bad side of the storm.” So it is with trepidation that my first daylight inspection begins outside the office at this cherry bark oak. I’ve wondered if this old giant could take on the storm. It has always looked healthy but you never know. One of the amazing discoveries after a hurricane is to see trees down that seemed firm and healthy but had a hollow or rotten spot inside. It took the storm to reveal this flaw and it revealed it in an unmistakable, and for the tree, in a fatal way. It kind of reminds me about life. There are plenty of storms in life… many external like a hurricane, while others are internal… but regardless of the location of the storm, it will reveal the internal character of the person. If there is weakness, no matter how well hidden, the storm will reveal the truth. I’m thankful that I’m not depending on my inner strength because I’ve got plenty of knots and hollow spots. But the Jesus inside me… “Greater is He that is in you…” is plenty strong to take whatever blows my way. In the gray misty light of dawn I see the outline of the big oak. A swing around the lot shows that only one small limb is down. The cherrybark oak of Dry Creek Camp has withstood the storm. Forester Clint’s words come back… “Highest grade, least knots, clearest wood, worth 3 times as much as other red oak lumber.” What a symbol for strength in the storm. I sure love that old tree. This majestic oak has always been special to me but several months before hurricane Rita it “grew in stature” in my heart. A favorite story about this special tree was recalled. I’m not sure how old the tree is but it was big enough for Lois Miller to remember it as a teenage girl at camp. Here, from the memoirs of camp friend Lois McFatter Miller is her story of
Monday, August 15
Today’s Quote: “Anyone can hold the helm when the sea is calm.” -Publilius Syrus, first century B.C. The importance of knowing who you are and who you aren’t: John told them, “I baptize with* water, but right here in the crowd is someone you do not recognize. 27Though his ministry follows mine, I’m not even worthy to be his slave and untie the straps of his sandal.” Verse for the day: Isaiah 26:3 You will keep him in perfect peace, Whose mind is stayed on You, Because he trusts in You. Today’s Proverb: The eyes of the Lord are everywhere, observing the wicked and the good. Proverbs 15:3 When you say Jesus, you’ve said it all: He is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in everything he might be preeminent. 19 For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, 20 and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross. Colossians 1:20
