Less is More

“Too Many Pockets”

When we moved to Africa in 2013, the first thing I bought was a safari jacket/vest. This is an olive sleeveless vest loaded with multiple pockets.

My safari jacket had sixteen pockets with both zippered and flap types. Most of the pockets were on the outside of the jacket, while others lined the inside. I was so proud of this purchase as it would allow me to carry all of my essentials: keys, cell phone, journals, maps, pens, pencils, and highlighters.

I assigned each object to a specific pocket and had a plan to locate each item quickly as needed.

As I headed out into the bush visiting refugee camps and tribal groups, I was a prepared and happy man.

Except I quickly discovered that I had a problem: I had too many pockets.  In spite of my good intentions to have “a place for everything and everything in its place”, I would search six pockets before I found my ringing cell phone.

This wasn’t the fault of the safari jacket. It was my inability to keep everything in its place, and then remember what pocket which item belonged. No matter how I tried to organize, I just had too many pockets.

Over time, I used my safari jacket less and less. Instead of being a help, my vest became a burden and a source of frustration.  I finally gave it away to an African friend. I hope he had better luck with it than I did.

My problem was simply this: I had too many pockets to keep up with. I found I could do just as well with the four pockets of my jeans and a backpack as the multiple pockets of my safari vest.

My years in Africa taught me this lesson: Less is more. In our Western Civilization, we attempt to hoard and gather more. Our lives feature too many things to keep and too many pockets to put them in.

I’m amazed at how we Americans clutter our homes with material things and still need storage units to store the excess we have. I compare this to the simple homes that my African friends had. In spite of their meager material possessions, I’m not sure that they didn’t have more contentment in their homes.

Less is truly more.

Let me confess, I still miss my safari jacket. I’ve even thought of getting another one, but I’ll resist the temptation because it wouldn’t work any better on this Continent than it did in Africa.

Here are a few thoughts I’m working on to de-clutter my pockets:

1. When I’m handling paper or mail, what do I really need to keep? So often, I’ve had stacks of needless paperwork piled up on my desk. I’m trying to follow the rule of handling it once.
2. What do I have in material possessions that I’ll never use again? This can be anything from clothing to small appliances. Be brave and have a garage sale. You’ll feel better about life and yourself as you simplify. If you can’t bring yourself to a sale, bag it up and take it to Goodwill. You won’t miss it.
3. Don’t let the clutter of things keep you from the most important relationships in life. I’ve known friends whose houses were so hoarded that they couldn’t entertain friends or family. Less is always more. Take a room at a time and begin the freeing work of de-cluttering and de-hoarding.

I’m always wanting to learn. I’d love to hear your ideas on the “less is more” way of living.

Learning,

Curt Iles

Kindness makes a man attractive.    Proverbs 19:22  (The Living Bible)

Kindness is a language anyone can understand.

The opposite of kindness is rudeness.

There is no room for rudeness if your heart is full of kindness.

A tenet of good Southern Hospitality is to speak and act with kindness.

“If you can  be anything, be kind.” -Anonymous

 Honesty

 “No legacy is as rich as honesty.” –

Quote beside my maternal grandfather, Sid Plott’s photograph in “The Gusher”, Byrd High (Shreveport) School, Class of 1926

Honesty, like lying, is a habit. Develop the fundamental habit of being a truth-teller in every situation.

When is the truth a lie? We talk about “little white lies” and half-truths. Is there such a thing? Here is one of my favorite stories. You decide for yourself if the parties involved told the truth or a lie:

American catfish farmers of the South are having a hard time economically. As is true in so many other fields, foreign products are selling much cheaper and undermining the American market.

About five years ago, this problem came home to catfish farming. A large influx of imported catfish hit the market and this glut depressed domestic catfish sales.

The “new catfish” was packaged and labeled “Delta raised catfish.” To any catfish connoisseur, which every Southerner considers himself, Delta catfish means raised on farms in the Mississippi Delta region of Louisiana/Mississippi.

Research and reading the fine print on this new Delta catfish revealed that it was truly Delta-raised. it came straight from the Mekong Delta of Vietnam!

Secondly, it is not the same type of catfish we are used to eating. It is a species called basa, a very distant cousin of our catfish.

About this same time, I traveled to Vietnam and rode in boats along the Mekong River. It is an amazing river, alive with river traffic of every size and shape. The Mekong catfish farmers live on the river in small houseboats. They have floating wooden cages where they deposit small basa fish they’d caught in nets. As they feed them, the “catfish” grow and soon become marketable… and exportable; much of it to the U.S.

And it ends up in the Southern U.S. labeled as “Delta catfish.”
Once again, “truth in labeling” can mean many things!
It is a reminder to me, as a follower of Jesus, that I am to speak the truth in all things. Not some of the truth, but the total truth. As the oath administered in court states, “To tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

So, I have a new definition let’s call it “Catfish Lies”: It seems the truth, but it’s not.

The South Traffic Circle

“The reason that North and South Louisiana are so different and disconnected is that you can’t get from one to the other because of the Traffic Circle in Alexandria.”

-Oft-repeated story prior to Interstate 49.

I’ve never heard anyone say anything good about the South Traffic Circle in Alexandria, Louisiana. It’s a huge oval monstrosity that stretches for nearly a mile. There are four highways leading onto/off the Circle.

What makes it such an obstacle is there are two lanes going in the same direction, and if you’re not in the correct lane, you will “circle the Circle” repeatedly as other drivers peel off and others zoom into any open space.

Conversely, if a traveler takes the wrong exit and stops for directions, they are invariably told, “Well, you go back to the Circle and …”

The correct name for a traffic circle is a roundabout. There are several smaller roundabouts in Alexandria that seem to work fine.

I learned a great deal about roundabouts while living in Africa. You’ve never driven until you weave through a clogged roundabout in Kampala, Uganda. You’re driving on the wrong side of the road, and it quickly becomes clear that there are no rules on yielding. It’s every man for himself. (African roundabouts are a story for another day).

Sometimes when DeDe and I eat out in Alexandria, just for fun I’ll go around the Circle for several loops. I’ll say that the extra mileage makes it feel like a real date. (We live within a mile of Logan’s, Outback, and Johnny Carino’s).

At one time, there were two traffic circles in Alexandria. The North Circle was a much smaller circle but equally hated by drivers. It was replaced by spaghetti-shaped overpasses and ramps on I-49.

However, the South Circle lives on in infamy and confusion. It’s the site of collisions on a weekly, if not daily, basis. It’s very common to see police lights and two drivers outside their dented vehicles on the shoulder of the Circle. I’ve read accounts that traffic circles/roundabouts prevent wrecks, but you’d be hard-pressed to find a true believer in Alex (as Alexandria is called by the locals).

It’s no coincidence that a local personal injury lawyer built a three-story office on the Circle. The story is that he has a commanding view of the chaos on the Circle. Word is that he’s thinking of installing a drive-thru alongside his building.

The inside “island” portion of the South Circle is also a source of mystery. It’s a swampy area full of palmetto and standing water. Being a curious soul, I once waded through the island to see what was inside.

I carefully chose cold weather to avoid snakes and possible gator encounters. The water was about knee-deep and the swamp was murky and forbidding as I climbed over fallen trees and swished aside the thick palmetto.  It was near dark (I had a flashlight) and deep within the circle, the lights of the city and traffic were obscured. It seemed more like being in the Atchafalaya Swamp instead of amid the busiest party of a city.

In one small open area of the swamp, I jumped up two wood ducks. I wondered if it was legal to shoot ducks in the city limits. I doubt it and don’t plan to try.

With dark falling, I waded out of the Circle swamp, returning to civilization. As I walked around the circle back to my truck, I was reminded of the oddity that the South Traffic Circle is in both legend and notoriety.

From time to time, The Town Talk does an article about plans to replace the South Traffic Circle with a series of overpasses and ramps. Like most Cenla residents I’ll believe it when I see it.

The Rocker

“Do you think now that rocker is worth $1500?”

 “No, it’s worth more like $15,000.”

It was a conversation I’ll always remember.

Framed with a lesson I will not forget.

An earlier conversation ended with a resounding “No.”

My special friend Karan Robinson shoved a photo into my hand.

“Don’t you think that’d look good on the front porch of the Tabernacle?”

The photo was of a huge rocking chair that held about six children.

I smiled.  There’s not much I wouldn’t do for Karan, the mother of Brad Robinson and at that time a trustee of Dry Creek Baptist Camp.

We’d just finished another stage in the Tabernacle renovation at Dry Creek.  The new front porch was filled with six wooden rockers and several “baby bear” matching rockers.

Karan continued her sales pitch.  “There’s a man in Arkansas that makes these giant chairs.”

I asked the typical manager’s question.  “How much is it?”

“Fifteen hundred.”

I grimaced.  “Karan, I just don’t believe that’d be the best use of camp funds.”

“It’d sure look good on the porch.”

“Yes it would, but the answer, for now, is no.”

A month later Karan drove up with a huge rocker on a trailer. Our summer staffers helped unload it.

“Our church youth raised the money for the chair.”  She pointed to the top of the rocker where it was engraved,  “Dry Creek Baptist Camp.”

The staffers manhandled it into place on the Tabernacle front porch.  Our first act was to make doorstops to place under the rockers so they wouldn’t move.  It was heavy enough to pinch a toe off.

Two months later, Karan was at our G.A. Girls Camp.  Two dozen squealing preteen girls were crowded onto the rocker as a counselor snapped their photo.

She eased up to me and in the same grin her son Brad was famous for, and said,  “Do you think now that rocker is worth $1500?”

“No, it’s worth more like $15,000. In fact, it’s above pricing.”

The rocker, or as it is best known,  “God’s Rocking Chair” is an integral part of Dry Creek Camp.  It’s probably the strongest symbol of what marketers call “Branding.”

It’s what many people visualize when they think of Dry Creek.

In the years since it arrived, I’ve helped my grandchildren up into the chair as well as several octogenarians.

It’s a lesson that some things are priceless.

Some expenses are not a true expense but an investment.

Thanks, Karan for a good lesson on the economics of the heart.