The Sign Jumping Contest

I drove up on the mountain and when I arrived, I found that the sign I had carefully placed had jumped out of the ground and was lying on its side. It had jumped out of the ground the day before that and I had received a call the night before letting me know it was down. Once again the same lady called to let me know it was down again, it only made it about three hours.

When I arrived back the day before from putting it up, there were three others along my route which had also jumped up out of the ground and laid down on the ground.

Well, one of my cousins once wrote a short story about “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.”

His story was amazingly entertaining, I am afraid this one will not be.

I am not quite sure yet whether the worms in our neck of the woods are rebelling against us, frustrated by the addition of so many metal sign posts being pushed down into the ground.

Of course, it might be a joint effort of the gophers, chipmunks and the ground hogs. They could have formed an army and are slowly and strategically digging beneath the ground finding each and everyone and pushing them up until they jump out of the ground and land a few feet away.

There might have been a geological shift in the hydrology of our community and water could be forcing them up. Although no new springs are found.

Maybe Mark’s jumping frogs from Calaveras have moved to my county and are hiring out to push the signs up out of the ground.

God has blessed me with knowing many great people in my life, some were friends, some were relatives, some were encouragers, some were up lifters, some were acquaintances, and some were just folks I have met.

While I know there are bad people in the world with ill intentions and a desire to hurt others, I have only had limited encounters with their type. When I started in reporting on politics, and eventually running in local elections that continued to be true until just a few years ago. Then a new breed of folks began entering the fray and with them they brought along the school yard approach to attacking their opponents.

This year as I am running in my local election cycle, they are having a ball encouraging the signs from jumping out of the ground. Of course, I am only seeing this primarily with mine and others are left standing within sight of them.

Perhaps I need to check in with my sign company, perhaps it is the metal sign stakes, maybe it’s something in the metal. I want the think the best of everyone, but the evidence seems to continue to pile up against my keeping a positive opinion on some.

Activity helps strengthen each day

Click, click, click, click, emanates from my sneakers as I walk along the hiking path ever hopeful that with each passing mile I am a little more fit and well on my way to losing the few pounds I am seeking to shed.

After opening boxes, and pulling jeans up only to find they will not close and a crowbar will be needed to get them back off. Read more

NQC is a slice of Americana that fills the soul

I entered the LeConte Center in Pigeon Forge, Tenn. and found myself in a sea of smiling faces.

They were looking forward to hearing and seeing their favorite gospel music performer either on the stage or in their booth at the National Quartet Convention.

The people walked gleefully towards their seats for the event only pausing as they passed a familiar artist standing in their booth where they stopped to say hello or to see their latest album.

Once inside the auditorium, the seats filled the room that guided your attention to the stage where stood one of the up-and-coming acts performing three songs for the crowd.

The talents of act after act crossed the stage only broken in speed by the emcee’s introduction.

A non-stop cavalcade of stars and upcoming talents kept the audience in the Spirit of their performances with old and new gospel songs.

As part of the week-long event, the stage also featured the Singing News Fan Awards, the Southern Gospel Music Hall of Fame inductions, numerous ministerial messages, special showcases, and special feature events.

There were numerous worthy award winners at the Singing News Fan Awards outstandingly hosted by my former bosses Jeff & Sheri Easter. Two of my favorites presentations included two of my friends Karen Peck Gooch won Favorite Soprano Award, while The Inspirations, including my former Americana Youth of Southern Appalachia participant Isaac Moore (Favorite Young Artist Award), won Favorite Artist Award; Favorite Soloist was Joseph Habedank; Favorite Mixed Group went to the Collingsworth Family; Triumphant Quartet took Favorite Quartet; Connie Hopper received the Favorite Alto Award; among a list of other recipients. Visit singingnews.com to find out more.

This year’s Southern Gospel Music Hall of Fame inductees included Sue Dodge, Danny Funderburk, Norman Holland & Reagan Riddle! I was especially please to see my encouragers Norman Holland who helped me launch my career at Benson and now retired Primitive Quartet performer Reagan Riddle. Their music fueled my youth and performing hopes. Be sure to support their new museum at Biblical Times in Pigeon Forge. Find our more at Sgma.org.

Friends, if you would like to experience a true slice of Americana, I urge you to make the National Quartet Convention 2024 in Pigeon Forge part of your plans. Great music, great people and down home fun. Visit NQConline.com to learn more.

The Little Things Mean a Lot

When I was growing up, I had many role models. My parents were great role models imparting many lessons. Some were easily learned while others took a bit of strict discipline to get them through my thick head.
My grandfather Jesse and both my grandmothers were role models. My older brothers in a way, even though they were ahead of me a few years on the learning curve, taught me a lot. Some of the key lessons was missing out on the discipline they received by proper coaching away from some of the mistakes they made.
Several of my parent’s friends and extended family also at times found their way into role model list as I was growing up imparting bits and pieces of wisdom on various topics as life’s opportunities afforded. When we remodeled our bathroom, I learned a lot from my Uncle Clarence about building and doing tile work. My Uncle Waymond taught me a lot about trapping and hunting.
Standing alongside my father as he worked on various projects, I saw him pull his tools from his black tool bag. He would lay out the tools he might need, in a neat order, he then began his diagnostic approach to figuring out what was wrong with whatever device he was fixing.
I stood there watching what he was doing as he strategically isolated the potential issues until he deduced the solution and used his tools to make it work again. He then cleaned up his tools and packed them away into his leather bag like a doctor with his instruments.
He told me that it might seem like a little thing to clean off your tools and properly pack them away until next time they are needed. But if you do it, he said. You will have them ready when needed again.
It’s a little thing, he said, but if you don’t take care of the little things, you won’t take care of the big things.
As time has went by, I have learned that lesson well. I have seen people who do not care for the little things lose sight of the importance of caring for the big things.
Perhaps that is why I have always looked towards the details in every project.
If you take care of those, all the others parts will fall into place.
Learning the lessons passed on from others can make each of the tasks we take on in life find greater success.
The little things really do matter!

Uncle Dud Doolittle and the rickety ladder

I am sitting on experience overload as we all are dealing with the nationwide pandemic shutdown and my local region is reeling due to tornadoes and flooding. So, I am turning us to a bit of levity to raise the spirits:

My great Uncle Dud Doolittle was an entrepreneur extraordinaire who operated the little general store at Flintville Crossroads.

Now Uncle Dud was as swift as could be. He stood about five-foot-five and was wiry as a well-strung bed frame.

His circular Ben Franklin spectacles offset his gray hair, and he was seldom seen outside his wool, dark green-striped suit and favorite gray beaver hat.

When working in the store, he also wore a black visor on his head that looked odd because it made his bald spot shine as he worked below the store’s light bulb.

With the variety of folks who made his store a regular place to be, he was always finding himself in unique and unusual situations.

Folks were always eager to give a hand, especially Cousin Clara who made a drop by the store a daily ritual.

It was a quiet Friday afternoon in July of 1948. Uncle Dud stood on a rickety wooden ladder putting a shipment of canned peaches in his favorite pyramid display. As he drew his task to close Cousin Clara came in saying, “Sure is hot out there.”

She noticed a can lying below the ladder so she walked over and stepped under the ladder to pick it up. As she raised up, she knocked over the ladder sending Uncle Dud to the floor.

“Doggoned it,” Dud said. “I told you before to stay away from that ladder. Don’t you know it is bad luck to walk under a ladder?”

“I didn’t know you were superstitious,” Clara said.

“About the only time I am superstitious is when somebody like you walks under a ladder and deliberately sends me to the ground,” he said.

“Do you believe it is seven years bad luck to break a mirror?” Clara asked.

“No sireee! My Uncle Corn Walter broke a mirror, and he did not have a bit of bad luck,” Dud said.

“Why didn’t he?” Clara asked.

“He got bit by a rattlesnake and died two days later,” he said.

Throughout the conversation, Dud remained as he had landed on the floor — standing on his head.

“Why are you still like that?” she asked.

“When I stand on my head the blood rushes to my head, but when I stand on my feet the blood don’t seem to rush to my feet,” Dud said. “I didn’t know why, so I wanted to just stay here and think about it a minute or two.”

“Why, that’s easy to figure out in your case Uncle Dud,” Clara said. “Blood can’t go in to your feets because your feets are full, but it can go into your head cause your head’s empty.”

(The characters of Uncle Dud Doolittle and Cousin Clara are the property of Peach Picked Publishing in association with Katona Publishing and are used by permission.)

A refuge under the covers

When I was a little boy, my brother and I shared a room with two maple single beds, a maple night stand, and a maple dresser with six drawers – three on each side with a large mirror spanning its width. The beds had pineapple finials on their posts. My older brother left me behind in the room early in my life after he graduated high school headed off to the Navy. There was 15 years between us. The room was lonely once he was gone. He often had friends over that allowed me to be the annoying little brother! I reveled in all the mischief I was able to cause as a toddler.

That room became like a cavern to me. In the dark, there were definitely monsters under both beds, in the closet and walking down the hallway leading to the room. I could hear every creak and pop. Any little thing would have the handmade quilt pulled so high over my head, it was doubtful I would ever dig myself back out again.

When the fears of nightmares were too hard to bear, my parent’s bed was a refuge, and off I would run up the hall, open the door, and jump in between them in their cedar bed. After they calmed me, I would soon settle in warm and snug between them.

As I grew, my bed became also a sick bed, as my tenuous health caused me to take extended stays there. The maple night stand became a regular place for bottles of medicine, damp wash rags would remove the vanish over time as they would hang there between my fevers.

In my childhood, the room had none of those things children have today. There was only one TV in the house in the living room. Only what could fill my imagination with the toys from my closet were what I had to keep me occupied in the healthy times. I also had a candy red tricycle which allowed me some freedom in the back yard and, of course, like many I had my own cowboy outfit, with a cap pistol, so I could chase after the bad guys.

That room was my world as a kid. I knew every flaw, every loose board, and where I could hide from company if they came. Despite being alone, I filled it with lots of imagination.

As the years passed, I remained there until I was in my teens and the den was converted into a more adult bedroom for me and the childhood bedroom became a guest room.

Years later, we decided to sell the suite and it moved along to a family that had a set of twin girls who would then call it their own. I hoped they found as many happy hours there as I did and experienced a few more joint memories as siblings. The bedroom suite was second hand to my brother and I, so I imagine it has moved on a time or two more since then.

While furniture does not carry memories with it, the pieces certainly can leave a memory legacy within each of us. Today, I still sleep in that cedar bed I once jumped in as a toddler. A few feet away are the dresser drawers which served as my bed as an infant. I imagine, if it is the Lord’s will these items will be with me the rest of my journey and then will pass along in the family.

Joe Barger

Award-winning author Randall Franks joins long-time Ringgold Georgia Mayor Joe Barger in writing his autobiography

Testing the Metal of Life (The Joe Barger Story) by Joe Barger with Randall Franks is expected for release in October 2023.

Randall Franks and Joe Barger

“Former Mayor Joe Barger called me several months ago and asked me to come over to his home,” Franks said. “He asked me to help him write his autobiography. This began months of Joe and his wife Barbara spending hours with me completing interviews, going over notes and photographs spanning his 93 years. From his early years in North Carolina to American military service in the Philippines; then from Ringgold to China and around the world, as he also led a small Appalachian town through 48 years of amazing growth.

“Writing this book with Joe is an amazing experience. It is a fascinating American story that I think anyone might enjoy and I  am so honored that Joe and Barbara place such trust in me.”

Advance copies may be ordered either via mail (see address below) or by PayPal button below. In addition to cost and shipping, the button includes additional cost to cover PayPal fees.



Autograph Request? Please Provide Name Desired To


Order by mail by sending $25 check or

money order to

Joe Barger, Peach Picked Publishing,

P.O. Box 42, Tunnel Hill, Ga. 30736

 

Can I be recreated in a computer?

As Labor Day passes by this is the first one that I actually recall being on strike on the day we acknowledge the contributions of American workers.

I am part of the film and television industry and earlier this year, the screenwriters went on strike, and shortly thereafter the actors followed suit.

While I am sure there are many intricate elements to the negotiations with the producers, ultimately, I think on all fronts the impact of artificial intelligence is what will hold the members of SAG-AFTRA and other industry unions in negotiations for the indefinite future.

As I understand, with current technology, basically, writers, and we actors may become obsolete and AI can take the basics of writing stories, our vocal patterns and our facial and body movements and can basically recreate all of the talents in a box.

This may be a simplistic view, but the future of what that looks like and its impact on the worker are far reaching.

While I am sure many see Hollywood’s absence from creating new television shows and films as a relief, there are good people in the industry who create positive and uplifting content who now not creating also.

I imagine, AI and robotics will continue to touch every imaginable job across our country in the coming months and years.

While the genie in many respects is already out of the bottle, we the workers of America, must be mindful to return and create opportunities for our selves and others in our home communities.

We may have to start thinking of the models used by our ancestors when every town required at least one person to have a particular skill to meet the needs of the residents and make the products we need.

I have a feeling, we will not be able to depend upon these AI and robots to look after our interests and create what is best for us.

Those who have let the critters into your homes through various devices, you may want to rethink that.

While it may seem convenient, is it in your best interest?

That answer is still far into the future when we find out who exactly is listening and collecting the data and for what ultimate purpose.

Being far removed from the mainstream of production, I am picketing, but only in my mind. Like many of my relatives have through the years as their unions have went on strike, we must stick together to make sure we do not lose the world we depend upon and love.

Spending until it goes out of style

It is only through paying attention that we can save our hometowns.

In big cities, its often difficult to understand who does what, and
how they are spending our money.

In a small town though, it’s your city council that is responsible
for deciding what is spent annually within its budget, or bi-weekly
if the expenditure is unanticipated or requires an additional
approval through the bid processes required in your city.

It is your money they are spending and often we don’t even think
about the fact that by our vote we are putting people, we wouldn’t
even allow to balance our checkbooks in charge of millions of dollars
in cash and multi-millions in infrastructure that belong to us.

On average, most councils meet twice monthly. Since the advent of
social media, many share their meetings on some platform so you
don’t even have to leave your home to know what they are doing.

Did you ever take the time to see how they are spending your money?

Is there some pet project that one or several of your elected
officials decided is more important than providing the basic services
that cities are suppose to provide.

In a time when most cannot afford to put food on the table and gas in
the tank, communities are often spending rather than cutting back.

The same can be said in a much larger scale about counties.

We all get wrapped up in our own lives trying to care for family,
keep a business going, or simply working. But if our local
governments are taking money from us and wasting it, its our own
fault for not holding our council people accountable.

I know I have recently realized funds being wasted in my hometown and
it made so mad I couldn’t hold in my frustration.

What can you do. Well in most cities this is an election year. Mayors
and council people will be hitting doors, doing gatherings to get you
to vote for them. Ask them questions, but most of all be equipped
with facts about the waste and let them know you will not support
them if they are not willing to change direction in spending
policies.

Every thing is going up, but at the same time, cities can cut back
just like we are having to do.

That means cutting back on services and eliminating the frills in
your community. If its good enough for our household, the same should
be true for our town.

Now, I can just hear every excuse that they might give as why they
cannot cut back.

I can also hear all the reasons in my head why I can’t vote for
them.

Don’t forget herstory

Sometimes you just got to be hit on the head with a sledge hammer, a
five iron or an iron skillet to realize something that has been
staring you in the face all your life.

I recently went to a One Book One Community event in my hometown
where we welcomed a Georgia author who has seen great success with
her books. Kimberly Brock’s latest and the focus of the event is
“The Lost Book of Eleanor Dare.” The story is a fictionalized
account relating to the descendants of the Lost Colony of Roanoke.

In her lecture, I heard her note how she had wondered what were the
stories of the women. Then it hit me, that we generally know the
“his”tory but the “her”story often dies off within a
generation or two of the lady who lived it.

Coming from a family a very strong women, their stories permeated my
childhood. My grandmother, my mother and even the mothers back for a
few greats left pieces of themselves in our family lore.

I recently met someone at a community gathering, they asked who was
my grandmother. When I said, they replied, “I remember her very
well. When I was a boy, she impressed me because she could drive
cattle like any man in the valley.” I had never thought of her
driving cattle. I should have but it just didn’t dawn on me. They
had to get from mountain grazing to valley grazing some how.

That was part of her story, she never shared with me.

I began thinking about the generations of women whose stories were
lost to me except in the names and dates of she and her children.

Now, I am blessed to have several lines which include some pretty
illustrious folks up there on that tree. If the grandmother, aunt or
cousin managed to make a mark on their world then elements of her
story survive in the written history of their country. Many of those
ladies may have had their stories become more fable than history. The
famed Lady Godiva who rode on horseback supposedly in her where with
all, was one of my grandmothers. I had a grandmother Isabella of
France who was credited for overthrowing a king – Edward II. Of
course, there were probably a few of those truth be known, especially
when the king was their not-so-loving husband.

My grandmother Margaret Tudor, who ran Scotland after the death of
her husband King James IV died and struggled against some strong
noble chieftains.

These are a handful who I am blessed to be able to learn a bit about
their lives because fate placed them in a position which made their
lives important because of the man that was their father, their
husband or their son. The oldest image I have of a woman in the tree
dates to Rome, 120 BC, when my grandmother Aurelia managed to birth a
boy who would be Julius Caesar. So, historians managed to write a few
detailed paragraphs about her.

Jumping forward, a handful of grandmothers, aunts and female cousins
managed to get on notable lists among our countries first settlers
but little is known about their specific lives other than their
arrivals in Plymouth on the Mayflower, or Jamestown on another ship.

There is a big dark hole in the herstory of the lives they lived.
Sadly, I fear even though we put much of our story out for the world
to see through social media. I fear that one day that resource will
not be as reliable as the written word once was, if anything was
written.

Don’t let someone have to hit you over the head with something
heavy, take the time to write her story while she is here to tell it.
Or record those she knows about the generation before. Write your own
story too. In my case, a few of those stories in my case can be found
in the book “A Mountain Pearl” which highlights some stories
about my mother and grandmother in Appalachia.

What we do may seem mundane, but to future generations, they might be
amazed, just like I was to think of my dear grandmother driving
cattle like a drover.