Mitchell Way
I was an eleven-year-old in sixth grade All City band. It was two hours each Saturday that the family would not have to listen to me practice my trombone. There is only so much a parent can do to encourage a child. After that, they play a game called, “Hide the Slide.”
It was a time in life that every boy either looked forward to or shuddered to think he must be a part of. It was a freshman class in high school that every boy had to participate in to graduate. It was a required class, and girls were not allowed. They called it Boys’ Health and, Sex Ed.
Light snowflakes were falling out of the evening sky as I crunched through the foot-deep snow covering the sidewalk in my hometown. This was something I looked forward to each year; walking the streets of homes in the historic part of town to look at Christmas decorations in their yards and the lights from their windows. Not only were the old homes elegant, but the trees lining the streets, the 100-year-old oaks which had long since lost their leaves, now shimmered with their white snowy coverings. Except for the occasional passing of a car, it was all very still and quiet.
You’d have to be in a certain age range to notice: 50 years and older. Any younger and you would never have heard of the man, but it is not uncommon for me to get the same question asked from the 50+ crowd: “Have you ever heard of the humorist, Patrick McManus? You have the same writing style.”
Zechariah 8:23 (ESV): Let us go with you, for we have heard that God is with you.
As long as I have known my wife Cheryl, she has had a relationship with her Lord that is firmly grounded. If you know her, you know who she lives for and you know that she is not afraid to share the gospel with anyone who seeks her counsel.
Thanksgiving 1965, my mom and my cousin Gae were alone in Gae’s kitchen. The buzzer on her counter sounded and Gae rushed to the oven door, looked through the glass window and announced, “The turkey looks done. Yell down the stairs and tell everyone to come up to the table.”
“There are those who speak about you who say, ‘He lost an arm, he lost a leg, she lost her sight.’
I object!
You gave your arm, you gave your leg, you gave your sight, as gifts to your nation so that we might live in freedom.
Thank you. And to your families, families of the fallen and families of the wounded, you’ve sacrificed in ways that those of us who have not walked in your shoes, can only imagine.”
General Peter M. Pace
It was a curving section of the county road with a posted speed of 35 mph. Farms and homesteads lined both sides of the road as did overhanging maple and alder trees.
“Slow up in the curve. Almost to . . . yep, there he is.”
I am standing out on the Meridian High School infield next to the pole vault pit. It is a multi-school track meet. The weather is absolutely atrocious. Quite possibly, this is the end of the world as we know it. Roars of thunder, flashes of lightning, sheets of rain followed by hail the size of marbles which are trying to destroy my umbrella, and yet, the track meet goes on.
Forty-five years. That is a long time to wait for a project to become reality.
Great Men, the ones that are few and far between. The ones that inspire you to greatness. The ones you want to emulate. How can I best honor them when they are gone?
In 2009 my mother, Patty, decided she would like to take her family to the Big Island of Hawaii. She had time shares in a condo, so she acquired two waterfront rooms for seven days in Kona. There were four families in the group. Mom’s husband had recently experienced a heart attack and was in a rehabilitation center, so mom had a spare airline ticket. She asked her niece, Gae, to join her.
2009-2020
My granddog, Milton Barry and I walked through the tall grass to a hilly knoll overlooking the ocean. He wasn’t walking as fast in his old age, but he didn’t mind the walk together. As the afternoon sun was setting, we sat together and I laid my hand on his back.