Author: Bill Pike

At three in the morning on Saturday, June 27, I came into this world.

My tattered baby book has eight pounds and seven and half ounces as my entry weight.

Knowing that June can be hot and humid in North Carolina, I feel certain my mother was happy when I arrived. And somewhere in a waiting room at Alamance County Hospital, my father was probably relieved too.

Today, I turn seventy.

Luckily, I’m not alone in reaching seventy, many of my friends will also celebrate hitting seventy this year.

At different times over the last seventy years, I’ve had thoughtful conversations with my childhood friends, John Huffman and Joe Vanderford. One thing we all agree on is how lucky we were to have our parents. Any success that we’ve had through the years came from the example they set with their hard work, sacrifice, care, and unyielding love.

I think love was the key for me as my parents continued to love me when I was not at my best, and I disappointed them.

Parenting is tough, tough work. Even in good circumstances, parenting is truly never easy, and the work of a parent is never done, even when your children are grown.

I appreciate the teachers who tolerated me. I’m forever grateful to my first grade teacher, Mrs. Hughes, who taught me the life skill of reading, Mrs. Wall who taught be how to type, and Mrs. Barnwell who in my senior year of high school challenged me to read Catcher In The Rye and the Invisible Man.

Mr. Wallace Pegram my cooperating teacher during my student teaching assignment stayed with me my whole career in public education with these words: “there’s a lot psychology in teaching.”

Throughout my life, I’ve been lucky to have the support of what I call families: my relatives, church family, education family, and neighbors. When I think back, no matter where I have been, I’ve been surrounded by good people.

My sister, Lisa, and her husband, Eric, are among those good people. They have always been patient and kind to our children. And, I deeply admire their compassion for the earth. Doesn’t matter if it is about farming, chickens, horses, or t-shirts, their passion and their ability to build community relationships is unsurpassed.

Another one of those good people, Don Gumm, guided my admission into Greensboro College, and my first teaching job at Martinsville Junior High School. Don had been the Youth Minister at Davis Street United Methodist Church.

I had no business being accepted into Greensboro College. But, Don believed in me, and despite my awful academic performance in high school, Don Gumm’s belief in me was good enough for the Admissions Director.

From that admission, I met my future wife, made five friends for life, and started my thirty one year career in public schools.

This November will mark forty eight years of marriage to the love of my life, Betsy. Despite my many aggravating faults, she has stayed by my side in all the ups and downs of my wobbling through this world.

And because of her, we have three slightly above average children, and four grandchildren that provide one of the most precious gifts of life—laughter.

To our children, you need to know that time is flying, and my prayer to you in the future is this: “ I pray that I will not become a burden to you as I zip into old age.” Who knows maybe I am already a burden to you. If I do become a burden, may the ghost of Dr. Kevorkian swoop down and take me.

For our grandchildren, I’m sorry our world is such a mess. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll be part of guiding the improvements that our world needs before it’s too late.

Even though that rotten cancer took your life, I still love you Pat Conroy. Your books always hit my heart.

To all the musicians and songwriters, I love it when your music moistens my eyes. There is nothing like a good cry from the beauty of a song. Speaking of musicians, Drew Willson, if you happen upon this reflection of baloney, I hope you record your third album before I croak.

Many thanks to all the curators who put together exhibits in art museums. I apologize to all of the security guards who have politely reminded me—“Sir, your leaning a bit too close to the painting.”

Hey God, I hope you didn’t expect me to skip over you in this pondering. Somedays, I wonder if you are still vertical, and then some tiny unexpected miracle will occur, and I think to myself, yes, God is still hanging around, we haven’t run him off yet.

However, God, I want to make it perfectly clear with you, no human being should battle cancer twice during a lifetime.

I forever cherish those days when a voice from deep inside my soul whispers to me “you need to go for a run.” There is nothing like an early morning run for me. I cherish the selfish, singularity of those moments. I’m thankful for the still sleepy beauty found in the first streaks of sunlight, the “good morning chatter” of birds, and the cycles of seasonal changes.

I love who ever invented the hot shower, oatmeal raisin cookies, the camera in a cell phone, eye glasses, fifty weight sunscreen, people with patience, the fishing rod, and the readers of my baloney.

I love Wayne Dementi and Nell Chesley in the development of our four books.

I apologize to all the people I have hurt, disappointed, or let down because of my multiple imperfections. In my seventy years, there have been too many. As my wife reminds me sometimes, “William, you are too hard on yourself.” But then again, aren’t we all?

It would be easy to ramble aimlessly for a few more paragraphs.

But, I’ll close with the Andy Griffith Show.

Despite the ways critics point out the show’s shortcomings, I believe the writers, actors, and actresses gently reminded us that: listening is important, patience is essential in an impatient world, common sense, telling the truth, believing in people in difficult times, and a kind heart are virtues that were as critical to our lives when the show first aired on October 3, 1960 as they are today. Sadly, those much needed life lessons are eroding like our coastal shorelines.

Thanks for letting me interrupt you, have a quiet day, I hope to see you at 80.

Love, Bill

I never thought that a photograph in the Henrico Citizen would result in a reader reaching out to me. But, after the paper ran a photo of the Ivy Whackers clearing ivy from tree trunks at Trinity United Methodist Church that’s what happened. Back in March, I took a call from Marianne Rollings.

Since 2017, Mrs. Rollings has been the steady spirit for recovering and restoring The Sons and Daughters of Ham Cemetery. This historic African-American cemetery is compactly scrunched between the city of Richmond’s Bandy Field, the University of Richmond, and the beginning western edge of Henrico County.

Mrs. Rollings knows every square inch of the cemetery’s history including the Revolutionary War, B.W. Green’s Huntley Plantation, Dahlgren’s Raid in the Civil War, and its founding in 1873.

After the Civil War and emancipation, members of the Bradford family, who had worked on the plantation, purchased property along Battalion Road which would later be renamed as Bandy Road. These land purchases led to the expansion of the formerly secret slave organization, the Sons of Ham. Some members of the organization built homes along Battalion Road. These land purchases also included a section designated as burial grounds for the family of Moses Bradford, Sr. and members of the Ham Council.

Seventeen years after the establishment of the Ham Council, Richmond’s Maggie Walker played a significant leadership role in helping to forge an agreement between the Independent Order of St. Luke and the Ham Council. This was seen as a consolidation of St. Luke with smaller independent societies.

For over fifty years, the Ham Council successfully oversaw the building of homes along Bandy Road, including properly maintaining the cemetery. Then in 1955, a significant intrusion occurred. The City of Richmond wanted the property to build a school. City officials imposed eminent domain. They forced the Bandy Road residents out, razed their homes, and also flattened most of the Civil War earthworks on the property.

Ironically, the school was never built, but the disrupted residents relocated to Bon Air, western Henrico, Northside, and an area around Westwood Baptist Church.

Eventually, that 1955 disruption had an impact on the cemetery. For the Ham Council families who had been forced to move, their ability to properly maintain the cemetery diminished.

That failed upkeep slowed Mrs. Rollings in her effort to locate the burial grounds. She stated, “I lived two blocks away from the cemetery, and the years of decomposing leaves and overgrown vegetation prevented me from finding the cemetery.”

In 1998, the city made an attempt to sell the property. On another front, the University of Richmond pushed an effort to acquire the Henrico County cemetery. Fortunately, efforts by the Friends of Bandy Field and members of the Bradford family prevented these potential purchases.

By 2019, Mrs. Rollings had successfully completed and filed the required paperwork so that the cemetery was incorporated as a nonprofit.

In 2021, Mrs. Rollings was filing more paperwork. This time, she was in pursuit of grant funding from the National Trust and the Virginia Outdoors Foundation. Once again, her historical knowledge of the site and her vision for what the grounds could become helped her to win grants from both organizations.

Much progress has been made in locating and cleaning up the site. But, this is on-going seasonal work that requires volunteers to maintain the property on four annual cleanup days. Friends of East End Cemetery, Henrico County employee volunteers, the University of Richmond, boy scouts, and a variety of non-profits and individuals have helped with the cleanup days.

One Boy Scout developed his Eagle Scout project to construct a much needed bridge. Also, Mrs. Rollings noted that significant interaction and help has occurred with Oliver Hill Scholars from the University of Richmond as well as the school’s archaeology department.

I asked Mrs. Rollings if there was a total for the number of grave sites on the property. Depending upon the source, she estimated that 50 to 100 souls are interred.

Yet, despite those estimates, only two grave markers remain. Sadly, from time to time vandalism has been a challenge. Yet, the two remaining markers are significant. One marker honors Private Moses Bradford, Jr., a Buffalo Soldier, and son of the founder of the Sons of the Ham Council. The other marker remembers Queenie Bradford Johnston, the granddaughter of that same founder. Queenie’s father had also toiled on the plantation.

With its founding in 1873, this year marks the sesquicentennial for the cemetery. For Mrs. Rollings, this 150 year birthday is the perfect time to recognize the history, the cleanups, the pathways, and signage improvements that have taken place since 2017.

From Mrs. Rollings’ vision there is much more to come in the future. She acknowledged the opportunity in working with an archaeologist to uncover more grave sites, the creation of a memorial garden on the site to help slow down the busyness of our lives, and an augmented reality program that will use a QR code to give visitors a deeper insight into the history of the Sons and Daughters of Ham.

When it comes to this piece of property, Marianne Rollings is a veritable history book. She has truly embraced one of her mantras in the restoration of this property: “every acre counts.”

If you or your organization would like to assist in making every acre count, you can contact Mrs. Rollings via this email: hamcemeteryrva@gmail.com

Author’s note: This piece was published in the Henrico Citizen as an At Home In Henrico column on Wednesday, June 21, 2023. A special thanks to publisher/editor, Tom Lappas, for taking the risk to run the piece in the paper.

It is an honor to be with you this morning.

You know, there is always a back story when a person is asked to pinch hit on a Sunday morning for the clergy staff.

Back on May 9, in a staff meeting, Brian, Hung Su, Judy, and Aaron figured out that Annual Conference would be a obstacle in trying to prepare a sermon.

And they also reasoned our new associate pastor, Daniel, would have the same challenge. Plus, Daniel doesn’t officially start at Trinity until July.

And after thinking a bit further, they concluded— since old Bill wasn’t at this staff meeting, it made perfect sense for him to be assigned to bring the message on June 18.

So here I am.

Before we start, let me make a disclaimer.

My college degrees are in English and School Administration, not theology.

And before I finish this morning, it is very likely that I’ll be excommunicated from the Methodist Church.

So, you’ve been warned.

Let us pray: Father of us all, help us to know and feel your presence as we ponder the scripture. Amen.

Our Lectionary pals have selected Matthew Chapter 9 beginning at verse 35, pushing into Chapter 10.

At home, when I read my wife’s prehistoric Bible from college, I use a highlighter to mark words, phrases, or sentences that resonate with me.

I think our pew Bibles would be shocked in disbelief if we actually pulled them out, brushed off the dust and cobwebs, and used a highlighter to note words that resonate with us.

If we actually performed that highlighted reading of verses 35-38, you might be drawn to these words: teaching, proclaiming, healing, compassion, harassed, helpless, harvest, workers, few.

Jesus was always teaching and proclaiming.

He had a compassion for the harassed, the helpless, and Jesus offered healing to those in need.

Additionally, Jesus was a keen observer of people. He could sense when people were rudderless— “sheep without a shepherd.”

And he pushes that further by noting, a good harvest needs many workers, not a few.

Nudging a bit further, Jesus encourages his disciples to send out workers into the harvest field.

At this point, Jesus is thinking to himself— these disciples have been hanging around me, watching me work the crowds. They’ve seen me interact with them.

They heard my teaching of parables, and they have witnessed my ability to heal.

I think it is time for me to put them to work.

Jesus calls a staff meeting, a sales meeting, a departmental meeting, a faculty meeting, and says to his disciples: “Hey you guys, I’m giving you the authority to drive out “impure spirits, and to heal every disease and sickness.”

In further defining his orders to the disciples, he specifically tells them: “Do not go among the Gentiles or enter any town of the Samaritans. Go rather to the lost sheep of Israel.”

Again, I’m not a theologian, but in Matthew Chapter 5, Jesus advises his followers to “love your enemies,” and in Matthew Chapter 22 he tells them to “love your neighbors.”

Yet, in his orders to his disciples, his focus is not on loving your enemies or neighbors, his team of twelve is to only focus on those “lost sheep of Israel.”

You don’t want me to sort out overlooking the Gentiles and Samaritans in Jesus’ thinking.

Slackers who miss a staff meeting are only given so much time to attempt to reel in a congregation and make a couple of points.

I’m sure Jesus had very specific reasons to focus his disciples on the “lost sheep of Israel.”

But here is what I’m wondering, are you, me, we, us still like those “lost sheep of Israel”?

Here’s why I’m asking—aren’t we still conflicted in reaching out to love our enemies and our neighbors?

No matter how hard we try, or say we’re going to try to get along, we’re still a mess.

Look at our so called “united” Methodist Church.

Heck, fleas annoying a hound dog under the summer shade of a sycamore tree are more “united” than we Methodist.

Declines in attendance, shrinking financial support, our country’s political divide, human sexuality, our interpretations of the scripture related to human sexuality, the pandemic, and disaffiliation have impacted our Methodist and Trinity “unity”.

Perhaps, you recently saw this headline: The Importance of Religion In The Lives of Americans Is Shrinking. This headline came from a recent survey by the Public Religion Research Institute.

This research collected data from 6,600 adults in all fifty states.

The leading takeaway: “Just 16% of Americans surveyed said religion is the most important thing in their lives, that’s down from 20% a decade ago.”

The CEO for Public Religion Research Institute, Melissa Deckman, stated: “Americans are becoming increasingly likely to become religiously unaffiliated.”

Despite this decline, the researchers also found a strand of hope— “for people who do still attend religious services, they say they’re optimistic about the future of their house of worship.”

How about it Trinity, those of you in the Sanctuary this morning, and those who are watching at home, are you optimistic about our future?

What gave Jesus optimism when he looked into the eyes and souls of his disciples?

Maybe, Rainn Wilson has some insights about what Jesus saw in his disciples and the people they encountered.

I recently watched an interview with actor Rainn Wilson. Mr. Wilson was in the sitcom, The Office, where he portrayed Dwight Schrute.

On May 24, Mr. Wilson was being interviewed about his new book—”Soul Boom: Why We Need a Spiritual Revolution.”

From his book, the interviewer noted, Mr. Wilson writes that as a culture, we have “discounted spirituality, moved away from faith, and moved away from the sacred.”

Mmm, might Mr. Wilson be describing the “lost sheep of Israel”?

I’m not sure. But, Mr. Wilson also suggest that we need to return to those common threads found in religion.

Mr. Wilson understands why people have left religion and the church.

However, he stated the following: “But there are spiritual tools at the foundation of all of the world’s great faith traditions that we can draw from that can transform our lives, and, more importantly, that we can use to help transform our society.”

In our scripture reading this morning, isn’t that what Jesus is hoping will take place from his teachings, and the work of his disciples—the transformation of our lives and our society?

Is this what the optimistic churchgoers see in the future from the survey conducted—an opportunity to transform lives and society?

Today being Father’s Day, I wonder how much time fathers spend dreaming into the future and contemplating if their daughters and sons will have an opportunity to transform lives and society?

When I served as principal at Lakeside Elementary School, I have never forgotten the day in the cafeteria when a young man looked up at me, and stated, “my daddy is in jail.”

The sting of those words made me wonder how different my life might have been if my father had been incarcerated.

My father was a high school graduate and a Veteran. He was one of ten children in a family who worked as tenant farmers in Alamance and Guilford counties in North Carolina.

In that setting, my father learned quickly the merits of hard work and sacrifice. Those attributes allowed him to become a very successful life and health insurance salesman.

And there was something else stirring my father’s heart and soul—an unwavering faith and trust in God.

Despite losing his oldest brother in WWII, losing his job when a new opportunity failed, and losing his wife to cancer, he never lost his faith and trust.

How about Trinity, when you cast a glance at Trinity do you see opportunities in our future?

Is there a harvest, a rebound, a redemption, a comeback for this church?

What does our Senior Pastor, Brian, see when he looks at us?

If we are going to continue to move Trinity forward, we need to restore our faith and trust in God, but we also need to reestablish our faith and trust in each other.

Rightly or wrongly, Jesus trusted his disciples to go out into that field and harvest the lost sheep.

I’m sure that was a tough assignment, and it continues to be an even tougher assignment for churches today.

So how do churches, how does Trinity survive and move forward?

I’m no expert on anything. But during the last twelve years, the following thoughts keep pinging in my old noggin’:

What might we learn from Brian Shallcross, the General Manager of the Bowie Baysox about “discretionary time” and its impact on young families?

We must be aware of the “under forty barrier.” What do we offer to people at Trinity and in our community who are under forty years old?

How can Trinity become better at sharing and telling its congregational stories?

Getting to know a person’s story shouldn’t happen by reading the person’s obituary.

How do we know if our forms of communication are efficient and effective?

Are we listening and communicating with the people who watch our Sunday worship services on-line?

No matter how creatively a church staff works to develop a program or an event, the success of that event depends upon one essential element—volunteers. How do we recruit volunteers without pestering them to death?

Anne Sullivan once stated: “We are afraid of ideas, of experimenting, of change. We shrink from thinking a problem through to a logical conclusion.”

Churches must stop fearing and shrinking from our need to change.

Sam Jones in reflecting about his Boston Celtic teammate, John Havlicek, said this: “The one thing that got to me, he, Havlicek, never got tired.”

Coming out of the pandemic, Trinity can’t afford to get tired. We must nudge and inspire each other to keep moving, keep working. We can’t stop.

Long time Trinity member, Mary Ann Robins, says that our building has “good bones.” I agree.

But, to protect those “good bones,” we are obligated to take care of all interior and exterior surfaces linked to those bones.

And I’ll stop with this, Trinity to die, we must erase from our minds these words: “ Because that’s the way we have always done it.” Churches with that mentality—die.

One of the best things about this Sanctuary is how sunlight filters through the shutters.

That sunlight makes me think about our congregation.

How many times in your lifetime has your heart been a source of light for the person sitting behind you this morning, a weary neighbor, an estranged relative, a lost stranger, and even the harassed and helpless?

In today’s scripture, I highlighted the words compassion, harassed, and helpless.

Why?

Well, it’s really pretty simple, I need to improve my compassion, my love for the harassed and helpless.

But, I also need to be better at welcoming all and judging less.

Isn’t that at the heart of what Jesus really needs from you, me, we, us?

He needs us to love.

Songwriters Graham Lyle and Terry Britten framed the right question in Tina Turner’s performance of their song—“What’s love got to do with it?”

We know the answer, love has everything to do with it.

I hope I can find the courage and the compassion of my light, my love to the harassed and helpless.

How about you?

Author’s note: Today, I had the privilege of delivering the sermon at both of our worship services at Trinity UMC in Richmond, Virginia. I appreciate the opportunity and the support.

‘

On Friday, May 19, my day started early at Trinity United Methodist Church.

At some point after six that morning, I opened the building.

I made a quick sweep through the Preschool wing to open doors and turn on lights.

Next, I checked in at Trinity Hall. I wanted to make sure that we were ready for a meeting of the James River Art League.

Additionally, Friday is the day when church members can drop off food donations for three local Methodist church based food pantries.

We appeared to be in good shape for these two activities.

I grabbed the key to our 2012 step van so that I could move it to our parking lot at the corner of Rock Creek Road and Forest Avenue. By parking here, we hope to reduce the chance for some knucklehead to attempt to steal the catalytic converter for a second time.

I checked in with our head building caretaker, Ronnie Johnson, and then I went back home for breakfast.

One of my goals today was to complete overdue work on the church’s grounds.

I made it back to church for a nine o’clock meeting with a sales representative from the local company that we purchase a variety of supplies for operating the building.

This was to be followed with a meeting with a local contractor to review three door projects.

Of course, the first customer for the sales representative talked too long, so he was delayed in arriving.

Just as I was finishing up with the sales rep, the contractor arrived.

After meeting with the sales representative and the contractor, I walked down to Trinity Hall to make sure the technology for the Art League meeting was cooperating. I re-installed the charged batteries for the wireless microphones, made a slight adjustment on the volume, and this group was ready to meet.

I walked back to the church office to check in with our Office Administrator, Paula Cadden, and that’s when a visitor requested admission to the entry hall outside the church office.

A nice gentleman walked in and he wanted to talk with someone about using our building for church services. Building use is one of my responsibilities, so I invited him into the church parlor to talk.

I gave him my card, and explained my role at the church, and he begin to explain his reason for stopping by Trinity.

Professionally, this gentleman worked as a pharmacist for one of our local national chain drugstores.

A couple of years ago, he had helped to launch in Richmond with other Ethiopians—Bethel Church. They have been meeting in this gentleman’s home, but with ten to fifteen members who attend regularly, the leaders have decided they need a bigger space.

Serving as the pastor of this church, he explained how God had been nudging him to visit other churches in proximity to his home and work location in hopes of finding a place to meet.

I explained our building use process, and also, informed him that we already have a small French-Swahili congregation meeting at Trinity on Sunday afternoons.

With that said, I explained a bit further about our inability to support another small congregation.

Not wanting to discourage our passionate visitor, I walked him through some possible alternatives: meeting at a local public school, continuing to seek a meeting spot at a neighborhood church, or I could assist him in arranging a meeting with the local Superintendent for the Three Notch’d District of the Virginia Conference of United Methodist church. This district covers all of the Methodist churches from Richmond into Charlottesville. In Richmond alone, there are close to seventy churches.

Our visitor embraced the last option. I recorded his contact information, wished him luck, and within the next hour, I had sent an email to the Reverend Dr. Hyo Lee outlining the request.

As usual, time was flying, and the grounds work kept getting pushed back.

I had two burned out lights that needed to be replaced one in the connecting hallway to the Welcome Center, and one in a lamp post on the front grounds of the church. Both bulbs were a bit grouchy, but eventually they cooperated in being removed.

With the light work completed, I came back to Trinity Hall as the art group meeting was ending. We worked to get the chairs and tables back to their rightful homes without much trouble.

It was almost two o’clock, and I thought I might be able to head outside, but another failed light caught my attention.

So, I grabbed a ladder and a fluorescent tube, and pried off the plastic cover. With the cover loose, I made a mindless move. I left the plastic covering dangling on the other side from where I was stationed on the ladder. Of course, when I jostled the light tube the cover fell to the hard floor and shattered.

Sometimes, it pays to be a pack rat. In the Trinity Hall mechanical room, I had saved a couple of light covers from a previous project. I grabbed one, and reinstalled it over the light tubes.

It’s pushing three o’clock, but I’m heading outside.

At the back of Trinity Hall, there is Dominion Power easement that slopes down behind the corner of our parking lots. Penn Line cleared it a few months ago, but they failed to take saplings all the way to the ground.

This time of the year, those saplings are sprouting again. I want to keep this area clear of underbrush, so in a little over thirty minutes, I have leveled those sprouting saplings. Maybe on another day, we can reduce the short stumps to ground level.

Next, I walk over to the vacant lot. Our grounds crew keeps the lot mowed, but there are some areas around the old tool shed, under the cherry trees, and down by Rock Creek Road that need to be cleared and made neater.

I was working under the cherry trees, when one of my power tools rans out of battery life. I walked back to the church’s tool shed and grabbed a forgotten tool—a sling blade, also called a grass whip. With a good grip on the wooden handle, its double sided blade easily slices through the underbrush as I swing it back and forth.

In sprucing up this area, I notice a large trashcan that is overflowing by the tool shed. Not only is it stuffed, but it reeks of old waste.

I drag it out into the open lawn and realize the contents are too heavy for me to drag any further.

I reason I need a wheelbarrow, and I walk back toward Trinity Hall to get one. It took me a couple of trips, but I finally emptied the disgusting contents.

After dumping this grossness into the dumpster, I fill a bucket with hot water and a disinfectant and washout the inside of the trashcan. Not wanting a mess like this again, I turn the can upside down and place it on the porch of the tool shed.

Before heading in, I want to weed a mulched area under a tree at the back entrance to the Stuart Hall Road parking lot. It took a few minutes, but I was able to remove all the weeds.

With my tools put away, I took a glance at my phone. I have a text message from Paula Cadden—the sink in the Sacristy is backed up. Just what wanted to hear at five o’clock in the afternoon.

I walked to the Sacristy, and yes, the sink is a mess. My friend, Martie Parch, had used a plunger to try to unstop it, but she had no luck.

Rather than to take the pipes apart under the sink, I opted to try a shop vacuum to suck out the water and debris.

I went down into Eaton and gathered up the shop vacuum. I positioned it near the sink, put the hose over the drain, and turned it on. In a matter of seconds, the water and debris were out of the sink.

I turned on the hot water and refilled the sink, and it would not drain. Again, I vacuumed out the water, and tried the same process to clear the drain—no luck.

At this point, what is left of my feeble old brain kicked into reverse. It sped back to my father’s sister, Evelyn. Evelyn was a gem. We all loved Aunt Evelyn.

A long, long time ago, I recall Evelyn sharing wisdom from a plumber regarding a stopped up household drain. Basically, the plumber stated that hot water and bleach was a possible remedy when a plumber wasn’t available.

I went back into Eaton Hall where we have a room of custodial supplies and grabbed a jug of bleach.

Carefully, I poured bleach into the drain and filled it level with the surface of the sink. I turned out the lights, and I went home.

On Saturday morning, I was scheduled to open the building for the Choral Boosters from Freeman High School. They were holding a car wash.

After turning off the security system, I walked into the Sacristy to check the sink.

I peered into the drain and noted that the bleach was gone. I turned on the water, the drain filled. I turned off the water, and remarkably with no hesitation the drain emptied.

Again, I turned on the water and filled the drain, and for a second time, the happy gurgling drain cleared.

For good measure, I filled the drain with bleach again, and I silently cheered Aunt Evelyn’s plumber.

By now, you must be thinking, why is Bill sharing this rubbish with me?

Is he searching for a pity party?

Are the challenges of attempting to manage this cantankerous facility and its grounds starting to take its toll on him?

I recently stumbled upon this quote from Helen Keller’s teacher, Anne Sullivan: “I need a teacher quite as much as Helen. I know the education of this child will be the distinguishing event of my life, if I have the brains and perseverance to accomplish it.”

Trinity the building, its grounds, its people are quite the teacher.

My question for me and you, and for any congregation at any church is this: what are we learning from our building, our grounds, but more importantly, what might we learn from the undiscovered silence inside each of us?

Is it possible that in our undiscovered silence, we have the “brains and perseverance” to resolve our destructive differences?

Anne Sullivan did.

She used her “brains and perseverance” to transform the life of Helen Keller.

I wonder if churches have the capacity to do the same?

The invitation was unusual.

My friend, Mike Cross, invited Joe Andrews, and me to join him at the Veterans Memorial Garden on the grounds of Trinity United Methodist Church in Henrico County, Virginia.

This quiet gathering was to take place on Monday, May 30, 2022—Memorial Day.

All Joe and I had to do was to show up. Mike provided three chairs and three cold beers.

Mike and Joe know something about Memorial Day.

During the Vietnam War, Mike served in the Marines and Joe in the Army. Both made the long journey to Vietnam. Luckily, Mike and Joe survived and returned home to their families.

That wasn’t the case for the 58,220 Americans who did not return home. Consider this perspective. Harrisonburg, Virginia has a population of 52,062. In the Vietnam war, we lost the equivalent of a Virginia city.

On this warm, but pretty May afternoon, I had the privilege of enjoying a beer with two of the finest men I’ve ever known. Under the watchful eye of a graceful American flag and the shade of quiet dogwood trees, I sat and listened.

There wasn’t a lot of chatter about the details of their assignments in Vietnam. I’ve learned enough over the years to respect a Veteran’s right to remain silent about what he might be carrying deep inside his heart.

But just a few feet away from us, sits a bronze plaque with the names George W. Jinkins III, John N. Ranson, and James Oscar Olzer, Jr. In 1974, this garden was established in memory of these three young men from Trinity. They lost their lives in the service to our country in the Vietnam War.

By November 2006, this garden was restored and rededicated as the Veterans Memorial Garden. Among the improvements were new plantings, retaining wall, gravel path, bench, flag pole with lighting, and the marker. Mike Cross and Joe Andrews were instrumental in this transformation.

All parents expect to outlive their children. I can’t imagine the apprehension that the parents of the Jinkins, Ranson, and Olzer families felt while their sons were doing their duty. I know these parents must have been crushed when they received official notification of their losses.

In Pat Conroy’s book, My Losing Season, he writes about Captain Joseph Eubank from Concord, North Carolina. When Pat Conroy played basketball for The Citadel, Captain Eubank was one of the team managers. His nickname was “Rat.”

Captain Eubank was a combat helicopter pilot in Vietnam. In his Huey helicopter, Captain Eubank lost his life coming to the aid of an Army unit that was surrounded by the enemy. Captain Eubank entered into this ferocious firefight three times. It was his third assault that his helicopter was shot down and Captain Eubank was killed.

With great embarrassment, Pat Conroy states: “Not a single member of my basketball team attended his funeral, and we can barely forgive ourselves for that indefensible fact.”

Pat Conroy’s teammate, Doug Bridges, encouraged Mr. Conroy to include Captain Eubank’s story in his book, stating, “your book will not mean anything unless you tell them about Rat. More than any of us, Rat turned out to be the real Citadel man.”

In visiting the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C., Mr. Conroy carries with him a list of names. When he finds the names on the wall, he takes his fingers and traces them over the names of his fallen friends. Captain Joe Eubanks is Mr. Conroy’s last stop. At this stop, Mr. Conroy breaks down and weeps uncontrollably. (My Losing Season, Conroy, pages 301-302)

Those tears of gut wrenching loss drop all across America on our families.

This past week, at the Historic Woodland Cemetery in Henrico County, I spent a couple days with Trinity member, Ken Hart, furiously running weed eaters around tombstones and grave markers. At these gravesides, African-American families honored their loved ones with inscriptions listing rank, branch of service, and wars served: WWI, WWII, Korea, and Vietnam.

Thousands of miles and years away from the turmoil of Vietnam, I sit under the shade of dogwood trees, with two Veterans whose loved ones shed tears of joy upon their safe return to America.

I’m not a Veteran, but, like Pat Conroy’s fallen friend, Captain Joe Eubank, Mike and Joe mean the world to me.

Their decorum, honesty, perseverance, humble courage, and selfless sacrifice have shaped many hearts.

I’m truly thankful that their fortitude has touched my heart too.

For America on this Memorial Day, I wonder how many of our challenges might be solved by rededicating ourselves to decorum, honesty, perseverance, humble courage, and selfless sacrifice?

Every moment of silence and tear shed on this Memorial Day is grounded in those attributes.

And, we can’t afford to forget them.

Author’s note: Dear readers, if this post offends you because three beers were consumed on the grounds of a church, I apologize. My hope is the post might make us think more deeply about the families who lost loved ones to the horrors of war, and for us to contemplate the decorum, honesty, perseverance, courage, and sacrifice found in those losses. Finally, if this piece touches your heart, I humbly ask that you consider sharing it. Love, Bill

Today in Virginia, a classroom teacher will meet with the school’s principal. This dedicated teacher will deliver a letter of resignation. Disrespect for the profession, poor faculty morale, and lack of support working with challenging students are among the reasons for resigning.

Also today, a school bus driver, who back in September responded to the desperate pleas by school systems for bus drivers will resign. The driver cites uncooperative students, lack of support in working with those students, and exasperating parents.

And before the day is over, a conscientious student will meet with a school counselor. The student will express to the counselor how difficult it is to concentrate in the classroom with unruly students who constantly disrupt instruction.

And, there’s more.

This is the time in the school year when human resource departments make difficult decisions. Not renewing teacher contracts, reviewing internal teacher transfer requests, and finalizing teacher projections for the upcoming school year are priorities.

Superintendents and their staffs are completing plans for high school graduations and summer programs for students. Also, they are keeping a careful eye on the annual budget process from local governments.

And those same superintendents and school boards hope their school systems can make it to that last day of school without imploding. Firearms, disruptive fights, community incidents, deteriorating buildings, non-accredited schools, lawsuits, banning books, and the undertow of low morale are among potential heartburn headlines.

For years, our public schools have become quite skilled at accumulating unfavorable headlines. No school system is immune from challenges. School systems pivot off people, and too frequently our human imperfections create problems.

During my thirty-one years and beyond of working in the public schools of Virginia, I encountered the resigning teacher and bus driver, and the frustrated student. Human resource personnel, superintendents, and school boards were in my interactions too.

No matter how many good days school personnel and students have, it’s the tough days that wear school people down. I put my heart and soul into my work as a principal. But, I felt like the lousy days drained me mentally and physically. I sensed I was less effective. That’s not good for my own morale, nor the morale of the school.

Schools were on a slippery slope before the pandemic. Those pre-pandemic challenges haven’t disappeared.

Virginia’s Department of Education must have endless amounts of data about those challenges. However, that data is worthless unless we use it to initiate reforms. How can that data be used to retain skilled teachers, reduce unacceptable student behaviors, and make the school environment effective and safe for all?

Honestly, I think the data will affirm that we can’t legislate or money our way out of school problems. But, I believe superintendents and school boards can address those problems by investing in the time to listen.

Before school ends, superintendents and school boards must implement individual and small group listening sessions. These sessions can’t be pity parties that are grounded in winless whining. The focus must be on the following: what works, what doesn’t work, and recommendations for change.

Clearly, learning from teachers who are resigning or who have requested an internal transfer should be a priority. But, I believe that opportunity to listen must include instructional assistants, secretaries, nurses, custodians, bus drivers, food services personnel, social workers, psychologists, family advocates, conscientious students, disruptive students, principals, and parents.

Yes, this is a big homework assignment. But failure to invest in this time to listen will guarantee more challenges for our schools. Honestly, we are at a point where we can’t afford more of the same.

From these sessions, I’ll be surprised if the erosion of our families and low morale fail to emerge.

Erosion of families and low morale are vicious silent cancers that fuel recurring challenges in our schools. Not only does poor morale impact school personnel, it shapes students and their families too.

To counter poor morale, superintendents and school boards must commit to unyielding support in all schools. Unyielding support means working collaboratively to find sensible solutions.

To halt the erosion of our families will require the forming of cooperative partnerships with school system personnel and community agencies. Without question, these community partners must have a track record of success in working with struggling families. That potential partnership work should be framed in practical, user friendly templates for helping families.

Yes, the last day of school is marked on the calendar.

However, for superintendents and school boards essential listening homework remains.

This is an urgent assignment, an assignment that can’t be ignored.

It requires listening with compassion and understanding.

Superintendents and school boards, that teacher, bus driver, and student need your time and ears.

Don’t miss an opportunity to initiate change, do your homework.

Author’s note: I started writing this piece back in mid-April 2023. I wrote it after a conversation with my wife. She had recently spoken with a dedicated instructional assistant at a challenging elementary school. No matter their location, if you know an educational leader, I encourage you to share this post. That loyal instructional assistant like all school system personnel deserves to be heard and supported.

Day One Monday, May 8, 2023

For weeks, the mission had been planned.

Final details and assignments had been discussed, shared on Google documents, reconfirmed in Zoom calls, texts, and transcribed to mental and paper checklists.

When Monday, May 8, 2023 arrived, in Florida, Maryland, North Carolina, and Virginia, we were packed and ready to deploy, and quite possibly, we were as giddy as children on Christmas morning.

Our navigational devices contained the same information 145 Upland Shores Drive, Smith Mountain Lake, Penhook, Virginia.

Since our 1975 graduation from Greensboro College, Steve Boone, Dan Callow, Steve Hodge, Doug Kinney, Bill Pike, and Butch Sherrill have maintained a tradition of gathering once or twice a year to reconnect.

Those gatherings also included our wives and with time our children. Yes, calendar conflicts have occasionally prevented some of us from attending a reunion, but not even mechanical failures of automobiles and airplanes have disrupted our loyalty.

This morning, my wife Betsy and I left Richmond headed for the airport in Lynchburg, Virginia. If we synced our departures properly, and the travel gods cooperated, we hoped to pick up Dan and Judy in a window of time from 10 to 10:30 a.m.

Following a lifelong love of airplanes, Dan had earned his private pilot’s license. They would be flying from their home in Maryland to Lynchburg.

On Sunday, Dan had texted us a link to Flight Aware. This would allow us to know exactly when they landed at the Lynchburg Regional Airport.

Routes 6, 288, 60, 460, 24, and 29 guided us into Lynchburg. We were slowed a bit by a few big trucks on two lane roads. Even though the Callows landed ahead of us at 9:24 a.m., at 10:10 a.m. we were at the airport.

With sparse signage, I didn’t go quite far enough to reach the terminal building. But with some guidance from Dan on the phone, I soon saw his long arms waving at me.

It was a good flight to Lynchburg. We had a quick load of luggage into the back of our car. Everyone made a final check to make sure nothing was going to be left behind, and we were off for Smith Mountain Lake.

With lots of conversation, the fifty-five minute drive zipped by us. Soon, the rural landscape was transformed into the manicured grounds of the Water’s Edge Golf Course. We made familiar turns based upon the recall of our three previous visits, and within minutes, the last left turn onto Upland Shores Drive was completed.

I always thought Upland Shores would make a good name for a craft brewery. Plenty of good images abound for an artist or a graphic designer to turn into a label for Penhook Pilsner, Lazy Lake Day Lager, or Shoreline Stout.

Butch and Marian had arrived earlier. They greeted us, helped us unload, and directed us to our rooms.

Next, Steve Boone and his wife, Kathleen arrived.

We received an update from Steve Hodge and his projected arrival time. Our friend, Doug Kinney was scheduled to arrive around midday on Tuesday. He opted to split the long drive from the east coast of Florida into two days.

For lunch turkey, pimento cheese, and egg salad sandwiches were available. We learned from Butch’s wife, Marian, a new kitchen technique for making egg salad. Marian walked us through the steps for No Peel Hard Boiled Eggs.

As the afternoon progressed, Steve Hodge arrived, and we all worked our way down to the boathouse. The boathouse sits firmly on the water with pleasing sight lines. The architect designed the space for the sun worshipper and the sun shy.

We uncovered the comfortable dock furniture, and for the next hour, reading, conversation, and some nodding off took place.

At some point, a suggestion was made that we needed snacks and beverages. Orders were taken, and in a blink, those requests were met.

We talked, laughed, and embraced the beauty of the lake and its surroundings. Whatever stress that we might have been carrying before our arrival was slipping away into the picturesque afternoon.

Even though our pace had slowed at the boathouse, at some point after five, Butch headed back toward the house to start prepping for dinner.

For years, Butch has tantalized our taste buds with his self-taught culinary skills. Tonight grilled salmon encased in a special rub, fresh asparagus, oil and sea salt rubbed baked potatoes, and homemade Key Lime pie would once again make us content.

We took a short before dessert walk through a section of the neighboring streets. The walk only made the Key Lime pie more scrumptious.

Between the travel, the soothing fresh air from the surrounding hills and lake, and the filling meal, bedtime came early.

Day Two Tuesday, May 9, 2023

On Tuesday morning, I went for a run. Even though I had run here before, I can’t tell you had good it felt to run in a different environment.

After the run, we had a healthy spread of food for breakfast. Marian reached out to Doug who had spent the night in Florence, South Carolina for an update on this arrival time.

Mid-morning, the pontoon boat that Dan had reserved for us arrived. Dan spent almost an hour going over how to operate the boat including the safety requirements with the manager of the rental company.

Prior to 12 noon, I was headed back to Richmond. At the church where I work, I was responsible for our last Community Conversations program for the year. I had some final preparations to complete that afternoon to make sure we were ready.

In my absence, Doug arrived, Dan took everyone for a ride on the pontoon boat, and the adventurous Dan and Steve Boone braved the nippy lake water and tried out their paddle board skills.

This excursion went well until the usually steady Steve Boone lost his balance and fell into the water. Unfortunately, Steve had forgotten to remove his glasses. When he hit the water, the glasses came off too. This unexpected splash happened so quickly that Steve had no chance to try and retrieve the glasses as they slowly sank toward the lake’s bottom.

Tuesday night for dinner, Doug Kinney and Steve Hodge fixed meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and a salad for dinner.

After dinner, the group gathered on the top deck of the house around a propane fed fire pit for conversation.

Back home in Richmond, Community Conversations had gone well. By nine, I was ready for some sleep.

Day Three Wednesday, May 10, 2023

I wanted to get an early start out of Richmond on Wednesday morning. I had been given a short list of items to bring back with me to Penhook. Heading out Patterson Avenue toward 288, I made a quick stop at Food Lion, and shortly after 7:30, I was on my way.

Despite following some driving directions from my high in the sky navigator that I thought were “nuts”, I arrived at the lake house by 10:30. I was just in time for a three mile walk around the neighborhood. Apparently, exercise was on the mind of everyone as Judy had just led the group through a yoga class.

By the time we completed the walk, it was almost noon, and I was treated to a meatloaf sandwich from the Tuesday night meal.

At some point after lunch, we had the urge to explore the lake some more. This time, the goal was to find what would turn out to be the Crazy Horse Marina.

Marian and my wife, Betsy, opted not to go on this trip, so eight of us loaded on to the pontoon boat with Captain Callow at the helm. The boat started properly, we shoved off without the dock coming with us, and we took off into the bright sunshine and blue skies.

No matter where we looked the shorelines were appealing, and gradually, the navigation devices pointed us toward the Crazy Horse Marina.

As the marina came into view, Captain Callow scouted a place to dock the boat. To the starboard side of the boat, he saw a series of empty docks/slips where we could off load and tie up.

The Captain was successful in his first attempt to land the boat. However, out of courtesy to the passengers, he opted to re-maneuver the boat for a smoother disembarkment.

With the boat secured, we made the short walk to the Los Amigos Bar and Grill. A polite and patient staff seated us.

Chips and salsa arrived, drink orders were placed, and Butch ordered two platters of an appetizer—Seared Ahi Tuna de la Playa.

We enjoyed our fellowship, and the kindness of Butch and Doug who covered the cost. Our old bladders told us to hit the restroom before getting back on the boat.

Back at the dock, we reloaded onto the boat, loosened the lines, and shoved off.

About a thousand yards from the marina, the boat’s motor cutoff. Without a sign of panic, Captain Callow attempted to restart the motor. For whatever reason, the motor would not cooperate.

A few minutes passed, again our Captain tried to persuade the motor to start, and again the motor responded—I’m not cooperating.

There was no panic, but a gentle humor about our situation started to surface.

Captain Callow left a phone and text message for the manager of the rental company. The manager who we trusted last year as a quick responder did not answer.

Steve Boone conducted a search of the boat for paddles, there were none. But, he did find an anchor with a long yellow rope line.

Of course, the line was all tangled and twisted. It took a few minutes to correct the entanglement, and this moment initiated more pitiful humor: “How many Greensboro College graduates does it take to untangle an anchor line?”

The anchor was secured and tossed overboard, and it did catch to prevent our further drifting.

Another attempt was made to reach the manager of the rental company, and again, we had no response.

In the interim, Captain Callow began to research how we might acquire a proper tow if we did not hear back from the manager.

Out of the Crazy Horse Marina, there was a Sea Tow operator. According to Wikipedia, Sea Tow was founded in 1983. It is based out of Southold, New York. The company provides assistance to stranded boaters around the world.

Captain Callow explained our situation to the local Sea Tow representative, and she provided us with information related to their pricing and what to expect upon Sea Tow’s arrival. We also learned that we could call off the tow if we heard back from the boat rental company manager.

Another attempt was made to reach the boat rental company, and we had no luck. At this point, we opted for Sea Tow to assist us. A return call was made to Sea Tow. Captain Callow and Butch provided all essential information including a payment via credit card. It took several minutes for this information to be properly collected.

While we were waiting for our rescue, Steve Boone’s wife, Kathleen, kept us all busy playing a game called “scar.” The concept behind “scar” is that each person shares the story of any scars the person has on his/her body from accidents or surgeries.

As our luck would have it, the manager of the boat rental company called just as the Sea Tow boat and crew arrived.

We explained our dilemma. The Sea Tow personnel could not have been nicer as we shared our decision not to use their services. And to make it even better, the Sea Tow manager opted not to charge us the full amount for calling off the tow.

We updated Marian and Betsy about our mechanical challenge, and explained how we had chosen to resolve it. Our wait time for the rental company’s boat to arrive wasn’t horrible. In the distance, we could see a fast moving boat angling toward us.

When the rescue boat arrived, both boats were parallel to each other as we carefully stepped on to the other boat.

We found our seats on the boat, and in a few seconds, our fifteen year old fully certified captain had us roaring toward home. It felt like we were riding in a supersonic jet fighter with the afterburners kicked on. We were blazing across the lake’s surface.

I was reminded of an Andy Griffith episode when Gomer talked about his cousin Goober outfitting a boat with a car motor. Gomer said, “ That thing will do 80, and on the water that’s fast.”

I felt like we were doing a 160. At any second, I expected the wash of exploding through the sound barrier just like Chuck Yeager did in 1947 to hit us.

The young man at the wheel looked like he had been doing this since he was five. He watched the water, checked his map guidance on the cell phone, and seemed oblivious to his wind blown passengers who were hanging on for dear life at a mere 37 miles per hour.

Finally, our cove came into sight. Our captain kicked off the afterburners and slowed the engine. He confessed that he wasn’t the best at docking, but with guidance we gracefully snugged up to the dock.

We thanked him profusely. Steve Hodge and Doug tipped our young hero, and he was pleasantly surprised by their heartfelt gesture. I briefly thought about stooping down and kissing the dock when I stepped off, but my brain talked me out of that.

The fifteen year old captain made a quick loop and headed out of the cove. He had to return to the stranded pontoon boat and tow it back to its berth.

While Steve Boone and his wife Kathleen were preparing a black bean casserole for dinner, the rest of us sat on the deck giving Marian and Betsy a blow by blow account of this adventure. We laughed, and laughed, and I’m sure this excursion will bring even more laughter at our next gathering.

The black bean casserole and the accompanying accoutrements provided us with a delicious meal. After dinner, Butch quietly mixed some single shot glasses containing the oddly named Duck Fart. This layered drink contains Crown Royal, Bailey’s Irish Cream, and a tequila based coffee liqueur. Sweet and smooth, it would be easy to have more than one, but I held to a single shot.

Again the filling meal, the Duck Fart, and the afternoon excitement on the lake made me sleepy, so I headed off to bed.

Day Four Thursday, May 11, 2023

Early on Thursday morning, I took another run. It was a perfect morning for a run, a bit on the cool side with the sun rising over Penhook. I enjoyed it as much as my Tuesday morning run.

And I found my standard greeting that I use at home when I encounter a walker or runner worked here too. When people ask how I’m doing, I state: “Slower, older, and no wiser.” They chuckle, and I wish them a good day.

Thursday morning’s breakfast had been reserved for Butch’s famous oatmeal—steel cut oats, cranberries, chopped apples, and walnuts.

Breakfast, my favorite meal, was yummy every morning, and that was because Dan and Judy were the coordinators and suppliers of all the breakfast goodies.

We were hoping our pontoon boat might return, but that wasn’t happening.

Before we took off on a mid-morning walk to explore the side streets in the neighborhood, we had a treacherous task—taking a group picture.

Our intrepid boat captain, Dan, took the lead in coordinating our cooperation.

It was a tough job. He had to —stage us, set the timer on the iPhone’s camera, scurry into a predetermined spot for himself, hope that no one’s eyes were closed, that no one snarled instead of projecting a smile, and that no one was slouching.

Despite consecutive imperfect photos, we finally got the hang of it, and a couple of photos were accepted.

After the walk, Butch, Dan, and I tried fishing off the dock of the boathouse. We added canned kernels of corn to some of the casting lures, but these mountain lake fish were too smart for us city slickers. Steve Boone was hoping that we might miraculously snag his lost glasses, but that wasn’t happening with these lightweight lures.

After lunch, we gradually found our way back to the deck of the boathouse. It was a lazy afternoon. This setting was the perfect place to daydream. In any direction, at that very moment, the sky and lake had the capacity to cast us many miles from here.

As the afternoon pushed on, some dozed, and at just the right time, drinks and snacks magically reappeared. In my sluggishness, I realized that unlike previous visits, we hadn’t pitched horseshoes or played corn hole. Maybe we really are getting older.

For our last dinner, Betsy and I provided grilled chicken, a pasta salad, and a marinated salad featuring green beans, peas, shoe peg corn, green peppers, and red onion. For dessert, we continued to enjoy a variety of baked chocolate treats courtesy of Betsy and Kathleen, including oatmeal raisin cookies that Doug loved.

Unfortunately, some of the dinner conversation revolved around packing up and making sure the house was back in shape before our departure.

Once the kitchen was cleaned up from dinner, I asked Steve Hodge if he would let me take a closer look at his vintage 1966 Epiphone twelve string electric guitar.

In the fall of 1971 during our freshman year when I first met Steve, bands and guitars were a part of his life. Even now, he regularly plays in two bands, and yes, he still has quite a collection of remarkable guitars.

Before bed, we gathered on the deck outside the kitchen for more conversation.

Day Five Friday, May 12, 2023

Of course, Friday morning arrived to soon.

After breakfast, everyone scurried around to repack suitcases and coolers.

A vacuum cleaner wailed loudly, trash cans were emptied, bathrooms tidied up.

The boathouse and house decks were rechecked.

One by one our cars filled back up.

Slowly, we said our goodbyes and started our exits up the steep curvy driveway.

Doug was first. Of course, once out of the driveway, Doug turned his car the wrong way to leave the neighborhood, and on cue, we all started waving and yelling at him. He figured out his mistake, and quickly redirected his car.

Steve Hodge made it halfway up the driveway when he started to angle off into a landscaped bed, Again, our voices rose to stop his misguided ascent.

At the base of the driveway, outside the garage, I repositioned our car. No way in hell was I going to attempt to back up this driveway.

But in defense of Doug and Steve, aside from my return to Richmond on Tuesday, none of our cars had left the neighborhood since we arrived. We were to content to stay put and relax in our friendships and the beauty of the setting.

We made it to Lynchburg safely, and dropped Dan and Judy off where we had found them on Monday.

During the afternoon, we received confirmation that our pals had returned safely to their destinations. I miss them already.

We started to get to know each other in the fall of 1971, our freshman year at Greensboro College.

And while, I’ll probably never figure out the gravitational pull that aligned these friendships for all these years, I think it might have something to do with the game that Kathleen introduced us to as we waited for a tow on the tranquil Smith Mountain Lake.

Kathleen’s game “scars” pushed us to recall the exterior scars from injuries cause by accidents and suture skirmishes with doctors.

But, I think, the longevity, the endurance of our friendships is grounded in our loyalty to each other when our hearts have been scarred by life.

No matter our hardships, regrets, shortcomings, frustrations, hurts, mistakes, and the flat out meanness of life, the loyalty in our hearts for each other has never wavered, and God willing it never will.

And there is one more piece to that loyalty, with deep respect, we know how to make each other laugh.

Love you all.

Be safe.

As Americans, we should be disgusted with this headline: Another School Shooting. Additionally, we should be angered by the predictable post-school shooting coverage: what we know about the shooter and the victims, shooter purchased guns legally, shooter’s family sought help, legislators at an impasse on firearms.

In 1975, I started my career in public education. Nothing in my undergraduate education classes, student teaching experience, orientation for my first teaching job, nor my post-graduate courses prepared me for a student bringing a gun to school.

But by the late 1980s, when I was an assistant principal at a large high school in Henrico County, Virginia we started encountering the random student who brought a firearm to school. Luckily, from those discoveries, we never had a shooting.

As school shootings began to increase, school systems and legislators scrambled to address school safety. Student codes of conduct were rewritten, schools developed safety plans, police resource officers were assigned to schools, and legislators attempted to enact laws to make schools safer.

Despite these efforts, we have failed our students, their families, and our teachers. No matter if a school shooting is on the grounds of private or public schools, this is unacceptable behavior.

School shootings are horrendous tragedies, but schools have another challenge in their environments— disruptive students. Students who violently disrupt the school day create another level of trauma for their peers, teachers, administrators, and their communities. Their outbursts create fear, impact morale, and cause injuries.

School systems in Virginia are required to report student discipline infractions and subsequent dispensations to the Virginia Department of Education. We have lots of data about our public schools, but I wonder how we are using that data to make our school environments safer and more conducive for learning.

This combination of firearms and unruly behaviors does not help the morale of teachers and staffs, nor the recruitment of new teachers. How many teachers resign at the end of each school year because of these on-going discipline challenges, and how many prospective education majors rethink their career choice for the same reasons?

Additionally, we must ask how do shootings and violent outbursts impact parent decisions as to how their children receive their education. Will these parents more carefully consider home schooling programs or private schools?

I don’t sense that we can legislate or fund our way out of these very serious recurring problems. So, what can we do?

For too long, our public schools have been asked to solve our societal problems. I’m sorry, but schools can’t solve the on-going malignant cycles related to poverty, employment, housing, nutrition, mental/physical health, and the erosion of our families.

That erosion and the instability of our families can no longer be ignored. In an August 2022 report issued by the Annie E. Casey Foundation, “nearly 24 million children live in a single parent family in the United States, or about one in every three kids across America.”

Parenting in the best of circumstances is challenging work. Yet, how many of our school shootings and aggressive disruptive behaviors can be attributed to an unstable home or ineffective parenting? The erosion of our families can also be seen from another angle in the staffing of our schools. Many schools now employ a family advocate.

Furthermore, we must ask— are our current education templates working? Can our present education models meet the extreme needs of disruptive students who have not found success in school? How can we use our unlimited data to develop more effective models of curriculum and instruction for unruly students?

As far as guns, it is very clear to me that we care more about our right to bear arms than we do about the rights of our children and teachers to be in safe schools.

A June 2021 survey conducted by the Pew Research Center found: “Four-in-ten US adults say they live in a household with a gun, including 30% who say they personally own one.” How many of those guns might find their way to a school shooting?

In a few weeks, we will forget about the tragedy in Nashville. Sadly, the families impacted will never forget. Our brains don’t have an erase button.

And before we know it, we’ll be reading about another school shooting catastrophe.Right now, you, me, we, us—we are all the skunk on the table.

Until we find the courage to break the silence lodged in our hearts on school safety, that skunk’s stink will continue to reek all over America. Our hearts know this silence is unacceptable.

Late on the afternoon of Sunday, April 9, the whirlwind started.

My childhood pal, Joe Vanderford, arrived from Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

For the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at the University of Richmond, Joe and I would be presenting a two part class on The Beatles.

On Monday evening, the first part of the class was a screening of the Beatles’ film, Let It Be.

Part two of the class is focused on the Beatles’ album Abbey Road.

Joe and I started our final preparations after dinner on Sunday evening. We picked up again on Monday, and made a few last minute tweaks early on Tuesday morning to our scripts.

Our class started at 10, and by 12 noon we had completed our presentation. On the drive back to our house, we critiqued our work.

At the house, Joe prepped his belongings for an afternoon of flying. He was traveling to Toronto for a NBA game where he would be one of the camera operators.

We drove to the Richmond airport without a hitch, and later that evening Joe texted to confirm his safe arrival in Toronto.

I spent Tuesday evening in a whirlwind of packing. The Commander Supreme and I were driving to Summerfield, North Carolina on Wednesday.

We would be providing childcare for two of our grandchildren, while our oldest daughter and her husband took a trip to Napa Valley, California. This was an early birthday celebration for our daughter who was turning forty as was a dear friend from Chicago. The friend, her husband, and two other couples from Chicago were heading to Napa as a part of this birthday weekend too.

Clearly, I over-packed, but I wanted to be able to do some yard work in Summerfield. The back of the car had a few tools, some deer proof plants for an empty border in their backyard, and lots stuff purchased by the uncontrollable shopper, Nana, who is always looking for ways to spoil her grandchildren.

Since we last made this trip on March 24, the rolling landscape along the four lane highways 360, 58, and 29 had filled in nicely with assorted shades of spring green. That thickening green was now concealing the sight lines into deep forest and side roads that veered in multiple directions

By mid-afternoon, we had arrived safely in Summerfield. We unloaded the car, and started to learn the details of the calendar and the schedule we would be keeping the next four days.

Thursday morning came early for our daughter and her husband. They quietly left the house for the short drive to the Piedmont Triad International Airport.

When I was growing up in Burlington, this airport was named the Friendship Airport. In the kitchen of our house, a radio sat on a formica countertop. It was tuned to a station in Greensboro.

I recall hearing from the airport early morning broadcasts of the daily weather forecast. In the winter time, as a student, I was always hoping for a prediction of snow.

After lunch on Thursday, we drove to the Greensboro Science Center on Lawndale Drive. If you have never been to the Science Center, you must go, it is a jewel.

This was spring break week. The Science Center was packed with children and families. Assorted day cares and private school students were on the grounds too.

I saw lots of children and students wearing a wide range of matching colorful t-shirts. The variety of colors among the t-shirts reminded me of the array of spring floral colors exploding around Greensboro.

After the Science Center, we visited Ollies for ice cream. Ollies was busy too. Their staff was hustling to keep up with the steady flow of customers. I always struggle to make a selection from all of the flavors. Staring into the display cases, more bright colors from all those flavors catch my eye, and I finally settle on key lime pie.

For the next three days, chalk art on the driveway, shooting hoops, puzzles, trampoline jumping, playing with neighborhood kids, quiet time, and making Nana laugh kept us busy.

No matter the role Nana was given to portray in playing with Caroline and Hudson, I could always hear laughter from her. Sometimes, Nana laughed so hard at Caroline and Hudson’s antics and comments that she was on the verge of tears.

The return flights to Greensboro had no hitches.

Monday morning, it was back to school routines for Caroline and Hudson.

We heard how nice the trip to Napa had been, and we delivered a good report about taking care of Caroline and Hudson.

The Commander and I packed up our car, said our goodbyes, and retraced our drive to Richmond.

Taking care of grandchildren is a different kind of whirlwind.

But, neither of us would exchange anything for this opportunity to wear ourselves out burning energy with grandchildren.

And, I would never trade anything for Caroline and Hudson making their Nana laugh.

On the morning of Saturday, April 22, I had orders to be at the home of our son and his wife by 7:15. Our daughter-in-law and their five year old daughter were runners in the Monument Avenue 10K. Their daughter was a participant in the kids one mile fun run. Her mother was running the full 10K/6.2 miles.

I made it to the house by the appropriate time. Soon we were loaded into the car driving toward the start line. Our daughter-in-law squeezed into the back seat between the two car seats holding their daughters. Along the way, we searched for out of state license plates and counted overpasses on the Downtown Expressway.

Our son’s pre-race search for parking put us in a VCU lot with a reasonable fee and a tolerable walk to the start area for the kids run.

Crossing the busy intersections on the walk to Monroe Park, we encountered friendly City of Richmond police officers who were patiently directing vehicles and pedestrians. The parents of our son’s wife met us in Monroe Park. This city landmark was a mass of humanity from corner to corner.

All types of vendors were stationed in the park for the post-race celebration and a mass of blue and white port-a-johns were positioned at the end of the finish line. No matter the direction, people were in motion.

We made it to the start area for the kids run, photos were snapped, an announcer offered encouragement, and in a blink they were off. As we started our walk back to the finish line for the kids run, I ran into my friend, Jonathan Austin. You can’t have a Richmond event without Jonathan sharing his magic, juggling, and humor.

Near the finish line, we positioned ourselves with good sight lines to see the runners as they completed the run. Race organizers had wisely created companion bib labels so that parents could run with their children. Soon we saw, our twosome coming into view. Their sprint to the finish line revealed two happy faces.

More photos were taken of our finishers, and now the logistics shifted again. As she walked off to the start line for the 10K, her daughters wished their mother good luck.

A long time ago, I ran in the Ukrops Monument Avenue 10K. I still have the t-shirt from the race. The front of the shirt has beautiful artwork created by children and youth who had been impacted by childhood cancer. I still miss the customer friendly Ukrops grocery stores, and sadly, despite our efforts, cancer is still an unwanted demon in all age groups across America.

We worked our way to the median just passed Stuart Circle and found a good spot on the curb to wait for the lead runners. Behind us, on the the other side of Monument, spectators cheered for the runners who had just started.

I’m sure many people will disagree, but as a runner, I always felt one of the best things about a road race is this— for a few hours part of a city is shutdown. It is quite a feeling to scamper down this still beautiful avenue knowing that for a short period of time runners have no worries in the world except to make it to the finish line.

It wasn’t long until we could see the flashes of blue lights from police vehicles and the pace car in front of the lead runners. Two male runners were in a tight side by side battle for the lead. More fast paced runners began to appear, including the first woman in the group who was sprinting at a blistering pace.

All kinds of humanity rolled by us. Neon colored running shoes were quite a splash of color as they pounded across the faded gray brick pavers. Some runners showed weariness in their faces, while others looked fresh, undeterred.

Our son spotted his wife in a crowd of runners, we all cheered and waved in support. We regrouped and started the walk to the finish line.

Along the way, we admired the architecture, the variety of music being offered, and the enthusiasm of the PA announcer cheering runners across the finish line.

It isn’t easy to stage this 10K. The logistics and planning details are endless. Richmond Sports Backers, the corporate sponsors, and all of the volunteers must be commended.

This whole event pivots off people. I want to know— why are we so considerate and compliant in this setting, and at other times, we are the exact opposite.

We found our way back to the car and headed home.

Thanks Richmond for another successful Monument Avenue 10K.

And to borrow the title from a Neil Young song, “Long May You Run.”