Finger-pointing over test scores is a waste of energy
When test score results from public school students are disappointing, politicians get riled up.
They point accusatory fingers.
Their “hot aired” finger pointing is a wasteful burn of energy.
That energy needs to be channeled to do the hard work to solve the problems our communities face in our public schools.
Clearly, the pandemic disrupted the instructional delivery for students in Virginia.
But the truth of the matter is our public schools, have been quietly eroding for a long, long time.
That erosion is grounded in our inability to solve malignant challenges related to our human infrastructure.
We can no longer ignore the instability of families.
Vicious generational cycles connected to poverty, employment, housing, safety, mental health, and equity need to be disrupted. How do we disrupt these cycles?
Perhaps, a starting point would be for our politicians to spend a week shadowing a teacher in a challenging school. I wonder what an elected official might learn from being in the trenches with an actual teacher?
Additionally, in Virginia, we have nearly twenty five years of SOL data.
Does that data tell us anything about how to work more effectively with students who come to school everyday from unstable families?
We need political cooperation, not political finger pointing to solve the challenges found in our public schools.
Maybe this quote from “Hidden Figures” author, Margot Lee Shetterly, says it best: “You don’t get the good without the bad, but you really do have to see it all in order to make progress.”
If we want to improve our public schools in Virginia, we must be able to see it all for our families, our students, and our teachers.
Bill Pike Henrico
Author’s note: I am honored anytime a newspaper accepts one of my submissions. This letter appeared in the OPINIONS section of the Richmond Times-Dispatch on Friday, October 28, 2022. As a retired public schools educator, I worry about the morale of our teachers. If you know a teacher in your community, please take the time to thank them for their work.
When I was a kid, summer seemed endless. In August 1975, I entered the teaching profession. For the next thirty one years, I learned that summer doesn’t last forever.
In Virginia, it is good that school systems are starting classes before Labor Day. Who knows maybe our push away from an agrarian calendar will nudge school system leaders to develop year round schools.
One of the best things about schools opening before Labor Day is back to school sale ads end. Those ads can be annoying like political ads.
On Thursday, August 18, the Virginia Department of Education released the annual results from the Standards of Learning tests that students take each year. Release of the scores always generates media headlines and comments from appointed and elected officials.
It should be no surprise that for the second consecutive year, student performance was down when compared to results before school systems were slammed by COVID-19. This was despite efforts from school systems to maintain learning by switching from in person instruction to virtual instruction.
I believe it will take students, their families, and teachers years to recover from this significant disruption. Unfortunately, the family and technology infrastructure needed to make virtual instruction successful was not always in place.
Virginia’s Superintendent of Public Instruction, Jillian Balow, stated on Thursday: “We were addressing an achievement gap before the pandemic and now we have even more ground [to make up] today.”
Why are we always trying to recover ground related to achievement gaps in Virginia?
In 1998, Virginia’s students started taking SOL tests. What have we learned from twenty four years of testing data? Are we better equipped to understand students, their families, our communities, schools, and teachers?
For example, during the pandemic in single parent homes does the data capture the impact of older siblings missing multiple middle and high school classes to assist younger siblings?
Does the data uncover the effect disruptive students have on their learning, and the learning of classmates?
Does the data reveal the consequences of prolonged achievement gaps?
Are these gaps grounded in our inability to solve malignant challenges related to family, poverty, mental health, housing, safety, and equity?
Does the data capture the morale of teachers who everyday attempt to deliver quality instruction in challenging environments?
If we hope to recover instructional ground and close achievement gaps, we must commit to the hard work of answering those questions and more.
Continuing to place blame for unsatisfactory SOL test results on the shoulders of teachers and school system leaders by appointed and elected officials is misguided. Maybe a week shadowing a teacher in a challenging school could change some minds.
Since we are quick to blame disappointing SOL scores on teachers, I wonder if Governor Youngkin’s “tip line” saw an uptick in calls when the results were released. Additionally, I wonder if the “tip line” contributed to the current teacher shortage school systems face?
Truthfully, school systems always scramble to fill teaching positions before school opens. In 1975, I was a last minute hire.
We have witnessed many changes since 1975. Sometimes in immeasurable ways, students are affected by disruptive changes in their families and communities. Despite these changes, teachers are continually asked to handle our societal challenges while still delivering instruction.
Politicians babble about improving pay and benefits for teachers.
Yet, teachers consider respect and support just as critical as the pay and benefits. Interestingly, respect and support are essential for struggling students and their families too.
If we truly want to improve SOL test scores and close achievement gaps, we need to move beyond predictable political finger pointing.
With urgency, we must commit to a deeper dive into the troublesome data. In troubling data is a struggling student. We can no longer ignore the multiple needs of these students.
Understanding how the academic potential for these students is impacted by family, poverty, mental health, housing, safety, and equity is pivotal. If we fail to make this discovery for every struggling student, then we will see no improvement in SOL scores, nor will we close gaps in achievement.
Maybe this quote from Hidden Figures author, Margot Lee Shetterly, says it best: “You don’t get the good without the bad, but you really do have to see it all in order to make progress.”
In Virginia, if we are going to make progress with SOL scores and achievement gaps, we must work together “to see it all” for every student.
Author’s note: If you know a school teacher or someone connected to public education no matter the location, please consider sharing this piece with them.
On March 3, 2022, at our neighborhood Publix grocery store in Richmond, Virginia, I noted that the Brooklyn Brewery from New York already had their Brooklyn Summer Lager on display.
Photo by Bill Pike
According to my calendar checks, the first day of Spring was 17 days away on March 20, and the first day of Summer June 21 was 113 days away.
Talk about rushing the season. On March 3, I’m hoping that I might find a spring bock beer. But, not many breweries brew a spring bock anymore.
On July 27, I was in COSTCO. I always check out the beer selection. On this date, I found an India Pale Ale(IPA) brewed by Zero Gravity in Burlington, Vermont— a four pack in sixteen ounce cans is priced at $9.49.
On the shelf directly below the Vermont beer was another IPA brewed by the Bingo Beer Company in Richmond, Virginia. The packaging was the same for the Bingo IPA, but the cost was $12.99.
Photo by Bill Pike
My longstanding question returns.
I want to support the local brewery, but their IPA cost $3.50 more than the IPA brewed in Vermont. The brewery in Vermont is at least 620 miles from Richmond. Considering that distance and the cost of fuel, how can the Vermont brewery sell their beer at $9.49?
With Oktoberfest upon us, I traveled to my local Total Wine and More to check out their selection of Oktoberfest beers. Being the cheapskate that I am, I made two selections.
From Wisconsin’s Leinenkugel Brewery, I purchased a six pack of their Oktoberfest beer, and a 16.9 ounce bottle of Oktoberfest beer from the Ayinger Brewery in Germany.
Photo by Bill Pike
The Leinenkugel cost $9.99 for a six pack, and the Ayinger beer was $3.99.
A few days later, I saw the same six pack of Leinenkugel at a Food Lion selling for $11.49. That’s a $2.50 difference in cost, why?
Additionally, how can a beer brewed in Germany, shipped across the Atlantic Ocean only cost $3.99? Similar sized American beers can cost much more.
Back on September 17, we were returning from a visit with our oldest daughter and her family in North Carolina. We stopped at a Lowes Food.
Here, I wasn’t a cheapskate. I paid $14.99 for a six pack of Oktoberfest beer brewed by Red Oak, a long standing craft brewer in Greensboro.
When I was making my selection, I looked further down the line of beers on the shelving. I saw an Oktoberfest six pack from the famous Shiner Brewery in Spoetzl, Texas. The Shiner Oktoberfest was selling for $8.99. Again, the question is—why does the local beer cost $6.00 more than the beer from Texas?
I’m sure state regulations, cost of beer ingredients, brewery equipment, personnel, and marketing all factor into how a beer is priced. My limited research indicates that retail markups are in the 30-40% range. I’m sure that varies with each retailer depending upon the size of the store, foot traffic, and how deep the pockets of the customer might be.
I’ve been whining about this disparity in pricing for years. I really don’t think that state ABC boards, beer distributors, and craft brewers give a rip about a grumpy old geezer who questions how beer is priced.
At the end of the day, the brewers, distributors, and retailers are more focused on the pennies and carving out a profit.
I acknowledge the need to earn a profit. However, I also believe consumers should be provided a more transparent understanding of how the retail price of beer is determined.
Despite my grumpiness and whining, I think that is a reasonable request, not only for beer, but other consumable food items as well.
But in truth, I have no right to be whining about the price of beer.
Here’s my reason.
Every Friday from 9-2 at Trinity Methodist Church, we ask our members to drop off food to support food pantries at these Methodist churches: Belmont, Sherbourne, and Welborne.
Some Fridays, we are really good at filling up the designated tables for each pantry. Other Fridays, we’re not as strong.
Regardless of our response, the directors at each food pantry report they see no decline in the need for food in their communities. In fact, they report increases in the number of families they serve from week to week.
Rebounding from the pandemic and recent increases in food prices are driving these weekly surges.
In 69 years of living, I’ve never gone hungry.
Take a look in your community, and find how you might make a difference for a family by donating food to a local pantry.
I guarantee that food donation is better for your soul than my whining about the cost of beer.
On the afternoon of Friday, August 26, our family friend from California, Larry Marino, called to tell me goodbye. Thirty one days later on Monday, September 26, I received a text message that Larry had passed. Thanks cancer.
That Monday afternoon, I had been at the top of a ladder prepping one of our second story windows for a repainting. I thought to myself before coming down, I’m going to give Larry a call.
Since August 26, I had not pestered him, I tried to give him space. I sent a couple of text messages, but he did not respond. I know the cancer was wearing him down.
Larry had been married to my wife’s oldest sister, Susan. This was Susan’s third marriage, and Larry’s second.
My wife, Betsy, and I first met Larry in the Philadelphia Airport. Betsy and her siblings and spouses were heading to Bermuda to celebrate their parents fiftieth wedding anniversary.
We learned quickly that Larry had a sense of humor.
When we were introduced to Larry, he had an eye patch over one eye, and tattoos all over his forearms. Not sure if he was trying to convince us that he was a pirate or a biker. Within a few minutes, the eye patch was removed, and he went to the restroom to wash the water based tattoos off his forearms.
While in Bermuda, he kept us laughing.
We had several good visits in California and Utah with Larry and Susan. He owned a beautiful getaway home in Strawberry Point, Utah, and once the same Bermuda crew met in Las Vegas. In those trips, Susan and Larry were delightful hosts.
A couple of times, Larry and Susan came to Duck on the Outer Banks of North Carolina for Thanksgiving. And they also traveled east for the college graduations of our son, Andrew, and youngest daughter, Elizabeth. Susan attended the graduate school ceremony when Lauren, our oldest daughter, finished her masters at DePaul in Chicago.
When Lauren, and her husband, Doug, honeymooned in Italy, Larry had a friend pick them up at the airport and whisk them to their hotel.
A handful of times during a year, we would check in with each other by telephone. He always asked about all of the nieces and nephews in the family. Larry wanted to know what they were up to and how they were doing.
I countered his questions by asking about his 100 year old mother, who lives in Las Vegas, his son, Chris, and Larry’s two grandsons. I also learned a bit about Larry’s success in the swimming pool business. His company did residential and commercial work. They maintained pools all over southern California and did new construction as well.
None of us ever saw this coming, but on May 3, 2011, Susan made the decision to take her own life.
After this tragic loss, it took quite a bit of time, but somehow, Larry found a way to regroup. Larry once shared with me that he did not want to spend the last years of his life alone, nor did he want to die alone.
I don’t recall the timing, but Larry did remarry to a very nice and successful business woman, Lisa. We met Lisa one summer in California at Abby and Art’s home. She was very gracious, and it was clear that Larry and Lisa were a good match. Her Italian heritage had something to do with them being very compatible.
Sadly, that happiness was short-lived. Larry called me on December 22, 2016 to let me know that Lisa had passed away. Thanks cancer. From earlier telephone calls, I knew Lisa was battling cancer, but I don’t think anyone anticipated her life ending so quick.
Lisa’s passing was a tough punch for Larry. He continued to manage and be very hands on with his business. I know he traveled some, and he always had activities planned for his grandsons when they came to visit their father during the summers.
And Larry wasn’t immune from his own health skirmishes. His heart created some intense life threatening intrusions. Somehow, the nurses and doctors continued to pull more life from his damaged heart. It took lots of recuperative time, but Larry recovered from the heart attacks and surgery procedures that kept his heart beating.
Again, I know his heart needed companionship, loneliness in the latter stage of life was not something he wanted. In early April 2021, Larry married Nelva.
I’ve never met Nelva, but I know he was smitten by her. However, I quickly got to know Nelva as Larry had another challenge with his heart. From the end of April into early May, I received daily updates from Nelva about his status including how the doctors were working with him in the hospital.
Despite this heart setback, somehow, Larry found the strength and will to rebound again.
During the late spring or early summer of 2022, Larry let me know that cancer was creating some challenges. I know from talking with him that the doctors were trying to pinpoint the area/areas of the cancer’s intrusion. This was to be followed with recommendations for treatment.
When Larry called me on August 26 to say goodbye, it was because the doctors had run out of options, the current treatments were not fighting the cancer. I could hear his wife, Nelva, crying in the background.
I never talked with Larry about the cause for his first marriage ending. When a man loses his second wife to suicide, and his third wife to cancer, it seems unkind to me that more misfortune should enter his life.
Surviving multiple heart challenges is one thing, but dying from cancer after all that Larry has endured is life malpractice to me.
Cancer, cancer, cancer, you are spineless and worthless.
Cancer, you are unfit to be on this planet, and yet, you continue to rob lives, and leave loved ones with empty, broken hearts.
Lots of money is raised each year for cancer research, but on September 26, $325 million was spent crashing a NASA spacecraft into the asteroid, Dimorphos. The goal was to see if this impactful crash might push the asteroid off course. Pushing an asteroid off course might save a collision with earth in the future.
My question is why can’t we use that $325 million to push cancer off course permanently?
Currently, I’m reading The Sun Does Shine, a book about the life of Alabama death row inmate, Anthony Ray Hinton.
When Mr. Hinton first arrived in his cell on death row, he sat on the edge of his bed and had the following internal conversation with himself: “There was no God for me anymore. My God had forsaken me. My God was a punishing God. My God had failed and left me to die. I had no use for God. Forgive me, Mama. I thought to myself as I threw the Bible under the bed. I had no use for it. All of it was a lie.” (Hinton, page 105)
I’m sorry God, but that is the way I feel toward you when it comes to cancer.
I feel forsaken.
Good people are punished.
You failed them, and they die.
I imagine families who lose loved ones to cancer have a similar internal conversation.
They want to know why.
If Jesus healed people with a simple touch, and raised people from the dead with his words, where are Jesus and God when it comes to cancer?
As frustrating as that may be, I also realize that something kept Larry’s faltering heart alive after hours spent in an operating room followed by days in intensive care.
Why was that?
Was it my prayers, and prayers of others that allowed him to dodge death?
I’m not sure, but I hope Nelva and Larry’s family will somehow find a bit of comfort in knowing that cancer is no longer beating him up. And maybe just like me they will hold out hope that at some point in the future, cancer will have the life beaten out of it.
In moving forward, I will cherish Larry’s love of life.
I will never forget his ability to make me laugh whether by phone or in person.
And even though, his heart caused him trouble, deep inside Larry’s heart was a kind, considerate man who touched a lot of lives along the way.
He also was good at keeping in touch by phone with my mother-in-law, Liz, in Connecticut. Football, especially the Miami Dolphins was a favorite topic.
And, I don’t think I will ever have another meal of pasta without thinking of his love of his favorite food. I believe Larry could have eaten pasta at breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Yes, God, like Anthony Ray Hinton, I am frustrated.
Frustrated that cancer took a friend away too early.
But, God, I think you know that, and somehow, I will hold on to these words from John 1:5: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
Cancer can’t snuff out the light that Larry brought into this world.
And that’s because the Italian philosopher, Thomas Aquinas, captured that light in a different way with these words: “There is nothing on this earth more to be prized than true friendship.”
Larry, thanks for being my true friend.
Rest in peace.
My friend, Larry Marino, making me laugh at Rachel and Garth’s wedding Agua Dulce, California Photo courtesy of Lauren Reinking
I have never watched the entire 2005 movie The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada. But, I have watched one scene many times.
That scene features actors Tommy Lee Jones, Barry Pepper, and Levon Helm. Mr. Helm was the drummer in the rock group, The Band.
In this scene, Mr. Helm portrays a blind man who lives alone in a frail house in the borderland between Texas and Mexico.
Mr. Jones is fulfilling a promise. He is carrying by horseback the body of his friend, Melquiades Estrada, to properly bury him in a Mexican village.
Mr. Pepper portrays the United States border guard who shot Mr. Estrada.
They stop at Mr. Helm’s home to ask for water for the three horses. Mr. Helm has no qualms about providing the requested water, and he even extends the hospitality by providing the strangers a meal.
At the kitchen table, Mr. Helm serves the food. Then, he extends his two hands across the table for Mr. Jones and Mr. Pepper.
He says, “let us pray.”
Awkward silence and hesitancy capture Mr. Jones and Mr. Pepper. Uncomfortable seconds pass until Mr. Jones extends his hands to Mr. Helm and Mr. Pepper.
Curious about how Mr. Helm lives and survives in such harsh conditions, Mr. Jones asked a few questions.
We learn that Mr. Helm has some food stashed away. His son usually comes to visit him once a month to bring supplies, but he hasn’t seen his son in six months.
After the meal, Jones and Pepper collect the three horses, and prepare to depart.
Mr. Jones thanks Mr. Helm, and then Mr. Helm asks Mr. Jones for a favor.
Mr. Jones replies with “anything you want.”
Mr. Jones clearly does not anticipate Mr. Helm’s heart wrenching question: “I wanted to ask you, if you could shoot me?”
A quiet, astonishment takes over the scene. Mr. Pepper instantly looks at Mr. Jones awaiting his response.
Mr. Helm explains his rationale.
His son isn’t coming back—he has cancer. Mr. Helm does not want to leave his home, and most importantly in his mind, he does not want to offend God by taking his own life.
After a few seconds of reflection, Mr. Jones responds that he can’t shoot Mr. Helm, and makes the point that he does not want to offend God either.
Mr. Jones and Mr. Pepper ride off with Mr. Helm still requesting that he be shot.
That scene makes me think of my own so called life as a Christian. I wonder how many times have I offended God?
In my mind, I reason that I have offended God quite a bit.
My brain will not let me forget the imperfections of my flawed judgment.
I curse my God who created the agitated yellow jacket that stung me while working on our church grounds.
I’m highly critical of others without considering my own shortcomings.
I silently swear at any driver who runs a yield or stop sign, or a stoplight.
There are days when my impure heart, mind, and soul feel like the devil is a half step behind me.
I wrestle with the inability of the church to see that the redundancy of its long worn templates might not work anymore.
I have let the current division in America make me a judge. I struggle to understand how insightful friends who were made by the same God that made me can’t see what I see in this division.
I ask why are they so blinded? How can their reasoning be so impaired?
Why have I lost my capacity to communicate with them? Is it because I have lost my ability to listen without judging?
Perhaps, they see me in the same way. Maybe, they ask the same internal questions about me?
In our division is fear the fuel that divides us? Is fear what drives the faulty logic founded in misinformation?
Yes, The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada is a Hollywood script, but a raw honesty comes from the blind man portrayed by Levon Helm.
Perhaps, he should fear the two strangers. He doesn’t.
Mr. Helm provides heartfelt hospitality without knowing anything about their circumstances.
He extends his hands at the dinner table to offer prayer to the strangers. Something inside their troubled hearts makes them take Mr. Helm’s hands.
And that makes me ask myself, why can’t I extend my hands to those with whom I disagree? Pitiful Christian that I am, will I continue to offend God?
Where is my commitment for these words from 1 Peter 3:8: “Finally, all of you, be like-minded, be sympathetic, love one another, be compassionate and humble.”
Bill Pike Guest columnist Greensboro News and Record Sunday, September 25, 2022
I wonder whether the U.S. Geological Survey detected any shifting of tectonic plates under the soil of the Piedmont of Virginia, North Carolina and South Carolina when the Atlantic Coast Conference announced it was moving the league’s headquarters from Greensboro to Charlotte.
If any tremors were recorded, perhaps it was from the original founders of the ACC rolling in their graves.
Congratulations, Charlotte. You’re not Greensboro, but a million times better than Orlando. To ACC Commissioner Jim Phillips, congratulations too. You did something no previous commissioner of the ACC has done — thrust a dagger into the heart of a city and community that has been loyal to the league since 1953.
Honestly, I don’t know why I’m taking this so hard. I’m not a graduate of an ACC school. And, I’m no longer a diehard fan who follows the league like Deputy Fife rabidly searching for Otis Campbell’s moonshine supplier.
However, I do have a heart — a heart full of memories. As a kid growing up in Burlington, I followed the ACC faithfully. Whether by radio or television, I spent many Saturday afternoons listening to and watching teams from the league compete in football and basketball. I remember the names of the players and coaches, and the voices of the announcers who called the games.
The league was compact then, eight teams. Primarily through men’s basketball, those teams built a foundation that would propel the ACC into the future and into the national spotlight. During those formative years, expansion was a speck on the horizon.
When the league initially expanded, the new members made sense geographically. Geography doesn’t matter anymore. It’s all about the pennies, lots and lots of pennies, and power.
Pennies from municipalities, legislatures, sport networks and alumni who in a blink can buyout the contract of a non-winning coach.
But, there are also power plays involved; particularly with sport networks that broadcast the games. Their lucrative contracts with athletic conferences for broadcast rights are too tempting to turn down.
I like the fact that Greensboro leaders put together a package of incentives that made the decision to leave difficult for Commissioner Phillips and his team. Said Mayor Nancy Vaughan: “I also feel like we put together an excellent package, which is one reason it took them 14 months to make a decision.”
Another whine from the league was Greensboro’s airport. Listen, the Piedmont Triad International Airport is well-maintained and properly run. Yes, it might take you longer to make a connection to get to Greensboro, but you can get there.
In truth, I’m disappointed in what appears to be an absence of support for Greensboro from the founding schools of the conference.
With historic Cameron Indoor Stadium on his campus, a person might think that Duke University President Vince Price, would advocate for Greensboro’s legacy of tradition, support and loyalty to the conference.
Not the case. Price’s comments centered on Charlotte as “a lively sports town” and the opportunity to bring “two incredible brands,” Charlotte and the ACC, together.
Boston, Atlanta and Miami are lively sports cities, but I don’t sense their ACC conference schools are significantly marketing the league’s brand. Greensboro did.
Yes, I’m disappointed, but not surprised.
This move to Charlotte is one more example of America valuing power and money more than the cherished legacy of loyalty and support that Greensboro has given to the ACC for 69 years.
Let’s get the truth out in the yard, I enjoy doing yard work.
For some reason, I always have.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I have my moments when I become unglued, and words spew out of me that could wither a flower. But overall, I enjoy yard work.
There is one exception. In the fall, leaves drive me nuts.
Growing up in North Carolina, as soon as I could safely operate a gasoline powered lawnmower, I was pushing one.
From early spring until late fall, I mowed our yard every week.
At one point, I mowed four yards in the neighborhood. No trimming, just mowing. The homeowners provided the mowers and the gas. I’m sure I wasted every penny I earned.
I do not ever remember my father buying grass seed or fertilizer for our yard. That yard was a combination of weeds, primarily wild Bermuda, also known as wire grass. My father despised that “durn wire grass,” especially when it encroached on his garden. I could not tell you the moment when the pursuit of lawn perfection bit me. But, I succumbed.
In my memory, I can remember a couple of years when we contracted with a lawn service in Richmond to do aerating, seeding, and fertilizing. Then, I figured our the timing and the materials needed, and I started doing all that perfection work on my own.
Some springs and into early summer our yard looks like a well groomed fairway on a golf course. And naturally, there have been times when whatever magic preparation I tried didn’t work.
And before we go further, I must confess. When the summer becomes hot and dry, and rain is absent, I do not water our lawn. I water all of our shrubs and flowers. I figure when the rain does arrive, the grass will come back.
Labor Day weekend, I raked our back and front yards to remove thatch and other debris. Then I lowered the mowing height of the lawn mower, and cut the grass lower than I usually do.
Next, I went to Lowes. I carefully studied the labeling for the grass seed and starter fertilizer like I knew what I was doing.
Then I wrestled with getting two twenty pound bags of grass seed and a fifty pound bag of fertilizer. That fertilizer bag only reinforced that despite doing push ups and working with ten pound dumbbells, I have no upper body strength. I suspect I would lose an arm wrestling contest to any of our grandchildren.
Probably on the ride home from Lowes is when the irrational part of my brain took over—“You know William, it has been years since you rented an aerator. If you really want lawn perfection next spring, you need to rent an aerator this week.”
So on the afternoon of Tuesday, September 6, at 3:30, I was at our neighborhood hardware store. I committed to renting the beast for two hours. I also rented two ramps so that I could get the beast in and out of the borrowed pickup truck.
After giving me some pointers, two employees helped me load the monster into the back of the truck. They struggled.
So, I climbed into the bed of the truck to help pull the heavy machine up the last few inches. Then, I took some rope and tied down my new friend just to make sure that its restless hollow spikes didn’t start any problems on the ride home.
We arrived safely.
I let down the tailgate. I carefully positioned the ramps to line up with the wheels of the beast. I grabbed the handles bracing to be run over. The aerator ignored me. It raced down the ramp, and landed with a jarring thud.
Miraculously, the beast started on the first pull. With my gloved hands, I grasped the thin handle, and the beast took off dragging me behind it. I vaguely remembered one of the hardware store employees pointing out the throttle switch.
I let go of the handle, the beast stopped. I found the throttle switch and slowed down the engine. Even though the pace was better, no matter if I was in the backyard or front yard, the beast worked me over. I knew my old sack of bones would be hurting on Wednesday.
Before I knew it, I was approaching the two hour limit. I pushed the beast toward the back of the pickup truck. Next, I used a garden hose to wash soil and strands of grass off the underside and the spikes.
I repositioned the ramps, and somehow the Commander Supreme and I pushed and pulled the beast back into the truck bed. With the beast retied, I drove back to the hardware store.
When I arrived, two employees came out help get the beast down from the truck. I told them this was probably my last dance with an aerator. They laughed. I presume they have heard that declaration before.
Back at home, I pulled my broadcast spreader out of the tool shed. I adjusted the spreader’s rate of flow. I filled the spreader and started to work.
Sure enough on Wednesday, the beast was still with me.
My lower back was talking to me. My back must have been thinking, “ Don’t you ever, ever rent an aerator again. You think this pain is annoying, you don’t want to know how much pain you will be in if you rent a beast again.” By Friday, my back and I were on tenuous terms.
My dance with the beast made me think of Curley Fletcher.
A long, long time ago, Curley Fletcher was a cowboy out in northern California. Fletcher was also a cowboy poet and songwriter. “Strawberry Roan” is his most famous poem that has been set to music and recorded by a variety of musicians.
“Strawberry Roan” is a horse. A horse that no matter how skilled a cowboy claimed to be, no one could tame the cantankerous “Strawberry Roan.”
On Tuesday afternoon, I sort of felt like I was trying to tame a bronco—that aerator. In about ten days, I’ll learn if my work with the beast paid off. If grass seed start sprouting, then I might have kinder thoughts toward the beast.
My encounter with the beast made me think about life.
For some people, life is a tough ride everyday.
They are worn and battered by trying to live life.
The things that life tosses at me are nothing in comparison to their experiences.
Some are homeless.
Some fight addiction.
Some are unemployed.
Some have poor health.
Some are hungry.
Some are estranged from family.
Some have no faith, no hope.
And I’m whining about an aerator wearing me out.
What is wrong with my thinking?
The beast from the hardware store Photo by Bill Pike
About mid-morning on Tuesday, August 30, the invasion started. By late Wednesday afternoon, the occupation was complete.
Trinity Hall had been transformed into a dining room, complete with check-in stations, a row of make-up tables with mirrors and lights, and the stage held individual dressing rooms. Blue tents with rounded tops.
The parking lots had security guards, an air conditioned tent for overflow diners, food trucks, portable grills, tractor trailers, box trucks, port-a-johns, at least ten trailers used as offices and rehearsal rooms, trucks for fuel and maintenance, and vans for shuttling personnel.
The most impressive vehicle was the eighteen wheeler that held a noiseless generator. One of the technicians asked me if I could hear it running, and I didn’t hear a peep coming from this beast.
So, why this encampment?
Our church was one of the logistical sites hosting the second season of filming the AppleTV show—Swagger. This series is about Kevin Durant, a professional basketball player in the National Basketball Association(NBA).
For three days, August 31- September 2, our grounds and Trinity Hall would hold all this equipment and at assorted times lots of people. This would allow the production staff and the actresses and actors to complete night filming for a party scene at a house off Ridge Road a few blocks away from the church.
During my eleven years of working at the church, location scouts had come by to see our facilities, take photographs, and ask about available dates. But, with the Swagger production, this is the first time that we have actually been a part of a show.
This time it happened that our calendar and our facilities matched their needs.
My initial contact and work was with two young guys, Wolfgang, key assistant location manager, and Matt, location scout. They both coordinate getting everything in place. Their work is non-stop. Night filming made their work even more rigorous. Matt told me he clocks in about ten miles of footwork everyday, with eighteen miles being his one day record.
They both will be with Swagger until the filming ends in late November. Then they will rest up, and use their industry contacts to secure a job with a new television or movie production company.
Late on Wednesday afternoon, I was walking the grounds checking noise levels. We had hand delivered a letter to the homeowners on Stuart Hall and Rock Creek roads letting them know what was taking place.
As I approached a security check point, I heard one of the security guards say out loud: “I see a familiar face, I know this guy.”
Turns out the security guard had been a parent at Lakeside Elementary School where I had served as principal. Mr. Casey quickly pulled me over, and he started to tell me about his boys who are now grown men. He shared some pictures, and I could not believe how old I suddenly felt.
During the three days, I kept my eyes open for the son of one of our college friends. Jeffrey has been in the production business a long time. He was worked on an assortment of television shows and movies in the mid-Atlantic as a grip. Jeffrey and the team he works with are responsible for all of the rigging and set up for the camera crew, and this includes working with the electrical department in coordinating the lighting of the set.
I knew it would be a long shot to see Jeffrey because his night filming did not match up with my church work hours. But on Saturday morning just before seven, as I was pulling into the parking lot, Jeffrey was exiting the parking lot.
Drained from three nights of filming, Jeffrey was heading to the hotel to sleep before driving back home near Frederick, Maryland to be with his wife and two young children. We chatted for a few minutes, and I commented to Jeffrey how I couldn’t believe all the trucks and equipment. His response to me—“this is a small production.”
After saying goodbye, I walked into Trinity Hall to assess the cleanup. I was amazed at how quickly Trinity Hall and our parking lots had been cleared of everything that had been here since Wednesday. I wiped down the table tops to prep them for cart loading. One of the extras for the show, a young man named John was waiting for a ride to arrive. So, John pitched in to help with putting the folding chairs back on the carts.
We talked quite a bit. In a short period of time, I learned a lot about John. When he was growing up, his parents were both in the military. John spent quite a bit of his early life overseas. He is a young father with two children in elementary school, and another child on the way.
John is stringing together jobs related to two of his passions boxing and dancing. In talking with him, I learned the importance of footwork to boxing and dancing. John described how a foot injury—the dislocation of one of his big toes, taught him about balance. He has never forgotten how critical our toes are in providing us balance.
Once the chairs were finished, John used his travel bag as a pillow, and the next thing I knew he was asleep. Being an extra for three days will throw off your normal sleep routines. The instant sleep meant John was exhausted.
As promised, around ten the tent crew returned to take down the tent. That went well, but they were not the same vendor for the portable air conditioning unit. From Saturday morning until late Tuesday afternoon, a schedule was developed by the security company to post a security guard to watch the air conditioning unit. They guarded that portable unit like it was Fort Knox.
On Sunday morning, that’s when I met Emerson. He had been there all night watching over the air conditioning unit. We had a good talk, and Emerson shared with me that it had been a rough week for him and his car. He misjudged a turn and caused significant damage to his car. With this car bill looming over him, Emerson had asked for extra hours of work.
In 1977, singer/songwriter Jackson Browne released a live album, Running On Empty. The set of songs captures what life is like on the road for the musicians and everyone who supports them in the production of a concert.
During the three days that the extra actors and actresses and all of the production crew were at Trinity, we caught a glimpse of what it takes to make a successful television show or movie. There are lots of moving pieces in the background that we never see or think about as we watch the show or movie.
When my wife and I go to see a movie, I have a bad habit. I stay until the last credit for the film is cast on to the screen. To me, all those people who worked behind the scenes are just as important as the actors and actresses who are in the spotlight.
Wolfgang, Matt, Mr. Casey, Jeffrey, John, and Emerson might be buried in those scrolling credits, but here is what I can’t forget—these are real human beings, with real stories, and who are working to keep their balance in the ups and downs of life too.
Sometimes, in our daily walk through life we are also buried in the credits.
But, we never know in that scrolling of life when we might be called upon to help someone regain their footing and balance.
In those unexpected moments, I hope I will not remain buried in the credits.
On Monday, July 25, I returned to work at Trinity United Methodist Church. Our week at Topsail Island, North Carolina is now packed away.
The office staff told me the church was quiet while I was gone.
Apparently that was true except for the morning a HVAC motor in a closet overheated and smoked up the first floor of the children’s wing. Five fire trucks responded along with a few other official vehicles. So much for silence.
Monday marked the beginning of Kids Camp(vacation Bible school). I had a role as a presenter talking about how our church helps to support three local food pantries.
A week away means a pileup of computer emails and paper in my mailbox in the church office.
I made it through the morning, but early in the afternoon the building began to conspire to fully welcome me back.
A technician confirmed what I had expected—two controllers for our outdoor sprinkler system were dead. They had to be replaced.
The elevator for the Welcome Center and Eaton Hall was next. The door would open and close, but the elevator did not respond to the command to take the short ride down to Eaton Hall. Turns out a module had failed. A part would need to be ordered.
But the best challenge was last.
Working in the Preschool office, our fearless leaders Katie Swartz and Mary Jones could hear a trickle of water. When they opened the door for a small mechanical room, a stream of spraying water from a pipe greeted them.
At first glance, I mistakenly thought the leak was coming from our fire protection sprinkler system. But as I looked further at the configuration of piping, I could see that the steady stream of water was coming from a large HVAC condensation pipe.
Fortunately in the mechanical room there was a floor drain, so the spewing water wasn’t going to create another problem. But, the water was also dripping into equipment used to chemically treat the water in the HVAC system.
It was late in the afternoon when I put in the call to the company who services our HVAC systems. They dispatched a technician. When he arrived, he had to deal with water to get into our building as an intense afternoon thunderstorm was dumping gallons of water in the neighborhood surrounding our church.
Soaked, he made it into the building, and I walked him to the mechanical room.
Within a few seconds of assessing the leak, he groaned. Where the leaked had spouted would require the skills of a plumber to properly remove and replace the failed pipe.
He made a quick call to his company’s office to describe the challenges of the failed pipe. After the call, he returned to his truck. He was going to use a special tape to slow the spew of the leak.
I jokingly asked him if he thought I should line up members of the congregation to serve hourly shifts to plug the leak with their fingers. He laughed, and hoped that his tape wrapping would slow the the escaping water. Luckily, this bandaid repair worked, and the air conditioning system could still run until the real repair could be scheduled.
I can’t tell you how many days like this I’ve had over the last eleven years. I cherish this building with its Flemish bond brick pattern and aesthetically pleasing architecture. The building and its grounds as Gomer Pyle would say, “Is a sight to behold.” However, there is always something going on behind that pleasing appearance.
During the last year, my sister has kept me informed about Davis Street United Methodist Church in Burlington, North Carolina. We grew up in that church, and like Trinity I cherished the building and the people.
But, back in the spring, the congregation decided it was time to close the church doors. They followed all of the required protocols from that famous Methodist Book of Discipline and sold the building and grounds “as is” to a company who works with families who have autistic children.
The closing of the building followed what has become a predictable pattern for many churches. Membership down, attendance down, giving down, new programming marginally successful, building needs in terms of repairs and maintenance up significantly, and the funding to repair and maintain the building not always available.
Translation—building and congregation on life support, the end is near.
In truth, I love the response by the Davis Street congregation and their leadership. They figured out the future was bleak, so they sought a remedy.
Was everyone completely happy?
No.
But their plan still has life for the building and the neighborhood. The work the new owners will do with children and their families in a unique way still correlates to one of the missions of the church—helping people.
Yes, there are days, like that Monday, when I say to the Trustees let’s sell this place.
They might chuckle for a second, and say Bill, “You’ve lost your mind.”
But, you can only chuckle for so long.
Because behind that Flemish bond facade some part of the building is conspiring.
When a building with age starts to conspire— congregation beware.
We arrived on Saturday, July 16 on Topsail Island, North Carolina.
Seven days later, we are packed, and departing.
When he was younger, our son, Andrew, would always tear up on the departure day.
Maybe, his tears are silent now. At least I didn’t see any when his family and their packed car headed back to Richmond. I’ll have to ask his wife, Kathryn, if any tears formed once they were out of sight.
My church friend, Elaine Peele, talks about the beach being her happy place. I think the same holds true for my wife, our Commander Supreme, the beach is her happy place.
I sense the beach is a happy place for dermatologists too. Perhaps, these essential doctors feel like a kid on Christmas morning when they view a beach full of scantily clad sun worshippers.
Even though I have a deep appreciation for my dermatologist, I have vowed not to make additional financial contributions to his retirement, summer home, or fancy car.
At the beach, I wear a hat that covers my entire head. If needed, I keep a head gaiter in the pocket of the long sleeved shirt that I wear while on the sandy shore.
Any bare spot on my old body is covered in 50 weight sunscreen, and I spend a lot of time camped out in a chair with an awning under the shade from our wind blown shibumi. Yes, I could be the poster child for grumpy old geezers who avoid the sun.
Despite my overabundance of sun caution, I am drawn to the beach.
I love watching our grandchildren as they learn the beach’s lessons.
I laugh at the haul of required beach cargo brought down from the house each day.
My ears and eyes delight in the sight of a low flying military helicopter scurrying down the coast line.
I respect the pull of the undertow in the ceaseless choreography of the waves.
People watching makes me wonder what beachcombers think when they see me?
I wonder if replenished sand dunes and rows of freshly planted sea oats will still be in place next summer?
I find reassurance when the sun inches up out of the ocean breaching the horizon line and signaling the start of a new day.
I appreciate the aroma of the salt marsh at low tide as it blows over me from a warm summer breeze.
And when life is pushing down on my shoulders, I’ll recall the graceful glide of pelicans skirting in formation in the trough between two cresting waves.
Now, my daydreaming is over.
The beach house is empty.
We have followed the required protocols so that the cleaning crew can make the home ready for the next renters.
The car is packed. In theory, we should have less junk on the drive back, but I’m not sure this is true.
As we pull out of the driveway on to the main road, it is my hope, my prayer that we can come back again next summer.
Goodbye beach, be smart and safe.
Sun rising Topsail Island, North Carolina photo Bill Pike
might be baloney 