writing – might be baloney

Acorns, soccer, and a light fixture

October 16, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

On the afternoon of Friday, October 9, 2026, our yard needed to be mowed.

Before I could start mowing the front yard, I needed to remove about ten million acorns.

In truth, I can’t believe we have so many acorns. I thought the summer’s excessive heat and timid rainfall might curtail the acorns this year. I was wrong.

The acorns have been falling from a stately oak tree that lives in the corner of our neighbor’s yard.

This majestic oak has quite a canopy. The spread of this canopy intrudes into our yard.

There are so many acorns that even squirrels are disinterested. Wacky as squirrels are, they might regret their indifference this winter.

Our flower border along the fence line and a mulched section under the dogwood tree have some of those ten million acorns.

The acorns thud when they hit the ground. They bounce off the asphalt. The acorns pop loudly when they careen off the roof of my parked car or its windshield.

Driving over the acorns, sounds like ice cracking on a road surface on a frozen winter morning.

After I had finished raking as many as I could out of the yard, a neighbor who was walking by looked at my pile. She commented, “Wow, that’s a lot of acorns.”

She is correct. I expect after the acorns stop falling that between both yards we will conservatively estimate close to twenty million.

Acorns to be shipped to you (Photo Bill Pike)

Perhaps you remember from the movie, Forrest Gump, this introduction from Forrest’s new best friend: “My name is Benjamin Buford Blue, people call me Bubba.”

You might recall that young Bubba was all about starting his own shrimping business after the Vietnam war. Bubba could reel off all the possibilities for preparing and selling their harvested shrimp.

Based upon Bubba’s list, I’m beginning to wonder if there might be a market for acorns. According to several sources, some reliable, and some probably unreliable, acorns can be eaten.

If I believed more in the reliable, I could like Bubba name multiple culinary possibilities for the acorns—acorn pancakes, acorn ice cream, acorn muffins, spiced acorn cider, lightly salted acorns, acorn brittle, acorn upside down cake, emulsified acorn soup, acorn slurpy, acorn pudding. You get the idea.

Perhaps, it might be worth calling the Rose Bowl Parade. I’ll bet those clever float makers could find a place for the acorns on their floats.

Seriously, I’m thinking about reaching out to the Virginia Department of Forestry. They might take a million of the higher quality acorns off my hands for potential seedlings.

I know next spring at least half of our front yard will be sprouting oak leaves from the buried acorns.

Meanwhile if you live in a part of America where there are no oak trees producing acorns, for $29.95, I will gladly ship you a pound of acorns.

Before heading out to the Richmond Folk Festival on the afternoon of Saturday, October 10, we had grandparent soccer duty.

The Commander Supreme drove west to the Shady Grove YMCA facilities to watch our third grade granddaughter, Josie, play soccer.

The Commander left early so that she could survey the sale at Tweed. Tweed is one of the most dangerous retailers in Richmond for wives to visit. Husbands cringe when their wives say I’m going to Tweed.

I made no stop at a retailer on my way to Tuckahoe Middle School where our first grader, Ellie, would be playing her game. Both Josie and Ellie play in leagues coordinated through the Tuckahoe YMCA. Ellie’s team holds their weekly practice before the start of the game.

I think the Tuckahoe YMCA does a good job with this program. I particularly like the wording found on the back of the t-shirts worn by the coaches. It reads: COACH CARING, HONESTY, RESPECT, RESPONSIBILITY.

Despite efforts from my friend, Robb Spotts, who played collegiate soccer, coached at the high school level, and still officiates local soccer games, I do not understand the rules of soccer. Perhaps our granddaughters can assist my soccer mentor, Coach Spotts, in my tutelage.

Despite my soccer denseness, I do appreciate with lots of patience from their coaches how these young ladies improve their soccer skills.

I know grandparents are not supposed to brag about their grandchildren, but I’m going to break that rule.

The Commander Supreme reported to me that Josie has improved her skills. Josie scored a goal, and she had multiple saves when playing goalie.

At one point during the game on Saturday morning, I saw that improvement in Ellie’s soccer skills. I have no photographic proof, but here is what I saw.

The other team had the ball. One of their players was pushing the ball down the sideline on the side opposite from where Ellie was positioned. The player had an open field down that sideline.

Ellie from the other side of midfield saw this player breaking away. She ran with the grace of a yearling who had just discovered its stride. Ellie turned on her afterburners, caught up with the player, steered the ball away from her, took the ball back up field, and with some soccer gods’ luck kicked in a goal.

I wanted to see a replay. I wanted to hear a commentator compliment Ellie on her field of vision, her foot speed, and her pivot to work the ball back down field to score a goal.

Until I croak, I will replay Ellie’s play in my mind forever.

The remnants of Hurricane Isaias came to Richmond with a much needed, gentle rain on Sunday morning.

In opening up our church, Trinity Methodist, I was greeted with a text message from our Kids Director, Jen. A slow rotting pumpkin had slimmed a carpet tile in a classroom.

And, I remembered that I needed to replace a burned out light in the mini-kitchen in the Welcome Center.

I popped up the carpet tile, replaced it with a substitute, and disposed of the rotting pumpkin. With warm soapy water, I scrubbed the stained carpet tile, rinsed it, and placed the soggy tile in the Trinity Hall mechanical room to dry.

Next, I worked my way to replacing the burned out light.

Someday, I would like to have a long conversation with the designer of the light fixtures that grace our Welcome Center. That conversation would also include the architect who thought it would be a good idea to install these fixtures in the Welcome Center.

My battles with these fixtures are not pretty.

Troublesome light fixture (Photo Bill Pike)

God’s ears burn when the confrontation with the dead bulb starts. Any slim chance that I had for even seeing the pearly gates of heaven slip further and further away when wrestling with replacing these lights.

This Sunday morning was to be no different.

Armed with a ladder, a Phillips head screwdriver, a pencil, gloves, and a new bulb, I started.

The first challenge is to remove the bulb from the socket without it breaking. Just so you know these bulbs are not your standard screw in type. With a gloved hand, I gently try to remove the bulb. Step one failed.

Eventually, I was able to coax the bulb to release. With its cracks, I placed the bulb, into a small cardboard box.

Next, I used the screwdriver to unscrew two screws holding the metal canister in place in the ceiling tile opening.

Quickly, with the pencil, I attempted to push in the new light bulb. The pencil is just the right length, and with the eraser I can apply pressure to push in the bulb. Rushing, I failed again. I did not have the new bulb snug in its four sided opening. The bulb landed hard and cracked on the countertop.

More muttering of unacceptable language spewed.

So, I regrouped. Went down into Eaton Hall to grab a new bulb. Came back into the Welcome Center, repositioned the ladder, and started over.

This time the bulb was snug. I put the bulb back into the cone, realigned and tightened the two screws and shoved the fixture back into the ceiling. Unfortunately, the base of the fixture was not flush with the ceiling tile.

Now, I had an unacceptable gap. I removed another ceiling tile, shoved my head into that space, and saw the problem.

To hold the fixture in place on the metal grids where the ceiling tiles lie are two adjustable metal bars. These two bars were not positioned properly. With the assist of more rotten language, I finally found the correct position for the bars. Now the base of the light canister was flush with the ceiling tile.

If you’re still reading this baloney, you are either laughing hysterically, crying for my incompetence, or wondering why, why does God and this church keep this old guy around?

I can’t answer that question.

But, I do think about the words on the back of that YMCA t-shirt worn by their coaches.

Where have caring, honesty, respect, and responsibility gone in our world?

Have they become lost in the chaos of our headlines?

What do acorns, a soccer game, and a light fixture have to do with those words?

The over productive oak tree is simply being responsible to the rules of nature that it has followed since its birth.

Luckily for our granddaughters, the YMCA is still an organization that values caring, honesty, respect, and responsibility. Just imagine the impact we could have on each other and the world if we thoughtfully applied these words.

As for me and that light fixture, despite all of the heartburn it gave me, I do respect the light it provides.

And continuing on the as for me, my wife will tell you that at times I care too much.

I had a school leader tell me one time that I was “honest to a fault.”

And as for responsibility, it is in my DNA.

Where are caring, honesty, respect, and responsibility in our collective DNA?

Maybe acorns pinging off our noggins, the innocent hope of children on a soccer field, and the stubborn collision between an old grump and a light fixture will remind us that we need caring, honesty, respect, and responsibility more that ever.

You, me, we, us need to reconnect with these words.

They are in our DNA.

Winston Churchill said, “Words are the only things which last forever.”

You, me, we, us need to make sure that caring, honesty, respect, and responsibility last forever.

When life goes sideways

September 21, 2026 Bill Pike2 Comments

Late on the afternoon of Friday, August 21, 2026, long time Trinity member, Ken Hart, showed up at church.

Ken arrived with his leaf blower. The crepe myrtles in the Bicentennial Garden drop their pretty pink blossoms on the brick paver sidewalk.

Those blossoms track into the building. This is especially true after a passing summer thunderstorm.

When I saw Ken on Sunday morning, I thanked him for his work.

I also told him that the sidewalk was covered again this morning with those pretty pink blossoms.

Somedays, sidewalks go sideways.

Early on that same Sunday morning, I used a couple of brooms to clear the sidewalk again. As I was sweeping those pink blossoms, I looked down into the pile where I saw a motionless butterfly.

I picked it up and placed it on the top of one of the brick columns. The butterfly was a monarch. Stunning in its color, its patterns were perfectly designed and sequenced, a flawless example of an angel on earth.

I felt bad for the butterfly. I thought back to all of the times Eric Carle’s “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” had been read to our children before bedtime.

Somedays, life goes sideways for butterflies.

Out on Patterson Avenue, Virginia Route 6, where Normandy Drive empties on to Patterson there is a water line leak. Water has been bubbling for over two weeks now.

That bubbling created a large pot hole. The pot hole was large enough to be a hindrance for drivers. Despite shutting that travel lane down, and using orange traffic cones and gravel as a band-aid repair, none of that has kept right front tires from slamming into the hole.

One morning, I watched a county school bus make a very awkward turn on to the open lane on Patterson. I don’t think the bus driver enjoyed making that turn.

Somedays, life goes sideways for water lines.

This week, thousands of miles from Richmond, Virginia, life went sideways in Nepal. I have never seen such immediate and catastrophic flood destruction. There was no blink. Didn’t matter if you were a human being or a man made structure, you were gone.

Somedays, life can unexpectedly go sideways.

A few weeks ago, life went sideways for our new senior pastor, and her husband, who is also a pastor. He was diagnosed with a very rare, but dangerous oral cancer. His second round of surgery was yesterday.

Cancer always makes life go sideways.

Somewhere in America there is a small business owner who is feverishly attempting to figure out how to make payroll for this week. The business owner understands loyalty and sacrifice. Deep inside, the owner wonders how much longer loyalty and sacrifice will last.

Making payroll makes life go sideways.

My sister and I always remember August 31, 1992 and September 1, 2002. Those were the days when we lost our parents.

Losing a loved one makes life go sideways.

Up in heaven, I wonder if life goes sideways for God and Jesus?

My guess is life goes sideways every day in heaven.

Twenty-four seven, there is no down time. There is always a crisis.

For people like me, who try to be good, who try to understand and apply the teachings in the Bible to my daily living, my belief in what I have held on to for all these years can go sideways too.

I want to know why life goes sideways?

Yes, this is a reoccuring whining theme for me.

But, the truth be told, this is a reoccuring, whining question for you too. You want to know why life goes sideways.

Quite honestly, God and Jesus are tired of me and my why.

And all my whys are grounded in the New Testament of the Bible—the miracles. Why was sight restored to someone? Why were demons cast out of a young man? Why were lepers cured? Why did a judge finally cave in and rule in favor of the woman who had consistently pestered him? Why, why, why, why, why?

Every August, I keep an eye on a gardenia shrub. The gardenia is located on the west side of our home. It is in a narrow border beside our trash cans and recycling container.

That gardenia blooms in the late spring. Sometimes in August, the gardenia surprises me with a few fragrant singular blooms.

This August, the gardenia didn’t disappoint me. I caught a whiff of its fragrance when taking out some recycling. I searched the shrub and found the single white bloom buried among waxy green leaves.

That gardenia always circles me back to my parents. They had prolific green thumbs. For this gardenia, its roots are linked back to my parent’s yard. It’s blooming in August always makes me think of our mother and father.

There have been years, when life had gone sideways for the gardenia. Challenging winters with coatings of ice and harsh northwest winds have on several occasions burned its green foliage.

Despite the bitter winter, the gardenia finds a way to persevere.

When life went sideways for our parents, I think their perseverance came from their faith.

Clearly, there is no stopping of life going sideways.

Perhaps when sideways arrives, I need to think more deeply about this quote from Helen Keller: “Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it.”

Instead of me constantly whining why about sideways, I need to commit to help those who are still here with the “overcoming it.”

It will be difficult for me to overcome my whining why.

But, I’m going to work on it.

How about you?

Down in the window wells of life

August 9, 2026 Bill Pike2 Comments

On the afternoon of Tuesday, July 21, 2026, rain poured from a dark sky.

In truth, I wasn’t surprised because it felt like the air was beyond heavy with moisture.

A body knew that at some point the sky was going to burst wide open, and it did.

At Trinity, I always worry about Eaton Hall, the original social hall of the church.

It is a basement below the Sanctuary.

Over time, I have figured out its bad habits.

This old room doesn’t like cloudbursts.

Keeping the drain clear at the base of the exterior stairs is critical. Keep that drain clear, and less water intrudes.

This afternoon, the challenge wasn’t that drain. No, the challenge came from the window wells that surround Eaton Hall.

The window well drains couldn’t handle the deluge. A few of the wells filled like a bucket under a spigot.

I learned a long time ago that water has a mind of its own. Some water from the window wells did come into Eaton Hall, but I could manage it.

When the storm passed, I checked the window wells from the outside. I saw the problem— lots of tree debris.

The next afternoon, I had a date with the window wells.

One of the window wells (Photo Bill Pike)

To get into the window well requires lifting up the heavy duty wire grate that covers the well.

The grate must be precisely angled across the top of the window well.

This prevents it from tumbling back over me.

Next, I use a broom to clear spider webs and other crawling creatures.

Then I position a short step ladder into the well, and I crawl over the three sided railing.

I step gingerly on to the ladder and get into the well.

I use a small rake, a bucket, and my gloves to clean up the debris.

In the first well there had been a lot of debris and water.

As I worked, I noticed a sluggish, water logged toad was in the well. He didn’t offer much resistance as I scooped him up with both hands.

I was able to place him on some wood chips outside the window well.

My water logged friend (Photo Bill Pike)

With that well clean and clear of debris, I climbed out and checked on my friend.

A cleaned out window well (Photo Bill Pike)

It would take several minutes for the toad to acclimate. His eyes seemed to be carefully studying me.

Finally, I nudged him toward the grass where he continued to rest. I checked on him one more time, and then he was gone.

During the course of the afternoon, I made two more rescues of small slippery frogs that had fallen into the window wells. They appeared to be less water logged than my toad friend.

In the Richmond area this summer, we lost two young men by drowning in local pools.

A couple of weeks ago when were enjoying the beach of Surf City on Topsail Island, North Carolina, we learned that a man was pulled from the ocean in distress. Attempts to revive him were unsuccessful.

I’m not a strong swimmer. I do not take chances in any body of water.

In the Bible, Noah and God took their chances with each other.

I wonder what God saw in Noah who is described as a righteous man.

God must have had a hunch that Noah, despite his age could build the ark, collect the creatures, and explain to his family what God was doing.

God was displeased with how things were going on Earth. The words corruption and violence were used to describe how we humans were making their way through the world.

Sadly, corruption and violence are still at work today.

At times this summer with the extreme temperatures and humidity, I wondered if God was trying to bake us into being better people.

With the heavy rainfall on Tuesday afternoon, I wondered if God was returning to his forty days of rain to flood out the world again.

I was happy when the last window well had been cleared of debris.

My guess is that God would be happier with us if we made the commitment to solve the troubling debris in our lives that divides us.

We appear to have the will to do lots of things, but I’m not sure we have the will to solve our troubling debris.

Why is that?

Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote: “The will of God to which the law gives expression is that men should defeat their enemies by loving them.”

I did not love crawling down into those window wells.

Yet, I knew if that debris wasn’t removed, only more severe problems for Eaton Hall would develop.

Within the window wells of our lives isn’t it time that we crawl down inside and work to remove the debris—the division, the incivility, the disrespect that is hurting us?

Are these the enemies within our souls that are preventing us from being the people that God’s heart needs us to be?

A run over the Surf City Bridge

August 4, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

Day Two Sunday, July 12, 2026

I was up early this morning. Rarely, rarely am I not up early. My body’s internal clock must be locked to civil twilight.

Initially, I didn’t see the sunrise. I saw the power of its early predawn light casting shades of orange and pink into scattered clouds.

Predawn colors starting to show (Photo Bill Pike)

Over the next fifteen minutes, the sun kept slowly rising, and gradually, the familiar orange ball peered over the Atlantic Ocean.

As the sun is waking, I do some exploring on the beach.

I notice the lightweight pattern of a bird’s feet or a crab’s scrabble leaving an imprint on the sand.

Someone has been here. (Photo Bill Pike)

With help of the wind, in some sections, the sand is shaped and rippled.

And there is nothing better than discovering a protected location for a sea turtle nest.

A well marked sea turtle nest (Photo Bill Pike)

Since our rental house was close to the center of Surf City, I opted to go for a run—a run that would take me across the massive Surf City Bridge.

I don’t know how much longer my old body will take me out for a morning run, but I secretly hope— forever.

In working my way toward the bridge, the road is flat and straight as it parallels the beach front. Earlier this morning, our son had run across the bridge. He gave me a few pointers for accessing it.

Careful to abide by pedestrian crosswalks, and early morning traffic merging into the roundabout, I found my way to the bridge.

The flatness of the road surface disappeared. Eventually, my legs were working me up an incline were the arch of the bridge construction peaks. This incline is gradual as the bridge sits 65 feet above the water.

Planners were thoughtful with the design. The bridge not only features stunning views of the tidal areas along the Intracoastal Waterway, but a bike lane and a wide walkway for walkers and runners.
I have ample room to run, but I am mindful of other runners, walkers, and bicycle riders. We all appear to be mindful of each other.

The view no matter where I look is remarkable.

I can only begin to imagine what accessing the island was like before any type of bridge was in place. My guess is that Topsail Island enjoyed its solitude.

I know this—I will cherish this 36:59 run for many years.

By midday, our oldest daughter and her family had arrived. Unfortunately due to work commitments, our son-in-law would only be with us until Wednesday.

The energy level in the house picked up as our four grandchildren enjoyed their beach time and an assortment in-house activities.

In the pre-trip planning, a meal schedule was worked out. Culinary skills would be showcased and tested, but this was no Food Network contest. Nope, just an opportunity to feed twelve hungry beach lovers at the end of the day.

After dinner, the four cousins converge on the deck. They watch storm clouds starting to roll in over the ocean.

Cousins checking out the weather (Photo Elizabeth Cates)

My mind thinks back to our ride through the tiny coastal plain communities we saw yesterday. That apparent poverty is such a contrast to the real estate wealth on the island.

We design and build a $54 million dollar bridge, but we appear to be incapable solving our poverty in America.

Why is that?

If we have the will to build a $54 million dollar bridge, shouldn’t we have the will to solve poverty?

More importantly, what am I doing with my will toward helping to solve that poverty?

Who at VT is accountable for $95M?

July 22, 2026 Bill Pike2 Comments

Roanoke Times
LETTERS
July 19, 2026

Letter: Who at VT is accountable for $95M?

I haven’t forgotten my first visit to Virginia Tech.

In the late 1970s, on a beautiful fall afternoon, a friend, a Tech graduate, with whom I taught at Martinsville Jr. High School, took me to a football game.

Even then, I sensed there was something unique about this outstanding university.
Years later, that admiration continued. Our oldest daughter is a successful graduate and diehard Hokie.

As an old North Carolina boy, I cheered when Tech entered the Atlantic Coast Conference. Academically and geographically, this was a win for the conference.

Photo of my Virginia Tech hat (Bill Pike)

Despite this affection for a university that has impacted the world beyond Blacksburg’s town limits, I do not understand the school’s relentless pursuit of becoming a dominant player in college athletics.

The recent anonymous gift of $75 million dollars to the school is an example of this quest. I appreciate the donor’s twofold focus with the gift benefiting the school’s athletic department and honors program.

However, there are no guarantees that using these millions to buy the best players, coaches, and building state of the art athletic facilities equals automatic national championships.

Founded as a “land-grant” university in 1872, I wonder how many of Virginia Tech’s “land-grant” peers are consumed by this same push for athletic prominence?

My guess is Virginia Tech’s new football coach, James Franklin, is publicly thrilled with this financial gift.

However, I can only begin to imagine the pressure he must feel to quickly develop his team into a national powerhouse.

Speaking of pressure, does the university’s leadership feel any of that stress to succeed?

If Virginia Tech’s athletic department squanders this investment, other than a coach, who will be held accountable?

Where does that accountability apply to the $95 million in debt that the athletic department already has?

The world was less complicated on my first visit to Virginia Tech.

And yet, I suspect the “lunch pail” in Lane Stadium knows this wisdom from Seneca: “It is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves more, that is poor.”

Hokies, I hope your craving works out.

Bill Pike, Richmond

Note from author: I am always honored when a piece I submit to a newspaper is published. This letter to the editor was published in the Sunday, July 19, 2026 edition of the Roanoke Times. I have many dear friends who are graduates from Virginia Tech. I apologize if the letter offends you. My goal was not to offend. The goal was to ponder one more example of how money continues to rule college sports.

The new Steep Canyon Rangers’ album, Next Act: “we can order it for you.”

June 23, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

(Photo taken of album cover by Bill Pike)

Dear Steep Canyon Rangers,

Sadly, I was not able to attend your May 28 and 29 concerts at the Sierra Nevada Brewing Company Amphitheater in Mill River, North Carolina.

I had a tiny distraction to deal with here in Richmond, Virginia. Our youngest daughter’s wedding was scheduled for Saturday, May 30.

No matter what I tried, neither my wife nor daughter could be persuaded to let me attend either show. Even though, I was just the lowly father of the bride, I guess from a distance or up close the optics didn’t look good for such an escape. Maybe next year.

Congratulations on the release of your new album—Next Act.

I’m one of those old guys who hasn’t returned to vinyl. I prefer having a CD in my hands as opposed to all that digital downloading stuff.

I made a short drive into Richmond to my usually reliable independent record store to purchase Next Act.

Sadly, they did not even have a bin divider with Steep Canyon Rangers printed on it.

In the bin labeled S, much to my dismay they did not have a copy of your new album. They did have a copy of your excellent live album—Live At Greenfield Lake. I already own a copy of this album.

I made another check through the S bin, and rechecked the latest releases section at the front of the store, but no Next Act was present. I questioned an employee about the album, and he simply said, “we can order it for you.”

The Eddie Haskel in me, or maybe that should be the Ernest T. Bass in me wanted to say: “ I can order it too, but I was trying to support your store, you know my local independent record store.”

So, I thought I would try our local Barnes and Noble. They have a small section featuring recordings.

At Barnes and Noble, a nice young lady checked to see if Next Act was in the store, and of course, it wasn’t. And she too said, “we can order it for you.” By that time, the Eddie Haskell and Ernest T. Bass had died in me—no snarky comment.

A few days later, I ordered the CD from The Steep Canyon Rangers’ website. It arrived in the US Mail on Thursday, June 11.

At our church on Friday, June 12, while setting up Trinity Hall for a Saturday evening event, I listened to Next Act.

In some of the preliminary reading I did about the album, I read that instrumentally the recording marked a return to the band’s bluegrass roots. No drum set for Mike Ashworth, and no banjo-caster for Graham Sharp on this recording.

This back to the basics has happened with other bands too.

While mostly overlooked, the Beach Boys attempted to move away from the complexities of Pet Sounds and Smile with their Wild Honey album.

The Beatles made a similar push with the Get Back sessions. This was a significant step away from the legendary Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and to some extent The White Album. However, the shelved Get Back sessions did eventually birth the magnificent Abbey Road.

For the Steep Canyon Rangers, I think Next Act is a winner. There are no clunker songs on the album. I know this because the songs from this recording stuck what’s left of my memory bank.

This album pivots off of the the band’s multiple strengths.

No doubt they are gifted players, masters of their instruments. Their playing can be fiery hot, or deftly simple and pretty.

Mandolin player and harmony singer, Mike Guggino, is an example of this. At times on these recordings, his fingers sear the fretboard of his mandolin.

I’ve always loved their harmonies. But a extra dimension is added to the band with four lead vocalist in Aaron, Graham, Barrett, and Mike. Barrett and Mike are at their best with “Some Days” and “Babylon Stone.”
I continue to be impressed with the band’s songwriters. Aaron Burdett and Graham Sharp are good storytellers. They have a gift for weaving the past and the present into their lyrics. Their stories reflect what feels like real people, real lives—people that you might encounter in any town in America. I like what I hear in the realness of these heartfelt words.

Edie Brickell and Steve Martin lend support on a couple songs. Both performers easily blend into the structure of each song. That’s not surprising considering Miss Brickell and Mr. Martin have histories with the band.

Perhaps not a first, but the Ranger’s gifted fiddle player, Nicky Sanders, puts in some nice piano playing on “Hard Luck Kid.”

Even though I miss his creative and well-timed drum work, Mike Ashworth contributes dobro, guitar, banjo, and some quiet percussion to the recording along with vocals. He is also credited in sharing production work with the group. This is a testament to his talent.

Despite my frustration in securing a copy of the album, my only other complaint is there is no photo of the band anywhere on the CD packaging. Perhaps, the record label, Yep Roc, was saving pennies.

I would like to see the Steep Canyon Rangers in concert again. I’m curious to see if Mike Ashworth will be set up behind a drum kit.

While bluegrass purists are probably dismayed about the drums being a part of the Steep Canyon Rangers, I think Mr. Ashworth’s drumming added a nice punch and texture to the band.

Hope your summer tour goes well.

Thanks for recording and releasing Next Act.

I know this was your fifteenth studio album, and I hope there are fifteen more in the future.

For my rapidly aging, non-musician ears, you gentlemen, the Steep Canyon Rangers, are required listening.

“Long may you run.”

Bill Pike
Richmond, Virginia

Last rites for a dying pump

June 16, 2026 Bill Pike2 Comments

The sound I could hear coming from the Trinity Hall Mechanical Room wasn’t a happy one.

For sure, circulating pumps make noise when they are working. But these sounds were beyond the normal whirring of a motor that was working properly.

I could hear metal vibrating and bearings that were thinking to themselves—“I’ve grown weary of this same predictable redundancy day after day, I’m ready to check out.”

Eventually, the I’m not happy sound was annoying staff members who could hear something, but they weren’t quite sure what that sound was.

Our associate pastor asked, “What is that sound?”

I responded, “A pump in need of its last rites.”

So, I asked our HVAC company to stop by to offer an assessment of the ailing pump.

Their assessment was bleak.

The pump needed to be placed in mechanical hospice.

This highly reliable and well-built pump had been circulating chilled water during the often brutal Richmond summers since July 1987. The pump kept people in the Trinity Hall wing of the building from melting on those unbearable summer days.

The estimated cost for the pump’s funeral was close to $13,800. The pump alone was nearly $8,000.

I protested the high cost of that funeral to the estimator. I asked him to sharpen his pencil. He obliged this request. The price reduced almost a thousand dollars.

There was no way that our current budget could afford the funeral cost for a new pump. The harsh winter had been rough on our HVAC systems and budget.

I pushed back.

I thought to myself.

I appreciate the almost forty years of loyalty from this pump.

In this fast-paced, every changing world, I sense that loyalty is becoming a scarce commodity.

I asked if the loyal pump could be rebuilt?

Our lead HVAC technician said that was a possibility.

So with a bit more investigation, we determined that we could shutdown the pump and still keep that section of the building cool.

Late on Thursday afternoon, I pulled down on the arm of the singular circuit for that pump. In a matter of seconds the pump was quiet.

On Friday morning, another technician stopped by to remove the pump. This was no easy task. The pump is bulky, heavy, and in a tight location. Eventually, the technician won.

The pump was transported to Roy’s Electric. For over seventy five years, Roy’s has developed a reliable reputation for assessing old pumps and determining if they are salvageable and able to be rebuilt. This $90.00 assessment will hopefully give us a positive answer to rebuild the pump.

If the pump can be rebuilt with new parts and quality hands on assembly, the cost to bring it back to life is $3,000.

My fingers are crossed that the pump can be rebuilt. Our church budget will appreciate the difference in price.

Keeping an eye on the daily workings of a church is not much different from keeping a daily eye on the workings of our own bodies. Just as mechanical rooms are complicated—so are our human bodies.

We never know when our bodies might opt to have a difficult conversation with us.

I’m sure God and Jesus hear difficult prayers everyday from people around the world.

These people are reaching out because a loved one might be nearing the end.

Clearly, human beings are a lot different from mechanical room HVAC pumps. A pump can be replaced, or maybe rebuilt.

That’s not always the case for human beings. Sometimes, doctors with lots of dignity, grace, and respect must tell families— I’m sorry, but we have no other options.

If I’m lucky before the end of June, I’ll turn seventy-three.

I think how fortunate I’ve been. I wonder how many more birthdays I might have in me?

Despite my efforts to take care of myself, I wonder when will my luck run out?

Today at church, I had a long conversation with a friend who had lost his wife to cancer. Despite this devastating loss, he found comfort in a recent research breakthrough for the type of cancer she battled. That breakthrough was a ray of hope for the future.

Isaiah 41:10 states: “Don’t be afraid, for I am with you. Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will hold you up with My victorious right hand.”

In her book, “The Wings of Hope: Survivor,” Lailah Gifty Akita wrote: “Hope is hanging on to the promises of God.”

Doesn’t matter if you’re dealing with a weary old HVAC pump, or the frailty of human life, sometimes, the only hope we have is “hanging on to the promises of God.”

Wedding Day Saturday, May 30, 2026: A Toast

June 6, 2026 Bill Pike2 Comments

Before, I start, how about this weather. Since Thursday, we’ve had spectacular weather.

I was told to keep this short, no goofy humor, no preachiness, and above all don’t embarrass us.

Nice try.

I’d like to start by thanking everyone for being here this evening.

Over the last few days, we had family and friends arrive from London, England, Hawaii, California, Texas, Tennessee, Illinois, Georgia, Massachusetts, New York, Maryland, North Carolina, and Virginia.

We are honored to have you with us.

But in truth, my most heartfelt thanks goes to those who opted not to attend—bless your hearts.

We are deeply appreciative of our friends, Bill and Cabell Longan for helping Elizabeth and Jackson reserve the Commonwealth Club.

Thanks for every staff member at the Commonwealth Club and our wedding coordinators.

Appreciate the staff and volunteers at Trinity United Methodist Church for their help too.

Thanks to those “dangerous” steel magnolias who hosted bridal showers in North Carolina and Virginia, and the bridal luncheon yesterday.

We also want to thank the Cates and Phipps families for their gracious hospitality at the rehearsal dinner.

The whole evening was delightful—delicious food, connecting conversations, and heartfelt toasts to honor Jackson and Elizabeth.

We look forward to being with you at more family gatherings in the future.

That thanks goes also to some special heavenly guests Ken and Liz, Bill and Louise, Susan and Larry, and two of my uncles Harry and Ralph who adored Elizabeth.

I’ve been thinking about this day for a long time.

I have determined that weddings are not about fathers.

Weddings are all about the mother of the bride or groom.

Our family has been exceptionally lucky to have my wife to be our leader for these events.

Her command center was the kitchen table. All of the lists, notes, and orders were developed there.

Betsy, I love and thank you for all of this.

The words—“Just Chill William” are engrained in what remains of my gnat size brain.

Perhaps that might make a good two-sided t-shirt. On the front “Just Chill William” and on the back a rendering of William in a block of ice with the words “William Is Frozen.”

For a wedding, fathers lose their “Miranda” rights.

George Banks played by Steve Martin in the remake of the movie Father of the Bride showed us that.

I will spare you my George Banks inspired “flipping out” grievances.

Relatives and friends offered me advice related to the wedding.

My sister-in-law, Abby, told me to stock up my basement office with survival supplies and stay down there until a couple days before the wedding.

At one point, I told my college pal, Dan Callow, I’d like to pull a Forrest Gump, and start running away. But in true Dan wisdom, he told me that would be too easy.

So, Jackson, every father prays that his daughter will not end up with Mr. Wrong.

I guess the good Lord was listening, because I think for Elizabeth you are Mr. Right.

I say that for lots of reasons. But over these last couple of years, I’ve seen and admired your quiet endurance and resilience.

And in the ups and downs of that endurance and resilience, I’ve witnessed your love and respect for Elizabeth.

Jackson, we love you and welcome you to our family.

Elizabeth, where do I start?

Quite honestly, I thought at one point during your senior year of high school that I would be faced with two options.

At that time, you and your mother “loved” each other so much that I thought I’d be visiting one of you in prison and the other at the cemetery.

I’m thankful that eventually “love” intervened and persevered.

Jackson, I’m sorry, but the shopping gene that Elizabeth possesses is from the Cloud side of the family.

That is countered by her stubbornness which has long been linked to an unmuted gene from the Pike family.

Elizabeth, I want you to know that I love your endurance and resilience too. I’ve seen that at work in your personal and professional life, and I’ve seen this with your love and respect for Jackson.

The March 2026 issue of Southern Living Magazine has an article titled “She’s Got Game.” The article focuses on six Southern women who have impacted women’s basketball “both on and off the court.”

One of those women is Kara Lawson. She is the coach of Duke University women’s team.

A 2022 video of Coach Lawson talking to her Duke players gained much attention through social media.

Here is part of what Coach Lawson said to her players:

“We all wait in life for things to get easier. Most people think that it’s going to get easier. Life is gonna get easier, basketball’s gonna get easier, school is gonna get easier—it never gets easier. What happens is you become someone that handles hard stuff better.”

Elizabeth and Jackson, I know you know that marriage isn’t easy, but through your experiences with each other you will learn to handle the hard stuff better.

Handling that hard stuff better is grounded in what might be a dying word—loyalty.

Your love and loyalty to each other won’t make life easier.

But your love and loyalty for each other can carry a marriage for a long, long, long time.

Years ago, at Lakeside Elementary School, one of the young teachers on our faculty was engaged.

From her wedding invitation, I cut out and saved these words from the Song of Solomon Chapter 3 verse 4: “I found the one who loves my soul.”

To Elizabeth and Jackson, it is clear to me and everyone here that you “found and love each others souls.”

We pray that love will sustain you and your souls for forever.

All the best!

Note from the author: A few minutes after 4:30 p.m. on Saturday, May 30, 2026, I had the honor and privilege of walking our youngest daughter down the church aisle and to the altar for the wedding ceremony. On behalf of her mother and me, I handed her over to Jackson. Long may they endure.

SOL testing still vexes Virginia

May 22, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

Richmond Times-Dispatch Thursday, May 21, 2026
OPINIONS
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
SOL testing still vexes Virginia

Twenty years ago, I retired from public education, and yet Virginia’s Standards of Learning Tests (SOLs) have not retired from making front page headlines. The May 10 edition of the Times-Dispatch confirms this with Anna Bryson’s article, “Students will face tougher tests in 2027.”

In 1998, when the testing was initiated, we thought the tests were tough. I was serving as principal at Lakeside Elementary School in Henrico County. Our first-year results were dismal.

From that point on, a relentless pressure was always present to improve and earn accreditation.

Now, I read that the tests will be tougher. I have no problem with toughness. And yes, I think it is wise to push back the testing dates to allow for more instructional time. However, in all this jabbering about the SOLs, how often do our school and community leaders consider the factors that can limit student success?

In the 28 years since the Standards of Learning Tests were implemented, how has the Commonwealth of Virginia scored in combatting critical factors that impact student performance?

Have our governors and legislators made any progress countering malignant generational cycles related to poverty, homelessness, substandard housing, unemployment, family instability and access to mental and physical health care?

Every day in classrooms across Virginia, teachers struggle to meet the needs of these students who are trapped in these brutal cycles. If we want better results on tougher tests, then we must address those challenges.

Margot Lee Shetterly, author of “Hidden Figures,” makes this point: “You don’t get the good without the bad, but you really do have to see it all in order to make progress.”

Until we address the “all” of the generational cycles that derail student learning, we will continue to struggle with SOL testing.

Bill Pike
Tuckahoe

From the author: Honored to have a Letter To The Editor published in the May 21, 2026 edition of the Richmond Times-Dispatch.

Old photo of the entrance to Lakeside Elementary School (Bill Pike)

Learning about Claude Russell Bridges aka Leon Russell at the Osher Institute of Lifelong Learning at the University of Richmond

May 9, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

Some day, our luck at the Osher Institute Of Lifelong Learning at the University of Richmond is going to run out.

We’ll submit a proposal, a topic for teaching a class, and we’ll be rejected.

And that will be ok, as it will be part of life’s learning curve for two rapidly aging geezers.

But so far, we’ve been lucky. We just completed our ninth collaborative class.

The we is my lifelong friend, Joe Vanderford, and me.

We grew up in Burlington, North Carolina.

Our original bonding came from church, church softball teams, and in our teenage years—a love for music.

On some Sunday mornings, we’d sneak out of the balcony of the sanctuary at Davis Street United Methodist Church and go to Central News. Central News sold magazines and newspapers. We’d be searching for the latest issue of Rolling Stone, Crawdaddy, or Creem. These periodicals covered rock and roll in America.

If we knew, a favorite artist had released a new album, we’d drive down North Carolina Highway 54 to Chapel Hill. In Chapel Hill, we had two stops, the Record and Tape Center or the Record Bar. In either of those record shops, we’d find the new album we were looking to purchase.

But that love of reading about music and listening to music never left us. It is still part of our lives. Thankfully for Joe and me, our wives support our annual collaboration for developing a class.

I don’t remember the precise moment when we decided to develop our ninth class on Leon Russell, but I can tell you this—neither Joe nor I will ever, ever forget our class on Mr. Russell.

When we started working on this class, Joe and I knew the basic information about Mr. Russell. However, we had no idea, I mean no idea how wide, long, and deep his career spanned in American music.

His career was like staring forever into the the Grand Canyon. No matter where you look into the vastness of the Canyon, Leon’s career could fill it. Not only fill it, but the colors, tones, shades, shapes, and moods of his music could match those found in the Canyon too.

It seems almost inconceivable that a kid from Lawton, Oklahoma would have such an impact as a band leader, session musician, arranger, producer, multi-instrumentalist, songwriter, singer, and performer, but he did.

His family called him Russell. His mother noted that young Russell was slow to speak, but according to family stories, his first words were, “What’s the matter, little birdie, you cry?”

By the age of four, Russell had started playing piano by ear. His mother recognizing the potential talent connected him with the best piano teacher in the area.

A birth injury impacted his left hand, but Russell figured out how to compensate with his piano playing.

Later in life, he described his piano playing: “My chops have always been sort of weak, because the right side of my body was paralyzed a little bit. I have damaged nerve endings on the right side, so my piano style comes from designing stuff I can play with my right hand.” (Bill Janovitz page 7)

In our prep for a class, we have two essentials—a worthwhile book about the artist and a documentary that captures the artist at work.

For this class, we had an unbelievable book, Leon Russell The Master of Space and Time’s Journey Through Rock and Roll History. This book written by Bill Janovitz is as good as any book I’ve ever read about a musician. In a Herculean effort, Mr. Janovitz captures all of Mr. Russell’s life.

To showcase Leon at work, we had three documentaries to consider—Mad Dogs and Englishmen, The Concert For Bangla Desh, and an obscure film made in 1970s A Poem Is A Naked Person.

We opted for Mad Dogs and Englishmen.

Our two part class on April 13 and 14, 2026 opened with a late Monday afternoon screening of Mad Dogs and Englishmen.

On Tuesday, we put our hearts and souls into covering as much of the essentials of Mr. Russell’s work as we could. From his early bands in Tulsa, Oklahoma, the road to Los Angeles, session work, arranging and production work for a who’s who’s list of artist, the quiet development of his own songwriting skills, how Mad Dogs and Englishmen came together, his first solo album, and how he in a short period of time became a top concert draw.

To tell this story we used recordings, assorted videos of performances, and a wide range of interviews with other artists and Mr. Russell to capture a sampling of his work and the admiration that other musicians had for him.

Leon’s sound and piano style were unique. Plus, he didn’t limit himself to rock and roll. His recording and live performances reflect an ability to play any style of music.

And despite all of his talent and success, his lows were at times as devastating as a tornado ravaging across Oklahoma. Some substance abuse, struggles with his personal health, multiple marriages, unwise investments, and poor management choices severely countered his triumphs.

Those troublesome decisions forced him to tour out of necessity for much of his later life.

In 2010, his friend, Elton John, a long time admirer of Mr. Russell’s piano playing reconnected with him. The result was a collaborative album, The Union, and a tour to support the album.

During the 2011 induction of Mr. Russell into the Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame, he spoke these heartfelt words about Elton’s rescue: “About a year ago, Elton found me in a ditch at the side of the highway of life and took me up to the high stages with big audiences, and treated me like a king.”

That resurgence was good for Leon and Elton.

One of the best things about the Osher program is that they survey the students who attended both sessions of our class.

Joe and I learn from that feedback.

This year, our documentary choice was criticized.

Before the screening, Joe always writes an introduction about the film for the students. Joe’s instincts as a writer are to provide a broad brush stroke of opinions related to the film. This included referencing the negative review from the Washington Post critic, Tom Zito.

Mr. Zito said:
“Forget the film and try the record,” explaining, “What emerges from all this is roughly two hours of footage that looks terrible on the screen and sounds almost as bad. The film is projected in an annoying square format, except for the moments when the screen area is broken up into some poorly coordinated split-screen effects. The camerawork is often sloppy … the whole thing winds up looking and sounding like a cheap, imitation (indoor) ‘Woodstock.’”

Much of the feedback we received about the film from our students agreed with Mr. Zito’s assessment.

For the presentation that Joe and I wove together about Mr. Russell, the students were kinder. They offered good suggestions for how we could have shortened the videos we used as a way for including more content about Mr. Russell.

I’m not sure why, but for some reason, in working on this project, I was drawn to the first stanza of the Beatles’ song “Come Together”:

“Here come old flat-top, he come grooving up slowly.
He got ju-ju eyeball, he one holy roller. He got hair down to his knee, got to be a joker, he just do what he please.”

Here comes Leon Russell off of the Oklahoma “flat-top”, a slow moving, groovy musician. Whose eyes according to the women in his life could see right through them. His church music upbringing made him in some respects a “holy roller.” By 1970 his hair was heading toward his knees, a quiet joker who had just been biding his time to do what he pleased with his first solo album.

Mr. Russell’s first solo album confirmed what fellow musicians, including arrangers and producers knew about him—he was exceptionally gifted.

Perhaps, the opening song from the album “A Song For You” supports this testimony from his peers. “A Song For You” has been recorded by 200 artists.

My teaching pal, Joe, who knows much more about the intricacies and structure of music than I do believes this album is an underrated piece of Americana. A recording that should always be recognized as a classic piece of our musical heritage.

I agree.

I have no idea if we will come up with a proposal for a class in the Spring of 2027.

Leon’s life and his body of work pushed us to our limits.

But, I don’t think either of us would trade anything for how we wove the class together. Joe was at his best in developing the flow of the script.

On November 13, 2016, we lost Leon Russell. He died in his sleep.

Two memorial services were held—one in Mt. Juliet, Tennessee where he resided, and the other in Tulsa, Oklahoma where his career in music was launched.

At those memorial services, I wonder if anyone thought of those early words from young Claude Russell Bridges—“What’s the matter, little birdie, you cry?”

Clearly at both services, there were lots of “little birdies” from performers to speakers, and the audience who were in tears.

One of those speakers, Steve Ripley, fought through his tears to share this text from Leon: “The reason for connection is food, music, friendship, and tape machines. The strong stuff is just the facts of life and death; you either laugh or cry.”

I’m thankful for the friendship and connection that music has given to Joe and me. With every class we have laughed and cried.

And Joe and I are deeply thankful to the Osher members, and the Osher staff—Peggy, Nell, Romney, and Amy. Without them, there is no Osher program, and no class from us.

For days after the class, songs that we had featured from Gary Lewis and the Playboys, Delaney and Bonnie, Joe Cocker, and Bob Dylan rolled through my old brain. Mr. Russell’s unmistakable touch as a session musician, arranger, and producer were on those songs.

During his life and even today, Mr. Russell’s gift of music touched lots of “little birdies.” I for one am thankful that he shared this gift with us.