Country singer (more accurate Texas Country) Chris Knight has a song that is pure Americana. It is a story telling song entitled, “Going Down the River.” I love this type of song because it tell story drawn from the canvas of the everyday lives of everyday Americans. Our stories chiseled in granite, carved upon the rocky hill sides of American life, the Rushmore of ordinary Americans. We find it easy to relate to them because we see ourselves in the story and the song becomes our own story. I have my own down to the river story but it is not mine alone it belongs to several branches of the Phillips family. It is the story of when we all went “Down to the River.”
One hot hill country Summer Daddy, Uncle Jimmy and Uncle Otis got a job hauling hay, this is not unique because they hauled hay and chopped cedar all their young adult lives. This one was, however, a fairly long term job, one that would last several weeks or more. Our fathers loaded up families and went (as usual) to where the work was so that they could provide for their families. The plan on this occasion was for the families to camp along the river for as long as the job lasted.
Daddy (Doc) and Uncle Otis teamed together to haul hay. They came up with an old government surplus truck one with six wheel drive called a “duce an a half.” It had a short flatbed and the tall wheels and tires that they used for rugged terrain in the military. It was from the Air Force and the reason I know this is that it was painted Air Force blue and you could just barely read the “United States Air Force” decals still painted in white on the hood. It was not a truck ideal for hay hauling because of the short but high bed (it must have been 5ft off of the ground). They would “buck” (use you knee to bump it up to about chest high and use your arms to throw it onto the truck) the bales of hay up onto that old truck and stack them “seven” high (meaning seven bales high on the truck bed).
My oldest brother Danny, who was the oldest of the children, got to go the hay field with them and work. His job was to drive the truck in the field. I say drive but actually what he did was hold the steering wheel and guide the truck between the rows of bailed hay. That old truck moved so slow in low gear that you would have to drive a stake in the ground to see if it was moving. They would get to the end of the row and Daddy would jump in the truck and turn it around to head it back down the field an action repeated over and over again on these large fields.
Uncle Jimmy had his own truck and partner. I am not sure that my memory is accurate but it may have been Pickle Goins that helped Uncle Jimmy. Pickle worked for him a lot of the time and even drove truck of him when Uncle Jimmy was running more than one. They were running buddy’s and may have even been related in distant way. The men put in a hard day’s work in the hay field. It was hot, dusty and dry work; they wore long sleeved shirts to hold in the sweat and help keep themselves cool. They all smoked cigarettes as most men of their generation did. I remember Daddy having a metal case to keep his cigarette pack in to keep it dry, because it was hot and they would all sweat profusely. Daddy smoked Camels, Uncle Jimmy smoked Lucky Strikes I don’t remember what Uncle Otis smoked but I am sure that none of them had filters. These were their usual smokes but sometimes when money was short Prince Albert or Bugler roll your own were a good substitute.
While the men worked in the hay field the families camped out along the river. The women cooked over an open fire. They cooked beans, taters, eggs, bacon and sometimes even fish all in cast iron skillets and the coffee was always strong, black and hot. Each family cooked their own and lived in their own little camping area at night but still close together. Sleeping outside under a canopy of stars, listening to the river as the water rushed past our sleepy little lives, cascading over the rocks and falls, singing us to sleep at night, a lullaby of real Americana. All of us “kids” sent as much time as possible in the water. We would have stayed all day and all night, until we wrinkled up like prunes if our mom’s would have allowed it, but even down on the river there were rules, dishes to be washed and chores to be done and of course you had to wait at least an hour after you ate to go in swimming.
These were days filled with joy, fun, laughter and your best friends who were also your first friends (your cousins) as we skipped rocks across the water, played tag or hide and go seek, splashing water on each other, fishing or just sitting on the bank with your toes in the water. Life does not get any better that this, because our needs were few, our dreams were big and we were surrounded by those we loved.
At this point you are probably wondering if I am ever going to get to the title of this little story that I boasted about as real Americana. Well your wait has ended. I am going to share with you one of my most fond and endearing memories of that summer on the river and even during my early years. My younger brother Maynard, cousins Tommy Joe and Jerry were all the same age, born within months of each other. When I think back over the vast expanse of time to those simpler times one picture that always come immediately to the album of my mind is of my cousin Jerry wearing an old beat up, battered, tattered, ragged straw cowboy hat. The brim of the hat folded and bent going in more directions that one would think possible. You could always find Jerry; all you had to do was find the hat. He wore it to the river to go swimming. You could see him wearing it as he walked along the banks of the river with a fishing pole over his shoulder (fishing poles that were little more that long sticks of wood with a piece of string and a hook). I often wondered if he wore that old hat to sleep at night. I still think of him that way, some pictures in your mind never fade.
It is fitting that Jerry is now a “Singer, Songwriter” a story teller in four/ four time who loves country music and Americana. The only thing that his current picture is missing is that “tattered, battered, ragged old hat.” It was a great summer that I will always remember. I journey often in my mind back across the currents of time and smile as I live again that beautiful, simple summer down on the river. Love you cousin.
Bob Phillips
Friday, June 24, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Auntie's Little Red Rooster"
As children we always loved going to Pop and Auntie's house. They owned a farm/ranch on the Frio River in Leakey, Texas. I have fond memories of the old house with the wrap around porch, huge shade trees in the yard, Pop’s ever present stock dog and the fenced in yard. Pop's real name was Lloyd Brooks to many of the people around Leakey he was also known as "Mutt," but to all of us nieces and nephews he was just Pop. Auntie's name was Opal (Phillips) Brooks, and she was my dad’s older sister by about 20 months. We all called her Auntie (even my parents called her that or “Shorty”). As the expression goes “they were the salt of the earth,” the kind of people who make a difference by the lives they touched.
Grandpa Phillips lived with them during the years just before his death. When I think of that old house I can still smell "Pap's" old pipe that he smoked. That pipe was so strong it would make Hulk Hogan look like "Pee Wee” Herman. If you looked closely at one of the door post inside their old house you would see marked in pencil led, lines with dates and names marking the heights of the nieces and nephews. When they built their new house Auntie took that piece of wood with them. It was too important a memory for them to leave behind. It was a part of our history, the story of all of us.
In the days before ice boxes and refrigerators they kept the milk, butter and other things that needed to be kept cold in an ice cold spring down below the hill next to the river. The Frio was not far below the house but in order to get to it you had to either walk through the barnyard or the field. The shortest route was through the barnyard. The barn was surrounded by pens that kept cows, horses, chickens and goats. Their goats often at kidding time had twins so the pens were frequently full of live stock. It was also home to my greatest nemesis as a child, Auntie's RED ROOSTER. Who was my arch-enemy but also the source of great humor and laughter for my older brother, sister and cousins.
Every time I tried to follow the older kids down to the river that danged rooster would attack me and chase me all over the barnyard. He would go into attack mode, he was ready to fight and I was preparing for flight, wings a flapping', jumping at me with his spurs just like those fighting' rooster you see at rooster fights. I don't know what he had against me. May be he thought I was another rooster since I had short stubby legs and flaming red hair. Or may be he was possessed by the devil which is what I would like to believe, in fact I thought he was old Satan himself coming to get me. I would run as fast as my stubby little legs could carry me, often crying for my momma and all the while the older kids were laughing, being entertained by the drama before them. It must have been quite a show for all of them, while I tried to hide in the barn, get through the gate before the rooster caught me or even climb a tree hoping to get high enough on a limb that he could not reach me. It's not every child who gets bullied by a rooster but I was the happiest person on earth when at long last, I went down to the river and that rooster was gone.
In my vengeful dreams I often imagine that Auntie's red rooster was one of the chickens we ate for Sunday dinner. In some way I suppose that was my way of taking a perverse pleasure in his demise. In my mind, this is my way of finally getting even with the tormentor of my youth (they say what goes around comes around, but honestly you never really get even with evil). The absolute truth is, however, that old bird would have been too tough and gammy to make good fried chicken and the only way one could have eaten that old red rooster was to boil him for hours before you served him and even then he would have been tough as boot leather. As far as I am concerned he was just plain mean and ornery and the world became a much better place when that Old Bird died. I don't intend to sound callused, but there are some deaths that make the world a safer and better place to live.
I still loved going to Pop and Auntie's, walking the footlog (or at least trying to walk it) and learning to swim in the Frio River. Those were good times and in spite of everything, these are fond memories of a simpler time and the days of my youth, but I’m glad that Old Bird’s Dead!”
Bob
Grandpa Phillips lived with them during the years just before his death. When I think of that old house I can still smell "Pap's" old pipe that he smoked. That pipe was so strong it would make Hulk Hogan look like "Pee Wee” Herman. If you looked closely at one of the door post inside their old house you would see marked in pencil led, lines with dates and names marking the heights of the nieces and nephews. When they built their new house Auntie took that piece of wood with them. It was too important a memory for them to leave behind. It was a part of our history, the story of all of us.
In the days before ice boxes and refrigerators they kept the milk, butter and other things that needed to be kept cold in an ice cold spring down below the hill next to the river. The Frio was not far below the house but in order to get to it you had to either walk through the barnyard or the field. The shortest route was through the barnyard. The barn was surrounded by pens that kept cows, horses, chickens and goats. Their goats often at kidding time had twins so the pens were frequently full of live stock. It was also home to my greatest nemesis as a child, Auntie's RED ROOSTER. Who was my arch-enemy but also the source of great humor and laughter for my older brother, sister and cousins.
Every time I tried to follow the older kids down to the river that danged rooster would attack me and chase me all over the barnyard. He would go into attack mode, he was ready to fight and I was preparing for flight, wings a flapping', jumping at me with his spurs just like those fighting' rooster you see at rooster fights. I don't know what he had against me. May be he thought I was another rooster since I had short stubby legs and flaming red hair. Or may be he was possessed by the devil which is what I would like to believe, in fact I thought he was old Satan himself coming to get me. I would run as fast as my stubby little legs could carry me, often crying for my momma and all the while the older kids were laughing, being entertained by the drama before them. It must have been quite a show for all of them, while I tried to hide in the barn, get through the gate before the rooster caught me or even climb a tree hoping to get high enough on a limb that he could not reach me. It's not every child who gets bullied by a rooster but I was the happiest person on earth when at long last, I went down to the river and that rooster was gone.
In my vengeful dreams I often imagine that Auntie's red rooster was one of the chickens we ate for Sunday dinner. In some way I suppose that was my way of taking a perverse pleasure in his demise. In my mind, this is my way of finally getting even with the tormentor of my youth (they say what goes around comes around, but honestly you never really get even with evil). The absolute truth is, however, that old bird would have been too tough and gammy to make good fried chicken and the only way one could have eaten that old red rooster was to boil him for hours before you served him and even then he would have been tough as boot leather. As far as I am concerned he was just plain mean and ornery and the world became a much better place when that Old Bird died. I don't intend to sound callused, but there are some deaths that make the world a safer and better place to live.
I still loved going to Pop and Auntie's, walking the footlog (or at least trying to walk it) and learning to swim in the Frio River. Those were good times and in spite of everything, these are fond memories of a simpler time and the days of my youth, but I’m glad that Old Bird’s Dead!”
Bob
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
The Almost Famous Mule Story
It was just short of twenty years ago now, at least to best of my recollection, that I drove up from Hondo, Texas (the sign as you enter this small Texas town says, "This is God's Country, so please don't drive through it like Hell!") to Leakey, Texas. Leakey is a place near and dear to my heart. The thought of this sleepy little hill country town, nestled along the banks of the Frio River, awakens many fond, all be they slumbering memories from my childhood. On this particularly beautiful Sunday morning my family and I were enjoying the scenic drive along the winding narrow road through the hills and valleys with their multi-color hues. However, this day we were out just for "a Sunday drive" this journey had purpose beyond seeing Pop, Auntie, Doyle, Kathy and their family. I was going to preach for the Leakey Church of Christ. It is a church whose story and history intersects time and time again with the story of our family. This church and our family share a rich and common history, its story and many from our family's past are yet to be told. I hope with the help of family record these before they are lost in the black hole of time. Because of the historical significance and connections this small hill country church has for our family it was an honor for me to even be invited much less to be invited back numerous times.
This Sunday morning I told a story from the Phillips family past to illustrate my major point. I had heard the story several times from both my father and my uncle Orville. It seems that when Orville and his brother Norvel were younger they wanted to go into town on Saturday. Going to town on Saturday back in the early 1900's was a major event usually something that the entire family did together. When you lived out in the country miles and miles from nearest neighbors much less the closest town it was like going to a circus or carnival. People would load up in their wagons, hitch up their teams and make the long arduous journey along lonely, dusty, sometimes muddy section line roads. Upon arrival they would park in wagon yards, where the small children would play in the dirt, maybe be able to buy some penny candy or a nickel soda while the men traded, whittled, told stories, played dominos and played music. The women did their shopping at the general store buying their staples like flour, sugar and corn meal and sometimes when they had some extra money a hat or special fabric for a dress because usually dresses were made from flour and feed sacks. This was a special time not something that families did every week. A time to stay late, have a Saturday night dance, maybe camp over night, go to church on Sunday morning, eat dinner on the grounds and return home that afternoon. This is not to say that these activities did not go on every weekend but not all families went every week.
One weekend Norvel (the oldest) and Orville (who was 10 years older than my dad) wanted to go into town. The entire family was not going that weekend and my grandfather (John Andrew) was not sure he wanted his two older boys to go into town alone. John (John Henry was my father's name, family members called him Doc or Henry, the reason is a story better left for another day) was a "crusty" old character whom I only knew late in his life, sometimes during his life he was a lawman other times he was an outlaw, but he was not a man to be disobeyed and his older son knew this well. I am not sure what the boys had planned for that Saturday but having been a young man once I have my own ideas and it does not take a fertile imagination to assume it had something to do with girls. After some time the boys convinced Grandpa to let them go. He had one rule, be home before to late, I don't know what time that was but they knew and they knew what the consequences would be of breaking that one rule.
They got busy, hurriedly hitched the mule to the family wagon and headed out into to town. They were having a great time, as one might imagine two unsupervised young men on the town might. They were having so much fun in fact that they completely lost track of time (at least that's what I was told). It was late, after dark when they started the wagon toward home. One thing they knew was that they were going to be in trouble and Grandpa was not an overly forgiving man, a man that even in his eighties, when I knew him carried his pistol in his overalls. It would not surprise me in the least if they had to forcibly take it from him the last time he went to the hospital (but I digress and those are stories better left for another time). The boys were in a hurry, trying to make it down the rugged wagon ruts that passed for a road (great fun for your off road 4 X 4’s these days but not so much then) and they were making good time, for a while.
That old mule would just take a notion to balk (just stop and refuse to move) at the most inconvenient times, in fact he was famous for it. Ok, so you probably figured out by now where I am going with this, but I am going to tell you any way. He balked right in the middle of the road and absolutely would not budge. Orville bit his ear trying to get him to move. Norvel stuck his pocket knife in is flank. They hit him with a big tree limb that they broke off a tree beside the road. They tried dragging and pushing without success. No matter what they did the mule would not move. Now by this time it was getting real late and they were in deep trouble. One of them (Uncle Orville wouldn't tell me which) came up with the idea of building a fire under the mule. They heard some place that this would make a balking mule move. So they gathered leaves, twigs, tree limbs anything flammable from beside the road and started a fire right under the belly of that old mule. To their surprise it worked the mule jumped forward just far enough to get the wagon over the fire. They caught the wagon on fire and had to beat the fire out with their shirts. For them it was just one more thing that old John A. Phillips was not going to be happy about when and if the mule decided to move and they arrived home, very, very late.
I used this story in the sermon in an attempt to illustrate how sometimes when we try to motivate people, to get them to move or change that they often move just far enough to catch the wagon on fire. Or let me express it in another way, just far enough to create a whole new set of problems. After the sermon, Auntie (Aunt Opal) came up to me with this big smile on her face, looked up (because she was also affectionately called "Shorty") at me and said, “I remember that mule, his name was Ball, and he would balk whenever he wanted." That's all she said to me. My family and I went to her house for Sunday dinner, where she fixed corn for my youngest son Jordan because she knew how much he loved it. Auntie always set a great table with plenty of food and family around to enjoy its bounty and the love of a wonderful Christian woman. I sure miss, Pop and Auntie.
p.s. There are also stories about Auntie's table that, well I choose to share at a later time.
Bob Phillips
This Sunday morning I told a story from the Phillips family past to illustrate my major point. I had heard the story several times from both my father and my uncle Orville. It seems that when Orville and his brother Norvel were younger they wanted to go into town on Saturday. Going to town on Saturday back in the early 1900's was a major event usually something that the entire family did together. When you lived out in the country miles and miles from nearest neighbors much less the closest town it was like going to a circus or carnival. People would load up in their wagons, hitch up their teams and make the long arduous journey along lonely, dusty, sometimes muddy section line roads. Upon arrival they would park in wagon yards, where the small children would play in the dirt, maybe be able to buy some penny candy or a nickel soda while the men traded, whittled, told stories, played dominos and played music. The women did their shopping at the general store buying their staples like flour, sugar and corn meal and sometimes when they had some extra money a hat or special fabric for a dress because usually dresses were made from flour and feed sacks. This was a special time not something that families did every week. A time to stay late, have a Saturday night dance, maybe camp over night, go to church on Sunday morning, eat dinner on the grounds and return home that afternoon. This is not to say that these activities did not go on every weekend but not all families went every week.
One weekend Norvel (the oldest) and Orville (who was 10 years older than my dad) wanted to go into town. The entire family was not going that weekend and my grandfather (John Andrew) was not sure he wanted his two older boys to go into town alone. John (John Henry was my father's name, family members called him Doc or Henry, the reason is a story better left for another day) was a "crusty" old character whom I only knew late in his life, sometimes during his life he was a lawman other times he was an outlaw, but he was not a man to be disobeyed and his older son knew this well. I am not sure what the boys had planned for that Saturday but having been a young man once I have my own ideas and it does not take a fertile imagination to assume it had something to do with girls. After some time the boys convinced Grandpa to let them go. He had one rule, be home before to late, I don't know what time that was but they knew and they knew what the consequences would be of breaking that one rule.
They got busy, hurriedly hitched the mule to the family wagon and headed out into to town. They were having a great time, as one might imagine two unsupervised young men on the town might. They were having so much fun in fact that they completely lost track of time (at least that's what I was told). It was late, after dark when they started the wagon toward home. One thing they knew was that they were going to be in trouble and Grandpa was not an overly forgiving man, a man that even in his eighties, when I knew him carried his pistol in his overalls. It would not surprise me in the least if they had to forcibly take it from him the last time he went to the hospital (but I digress and those are stories better left for another time). The boys were in a hurry, trying to make it down the rugged wagon ruts that passed for a road (great fun for your off road 4 X 4’s these days but not so much then) and they were making good time, for a while.
That old mule would just take a notion to balk (just stop and refuse to move) at the most inconvenient times, in fact he was famous for it. Ok, so you probably figured out by now where I am going with this, but I am going to tell you any way. He balked right in the middle of the road and absolutely would not budge. Orville bit his ear trying to get him to move. Norvel stuck his pocket knife in is flank. They hit him with a big tree limb that they broke off a tree beside the road. They tried dragging and pushing without success. No matter what they did the mule would not move. Now by this time it was getting real late and they were in deep trouble. One of them (Uncle Orville wouldn't tell me which) came up with the idea of building a fire under the mule. They heard some place that this would make a balking mule move. So they gathered leaves, twigs, tree limbs anything flammable from beside the road and started a fire right under the belly of that old mule. To their surprise it worked the mule jumped forward just far enough to get the wagon over the fire. They caught the wagon on fire and had to beat the fire out with their shirts. For them it was just one more thing that old John A. Phillips was not going to be happy about when and if the mule decided to move and they arrived home, very, very late.
I used this story in the sermon in an attempt to illustrate how sometimes when we try to motivate people, to get them to move or change that they often move just far enough to catch the wagon on fire. Or let me express it in another way, just far enough to create a whole new set of problems. After the sermon, Auntie (Aunt Opal) came up to me with this big smile on her face, looked up (because she was also affectionately called "Shorty") at me and said, “I remember that mule, his name was Ball, and he would balk whenever he wanted." That's all she said to me. My family and I went to her house for Sunday dinner, where she fixed corn for my youngest son Jordan because she knew how much he loved it. Auntie always set a great table with plenty of food and family around to enjoy its bounty and the love of a wonderful Christian woman. I sure miss, Pop and Auntie.
p.s. There are also stories about Auntie's table that, well I choose to share at a later time.
Bob Phillips
"Choppin' Cedar for Crybaby!"
If I ever knew his real first name it is long abandoned in lonely deserted place in the deepest recesses of my increasingly feeble mind. I only knew him as “crybaby Henderson" because that is my father and uncles always called him. They would at times imitate his whiney, squeaky voice that made him sound like he was crying when he talked. I can remember Otis, Jimmy and Doc all taking turns at imitating the man to whom they all sold cedar post. He owned several cedar yards (a place where they stacked and sold cedar post) throughout the hill country in the 1950's and the Phillips boys, among other things were cedar choppers.
Chopping cedar is hot, hard back breaking and dirty work. The cedar brake is not the place of the lazy, weak and timid souls too accustom to living and working under an air conditioner. Mountain cedar grows on the hills among the rocks and prickly pears, in thickets that block the wind but never the sun. The Phillips boys did not cut their cedar with chain saws, they were much to poor for that and besides there were not many dealers in such "high tech" gadgets. These men were from the old school they used their axes sharpened and honed to a fine edge, sharp enough to shave with, not that I ever saw them try. The cedar brake a place where men chopped, trimmed, measured and stacked cedar fence post for a few dollars a day. A place where what you made was determined by how hard you worked, how many and what size post you cut. But in the final analysis what you made was determined by the market, and by market I mean how good of a deal you could get from "crybaby Henderson." He also cried about how much he had to pay for the post, their price was too high and he could not make any money. He was in daddy's words, "tighter than Dick’s hat band." I will be completely honest with you I have no idea what that means, but it must be pretty tight.
In the cedar brake they always made a camping area. It was a place where they built a fire to cook their meals. There were two things that were always on the fire, a pot of coffee and a pot of beans. They were hot and sweaty but always took coffee brakes throughout the day; people of the "greatest generation" drank coffee all day and into the night. Not that low test decaffeinated stuff or some kind of "mamby pamby mocha decaf soy latte." My oldest brother Danny who is five years older than I am was old enough to go to cedar brake with the men. He was in what we would call Middle School today, but back then we had never heard of such a thing as Middle School. His only job was to make sure there was hot coffee on the fire and the beans were cooking. To say the least his only job was not a daunting task for a bright, curious and hard working young man.
One day Dan got distracted, not sure by what, but we all know how short boys of that age attention span can be, well let's be honest boys of any age. Daddy came in to camp sometime during that day to take a break and get a cup of coffee. He poured a big cup of that steamy brew hot and black; he took one sip, made a strange face but never said a word. He just looked over at the coffee pot crooked his index finger with that universally known come here motion, and if the pot had been a person it would have understood his meaning, coffee come over here. Danny told me the other day he knew exactly what daddy meant. The coffee was strong enough to get up and stand by itself. A simple lesson learned and mistake never repeated.
It is easy to get distracted and side tracked in life, often we realize the mistake without anyone ever saying a word.
The key to a successful life is learning the simple lessons and not repeating the same mistakes (easier said than done, I realize). But when we learn to master ourselves it becomes much easier to master the “things” around us.
Bob Phillips
Chopping cedar is hot, hard back breaking and dirty work. The cedar brake is not the place of the lazy, weak and timid souls too accustom to living and working under an air conditioner. Mountain cedar grows on the hills among the rocks and prickly pears, in thickets that block the wind but never the sun. The Phillips boys did not cut their cedar with chain saws, they were much to poor for that and besides there were not many dealers in such "high tech" gadgets. These men were from the old school they used their axes sharpened and honed to a fine edge, sharp enough to shave with, not that I ever saw them try. The cedar brake a place where men chopped, trimmed, measured and stacked cedar fence post for a few dollars a day. A place where what you made was determined by how hard you worked, how many and what size post you cut. But in the final analysis what you made was determined by the market, and by market I mean how good of a deal you could get from "crybaby Henderson." He also cried about how much he had to pay for the post, their price was too high and he could not make any money. He was in daddy's words, "tighter than Dick’s hat band." I will be completely honest with you I have no idea what that means, but it must be pretty tight.
In the cedar brake they always made a camping area. It was a place where they built a fire to cook their meals. There were two things that were always on the fire, a pot of coffee and a pot of beans. They were hot and sweaty but always took coffee brakes throughout the day; people of the "greatest generation" drank coffee all day and into the night. Not that low test decaffeinated stuff or some kind of "mamby pamby mocha decaf soy latte." My oldest brother Danny who is five years older than I am was old enough to go to cedar brake with the men. He was in what we would call Middle School today, but back then we had never heard of such a thing as Middle School. His only job was to make sure there was hot coffee on the fire and the beans were cooking. To say the least his only job was not a daunting task for a bright, curious and hard working young man.
One day Dan got distracted, not sure by what, but we all know how short boys of that age attention span can be, well let's be honest boys of any age. Daddy came in to camp sometime during that day to take a break and get a cup of coffee. He poured a big cup of that steamy brew hot and black; he took one sip, made a strange face but never said a word. He just looked over at the coffee pot crooked his index finger with that universally known come here motion, and if the pot had been a person it would have understood his meaning, coffee come over here. Danny told me the other day he knew exactly what daddy meant. The coffee was strong enough to get up and stand by itself. A simple lesson learned and mistake never repeated.
It is easy to get distracted and side tracked in life, often we realize the mistake without anyone ever saying a word.
The key to a successful life is learning the simple lessons and not repeating the same mistakes (easier said than done, I realize). But when we learn to master ourselves it becomes much easier to master the “things” around us.
Bob Phillips
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