An Amazing Sister

            George Bernard Shaw said most people live their lives as if they are rehearsals for the real thing. My sister, Beulah Brown Laster, was not one of those people. It can truly be said of her that while she lived she lived fully. At 79, she remained full of the curiosity and enthusiasm that marked her entire live.

            My sister never thought that there was anything she couldn’t do.

            She was in her mid 30s and the mother of three school-age children when the family moved to a small village in East Anglia after her husband began working in the North Sea oil fields. You could hear accents from Louisiana, Texas or Oklahoma in even the smallest villages.

            That was before McDonald’s and Pizza Hut had popped up everywhere, and she thought there ought to be an American style restaurant in the area.

            She’d never run a restaurant, or even worked in one, but that did not deter her. After a considerable searching—planning permission was difficult to obtain—she found a suitable site in Great Yarmouth, a vacation destination on the North Sea. You couldn’t just nip down to the butcher or baker to find American style hamburger meat or buns, so she had to find suppliers who could do that.

            She opened the Yankee Traveler in 1973, thinking it would attract Americans. It turned out to attract the Brits, too. She sold the restaurant when the family moved from England. The American oil men are gone from East Anglia, but the Yankee Traveler thrives today with a menu that is not much changed from the one she created.

            Back in the states, the family moved to Ruston, Louisiana, our home town. Her husband, Howard, was working for Aramco, commuting between Ruston and Saudi Arabia. Their older daughter, Cindy, the mother of two young boys, was stricken with an infection that claimed her life. Sister and Howard took on the boys to raise.

            Tragedy struck the family again. Howard had just returned to Saudi Arabia when he suffered a fatal heart attack.

            Needing to supplement her income, Sis cast about for something she could do that would pay off.

            Building houses seemed an answer.

            She had never built a house before, but that did not deter her.

            She bought a couple of lots and started building a spec house. It sold before it was completed. Building was pretty much a male enterprise at the time, but she paid her dues, earned respect and progressed to building high-end custom homes. She had a knack for understanding what the people who were having the home built, and she built homes that were unique to those people.

            After she retired from building houses herself, other builder recommended her to their clients to help them make decisions on things that would make their homes unique.

            At a time when most people were taking it easy, Sis read about the Men’s Shed movement, which aims at giving people who might be isolated a place to work with other people or to just hang out.

            The movement is strong in the United Kingdom, Ireland and Australia. It is relatively new in North America.

            Sis decided Ruston needed a men’s shed. She had never tackled anything like that, but that did not deter.

            When Sister tries to enlist someone in a project, they usually agree pretty quickly, because they know they will capitulate sooner or later.

            Thus, the Ruston Men’s Shed (it includes women, too) got up and running in record time.

            Barriers were just an inconvenience to my sis, even ones her body put up. While she was accomplishing all of these things, she received two new knees, one new hip, two new shoulders. And she had a ton of hardware in her back and neck.

            She left behind a successful son and daughter, two successful grandsons, and a great-granddaughter whom she adored.

            And she leaves the world better place.

            We should all be so lucky.

                        

There is Time and Then There Is Time

I have been thinking about time lately, specifically about how we spend it. The musing has been spurred by two very different letters from friends. One is dying of cancer; the other is somewhere in mid-life.

Larry is dealing with the relentless cancer with the grace and quiet courage that I have admired in him in other crises. His letter was an update on how he is faring and what he has been doing. Bev, a former colleague who has found ways of surviving in the changing landscape of journalism, wanted me to know about about a part-time, long distance teaching job in case I wanted to pursue it.

HOW WE ARE PASSING through this world is something that I suspect we all think about occasionally. We don’t ponder long, though, because we are overtaken by the demands of the “real” world. So, like Scarlett O’Hara, we’ll think about that tomorrow.

Way back in high school or college English, we were exposed to the idea of seizing the day—carpe diem—in Robert Herrick’s poem that began “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may” and in Andrew Marvell’s line “Had we but world enough and time… .”

Those ideas were wasted on most of us. We did have world enough and time, and there would always be rosebuds to gather. Later, it was difficult to carpe the diem with a family to feed and a boss expecting us to show up for work.

SOMEWHERE ALONG the line, though, we run head-on into fact that while time may be infinite, our time is finite. A life-threatening illness—I’ve gone through several of those—or the death of someone close at too young an age—I’ve experienced that, too—forces us to examine how we are using the time we’re allotted, and we make promises to ourselves. Then the crisis passes, and most of us turn the autopilot back on until the next crisis, which, of course, could be the last one.

My friend Larry was diagnosed with esophageal cancer a year ago and told he had perhaps two or three months to live. The doctors offered some options that might extend his life. There were things he didn’t want to leave for his wife to deal with, so he embarked on the rigorous round of radiation and chemo. The treatment had the desired results; in fact, the cancer was undetectable. He and his wife had a good summer at their cabin in the North Woods. He worked in his garden, a favored pastime, and fished with friends, another favorite.

CANCER DOESN’T GIVE up easily, though, and in the fall, it showed up in new places. The doctors held out no hope for a cure, but they had one more procedure that they thought could buy some quality time. His latest letter said that he is feeling well, and right about now he should be ice fishing. He hopes to make a trip south when the azaleas are in bloom. As for a trip to Mexico later in the spring, the doctors said don’t plan that yet. I am hoping that we can meet up in the next month or so.

In the end, I decided not to pursue the teaching job. It paid well enough, but the one thing the money it offered could not buy is time.

Bill Brown is a retired newspaper editor whose newspapers won a Pulitzer Prize, National Headliners Award, Edgar Willis Scripps Award for Distinguished Service to the First Amendment and Associated Press Managing Editors Public Service and Freedom of Information Awards. He is the author of “Yellow Cat, Hendry & Me: Dispatches From Life’s Front Lines. He can be reached at bill@williamblakebrown.com

Some Things Are More Important

IT IS A FOOTBALL SATURDAY and I am up early to get some exercise before turning on Game Day.

With my morning coffee I check the email. Atop my in-basket was one from my friend. It was straightforward and unemotional, as his letters have always been. The words carried all of the impact: The esophageal cancer that he’d battled to a standstill earlier in the year had roared back. The same cancer, but now in his liver and Stage 4, incurable.

MY FRIEND, another former newspaper editor, looks at the facts unblinkingly, and when the cancer was diagnosed, he knew that the odds of beating esophageal cancer are long, and he considered entering hospice care. He decided, though, to undergo the indignities of chemo and radiation, not in hopes of a miracle so much as buying time to tie up loose ends so that his wife would not have to face them.

As it turned out, the treatment did buy some quality time. In the spring, tests did not find cancer cells. He gained strength and felt good. He and his wife had a good summer, entertaining friends, hanging out at their cabin, fishing, gardening.

He’d told me that he was scheduled to undergo more tests in September, and I had been hoping to hear that the cancer was still at bay.

IT WAS NOT to be. There is one more treatment for him and his doctors to consider. Not to cure the cancer but in hopes of adding some more quality time. He would like to take his wife away from the harsh northern winter for one last trip.

I have long admired my friend for his character and for his courage to follow his own compass.

I will watch today’s football games, cheer for my teams, feel sorry if they lose, remember the score for several days. The games are important in their own way.

But there are some things that are much more important.

Bill Brown is a retired newspaper editor whose newspapers won a Pulitzer Prize, National Headliners Award, Edgar Willis Scripps Award for Distinguished Service to the First Amendment and Associated Press Managing Editors Public Service and Freedom of Information Awards. He is the author of “Yellow Cat, Hendry & Me: Dispatches From Life’s Front Lines. He can be reached at bill@williamblakebrown.com

Remembering a Good Man

            Adelaide and I became part of the Dadeville community even before we became fulltime residents. We had built our house on Lake Martin in anticipation of retiring to it, and since we were at the lake most weekends, we ate on Saturday mornings at Bob’s Fine Food, which was sort of like Cheers without the booze. It was where you met people and made friends and caught up with the local goings on. And we began attending church at First United Methodist Church in Dadeville.

            It seemed to me as a newcomer that there were three institutions in particular that gave Dadeville its distinctive personality: Moore’s Hardware, Floyd’s Feed & Seed, and the Piggly Wiggly.

            OF COURSE IT WASN’T the businesses themselves that established their uniqueness; it was their owners, Steve Moore, Fay Floyd, and Laeman Butcher. In every one of those places, you were treated like a neighbor as well as a customer.

            The Piggly Wiggly, or The Pig as we called it, seemed to cater most meetings and events in Dadeville, and I met Laeman when I was the guest speaker at a Kiwanis Club meeting. When I was introduced to him, he was ensuring that the luncheon went smoothly. My first impression was of a smiling, jovial person.

            I began to know him better when we shopped at The Pig and joined First United Methodist Church. To my first impressions, I added another: boundless energy. And later, selflessness.

            Seven or eight years older than I, he seemed to be always on the go, usually on a project to make Dadeville a better place—I can’t think of many civic projects he wasn’t involved in—or to help someone who needed help, whether taking someone groceries or cutting their grass or laying hands on a motorized wheelchair for someone who needed one.

            WE WORKED SIDE by side in the Methodist Men, whose mission is to help people in the local community, on such projects as building wheel chair ramps, repairing really rundown houses and clearing overgrown yards. No matter how hot or dirty the job was, he was always there. For all of the charitable acts that Laeman performed publicly, there were probably as many private acts of charity that he did not call attention to.

            Laeman was a Marine (I don’t think you’re ever a former Marine), and he was passionate about the welfare of all veterans. He helped arrange flights for veterans to see the World War II monument in Washington,D.C., and trips to the Infantry Museum at Fort Benning.

            He was equally passionate about politics, and although his leanings often didn’t jibe with mine, it never stopped us from working together for a worthy cause.

            IN RECENT YEARS he had turned running of The Pig over to his children, although he could still be seen about the store. The change did give him time to find yet another passion: Gardening. He went at it in a big way, and loved to share not only reports on how his garden was doing but the product of the garden as well.

            An icon toppled earlier this year when The Pig closed.

            But a community giant disappeared on Tuesday when Laeman died of a heart attack at 81. I admired and respected him, and I was fortunate to know him for as long as I did.

Bill Brown is a retired newspaper editor whose newspapers won a Pulitzer Prize, National Headliners Award, Edgar Willis Scripps Award for Distinguished Service to the First Amendment and Associated Press Managing Editors Public Service and Freedom of Information Awards. He is the author of “Yellow Cat, Hendry & Me: Dispatches From Life’s Front Lines. He can be reached at bill@williamblakebrown.com

My Grandfather and Planting Daylillies

I thought about my grandfather a good deal this morning as Adelaide and I planted the daylillies we’d purchased Wednesday at Blooming Colors in Auburn. It wasn’t that he taught me anything about flower gardening. It was what he taught me about work.

We’ve always liked daylillies, and I’ve rescued more than a few ditch lillies over the years. They’re always interesting colors, and I admire their hardiness. There was a wide variety available at the nursery, and we probably would have gotten more if there’d been a place to plant them.

AS IT WAS, we chose some large ones—I don’t want to wait to see results—which meant they needed to be planted in good size holes. Anyone in National Village who has added to the landscaping that was installed when the house was finished develops an intimate acquaintance with red clay. I was glad that I hadn’t given my post hole diggers away when we moved.

It was digging those holes that had my grandfather standing alongside me. He was a grade school dropout, as so many of his class and generation were, and in his youth he worked on the railroad line that came through, moving dirt for the railway embankment with a slip pulled by a mule. He settled into farming in the days when mules mixed with tractors in doing the farm labor.

He probably stood no more than 5-foot-seven, and he weighed maybe 160 pounds.

He knew how to work. And he taught us—our cousins, my brother and me— how to work.

IT SEEMED AS IF so many of the things we helped him do involved moving dirt, though memory probably exaggerates.  Still, we did spend a lot of time digging post holes and stretching barbed wire, and loading piles of dirt into the bed of the pickup truck to move it to some other place where we would shovel it out of the truck.

We were young and full of vinegar, and we attacked each job as if we were building an earthworks to fend off an impending attack. It was never long before our arms felt as heavy as the dirt we were moving and our spirits were flagging.

His shovel never had as much dirt in it as ours did, and we tossed two shovels for every one of his. For a while. A very short while.

While we were sucking for air with our hands on our knees like tired basketball players at the free throw line, he swung his shovel with a steady rhythm.

He did not have to lecture us. We learned by watching. He didn’t have to lecture us about working until the job was done, either. We knew that if he weren’t going anywhere, we weren’t either. And barring something unforeseen, he wasn’t going anywhere until the job was finished or the day had run out.

THERE WAS A FINE and welcome mist when I first went outside this morning, but it soon disappeared, and it became a day that reminded me of boyhood summers. As I dug the holes for the daylillies, my grandfather didn’t have to remind me that steady was better than rushed, nor that it’s good to finish a job before you put your tools away.

I will say that I was as glad to get finished today as I was long ago.

Bill Brown is a retired newspaper editor whose newspapers won a Pulitzer Prize, National Headliners Award, Edgar Willis Scripps Award for Distinguished Service to the First Amendment and Associated Press Managing Editors Public Service and Freedom of Information Awards. He is the author of “Yellow Cat, Hendry & Me: Dispatches From Life’s Front Lines. He can be reached at 

bill@williamblakebrown.com

It's Good Porches That Make Good Neighbors

As we sat on our front porch night last week, visiting with our neighbors as the evening gathered, I reflected on the various homes we have had over the years.

Most of them were typical suburban homes—when you have children, the suburbs have undeniable advantages—and most of them presented a blank face to the street. About the only time spent in the front yard was in mowing the grass or tending flower beds.

OUTDOOR ACTIVITIES centered on a patio or screened porch at the back of the house. With the front drapes drawn, there was little way for a passerby to know whether anyone was home. It probably didn’t matter; most of the passersby on those suburban streets were in automobiles, usually with all of the windows closed.

Many of the houses of our youth, particularly those that were in town, had porches, and there were sidewalks, too, and people often strolled in the evening, stopping to chat with their neighbors or even to sit for a spell.

It was the advent of home air conditioning, I suspect, that rendered the front porch obsolescent, at least in the eyes of architects and developers. Visiting became a planned activity. Rarely did someone show up and ring the doorbell just to visit for a while.

I AM GLAD that our village is different, Every house has a porch, and people use them. The streets are not heavily traveled, and people stroll, some for exercise, some to walk their dogs, and some just to enjoy being out of doors. It invites neighbors to stop and talk for a while or to sit and have refreshments.

The evening was pleasantly cool, and as our visiting was winding down, the whippoorwill began its nightly calling. No one had to climb into an automobile and walk home; home was just a few paces away.

When Robert Frost wrote that “good fences make good neighbors,” he evoked a picture of farm country, where fences are important.

In National Village, I would suggest, it is good porches that make good neighbors.

Bill Brown is a retired newspaper editor whose newspapers won a Pulitzer Prize, National Headliners Award, Edgar Willis Scripps Award for Distinguished Service to the First Amendment and Associated Press Managing Editors Public Service and Freedom of Information Awards. He is the author of “Yellow Cat, Hendry & Me: Dispatches From Life’s Front Lines. He can be reached at bill@williamblakebrown.com

Getting Used to Hanging

            I think I wounded the bank teller who was handling the drive-up customers the other day. The bank probably won’t be bothered if I finally decide to change my account.

            Oh, I didn’t scream at the teller; I wasn’t nasty. Not by a long shot. I was just honest.

            It started simply enough. I had an uncomplicated deposit to make, and there wasn’t a single vehicle at any of the drive-up lanes.

            THE FIRST THING I noticed was that there no longer was a drive-up window at the side of the bank building. What had once been a glass window where you could see whether there actually was someone working was now covered over with advertising. So I chose one of the lanes that had a green “open” sign above. A video screen next to the pneumatic tube fixture was showing advertisements. I put my deposit into the tube and sent it merrily on its way. Then I watched some advertisements, and a trivia question, and then some more advertisements.

            At last the screen changed and a face appeared. He would take care of my transaction, he said. The screen reverted to its advertising. I watched and waited. Finally I turned the engine off.

            The screen changed again. This time it was a female face. “How are you today?” she asked breezily.

            “Frustrated,” I told her. “I’ve been waiting for 10 minutes to make a simple deposit.”

            I DON’T THINK that’s what she wanted to hear. “I just got back from lunch, and they’ve been backed up in here,” she said defensively. The screen went blank and my deposit receipt was returned to me.

            Even if she’d stayed on, I doubt I would have told her it’s not my problem that they don’t have enough personnel to handle the customers with some degree of timeliness. It wouldn’t have done any good. (I’ve actually been inside that same bank and had much the same experience. Two tellers working and a couple of customers with large transactions means you’ve got to stand and pat your foot. While one or two people are sitting in glassed in offices trying to avoid making eye contact.

            The bank is actually owned by the same national chain that we banked with before we moved to National Village. But that was only because our hometown bank had been bought by that chain from another chain that had bought from a small chain that had bought it from the local ownership.

            WE STUCK WITH the bank through all those changes because when we went in the bank we knew the people working there and they knew us. We could call the bank on the phone (a local number that rang at the bank, not an 800 number as is the case now), and the person who answered recognized our voices.

            As time wore on, things changed. There were fewer and fewer people in the bank and fewer that we knew. The person had the drive-up window had been moved inside, too.

            We don’t go to the bank very often. Most of our income is direct deposited, and we pay most of our bills on line. On those occasions when we do go, though, it would be really good if the bank had enough employees so that three customers didn’t cause a backup like the interstate in Atlanta at rush hour.

            My wife’s Aunt Carrie used to say you’d get used to hanging if it didn’t kill you. Perhaps we are getting too accustomed to being treated like sheep. Any number of big box stores have multitudes of checkout counters, but only one or two people manning them. You’re encouraged to use self-checkout, but regularly there’s at least one item in your cart that won’t scan, so you have to wait for assistance anyway. In some department stores, finding a sales person to help you is like searching for Atlantis.

          OF COURSE IT'S been eons since there was someone at what we used to call service stations to pump your gas, wash your windshield and check under the hood.

            We seem to have forgotten that at one time the customer was if not king, at least a part of the nobility. Now we seem just to be an inconvenience.

            I’m still thinking about changing banks―if I can find one that still treats customers as if they were important.

Bill Brown is a retired newspaper editor whose newspapers won a Pulitzer Prize, National Headliners Award, Edgar Willis Scripps Award for Distinguished Service to the First Amendment and Associated Press Managing Editors Public Service and Freedom of Information Awards. He is the author of “Yellow Cat, Hendry & Me: Dispatches From Life’s Front Lines. He can be reached at 

bill@williamblakebrown.com