Have you ever had to attend a boring meeting, where the speaker droned on and on and you could barely stay awake? Possibly this might have been a preacher’s sermon (hopefully not) or a work presentation.

My paternal grandmother was by all accounts a saintly woman. During her life she raised or partially raised twenty children—six from her husband’s previous marriage, six from her own marriage, and eight from my father’s first marriage. I was told that she was at one time staying with a family member in Knoxville who lived in a shotgun house. For the less enlightened, a shotgun house was narrow and had a door in front and a door in back, arranged so that a bullet fired from a shotgun could go in the front door and out the back without hitting anything.

I remember in the early grades of elementary school our teachers let us watch educational programs on black-and-white television. These were broadcast on WSJK-TV, Sneedville, Tennessee, an affiliate of PBS, the Public Broadcast(ing) System.

I have always appreciated sunsets. Each sunset is totally different from any that preceded or will follow it. No artist can replicate the majesty and wonder of a sunset.
Forty years ago today I became a legal adult. I spent several evenings as a teenager sitting on the front porch or looking through my childhood bedroom window at magnificent sunsets. None have ever equaled the mysteries of those youthful end-of-day ponderings.

I have a relative who married on April Fool’s Day. As a result of COVID, the wedding reception was held several months later on Friday the 13th. I thought, “What brave souls.”
I also thought, “From the way some people’s marriages have turned out, these dates would have been perfect omens of what was to come!”
A politician once said, “I believe love is the answer, but you should own a gun, just in case.”
The politician wasn’t talking about marriage, but you have, Dear Reader, heard of a “shotgun wedding.”
Did you ever hear of a “shotgun divorce”?

Once again, the Fourth of July holiday hovers just over the horizon. Perhaps by the time you’ve read this, Dear Reader, it will already be past.
It was 247 years ago, after a tedious time of separation from the “Mother Country”, resulting in the Revolutionary War, that our great nation officially came into existence.
Time wreaks many changes. There was a time that the school day began with the reading of a selection from the Bible, prayer was said, and the pledge to the American flag was dutifully recited.

I attended a meeting in Murfreesboro for work today. Amid the very useful information presented, there was reference made to the state’s past practice of providing Exemplary Educators (EEs) to schools deemed as in danger of failing academically under the former federal No Child Left Behind (NCLB) Act.

I was, like a lot of children, a picky eater. This was fine with Mother at home, but when it came to the “old line” teachers at school, things were different.
I don’t remember much about lunch during my two weeks of Headstart attendance. The one thing I do remember about food in Ms. Edna Loy’s Headstart class was a cake provided for those of us who had a birthday in July. I remember it had green icing, like grass, and that it was delicious.

I was a silent stalker during elementary and high school.
Sounds ominous, right? Just exactly who did I stalk?
For whatever reason, from my first day of my two weeks as a Headstart student to the end of my public-school student experience, I was fascinated with schools and teachers. Same with church and preachers. Same with funerals and undertakers. Anything that had an air of formality and order attracted my attention.

I related in my last article about my aunt Fleetie and her daily review of obituaries. This has rubbed off on me, and I know I’m not alone. I have at least one friend who is younger than me who also does a daily obituary check.
Occasionally both my friend and I notice an obituary that “stands out”. It might be due to the picture of the deceased, or the length of the obituary (the longer, the more impressive, when the cost of printing an obituary is considered).

I once went to visit an elderly friend who was near death. She occasionally lapsed into sleep. As she came closer to the end, she woke from one of these small naps, looked at those of us surrounding her, and said, “I’m still here.”

My nephew and I took a Saturday trip this past weekend to visit the Jack Daniel Distillery in Lynchburg, Tennessee. The distillery is on the National Register of Historic Places. I had been there once, probably more than ten years ago, with my brother J. C. I had forgotten a lot of what I learned from my first visit.

I have been a church attender all my life. Over the years, I have served as Sunday School teacher, occasional usher, trustee and treasurer. One of the greatest honors of my life was to have once been anonymously recommended as a deacon. I did not pursue that opportunity, but I found it humbling for someone to even have considered me worthy.

Is there, or was there ever, a person in your life whose presence thrilled your very being? In my life, to now, there have only been a handful. Near or at the top of my list was my great-aunt Lidia (pronounced “Liddy”) Mincey.
When I was a pre-teen Aunt Lidia would come to our house for visits. Her visits were always surprises, for she never announced her coming. She just appeared. There were times when I would come home from school and there she’d be. No matter what might have happened during the day that was disappointing, all was erased by Aunt Lidia’s presence.

Several years ago I was charged with publishing the newsletter for the Union County Education Association. One of the first tasks was to determine a title. A good teacher colleague of mine suggested Can We Talk? for the newsletter’s name. I did not think much of the suggestion, but I had no better idea, so I went with it. Little did I know that phrase was something of an American iconic statement. A Google search will inform that there is a song by that name (recorded by American R & B singer Tevin Campbell), and comedian Joan Rivers used it as a catchphrase.

“Hello, Dear Reader.” Actually, I would be more hopeful to say, “Hello, Dear Readers!” I hope there are more than one of you out there.
Many times I approach writing, as Mark Twain prolifically stated, “. . . like an envelope without any address . . .” This state is commonly called “writer’s block,” and at times it seems I have enough blocks to build a high wall. Though it might take longer, it is easier to put thoughts into words. Writing leaves lots of room for correction, though public speaking is unforgiving. I have to either speak or write, for I’m like the man Billy Wilder noted had Van Gogh’s ear for music.

I remember watching Hollywood Squares on television when I was a kid. Many of the finer details of the show are slipping into the dark area of my brain known as the distant past, but I remember the major points.
Hosted by Peter Marshall, the show was something of a game show fashioned from tic-tac-toe. Nine celebrities were seated within a gigantic tic-tac-toe framework. Two contestants competed by selecting celebrities which were asked somewhat inane questions. The contestant either agreed or disagreed with the celebrities’ answers and received credit if correct.

For many years in the Union County schools it was common practice for teachers to teach split grades. Funds for operating the school system were not as plentiful then as now, and the current laws that govern pupil: teacher ratio had much more latitude. It was nothing unusual for an elementary teacher to have forty or more students in one classroom, and many teachers taught two grades in one classroom. Additionally, some teachers concurrently served as principals.

Having been officially employed to on August 3, 1987 left very few days for mental preparation for the beginning of the school year. That was the only form of preparation I could do, as I did not even know to what grade I would be assigned. At that point, I was just thrilled to have a job.

When I was an undergraduate English major at Lincoln Memorial University, I took a class in Appalachian literature. One of the books we read for that course was Lee Smith’s Oral History. By definition, oral history is a study of the past relayed through the spoken, not the written, word. The transcriptions then are written down for posterity.