I spent over 22 years of my life in the small town of Pikeville, Kentucky, once-renowned home of coal millionaires. Not destined to walk in the exalted ranks of the rich and famous, though, I sought more humble companionship. As a good Methodist, at that time, I looked for the local bastion of Wesley's disciples. I didn't have to look far; Pikeville United Methodist Church was located just across the street from the then-location of our office.
One of the first friends I made in my new church home, because he sought me out, was Bruce E., a local building contractor. Bruce had some rather peculiar views sometimes, but there was nothing peculiar about his devotion to his friends. Whenever I needed a ride, for whatever purpose, or help with some crisis in my house or family, Bruce was always available. Whenver there was a Christian fellowship or event Bruce was interested in, no matter where it was, he always invited me along. We spent many hours together, traveling and attending meetings.
Bruce E. died of cancer resulting from asbestos exposure in 1997, but several years before that I made acquantance with the other Bruce in my life, Bruce C. This second Bruce was retired, and came into my life because I needed a driver in connection with my job. For about nine years, Bruce C. and I traveled all over eastern Kentucky, whenever the need arose. Much more than that, though, he became a friend, and more than once provided transportation for me and my family for medical emergencies, and for visits to my family back in West Virginia or trips to the airport.
Both Bruces were Christian brothers, as well as close friends, and just two of the many people God has sent my way over the years. He used them to meet my need, but that's not why I remember them best. The main thing they both gave me was love, a gift I can never repay unless I share it with others. There is no greater testimony to two lives lived well.
Most Americans take many things for granted. Even the poorest tenements have running water, and most people have a reliable source of heat in the winter, assuming their utilities don't get cut off. In our house, the heat came from a round, cast iron stove in the living room, and the kitchen stove, when it was in use. Both of the stoves used coal and wood, and whenever fuel was added to the fire, especially coal, the house would fill with smoke for a while.
On the coldest days, the only warm place was close to the fire. We had four rooms in our little shack, and the two rooms without a stove were usually frigid on those cold days, especially when a curtain was used to shut off the bedrooms. At night, the kitchen fire was allowed to go down, and the fire in the living room was banked, or covered with coal so that it burned very slowly. When we first jumped into bed, usually fully clothed, we could count on shivering violently until we warmed up a spot in the bed. After that, the layers of quilts and winter coats usually served to keep us warm; we covered everything, even our heads, leaving nothing but an air hole.
It was not all unusual for the main fire to go out at night, which invariably led to a round of colorful expletives from Daddy the next morning. Our drinking water came from a bucket that sat on a small table just inside the kitchen door. On cold nights, the water many times froze in the bucket, sometimes all the way to the bottom. At that point, there was nothing to do but put the bucket on top of the stove until the water thawed.
This discussion could easily give the impression that we led a miserable existence during the winter months. Such was not the case. Since we had known nothing else, we accepted our condition without much complaint. When it snowed, we were as happy playing outside making snowmen or having snowball fights as anybody, and when we came inside the house felt warm and toasty.
What my childhoold experiences did do was give me a deep sense of appreciation for how fortunate and blessed I now am. Just as you can't really appreciate joy without sorrow, or health without sickness, you don't really appreciate material comfort until you've lived without it. I thank God for all his blessings. May we never take none of them for granted.
Most people take much of life for granted, in this country anyway. We assume that the lights will come on when we flick a switch, that we will have the health to do what we want, and that we can hop in the car when we need or want to get somewhere. Such a glib view of reality is far from universal, though, even in the Land of Privilege. In the dark underside of society, millions of adults live with various physical and mental limitations that make such a view laughable, except there's seldom any element of humor involved.
I was born, like many others, with an eye condition that makes it impossible for me to join the motorized masses. One of the central frustrations of my life, but also one of its greatest joys, has been my total dependence on others for the routine task of getting from Point A to Point B. My own two feet will carry to many places, but for others I must rely on wheels. In a rural area like the one I've lived in for most of my life, public transportation, when it's available at all, is spotty and unreliable. To get where I need to go, I have to call on others, and wait by the side of the road for their arrival.
It is easy, all too easy, to sing a song of woe and pity when life isn't fair, and I have indulged in more than my share. The good that has come out of my transporation troubles, though, far outweighs the bad. Many of my best friends over the course of my life have been those who provided rides for me, whether to work, to church, or for my weekly chores. It is always possible I would have had a relationship with many or all of these people anyway, but I doubt I would have had the same opportunities for extended and intimate fellowship that being together in a car for long periods afforded.
I have often wondered how my life would have been different if I had been able to drive. It probably have gone into far different paths, which is, I believe, precisely why God allowed me to come into this world, and grow up, with very poor eyesight. Just as his grace was sufficient for Paul's thorn in the flesh, it is more than sufficient for mine.
I don't know how widespread the expression "doggone" was when I was young, but it was a common expletive in our part of the country. Dogs were a part of everyday life for us, so the expression came quite naturally. Mostly all we ever had were mutts, though occasionaly we had a pet that gave at least the appearance of being purebred.
Dogs were mostly meant for hunting around our farm, anything from rabbits to foxes to coon. One of the favorite pastimes for the men in our part of the country, including Daddy and my brothers, was fox hunting. This wasn't hunting in the English style, mind you; no horses or horns or hearty cries of "Tally Ho!" Mostly what it amounted to, so far as I could tell, was sitting around a campfire and spinning yarns while listening to the baying of the hounds in the distance. Each dog had a distinctive voice, and the men could tell very well whether "Ol' Smoky" or "Big Red" was in the lead, and just where the hunt was taking place. The problem was that the hounds didn't always return to their owners, and they would show up at various farms for days afterwards. Most people were good enough to let the owners know.
Coon hunting was another variation of putting dogs to work, and it involved a bit more effort. The object was to tree the furry bandit, and hope to get to the tree in time to get off a good shot. Rabbit hunting, on the other hand, simply involved flushing out the little critters in hopes the beagle or other rabbit dog would chase one or more of them your way. One of the hazards of hunting foxes or coon was that the dog would pick up the scent of a rabbit, and head after it instead. These days, some preachers are known for heading down rabbit trails; unlike fox hounds, we don't always get rid of them in disgust when they don't follow the proper game.
Dogs could also be pets, of course, though fraternizing with the hunting hounds was discouraged. I had several pets over the years growing up; one dog I named "Speed", when I was little more than a toddler, went mad with rabies and had to be shot. Other than that, the main hazard was contracting fleas from a canine companion, which didn't bother us, or getting too close to a dog fight.
For all the fact that I like dogs, to this day barking dogs stir up some ancient phobia in me, perhaps the legacy of the rabid dog. Most of my memories of man's best friend are good ones, though, and I enjoyed being around the mongrels, mutts, and mixed breeds