In this particular edition I am sharing one person’s individual spiritual journey. May each reader decide for themselves whether any part of it (or none of it) could help better their own spiritual experience in any way.

Nothing I write here is meant as a judgement or dismissal of anyone’s personal religious beliefs. If taken as such, I beg to consider that the reader is gravely mistaken.

I make it a standard practice to never (and I do mean never) strive to push my personal views of religion on others. Nor will I attempt to do so here. Freedom of religion is, indeed, our foremost and most cherished of American liberties.

I have found that three words are all I need to aptly summarize my entire spiritual belief system; God is love.

Those three words are worth repeating again; God is love. It may come as a shock, or even appear as apostasy, that I don’t need more than those three words. But I have lived a long, self-examined, and deeply introspective life … perhaps earning the right to consolidate my spiritual belief system into something simple to follow.

Some may want to add to those three words. Obviously, many do. Therefore, all the religions, denominations, catechisms, decrees, and creeds that we've created.

“All you need is love”, sang the Beatles, in a number one hit from the 1960s. Much of the planet acted as if those words were a new idea.

And that’s all quite fine. It doesn’t really matter who gets the credit, as long as we love. I’m sure Jesus (who said it quite a long time prior to the ‘60s) and the Beatles would both sing along to that.

One may well make a valid statement that every person on Earth has their “own” individualized form of worship (including the choice not to worship in any way at all). Certainly no two people think exactly the same way about everything - not even those who have allowed themselves to become so deeply indoctrinated by a particular religious persuasion that they have come to think of their version of faith as the “only true way” (as I have heard so often in my life, particular in my own beloved region of the world).

I was raised in a Southern Baptist church. I was ordained as a Baptist deacon. I even transfered colleges from ETSU to Carson-Newman with the intention of becoming a Baptist preacher. I read the entire Bible through twice and the entire New Testament from beginning to end dozens of times.

Though I have nothing personal in all this world against Baptists (Lordamighty, do they know how to cook up a big ol’ foodfest), I no longer identify directly as a Baptist.

In fact, I no longer directly identify with any particular religious denomination. Again, I have nothing personally against any of them. I simply have found my spiritual way by means other than organized standard religion. I am far from alone in this type of spiritual journey. More and more people are realizing how remarkably enlightening such a journey can be. (I realize some readers may be so deeply indoctrinated by their own religion that they may actually find themselves offended, or in the very least, “perplexed”, by this last paragraph.)

Therefore, I am not at all a “religious” person, at least not in the standard formal sense of the word.

Please keep in mind that a person can be staunchly religious and still not a very spiritual (kind or compassionate) person in everyday practice.

Likewise, one may not be religious in any way under the sun and still be a highly spiritual person - both in belief and in deed.

I identify much more with the latter.

(Yes, one can also be both deeply religious and deeply spiritual, but such a combo is much harder to pull off - without becoming at least somewhat judgmental and condemning of the religious beliefs of others, as I have seen too often be the case.)

However, if I can be “pigeon-holed” (which I likely cannot) I suppose I identify fairly well with most Quaker thought and practice.

Quakerism is not a religion in and of itself. It is not even a denomination. It is simply a way of worship. Plain. Like us Quakers. (One could in fact adhere to Quaker ways and still identify as a Baptist, a Methodist, a Jew, a Muslim, or even as a pagan or an agnostic - as we will see.)

Quakers often refer to themselves as Friends, but are generally known to the world as Quakers. If they hold a primary belief, it is this: Within every human soul there dwells an element of God that exists independent of that soul’s gender, race, age, nationality, sexual orientation, social status, worldy wealth, or religion.

This presence of God within us all is often acknowledged as the Inner Light of which Christ spoke (Gospel of John 1:9). Quaker opposition to racism, sexism, religious intolerance, warfare, and the death penalty come from this belief.

Inner revelation is given precedence over religious doctrine and tradition. Therefore, the Quaker emphasis on education and freedom of thought.

Simplicity, Integrity, Justice, Mercy, and Peace - these five tenets perhaps best summarize Quakerism in practice.

Quakerism is not involved in mandating specific religious beliefs nor with performing specific religious practices. Being a Quaker involves only each person’s direct experience with God. Therefore, there is no real need for a clergy. All people have direct and equal access to God, if they would but realize it. An intermediary is not necessary. (Please note that I did not state that religious intermediaries were never helpful on a spiritual journey, just that they are not absolutely necessary - and can sometimes, in fact, be a hindrance toward healthy, open-minded thought.)

A Quaker meeting for worship is largely silent, with each individual “listening” quietly to the Inner Light, as opposed to constantly “telling” or “praying for” what one desires. Quakers believe that the Almighty knows our needs far better than do we, so we see no need to ask for anything. We simply listen. Because that is when one can hear the still, small voice of God best. In silence.

Quakers, though deeply spiritual, are often scientific-minded. They are not afraid to “doubt” in their search for truth. They acknowledge religion’s many apparent contradictions and rely on the Inner Light to either resolve or reveal them.

For instance, to claim that evolution is “untrue” is to claim that “things never change over time.” However, we all know that all things change over time, which is precisely what makes evolution so elegantly and obviously true. Even from a simple observation of the natural world, one sees constant adaptation and change. Given enough time, all things will inevitably change - and eventually change a lot - including big-brained primates, such as we.

Quakers are encouraged to “walk cheerfully over the world, finding that of God in everyone”. Perhaps this is why we Quakers can often be found seeking out others in jails, prisons, homeless alleyways, and mental health facilities - places where our fellow children of God are too often forgotten.

Quakers are encouraged to take advantage of learning from other than religious sources, in particular from philosophy and science. Again, the great Quaker emphasis on learning and excellence in education.

Quakers emphasize humility of spirit and simplicity of living. Certainly they are by no means against making honest money (indeed, many are quite independently wealthy business owners), but they use much of their money and time with the intent of bettering the lives of those within their communities.

Though peaceable by intention, Quakers are known to be relentless when it comes to seeking justice, particularly in the areas of human rights, environmental responsibility, penal reform, and peace initiatives.

To Quakers, there is no distinction between the sacramental and the secular. No one day or place or activity is more spiritual or more sacred than any other. All aspects of life are sacred and spiritual.

To this end, you are likely to find me behaving “pretty much the same”, whether I’m present at a formally rigid and piously dignified setting with staunchly religious people - or participating in a corn-hole-tossin’, moonshine-sippin’, hell-raisin’ party out by a campfire beneath a full moon with my rowdiest “heathern” friends.

(If hard pressed, I will profess to often preferring the company of the latter folk mentioned. I have generally found their ilk to be considerably less judgmental and condemning of their fellow man and woman.)

Wherever each of us may be on our individual spiritual journey, my friends, let us never think we have experienced it all, much less know it all. In our quest to commune with the Almighty, there is always more we can learn.

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Ballard Lee was a long-time coach and teacher in the Bristol VA Public School System. He also became a friend of mine.

The best way I can describe Ballard to the reader is by telling a story. Stories have a way of painting and portraying the true character of someone far better than pure descriptions and lists of accolades do.

Ballard, a former Marine, also taught at our local Jacobs Creek Job Corps of the evening.

While Ballard taught at the Job Corps of the evening, I taught at the Bristol Jail.

It so happens that one of Ballard’s students at the Job Corps got into some trouble and wound up in the Bristol Jail. There he became a student of mine.

This young man told me, “I don’t want no White man teachin’ me. I want a Black man, like Coach Lee at the Job Corps.”

So I picked up my phone and called Coach Lee, right there in front of the young man.

“Ballard,” I said, “I’ve got a young man here who seems to think I shouldn’t teach him because I’m not Black. I think you know him. Would you mind talkin’ to him for a moment?”

I handed my phone to the wide-eyed, open-mouthed young man.

When that young man handed the phone back to me, after talking to Ballard Lee for about three minutes, his tone had changed completely.

“Mr. Talley,” the young man began, “I apologize to you. I am ready to learn from you. Thank you, sir.”

I never knew exactly what Ballard said to that young man … and I never asked him. But that three minutes changed that young man’s life. He became one of my finest students at the jail. Better than that, he learned not to stereotype people by their race … a lesson he could only learn from the only man he respected enough to teach him such a lesson. And that man would be none other than Ballard Lee.

Carlos Lee (a nephew of Ballard Lee) is one of the greatest athletes ever to come out of Bristol Virginia High School. If not the greatest, he is certainly on anyone’s top ten list. Carlos played football, basketball, track, and baseball at VHS, excelling on all four.

Carlos went on from VHS to graduate with a degree in education from Concord College, where he played both baseball and football - and once led the nation in punt return average for a season.

Upon graduation from Concord, Carlos was invited for a try out with the Pittsburgh Steelers of the NFL - and he made it until the very last cut.

Carlos then returned to Bristol and embarked upon a remarkable 40-some year career of coaching young people at many different sports - and teaching many different children over a wide range of age groups.

It was during this long teaching/coaching career that Carlos and I became and remain great friends.

I saw Carlos interact with children countless times over the years. He always seemed to maintain a remarkably calm composure. Steely strong in demeanor Carlos was, yet with a heart as big as the world. All it took for most kids was “the look” from Coach Lee - and they instantly ceased with whatever foolishness they were about to do. Carlos rarely had to take it to the next level. He was that good. He was that respected. Much the same as with his Uncle Ballard, it was because the kids all knew how much Carlos cared about them as an individual.

Carlos may very well have been the only Black elementary school librarian/high school golf coach/ex-NFL tryout invitee in the entire United States. All those qualifications I have never seen before or since in one person. Carlos was remarkable in that way; a man of many cultures, of many talents; a man for all seasons, so to speak. A man who had something in common with everyone.

Carlos started coaching high school golf about the time my own son, David, came to the team. My son immediately bonded with him.

One evening at our home I was instructing my son on some golfing strategy. But like most teenagers since the dawn of humanity, he was not listening well to his father. So I came to Carlos the next day at school and asked him to relay the same information to my son sometime. My son listened to anything Carlos said as if it were the Gospel.

Not many kids grow up in Bristol Virginia wanting to play golf. I wish more did. No sport could help them more in their future career, whatever it may be they ultimately decide to do in life. And it is a sport they can play for life.

Carlos took these kids, who frequently didn’t even begin to play golf until 8th or 9th grade - and often molded them into teams that went all the way to the state tournament. Being a great athlete himself, he also learned to play golf extremely well over time - shooting par on a good day.

I saw Carlos interact with children countless times at Van Pelt Elementary School, where we taught together for years. He was our school librarian. This man, who ran over many an opponent on the football field when younger, was as kind as anyone I ever saw toward little children.

There are several other members of the great Lee family of Bristol who are worthy of mention here … but I am running out of space to do so in this particular article. I hope to write about their stories another time. (Todd, Era, Michael, CJ, Landon, Amaya, Danika ... the list goes on. This is one great family, indeed.)

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The following words were spoken to me by a homeless Bristol friend: “Do you know what it’s like to have people walk right you by on the sidewalk and have no one look directly at you? It’s like I don’t even exist. I wish they’d at least spit on me as they walked by.”

I can (at least to some small degree) personally vouch for his situation. One Thanksgiving Eve several years back, I ventured out and about Bristol incognito (dressed as a “homeless” individual). The most shocking part of it all to me was, indeed, the fact that almost everyone looks right through you. It truly seems as if you don’t personally exist.

I’ll never forget one kind lady of means who stopped dead in her tracks on the State Street sidewalk, looked me straight in the eyes, and told me (in the sincerest, kindest voice you can imagine) that she wished me the happiest Thanksgiving possible.

That look. Those words. Such caring. The fact that she acknowledged my humanity. It was all worth more to me at that moment than had she handed me a million dollars.

My long-time friends know that I have actually been homeless. Back in the late 1980s (due to a bout of deep depression) I roamed homeless across the South for over two weeks.

Trying to fall asleep one night along the edge of the Okefenokee Swamp, I vowed (if I made ever it out of my darkness) that I’d help the homeless in any way I could for the remainder of my life. Indeed, I’ve many times since sought to aid the homeless in Bristol; to help, to encourage, to advocate, to cherish the fact that they do exist and are real people - with real hopes and dreams and real pain and despair. And, yes, the proceeds from Hometownstories.org all go directly to aid local homeless individuals and families here in Bristol.

I have found that the loopholes in our mental health care system are distinctly discouraging and debilitative to those trying to escape homelessness. Therefore, mental illness among the homeless often goes untreated.

I also wish there were a decree that stated something like this: “No governing body shall make a new law concerning the homeless unless - unless every member of that governing body personally spends a full 24 hours truly homeless, within the jurisdiction for which they would make a new law.”

For those who may have a negative or disdainful opinion of the homeless, I would invite you to do as I did and spend a night homeless in Bristol. Without any aid from friends or family, possessing only the ragged clothes on one’s back.

If we were all to do so, I feel certain that more eyes would become “widened” to the unique and daunting problems faced by the homeless among us.

Jesus said, “The poor will always be with you.” It is likely no accident that, according to the Gospels, Christ wandered about homeless for quite a bit of his adult ministry.

“Am I my brother’s keeper?” It is a question as old as humanity itself.

What is the answer?

Of course, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. If we can prevent individuals and families from becoming homeless in the first place, that is money well spent (or as I’d put it, well invested). Let’s each do all we can to support permanent housing efforts and projects for those in need at every chance we can.

And we can all choose to speak (cheerfully and meaningfully) to those souls whom we may come across who were born to a different fate than we.

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When you hear the word, “Muslim”, my friends, what images do your emotions evoke?

Do images of terrorists cross your mind?

Perhaps endless wars in the Middle East?

Or maybe someone who is in so many ways just like you?

Edis Hadziahmetovic invited me to dinner one evening in downtown Bristol. Edis is one of the brightest and wittiest students I ever taught (and I taught a heckuva lot of bright and witty students in my life). He graduated Bristol Virginia High School at the very top of his class. Edis is not only very smart, but extremely kind and thoughtful.

Indeed, Edis is an honorable American citizen who loves and appreciates our country every bit as much as anyone who may read these words.

Yet Edis is sometimes mistrusted - and sometimes even hated - by too many people. Simply because of his religion. He is a Muslim.

The writers of the United States Constitution were adamant that the religious choice of American citizens would always remain a highly cherished and adamantly protected individual freedom. The purpose of this particular piece of writing is to remind us all (yes, including myself, as all writing is ultimately autobiographical) of that wondrous fact.

I would like to share with you a few quotes taken directly from some of Edis’ Facebooks posts:

“I’m blessed to be surrounded by great friends and family who continue to push and support me in all that I do. I enjoy learning new things from all of you and I aspire to repay the faith that you all have shown me ten times over.”

“One of my main goals in life is to prove to people that through hard work and dedication, anything is possible.”

“Thank you to all who served … we are forever grateful for the service of America’s veterans. #respect”

How about those quotes from a true American? Neither our ethnicity, political beliefs, race, sexual persuasion, economic position, nor our religion ever define us as Americans. It is our love of freedom and respect for individual human rights that does.

In fact, freedom of religion was so important to our nation’s founders that it is the very first freedom mentioned in the Constitution.

I have another Muslim friend who has now retired from serving America in the armed forces. He is a veteran of both the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, where most of the people he fought against were Muslims.

Beginning with our original Revolutionary War, it has always been a big part of our American DNA to rebel against unjust laws.

There was once a law in America that Black people could be owned as slaves.

There was once a law in America that women could not vote.

There was once a law In America that one must marry a person of their own “race”.

There was once a law … and so on, and so on.

We Americans have a wonderful history of defying and protesting unjust laws, until they are the law no more. It’s what we’re good at … and we have the freedom to do it; to defy, to disagree, to protest, to march, to write, to speak out against any unjust laws and ways.

There is a big difference between nationalism and patriotism.

It is important to the lifeblood of our American republic that our common citizens understand the difference.

Nationalism is the belief that your country is always right, no matter what (a view that too many in America are prone to hold). Throughout history, extreme nationalism has always led those nations who followed its path to arrogance, isolation, and ultimately - fewer individual freedoms.

Patriotism, however, is something quite different. Real patriotism leads to pride in your country when she is at her best … and honest self-reflection (with a willingness to improve her) when she is not.

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When one is referrring to purely “physical/bodily” strength alone, that old adage may still largely ring true. I am a 68 year old male, yet I am likely still as physically strong as at least half the ladies on the planet, no matter their age.

Yet, after that, the old myth of male superiority holds no more water. Indeed, regarding virtually every other measure of comparative strength, the myth leaks like a sieve.

The ladies among us have a much more robust immune system, which is a lot of why they live considerably longer - again “on the average” - than we men. Scientists propose this is due to women possessing two X chromosomes (we men only have one), which doubles the amount of immune-related genes to fight any infection, illness, or disease you can name under the sun.

Testosterone, the hormone that gives men our generally superior physical strength, often acts as an immunosuppressant, making us more vulnerable to illness, infection, and disease.

Estrogen, the hormone produced in great quantities by females, acts as a very powerful anti-inflammatory within the human body, providing a powerful additional shield of protection.

Indeed, across the majority of animal species, it is the females (not the males) who have superior life expectancy and disease resistance.

And as for male physical strength “always winning out” in real life … have you ever seen a mother Grizzly bear protect her cubs against a male twice her size and strength? In case you have not, I’ll give you a hint: the mother “wins” more often than not. Nature has endowed mothers with a remarkable strength of will and tenacity when it comes to protecting their offspring.

Now this next question may seem a bit off track at first glance, but the reader will see that it is not: Don’t women have “equal rights” in America?

Uh … I’d laugh right now if that question were not so sad. Two former students of mine (one male and one female) shared with me how they applied for the same business/sales job. Bet you can guess which one got hired - and why. No, gender discrimination is not the “official” reason they were given (since most employers don’t like law suits). But even the young man told me that his female childhood friend was more highly qualified in several ways, and that he had heard the whispers; “The best woman just doesn’t have what it takes to succeed in the business world as well as a good man.”

Well-entrenched myths, held long, can die hard.

Indeed, the point can be well made that when little girls were finally allowed equal access and opportunity in American public schools, it was then (and only then) that America began her rise to superpower prominence on the world stage … a greatness we will hold onto only if we continue to strengthen and grow our doctrine of full opportunity for all.

But aren’t men considered “emotionally” stronger than women?

Go watch a few movies from the first part of the last century. You will find that it is usually the leading female character who cries and sobs and “needs saving” by a man. Females were often portrayed as being “damsels in distress”, needing a man to help them control their emotions.

Real life, however, tells us otherwise.

I taught at the Bristol Jail for a quarter of a century. I saw how “uncontrolled” men can be with their emotions. A lot of testosterone can do that to us. And it is not entirely our fault. It is the way we are made. Nature has her reasons for it. Trust me, I can personally vouch.

Indeed, over 90% of those incarcerated in jails and prisons in America are male. Less than 10% are female. Now, tell me, how does that undeniable fact uphold the myth that males are in stronger control of their own emotions?

I hold little doubt that if mothers were elected to head up every government on Earth, waging war may very well go extinct as a way to solve problems between nations.

Every summer I take all the girls from our local Bristol Girls Inc. organization on hiking trips along the trails at Sugar Hollow Park in Bristol. These hikes are some of my fondest life memories.

Below is a recent pic from one of these hikes. (By the way, the little girl in the blue shirt and white hat is my own granddaughter, Lenna Kate.)

I have grown especially fond of the Girls Inc. motto; “Inspiring all girls to be strong, smart, and bold.”

If we would all follow the Girls Inc. motto, what a wonderful world it would be.

For us all.

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Dad was “country smart”, the kind of smarts the world could use a bit more of right now. He could scarcely read a newspaper (I suspect an unidentified reading disability) … but he could “fix anything that broke” around the house … and between his ears he contained the wisdom of the hills.

Below is a pic of Dad holding my little sister and yours truly on top of Backbone Rock near Damascus VA. The expression on my face tells the world that I had wanted to go ahead and cross over the top by myself, but Dad wisely held me back. As a result, I am presenting my best attempt at a “mad pout”.

But even a mad pout couldn’t deter Dad. He just loved me anyway, while remaining firm on keeping me from unecessary danger.

The same hands that could each seize a bale of hay and hurl them both up on the back of a truck (yes, both bales at the same time) became gentle as lamb when directed toward his family. Don Talley showed me how to be a “real man” … in every sense of the word. He taught me in the best way most anything is ever taught; by example. Right in front of me. Every day.

So when Dad said to me one day, “I’m gonna live forever, Benny,” I thought he might be talking about heaven.

But Dad went on to say, “I’m gonna live forever, Benny, because I’m gonna live through you. Then on through your children. Then my grandchildren. I don’t even have to still be here. It ain’t ever gonna stop. Unless …”

He knew I’d ask, “Unless what, Dad?”

“Unless you stop lovin’ each other. Love lasts forever. Nothin’ can kill it, unless you quit passin’ it on.”

So, to the best of my ability, I have strived to do so … through my children and my grandchildren.

Just before my first child was born, Dad said to me, “Benny, you know how much you love them young’uns you teach? Just wait ‘til you have your own.”

Indeed, Dad taught me many things that I didn’t know he was teaching me until later on in life. Sometimes, much later.

By the way, this is not a “hero worship” type article. Dad had plenty of faults. Of course he did. He was human. As the great epic poem, Beowulf, so dramatically shows us, “Great men have great faults.”

But this is neither the time nor the placef or finding faults. It is Father’s Day.

One of the things that Dad taught me was a sense of fun.

I got that part right off. Most everything I do to this day has a strong sense of fun and mischief attached to it. Dad just couldn’t seem to walk across the floor without “stirring up some fun”, as he called it. I feel very safe in saying he lives on in his son very well in that regard.

In fact, I feel my father’s constant presence in me so much that I wrote a book about it. He taught me the Game of Life very well. (He even used my love of the game of golf to help do it.)

But maybe the best thing Dad taught me … something that I didn’t realize until much later … was “a sense of self-sacrifice” for my own children and grandchildren.

Over the course of my own life, I have found myself giving all I could to my own children and grandchildren; time, money, opportunity, and unconditional love. Not less and less, as they’ve grown, but more and more.

Not everyone has money to give. That’s why it is the least important of the four things I just listed that we can give to our children and grandchildren (though sometimes, precisely BECAUSE we love them, we need to help them monetarily as best we can, as well.)

I don’t begrudge any of my giving, either. If my family ever truly needed something from me (no matter what it was), I found a way to give it. And I think they will vouch for me that I always gave with an “open heart”. I never “kept score” of what they owed me. I just gave, the best I could.

Yes, money comes in mighty handy in this world, we all know that. But when we give our children our time, our ears, our attention, our emotional support, and our unconditional love …. then we are making them rich beyond their wildest dreams, regardless of the size of our bank account. Indeed, these are all things that every parent/grandparent can give their children, if they will.

Looking back, I was not immediately as appreciative as I should have been regarding what a great father (and mother) I had as a child. Like endless generations of humanity before me, I “just didn’t know” … not until time did it’s dance on me.

No, we shouldn’t expect our children/grandchildren to always appear to be immediately grateful for our sacrifices. The truth is often quite to the contrary.

And that’s all okay and fine.

It’s okay and fine because that is the way of things.

Full understanding, appreciation, and gratitude will all come later … when our children and grandchildren have a chance to pass on the time, opportunity, and unconditional love we once gave them.

Like my father before me, even after I’m gone from this world, I will live on ...

in my children and grandchildren.

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As compared to my generation, children today are much more prone to suffer from anxiety, stress, attention problems, and depression. They also tend to be more obese and less physically active.

Far too many kids today are literally “impoverished” by their lack of outside time, particularly during the summer.

So each summer I strive to help remedy all that.

We can each do our best to bring today’s children out of this type of poverty, and into the vast wealth to be found by playing and exploring in the outside world.

I estimate I have taken nearly ten thousand children hiking over the last thirty-five years. Invariably, these children (most of whom are now adults) have told me they remember these hikes more vividly than most anything that was ever taught them in a classroom.

Following are a few pics and descriptions from some of those hikes.

In this pic I am teaching history while hiking. I am gathered with children beneath the Resting Tree at Sugar Hollow Park in Bristol. Slaves are buried beneath this great old tree’s branches, on the site of what was once the old Preston Plantation. A former student of mine who became a botanist estimates the tree to be over 500 years old.

Here are some of those students posing proudly here, near their creation of a natural shelter.

I have found that the first hike many children take is the first hike they take with me. Please help me change that, my friends. Every child deserves the chance to be outside in nature.

How many children get to run wild across a meadow these days? The joy is impossible to describe. But with a pic you can almost feel it.

I will hand out these shirts to each of the nearly 500 children who will hike with me this summer.

Dear reader, if you’d like to help me get today’s children off inside electronics and outside into the wild, please read the following flyer. Thank you, friends!

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A few years back I became determined to find her.

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Love can (and often does) bond two individuals so unspeakably close together that they can both want to act as one, voluntarily giving up many of the individual freedoms they may have once possessed.

Yes, love can do that. And often does.

A couple of years back I drove to the countryside near Greeneville TN and attended the joyous wedding of two former students, Baylee Nave and Jordan Sewell - pictured below. Yes, you read that right. Baylee and Jordan both once sat in my classroom at Van Pelt Elementary. Who would have ever thought I’d be watching them marry each other someday? What an unusually joyous occassion this was for me!

Almost immediately after their wedding I attended an event for another former student. It was his funeral service. This young man had died by his own hand.

Most of us like to think of ourselves as being logical in our thinking. Yet, being human, we are ruled largely by our emotions, not by logic.

I realize some folks may initially beg to differ, but we have the entirety of human history to show us all otherwise. Collectively and individually, human emotion is (and long has been) both King and Queen to most of our behaviors in this world.

That being noted, I don’t view our all being extremely emotional creatures as a negative thing. Not at all. Quite the contrary, to feel emotion is to be fully alive and fully human to the fullest extent.

Like being in love.

Like feeling grief.

Like feeling gratitude.

To be fully human it matters little what emotion we may feel, as long as we feel.

I used to think (as most young people do) that having your heart broken in a romantic relationship was the most terrible tragedy of utmost proportions possible. Indeed, as I write these words I can count several students who have died at a young age by their own hand - universally due to the breakup of a romantic love relationship.

Romantic love is, as Shakespeare so wonderfully put it, the ultimate “sunshine” of our lives. I am a believer. Aren’t we all?

Age. Time. Wisdom. Eventually these three teach us that love is never lost, even when it seems to be. Love, when real, somehow, some way … lives on.

My favorite verse in all the Good Book is, “God is love.” (And the only one I’ve found that I really need.)

Indeed, love exhibits itself in all its myriad of flavors at weddings and funerals alike.

Gosh, I still love (at least a little) my first girlfriend. I always will (at least a little). And we do well to remember that even a little bit of love is a wondrous and powerful thing.

Without trying very hard at all, I can honestly still feel emotional for every gal I ever loved … even from long ago. Love is still there. This doesn’t make me a polygamist. It simply makes me honest about the joyous feelings I once had (however close to mere embers those feelings may have now faintly waned).

How much better might divorced or estranged couples ultimately feel about each other should they view themselves from this frame of reference, I wonder. Rancor, distrust, and anger are hard (if not impossible) to feel at the same time one is feeling the very powerful emotion of love.

Yes, it is easy for us to feel a sense of joy when we attend weddings. Hope is everywhere in the air.

But at funerals? By that point, isn’t any hope raised in vain?

When I attend a funeral these days, I find myself thinking how honored and glad I was to have known this person, as my life could have been that I had never known them at all. Acknowledging this wondrous fact instills a strong sense of gratitude within me.

I find myself being grateful that the deceased had a chance at life - even if they may have ended their chance early, by their own hand. Who are we to “judge” those who have chemicals in their brain that go awry?

I grieve for them, yes. But I also celebrate the fact that they once lived - and were loved.

I know they were loved because if I am attending their funeral they would have been loved (in some form or fashion) by me. Else I wouldn’t be there, in celebration that they once lived.

While at this young man’s funeral I overheard someone speaking about him with a tone of disgust and disdain, “His life was wasted.” I felt the emotion of anger quickly well up within me. I wanted to look at this someone and ask them who made them God. (Thankfully I somehow restrained those emotions at the moment. But our emotions are healthiest when they can be released somewhere, in some way, so I will mention it here.)

We know so little. Especially when we think we know so much.

If we love with an open mind and heart, we will find that there is much to be grateful about any life. And, therefore, much to be celebrated.

At weddings.

And at funerals.

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Many who read these words will, on a very personal level, understand such types of addictions.

But there are other “bad” addictions we may have, as well. Many of these we may not even be aware of (or be afraid to face).

Back when I was a teenager, a lady at church began ranting and railing about how “stupid” it was for anyone to become addicted to drugs or alcohol.

Then she began to cast out a few names. “You know, I’ve heard,” she said, “that so-and-so is on the stuff at night, away from church. And so-and-so pops pills whenever she can. Addicts are all around us. When we know who they are, we should all stay clear of such people.”

My mother interrupted this dear lady to remind her that she was also addicted to something.

“And what, praytell, might that possibly be?” the lady asked my mother.

To which my mother replied, “You are a gossip addict. You are quick and eager to pass on any bad information about anyone under the sun. Drugs and alcohol may hurt the body, but none of them will destroy the soul like gossip does.”

The lady was open-mouthed, but speechless, so my mother continued on.

“You need to put a string around your finger. Every time you find yourself ready to say something bad about somebody, that string will remind you to say something good about them, instead.”

My mother sure could “tell it like it is”.

Yes, we all have our addicitions. Some are good. Some are bad. The thing is: so many of us absolutely refuse to face our "bad" ones.

Yesterday I was the keynote speaker at an event in Bristol. Brothers in Christ Community Response is a local nonprofit founded and headed up by my friend, the Rev. Steve Davis.

This nonprofit seeks to give local housing and guidance to addicts in recovery. Indeed, those served are certainly the more “generally thought of” type of addicts - the ones hooked on drugs and/or alcohol.

I first met Big Steve (as I call him) when he was in inmate at the Bristol Jail, many years ago.

At the Jail, I began to have an unusually high number of new students come to my class (which I taught two evenings a week in the jail library).

When I asked why, the new students answered almost word for word, “Big Steve came and told me I had to go. I didn’t want to tell that guy no. He’s pretty tough.”

Yes, I had an amiable heart to heart talk with Big Steve regarding his methods for “bringing in the sheaves” to me.

These days I am honored to say that Big Steve now uses the power of kind words as his main method of persuasion, not physical intimidation. Big Steve is a dedicated full-time professional addiction counselor and church minister here in Bristol.

It seems the best among us can (and often do) get hooked on drugs or alcohol.

Such physical addictions don’t seem to follow any particular socio-economic group, race, or religion. If you are human, you can become addicted to such things.

Never say, “But I have the willpower to overcome addiction.”

Don’t kid yourself. If you are in enough pain, you will seek to relieve it. If you don’t believe me, then you haven’t yet experienced enough pain in this life.

Trust me. I’ve been there. As so many of us have.

Many of us, indeed, seem to have “addictive” personalities (meaning we are more “prone” to succumb to addictive behaviors). I count myself among them.

Having taught nearly two thousand jail inmates (most of whom qualifed as “addicts”), here is the most important thing I’ve learned about addiction; everyone has at least a few "bad" addictions.

Few people may want to hear those words at first. But they ring true, nonetheless.

However, there is Good News - we can learn how to exchange (or trade) our “bad” addictions in for “good” ones.

Simply put, we can exchange our “bad” addictions in for “good” ones.

As long as my life is filled with helping my fellow man, woman, child, and creatures with whom I share this world, I have found that my most “harmful” addictions do not so easily rear their ugly heads to entice me.

Serving others serves as “the string around my finger” for me.

I am hopeful that my sharing this particular approach might help the reader with whatever harmful addictions one may be having. (That is, if one is not afraid to own up to one’s own “bad” addictions in the first place.)

I have personally found this “string around my finger” method to be the Way, the Truth, and the Light regarding how to overcome most any harmful addiction under the sun.

No, you can't see the string wrapped around my own finger. But it is there. Indeed, I am mindful (and forever grateful) that is is always there.

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Politicians are apparently very fond of giving wonderful sounding names to their public school education programs. Names like "No Child Left Behind" and "Every Student Succeeds". Much like the word Communism itself, such ideas can initially “look pretty good” … at least on paper.

But in “real life” action? As we all know, such high sounding programs have often actually achieved the exact opposite of what they proposed to do.

I know. I was there. For a lifetime. Teaching in public schools.

I cannot begin to count how many times I heard teachers and principals say similar words to the following:

“Oh, don’t pay so much attention to ______. He is bright. He will pass the year end test easily already. To get our school’s scores up, we need to be paying most of our attention to the others. Let’s utilize our smart students to help us teach the other students the basics, enough to get them to pass the year end test.”

Now. Now. Don’t blame these teachers or their principals. They are all profoundly “judged” on how well their students (as a class whole) score on these year end tests. (If you have never been a teacher in public schools, it is difficult to describe the constant and intense pressure we daily face to “maintain” adequate classroom student scores on the Almighty Year End Tests.)

Blame governmental intrusion. Blame people in ivory towers far away who set the standards. Blame people who never taught a day in public schools in their lives, but who still make such laws.

But don’t blame your child’s teacher or school principal. They already know full well the ultimate stupidity of the Almighty Testing System in which public education in America has for too long been held hostgage.

An unintended paradox of all this political posturing to supposedly improve national test scores has been the very obvious result that American students (as a whole) have only grown ever further and further behind on both basic reading and math achievement levels. We are not gaining. We are falling collectively further and further behind. Every single year. More and more.

The reasons?

Well, we must admit there are many. Therefore, there is no silver bullet solution to this tremendous danger to the ongoing future of our republic … and to our form of democracy itself.

The premise of any strong republic is that the better educated its general poplulace is, the more wisely they will vote for those who govern them. Ignorance only breeds more and more bad choices at the political polls, as Thomas Jefferson so wisely predicted.

The answers?

Yes, there are answers. But the answers are not found in a year end test score.

Answers can be found by meeting the needs of our brightest students every bit as much as we currently strive to meet the needs of those students on the “other end” of the bell curve (something I found that public education actually does quite well).

Answers can be found if you put a dedicated, competent teacher in charge of their classroom of students - while removing the constantly looming specter of strict governmental intrusion. It's the method we used for a long time - and we built a pretty darn strong, smart country out of it.

One answer can certainly be found by realizing that something as wonderful and multi-factored as human learning can never be truly “measured” by a number. Therefore, no child should ever be equated with a test score.

If the Ancient Greeks (those marvels who first founded democracy) kept any record of their students’ test scores, we have yet to discover a shred of evidence of it.

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People sometimes ask me if my teaching at the Bristol Jail ever got dangerous.

I tell them not nearly as dangerous as umpiring behind home plate in a Little League game.

I coached and umpired Little League games in Bristol VA for eight years. I was made to feel extremely welcome as a coach, primarily I suppose because of my teaching so many children of the exact age that played in Bristol VA Little League.

I was asked to umpire games when I was not coaching. One fellow coach (who was also the parent of a child I taught) told me, “Mr. Talley, you’ll be a great umpire. All the parents respect you. You won’t have any trouble from anyone at all back there behind the plate.”

Well, not only did I have trouble, I sometimes caught more verbal flack than the average ump. Perhaps it was because I knew so many parents of the players and they felt more comfortable in “letting go” with me.

During my very first game behind home plate, the mother of one child I had taught began to holler out things from the stands … things like, “Mr. Talley, it’s a good thing you can teach, ‘cause you’re a terrible ump!”

At my next game umpiring home plate, she began to ride me again. To her credit, she’d often end her ranting and raving vocalizations with, “But we still love you, Mr. Talley!”

(I found that most people who yell derogatory things at umpires during Little League ballgames rarely know a hill of beans about the sport themselves. I can assure you that this dear lady ranked high in such a category. She did well to properly differentiate a baseball from a football.)

So the teacher in me got an idea. I asked a friend to secretly video this particular lady while she was in the midst of one of her verbal assaults toward the home plate umpire (yours truly).

I then mailed the video to this lady, along with a note asking that she sit down and watch it with her children. I added in the note that I knew she was a good person, and that all good people (including me) were allowed to make mistakes now and then.

The next game that I umpired behind home plate, she came down and leaned against the fence … directly behind home plate. There she stood, ready to hoot and holler, which she continued to do . . . with all the more unabated gusto than ever.

But this time her well-endowed vocal cords expounded forth different words. “Come on, boys, tonight’s a great night! We got a good man behind the plate. He’ll call everything as fair as he can! We love you, Mr. Talley!”

Then I heard her mumble from up against the fence behind me, just barely loud enough so that only I could hear … “Even if he can’t see a lick.”

I turned to look at her. She whispered a very sincere “Thank you” through the fence.

We both grinned ear to ear.

No, not every heckler listens to common sense. But there is apparently something strongly convincing about seeing exactly how one appears to others on a video highlighting one’s questionable behavior captured in real life action.

Another thing I did a time or two, whenever someone heckled this umpire loudly and incessantly from the stands, was to stop the game, take off my mask, go out to the stands, and promptly hand the mask to the verbal perpetrator. Then I’d say something like, “Sir, why don’t you put this on and take my place right now?” (Yes, with a smile. Always with a smile. My dad taught me long ago that you can say almost anything with a genuine smile and people will take it a lot better.)

But that took too long. And if I did it for every fan who yelled derogatory insults toward umpires, I’d be going to the stands all day.

I found out that Little League umpires take a lot of heat. And I do mean “a lot”. It takes a thick skin to do the job.

(I should add here that my friend, Fred Bowman, who was involved with Bristol Little League for 50 years, told me to just hang in there and become immune to whatever anybody yelled from the stands. I strived to heed his advice, but I was just not thick-skinned enough to shrug it off every time. Words can hurt.)

The teacher in me eventually came up with another great idea.

Whenever umpiring behind the plate, I began to call both teams out of the dugout before the game and tell them, “I am going to miss some calls during this game. I just wanted you to know ahead of time, so you won’t be surprised.

Sometimes a kid would ask, “Why?”

To which I replied with something like, “Because I’m human. And part of being human is making mistakes. That’s what makes a real umpire better than a robot. Because we’re not as good, you never know when a mistake is coming. It keeps the game a lot more exciting.”

Sometimes a really bright kid with his thinking cap on would retort, “But the game’s not fair, if you make mistakes.”

Boy, did I have a good comeback for that line.

I’d bend over, look them straight in the eye and reply, “Little man, whoever in this world told you that life was going to be fair?”

Yet another thing I did as an umpire, especially during my first few games, was to ask the catcher if a pitch thrown low was a strike. (I found that low pitches were the hardest to call.) So if I had taught the catcher and knew him to be an honest soul, and I was in doubt about a pitch thrown low, I would sometimes just ask the catcher what he thought it was.

The father of a player I had taught caught me doing this and became infuriated. He said, “You can’t ask another player to umpire. If you can’t see a low ball, then you don’t need to be back there behind the plate.”

To which I replied, “Watch a group of kids play sandlot baseball on their own sometime, without a single adult anywhere around. They do a remarkable job of calling their own games honestly. We need to reinforce such honesty when we can.”

Over time, I came to the somewhat regrettable conclusion that ranting and raving at umpires was just part of baseball Americana. I would bet all my days left on the planet that some fans would scream and yell if Jesus Christ donned an umpire mask and called a game behind home plate.

If you ever attend a Little League game (or any youth sports event under the sun) my friends, please be patient with the officials, even when they make bad calls (which they will do … because they are human).

Remember that others are being greatly influenced by your behavior.

Little ears are listening to every word you say.

Little eyes are watching every move you make.

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And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, then you likely ain’t from these here parts.

While hiking our local hills a few years back, my son and I purposely wandered off into a somewhat secluded local Appalachian holler (no, I did not misspell that last word).

As we sauntered up the holler, we were first met by a veritable slew of “No Trespassing” signs. I surmise that these signs probably held about the same amount of print as had been read in books during the previous month by the entirety of the local resident population. (See there … we even poke fun at ourselves, we Appalachian folk do.)

As my son and I walked on (yes, it was a public road) we soon came upon a sign nailed to a telephone pole that read “Beware of Mean Dog.” It was nailed right alongside about half a dozen other “No Trespassing” signs. And they were all nailed facing us, in the direction we were headed.

Public road or not, we had a decision to make.

We faced three choices:

1. Walk six miles back the way we came in.

2. Continue straight on up the narrow mountain road and risk getting chewed on by a dog.

3. Creep across a wobbly, recently washed-out bridge … meander through the woods a bit … then return to the road a little further up.

We chose number three.

Along our way we proceeded to meet a few of the local residents.

The first soul we came upon was working on a rototiller in his garden by the road. We sized him up as we strode by. He seemed to size us up even more quickly. He gave us one glance, then silently offered us the ever-so-subtle-but-socially-powerful “friendly backward tilt of the head” (a sign of universal acknowledgement and acceptance among us local Appalachain folk).

I should also note here that, whether or not they have college diplomas hanging on their walls, the people of Appalachia are every bit as smart as any Harvard graduate.

(If you doubt me … try asking a Harvard graduate to grow their own food, repair their own car, wire their own electricity, and scour the woods for plants and herbs to cure whatever ails them.)

The next soul we set eyes on offered us a ride on up the holler. Appalachian folk are known far and wide for friendliness, even to “outsiders” (long as we don’t think you are “lookin’ down” on us).

My son and I politely declined the kind offer of aid (which is something you’ve got to be careful about around real Appalachian folk, for declining an offer of help can be taken as an “I’m better than you” type slight).

So my son and I offered the honest excuse that we had “already set our minds to just foller the creek on up the holler.”

Honesty is appreciated everywhere, but perhaps nowhere more than in Appalachia. These folk don’t take well to bein’ “taken” or “lied to”.

At one point, we passed two elementary school-aged boys wrestling on a cliff above the road. Yes, I need to type the last part of that last sentence again; “two boys were wrestling on a cliff above the road”.

One boy yelled down, “Where y’all goin’?”

I yelled back up, “To find us a big ol’ bear to wrestle!”

With that one statement, the boys surmised full well that we were “one of them”. We had plainly acknowledged our exuberant acceptance of their rowdy lifestyle, all while throwing in a humorous reference regarding a favorite local critter.

We Appalachian natives love humor. Especially the kind you “gotta think on lightin’ fast” to get. We mountain folk maintain a quick-witted culture … contrary to what outsiders may have heard tell about us.

The final soul we came across in this particular holler happened to be mowing a lawn. She appeared quite surprised to see us moseying along the road, so she promptly ceased her mowing to walk over and jaw with us a bit.

My son and I bragged plum to the hilltops to this good lady regarding her lawn.

No, not a fake brag. Appalachian people can smell fake quicker than you can wink an eye.

It really was as nicely kept as any country club lawn I’ve ever gazed upon … and perhaps even more proudly and tenderly tended.

The last home in the holler displayed in plain sight for God and everybody to see a life-sized replica of a self-carved Bigfoot grinning buck naked on their front lawn. I had to take a good long gander to differentiate the shaggy primate from some of the locals who stood nearby. (Dang it! There I go again … poking fun at my own people.)

And as long as it’s ourselves we’re pokin’ fun at, we actually kinda like and respect it. It’s kind of an unwritten brand of friendship.

We just don’t much like “outsiders” pokin’ fun at us.

Because they get it wrong.

Every. Single. Time.

Much like they do when they try to say the name of this beautifully wild region of authentically true and independent people.

So … just for the record … if you want to feel right at home with us, don’t mispronounce our homeland.

Don’t say “Appa-LAY-shuh.”

Say … “Appa-LATCH-uh”.

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Of all the physically “pretty people” I have laid eyes on in my life … if I were allowed to choose one person who best exemplified the maxim, “pretty is as pretty does”, I would have to think long and hard to find one better than Anna Grace Parlapiano.

Anna Grace has won numerous beauty pagaents over the last few years. She has been Miss Greene County. She has been Miss Tennessee Teen. Just this past November, she competed and won the title of Miss All American, a national pageant in Columbus GA.

Currently Anna Grace is serving as Miss Tennessee Collegiate America and will compete at their national pageant in June for the title of Miss Collegiate America.

These days, beauty pageant winners don’t just get honored for their good looks. This young lady has been awarded a total of $17,000 in scholarships for winning these various pageants … money which she has put directly toward her education at ETSU.

But I want to tell you more about the “good” that this young lady does, as a direct result of winning these various beauty pageants.

Anna Grace told me, “One of my favorite things I like to do is visit veterans at the VA Hospital in Johnson City."

Anna Grace has also volunteered to visit many local schools, reading to children.

(I should also note here that she does many of her good deeds “completely on her own accord”, and not as a “must do” for her winning beauty pageants.)

Anna Grace is currently working as a pediatric medical assistant at an urgent care in Johnson City, all while carrying a full load of advanced college classes. She will graduate from ETSU in December of this year with a Health Sciences degree, before applying for PA (Physician’s Assistant) School.

I have been privileged to personally observe some of Anna Grace’s good deeds “in action” firsthand.

She has served as a “nanny” to two of my own grandchildren (which is precisely how I came to know this wonderfully good young lady in the first place). Anna Grace has been deeply involved in the education and care of Lenna Kate Talley and James Benjamin Talley, both of whom are pictured with her below.

To directly quote Anna Grace, her experience with them “has been a dream come true and taught me a lot of things that I will use as a Physician’s Assistant and mom one day!”

I have no doubt what a wonderfully caring Pediatric Physician’s Assistant that Anna Grace will someday be.

And if she is ever blessed to be a mother, I also have no doubt Anna Grace Parlapiano will teach her own children (not by mere words - but directly by her own actions, as she does now) that “pretty is as pretty does.”

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While hiking one February day several years back, I happened upon a young lady by the trailside, perched on a rock outcrop, gazing out over the river far below.

Following is some information I garnered during my initial quick “read” of this young lady.

She was beautiful. This part of my read didn’t take long. Like about half a second.

She was intelligent. On her backpack, which she had laid down on the ground behind her, was written the following quote from Tolstoy, “It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness.”

In my long experience in this world, I have yet to find a soul who quotes Tolstoy unless they are smart. I mean really, really smart.

She was kind. As I passed her by on the high overlook, I spoke to her, giving her my chirpy but always authentically friendly “Hello!” that I strive to give to everyone who comes my way in life.

She turned ever-so-slightly to wave a hand toward me. The small smile she offered was ghostly, completely devoid of any joyful or happy emotion.

I read her body language; this young lady was feeling absolutely overwhelmed by another immensely powerful and directly competing emotion.

She was sad. Deeply and tragically sad.

So I asked her, “M’am, I don’t mean to intrude. But are you okay?”

She whispered, “Yes. Thank you.”

But her eyes and body language spoke a different story. They collectively screamed out, “No, I’m in great emotional pain. Please help me, if you can!”

I walked toward her, speaking softly, using my ever-present humor. “I was once an elementary schoolteacher, and I’m an old man now, so I’m about as safe as anybody you could ever meet out in the middle of nowhere. Hey, can I take a look down there, too?”

Her mouth smiled. But her eyes did not.

As I peered alongside her down the long steep cliff toward the river, I said, “You know, when I was young I thought about jumping off a place like this. In fact, I thought about it again just about four months ago.”

Her face lit up with fear, as if I had just taken off an invisible mask. Her eyes flashed with equal parts denial and anger. “I wasn’t thinking about jumping,” she lied.

Then just as quickly, her face softened again, as did her words. “I’m alright,” she said. “But thank you for caring.

Not looking directly at her, but toward the beautiful river below, I continued. “It was four months ago for me. A childhood friend and I were both in love. Well, so I thought. Anyway, we were going to get married. Then a bolt from the blue hit. She messaged me she was leaving. No real reason given. But in a few days I found out she had been seeing someone else for quite some time. I’ve had some bad things happen to me in life, but that betrayal broke my heart.”

When I turned to look at her again, tears had formed in her eyes. She asked me, “But how did you know what I was going through?”

I had apparently “read” her well, piecing all the small details I had observed together and making an educated guess that I should share with her what turned out to be a remarkably similar life experience.

While I stood tongue-tied, my new young friend spoke on. “Will the pain ever go away?” she asked me.

Her eyes now pierced my soul. She was now intensely “reading” me.

I slightly hesitated to answer her question, so she asked, “Do you really think I will make it?”

I had long ago learned not to “just make up some nice words” at a time like this. Our best advice always contains both honesty and kindness.

So I said, “I can’t really tell. But I really think you will. Somehow, I think you will rise above this, forgive everything, remember everything, and make something great happen because you survived it all.”

The young lady said nothing in return. There was a long and awkward pause. I had become at a loss for more words. So I thanked her for talking with me and turned to go.

After taking a few steps, I heard a surprisingly strong and clear young female voice call out from behind me, “And I think you will make it, too!”

I was not the only one who was “reading people” that day on a high ridge above a river.

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It is the weekend of the Masters Golf Tournament, a perfect time for this article.

As for the subtitle, I can name many qualified candidates. I will begin with three of the most “naturally talented” Bristol golfers I ever saw play.

Bob Zeiger was the golf coach at Bristol Tennessee High School for over half a century. The “Zeig” could hit it a country mile. And pretty doggone straight too. Most of Zeig’s best birdies, however, were not made on a golf course. They were made over a long career of unselfishly building character in young people through the game of golf and his teaching in a public school classroom.

Jay Vandeventer’s pre-adult golfing career was filled with win after win. He went on to a wonderful collegiate career at the University of Tennessee and even played professional golf. A remarkable survivor of brain surgery to remove a tumor, Jay now makes his birdies raising a beautiful family.

Sherrill Flick may be at the top of my list as far as “pure golfing talent”. But Sherrill basically never played competitive golf again after high school. Instead, he went on to make most of his birdies away from the golf course … giving back to his community and church in countless, humble ways over his lifetime. I know. Because I saw it firsthand. Both on and off the course.

Some may say I could even name myself as a possible candidate. I won five individual Tennessee state golf championships at various levels by age twenty-one. I was also a High School All-American. My career, however, was far too brief. And much like the three previously named candidates, my best scores were made off the golf course. I spent most of my life striving to inspire Bristol’s elementary school children and Bristol Jail inmates as a teacher.

Of course, there are many other great Bristol golfers I could rightly name here for consideration. Some are “old timers”, long laid in the grave - Bill Hunt and Ken “Doc” Messorole, to name just two. (I hope my golfing friends forgive me for not naming all the worthy candidates here, as space in this article is obviously limited.)

In the long pantheon of Bristol’s greatest golfers, however, there is one name that ultimately stands head and shoulders above all others.

And that would be none other than the name of Jay Baumgardner. I venture that very few Bristol natives who ever got to play golf with Jay will disagree with such a choice.

I could go on to list all the many tournaments won by Jay - and the reader would understand why he is most deserving of the crown. His list of wins is almost endless … at the local, state, and national level - over one hundred tournaments altogether.

But instead of throwing a lot of numbers toward the reader, I will share a personal story or two. Stories forever trump numbers in helping us see people “for who they really are”.

To say that Jay was an intensely tough competitor is an understatement. Some who played golf with him even went so far as to claim he played golf with too much “gamesmanship”. The accusation I heard most often regarding Jay was regarding his “intentional slow play”, supposedly as a prickly way as to disrupt and annoy his fellow competitors. All these accusations eventually accumulated to gain Jay somewhat of an unsavory reputation, particularly among those who never got to know “the man behind the game”, as did I.

Let me tell you about how I came to know a very “different” Jay Baumgardner … much kinder and much more caring than his sometimes infamous on-the-golf-course reputation belied.

I was only sixteen when Jay was thirty-nine. He and I were playing head to head against each other in a local summertime tournament, the old Steele Creek Open. We were standing on a tee box, both of us tied for the lead, way ahead of the rest of the field, with only a few holes left to play.

Jay leaned over, put his arm around me, and whispered into my ear, “Benjie, I am trying my darndest to beat you today. But I almost hate to do it. You are truly such a nice young man and I am so proud of you. I also love your dad too. I think the world of him. But don’t you dare tell anybody I ever said any of this. It’ll ruin my reputation.” Then he winked and walked away.

Later on that summer, Jay called up my dad and asked if I could meet him at a local practice putting green. Jay asked that we be left alone, with no one else around, so he could teach me how to become an even better chipper of the golf ball.

This extremely selfless and sportsmanlike offer came from the most intensely competitive golfer I ever knew - a man who was always trying to beat me (and everybody else God ever allowed to breath) on the golf course.

Yet Jay sought to make me better, just out of kindness toward me. (I recently recounted this episode to Jay’s oldest son. He had never known a thing about it. His father had evidently long kept this good deed entirely to himself. As he likely did many such deeds. It was just Jay’s way.)

Of course, Jay refused to categorize his sincere and honorable effort to go out of his way to help me as a “good deed'“. When I thanked him for helping me, Jay looked at me and said, “Benjie, I’m only helping you because if you get better at golf, it means I have to get better to beat you - and I like getting better.” Then he winked.

Now there may have been a bit of truth to that statement, but I knew full well the main reason he helped me; Jay Baumgardner was not only Bristol’s best golfer, he was also one of our town’s best men. I know. Because I saw both of those attributes displayed in action firsthand.

Before Jay left me that day, he turned to me and said (along with a wink of course), “Now, Ben, don’t you dare tell anybody I was trying to help you. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

I went on to play head-to-head against Jay many times. I came to see that Jay actually seemed to somewhat relish his reputation on the golf course as sometimes “going too far with gamesmanship”. It seemed to me that he even thrived on it, ingeniously using it as a springboard to play his best golf.

Whatever was the reason for his seeming to “hang on” to his reputation as a gamesman, I am proud to write here and now that Jay Baumgardner was not only indisputably Bristol’s greatest golfer ever, he was also a wonderful father to his four children who loved him dearly, a true friend to many, and an honorable good man.

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If I burn a piece of paper, it “appears” as though the matter in the paper is completely destroyed; or at the very least, vanished into thin air, having at least somewhat less mass than it had before.

However, the exact same amount of matter exists before - and after - I burn a piece of paper. The matter only appears to be destroyed. It has simply “changed its form”.

That’s what resurrection is (whether we are talking physically or spiritually) - something which “appeared” to be destroyed that has simply “changed its form”.

Resurrection happens in nature. To everything. Everywhere. All the time. Whether we are talking about hilltops, hamburgers, or humans; nature endlessly re-uses the very same atoms - linked together in ever new and different forms - again and again and again, over vast eons of time.

Resurrection.

And if resurrection comes, again and again - one hundred percent of the time - to every atom of matter in our universe, then why not also to something so intricately and wonderfully made as are we?

As a child I taught once told me, “Mr. T., if everybody already knew that God was real and that there was a heaven, then nobody would need any faith at all. Because everybody would already know.”

Out of the mouths of babes …

Over the years, I found that children can often teach us much about life, about death, about faith, about resurrection.

The following are some more wonderful words that were voiced to me over the years - all from young children whom I once taught:

“Mr. Talley, if we already know we’re all going to die, then why don’t we all say we love each other more than we do?”

(To add to this little boy’s words would only detract from their beauty. What else need I say?)

Here is another …

“Mr. Talley, since I already know I’m going to die one day, I’m going to decide right this minute to be nice to everybody my whole entire life, even if they’re not nice to me.”

(The following words are from a little girl who was dying of leukemia, spoken when I entered her hospital room for a visit.)

“Look, Mr. Talley! Now I’m bald like you! But I’m glad I’m bald, because I always worried you felt bad about being bald. Now I know it’s not so bad. Like everybody says about dying. But I can tell them it’s not all that bad. I’m just glad I got to live. Not everybody gets to do that.”

(And just listen to the following words from a child who lost a beloved pet to death.)

“Mr. Talley, my kitten died. Everybody says I will see her again someday, but that doesn’t help at all. It only makes me sadder. So I’ve decided to keep her alive all the time even after I’m gone by teaching everyone to be so very, very, very kind to their pets.”

(The following words came from a child so wise that I dare say few adults could match her.)

“Mr. Talley, I love knowing that every atom in our bodies came from the Earth, and that the Earth came from the Sun, which probably came from an even bigger star that exploded very far away. It probably thought it had died, but part of it came alive in every atom that one day became me. I want to grow up and help people to not be afraid of dying … or of anything at all, Mr. Talley.”

(The following words are from a boy who lived a very “disadvantaged life” in many ways, to say the least. He was later murdered as a young adult, right here in Bristol, not too long ago.)

“Mr. Talley, I was thinking … dying can’t be bad. You taught us that nothing in nature is really bad. We just think it is, from where we stand. Volcanoes are good. And earthquakes. And germs. And all that stuff that seems bad to people right there that are close by when things happen. But if we were far away and in a different place, we could see that it’s all good.”

It all sounds to me like wonderful material for an Easter Sunday sermon on faith and resurrection.

On second thought … no need for the sermon.

The children have already preached it.

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I won’t shy away in this article from the tragedy Jason suffered. It is too much a part of who Jason became … and overcame. In fact, I hope to connect how his life’s worst tragedy became also his greatest triumph.

I taught Jason in elementary school. I taught him in third grade. Then I taught him again in fourth and fifth.

At Van Pelt Elementary School, we gave a Citizenship Award each year to our “best all-around” student in each grade. It was voted on by the teachers who taught that grade.

Jason had received the award in third grade. When we fifth grade teachers voted a couple of years later, Jason was voted for the award again.

Then one teacher spoke up. She said, “I really think we should choose someone other than Jason. He has already won this once.”

To which I spoke up, “You show me a better all-around kid than Jason Hearl, and I will change my vote.”

Jason received the award, yet again.

Jason spent the night at my house several times. He was great friends with my own son, David, who was Jason’s age. They played in the woods together. They played Little League All-Star games together. They played joyfully, at all times. “Joy” could well have been Jason’s middle name. Everything he did, Jason seemed to do it with a sense of joy.

Sometime after Jason’s tragic event, another former student of mine, Bristol’s Briana Morris Fillers (you can look her up on Facebook), rounded up a bunch of former classmates (and Jason’s former teacher, yours truly) to go visit him.

Jason was almost completely immobile. He could only lay in bed. He also could not speak to where we could understand a single word. Yet he smiled constantly, filled with joy that we came. It was also easy to tell that he understood much of what we were saying to him, by the look in his eyes each time we spoke.

Here is a pic I personally took of that event. My son is the second to Jason’s right. (We all actually visited him for several years running, each time near Christmas.)

Jason loved sports and had been a great athlete growing up. He had a very loving family who all loved him dearly. Yet now, here he lay, unable to speak and scarcely able to move.

Jason could have given up. He could have bemoaned his fate. He could have sunk into the depths of despair (which I’m sure he no doubt did, many times, again and again, as would any human being in his situation).

Yet no matter how often despair may have brought him down, Jason did not stay there.

Despite the dire circumstances Jason had been handed from life’s deck of cards, his spirit chose, instead, to always rise and return to joy.

I cannot write about Jason without feeling more joyful about life myself. Nor can I write about him without thinking of ways to turn my own life’s tragedies more into triumphs.

No matter the slings and arrows that life hurls toward us, Jason showed us (in fact, he lived it daily) that we can always choose to respond to tragedy and despair … by living life with joy.

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John was the long time CEO and President of Strongwell Corporation here in Bristol, personally building up the company for over half a century. He now currently serves as the company owner and Chairman of the Board of Directors.

Countless thousands of people have been employed locally over the years here in Bristol at Strongwell, due in large part to John’s expertise and guidance.

John is a true dichotomy of what is best about the human race, being that he is both very bright and very caring. He has the highly trained and uniquely mechanical mind of a brilliantly intelligent engineer, but he also has the deep empathy and huge heart of one of our region’s greatest philanthropists.

It’s nearly impossible to talk about John without also mentioning his good wife, Ann, and their two children, Spike and Jeff. All are bright, giving individuals themselves, in their own right. I personally know this to be a fact, because they have all given to any cause I ever asked them to give, regarding Bristol’s children. As in “always”. 100% of the time.

(By the way, Ann, a former educator like myself, also once upon a time played “Miss Ann” on the ‘60s syndicated television show, Romper Room.)

A few years back I stopped in to visit John at his office, and he promptly gave me a personal tour of Strongwell. I was absolutely in awe of all they do there.

Under Tickle’s leadership, Strongwell has long earned the reputation as the recognized world leader in pultrusion and pultruded fiber reinforced polymer composites.

I could fill this entire article with a list of all the accolades, accomplishments, and philanthropic achievements attained by John Tickle and his family. But I will not. I do better telling stories. And personal stories are actually what people like most. So … here is my favorite John Tickle story:

About ten years or so ago, I called John (just as a friend) and asked him if he would talk to my son. “Just spend a few minutes with him, please,” I asked. “Just talk. About anything. I want him to hear one-on-one from people like you.”

John eagerly obliged my request.

My son came back from their meeting together all aglow. He told me, “Dad, I now know ‘the secret’ to Mr. Tickle. It’s all about having something to rise and shine and be excited about every day. Mr. Tickle compared your passion for teaching with his for building up businesses and people. Having passion for whatever you do and throwing your whole soul into it. That’s the secret.”

John Tickle has undoubtedly been one of the greatest treasures and public benefactors our twin city has ever known.

I know of no one who has helped more local people, in so many different ways, for so long, as has John Tickle. Thankfully, he is still going strong at 84. 🥳😍

The thing is, we can all be a lot like John Tickle. The secret is to find a great and worthy passion within our own lives … something we can rise and shine and be excited about every day.

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If the reader has ever seen me interact with a child, you will know that I immediately transform into a profoundly “playful” mode.

About six years ago now, when I announced my imminent retirement from teaching elementary school, a concerned and caring colleague came to see me.

“Ben,” she said, “I know you are retiring this year and I worry about you. I seriously worry about your mental health. You have ‘played’ with children all day long for most of your life. What will you do now?”

My colleague was right. I was sometimes verbally reprimanded (or whispered about) by adminstrators or other teachers for having "too much fun” while teaching my students.

“You need to grow up, Mr. Talley,” I even heard directly from one administrator.

(I should also interject here: for every colleague or administrator who didn’t understand my playful interaction with children, there were likely at least ten times as many who did. I am forever grateful for that fact.)

But there was “method” to my “madness.” I had done my research; children learn better when in a playful mode. These days the scientific research has become overwhelming: children better retain whatever it is you are trying to teach them when you reach them with a “sense of play and fun”.

“Make learning fun,” was my teaching mantra.

It actually doesn’t take a lot of formal research for any of us to know the value of making learning fun. Watch most any grandparent with their grandchild. Most all of us seem to instinctively know how to engage in fun play with children.

So why don’t all teachers/caregivers “play all day” with their students, especially in public schools?

There are likely two great factors. One is surely the “control” factor. Teachers and administrators are constantly, moment by moment, keenly aware of “losing control” of a classroom. It is perhaps a classroom teacher’s greatest fear when supervising a group of children.

The other great factor may be visual. If children are not seen sitting at their desks quietly (or these days - glued to a computer screen), then it can “appear” that they are not learning as much. And whether we admit it or not, in public education we are often very much about “looking good” to the public. After all, the public pays the taxes that keep us all in business.

However, I found that the public absolutely and overwhelmingly loves it when a teacher integrates a sense of play into their students’ learning.

Yes, it takes a bit of risk to play meaningfully and get silly with a group of children. But the rewards are so unfathomably great, both for the teacher and student alike.

Ask any former student of mine. I am confident they will be quick to tell you that my classroom was filled with intermittent bursts of laughter and a constant “sense of play”.

I should add here that I incorporated this same “philosophy of play” into my teaching at the Bristol Jail. It may have, in fact, worked even better there! The men often told me that they had hated school because it was so boring to them. I sought to make it “anything but” boring for them.

A sense of play makes us all feel young again. And we all know that feeling childlike is good for our minds and our bodies, regardless of the date stated on our birth certificates.

I hereby publicly declare that I fully intend to continue to “play all day”, for as long as my mind will let me.

And someday … when I grow old (I mean really, really old), no one will be able to rightly say that I have entered my second childhood.

Because I will have never left my first one.

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