Striving to win (with grace and honor, yes, but still striving to win) is a such a big part of life … for us all. An “everyone gets a trophy mentality” does not help build the healthy competitive spirit all children need to do well and excel in life, at whatever it is they may do.

However, we all know that there are exceptions to virtually every rule. Some children have “special needs”. These children may not be physically or mentally capable of reaching the same skill level of most other children who do not have such disabilities.

Don’t ALL children deserve a chance to play team sports?

Which brings me to my greatest Little League adventure.

In February of 2017 a friend of mine asked me to help coach a couple of new teams in Bristol Virginia Little League … teams consisting entirely of children with special needs/disabilities. At first I respectfully declined, as I had so many irons in the fire already.

After “giving it a think” for a few days, I readily accepted, and remain forever after immensely glad that I did. I have never been more enthralled at any sporting event in my life. And, yes, I’ve seen major league baseball games and the Masters golf tournament.

Imagine coaching a game where every single player cheers as loudly for their opponent as they do for their own team.

Imagine no one ever screaming out to high heaven about an umpire’s call.

Imagine nothing buy joy on the faces of the players, no matter what happens during the game.

Imagine every player not so possessed with “winning” the game, but more concerned with doing their very best and having some fun along the way.

But you don’t really have to just imagine all of the above … for such a team is a reality. They are called Tri Cities Champions.

(These Tri Cities Champions kids not only play baseball … but also compete at basketball, golf, and bowling.)

Yesterday I played in a local fundraiser golf tournament to raise money and awareness for Tri Cities Champions. This wonderful organization, headed up by my friend, Eric Jenkins, provides competitive team sports opportunities for children (and young adults) with disabilities.

Below is a pic I took yesterday of a young man named Jamie, who sank a putt for our team on the par three 15th hole at Bristol Golf Club. Jamie only needed one try - and he made the putt. I never saw more joy on anyone’s face on a golf course. Ever. Anywhere. Not even Tiger Woods when winning the Masters.

(By the way, here is an amazing fact: Golf raises more money for charity in America than all other sports - football, baseball, basketball, hockey, etc. - combined.)

A society can measure itself in many ways. One of those ways is surely by the amount of meaningful opportunities it gives to people with disabilities.

And for any reader who has ever played a team sport (I would include band, choir, and cheerleading under the heading of “team sports”) … then you know full well the meaningful “real life” values gained from learning to participate as part of a “team”, as we must all eventually do … so many times in so many ways … throughout our adult lives.

Thank you, Tri Cities Champions, for helping to provide such an opportunity for ALL our children and young adults.

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Here I am holding my date last night for the 1976 Bristol TN High School Class Reunion - my sweet 5-year-old granddaughter, Lenna Kate Talley.

A classmate told me last night about how her own grandfather took her as a five-year-old to his class reunion - some 63 years ago - and how it has always been one of the most memorable nights of her life. (I hope Lenna Kate remembers last night in much the same way, if she makes it another 63.)

Here is my classmate, Becky Clark Blevins, with Lenna Kate. Becky has possibly helped make better the lives of as many people in Bristol as anyone I could ever name - I’m talkin’ about a total in the tens of thousands. Becky was the Director of Volunteer Services at Bristol Wellmont Hospital for so many years I cannot count. (However, none of that surprises me. Becky always had a big heart for others.)

My classmate Mike Johnston is pictured next with my date. (Gosh, my date sure knew how to attract the guys.) Mikey is battling advanced Parkinson’s disease and can scarcely speak, let alone walk … but none of that prevents him from bringing joy everywhere he goes. As he always did.

Next is my classmate, Steve Belcher, and his lovely wife.

Steve has been blessed to have had two lovely wives in his lifetime. His first, also a beloved classmate of ours, passed several years back.

Steve and I grew up playing all kinds of sports together. Whenever we’re together now, we still laugh in the same big way we always did.

There is no friend quite like an old friend. As the old saying goes, “New friends are silver. Old ones are gold.”

Now here is Roy Sensabaugh. My friend sold cars in Ohio as a career. I cannot imagine how pleasant an experience it must have been to purchase a car from Roy. Imagine the “opposite” of high pressure sales and you have Roy.

Laid back, kind, honest, smart, and good-souled … all. (It will come as no suprise to all who know him that Roy has always been that way.)

As the night wore on, I began to experience an epiphany of sorts. (An epiphany being defined as: a sudden, striking realization, understanding, or manifestation of the essential nature or meaning of something.)

It came to me that “we remain who we are” - and that’s a good thing, no matter who we are.

Our basic personalities don’t really change from 18 to 68. Not really. Not that much at all.

The classmate who 50 years ago talked mostly about himself and all he has done is still that guy now. (But you see through all that and know the tragic reason from childhood as to why he does it … so you just love him all the more.)

The same little cliques tend to form, same as they did 50 years ago. (Though you now realize we all have our little cliques, if only in our minds, so you are not so judgmental as you possibly once were.)

Our looks may change a bit. I actually like my current 2026 hairstyle (with head shaved). I’d look about half past funny with my 1976 hair on my 2026 head.

In another 63 years if my beautiful date from last night takes a future grandchild of hers to her 50th high school reunion … I’m bettin’ that Lenna Kate (though then more physically wrinkled and naturally gray) will still maintain pretty much the same basic personality she had at five years old - sweet, brave, shy, zany-fun, adventurous, empathetic, and socially smart as a tack.

That “we remain who we are” I count as a good thing. A very good thing, indeed.

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Do you do it with poison?

A gulliotine?

Or a gun?

There are many ways to kill another human being.

But what if I told you that I have discovered the easiest way to kill someone?

It took me the better part of a lifetime to realize it. Perhaps I instinctively knew it at a much younger age, but did not want to face the fact that I knew.

So what is all this I’m talking about?

I’m talking about the use of our tongue, of course.

If you want to try to kill someone, the best way to do it is to spread half-truths and gossip about them.

I’ve seen it done. A thousand times. I’m sure the reader has, too.

Of course, I’ve done it (I am ashamed to say) myself. And since the reader is a human, too … so have you.

Let me tell you a story here … as stories can often reveal to us the truth much more vividly and profoundly than mere cold hard facts.

One sunny summer evening back in the mid ‘70s, I was sitting at a booth in a downtown Bristol restaurant. Three other young adult male friends were sitting with me.

Unbeknownst to any of us, a former girlfriend of mine was already sitting (unseen) in another booth nearby us (a fact unknown to me until decades later).

This girlfriend and I had very recently broken up on sad terms. (How do any teenagers in love break up and it not be a sad thing to do?)

I’m sure my friends and I talked about all kinds of things, as teenage boys will do. No doubt that girls were part of our conversation that day.

Fast forward now twenty-two years. No longer 1977, it is 1999. I am teaching elementary school students as a career.

About midway through that school year a certain little girl enters my classroom as a new student.

I feel as if I’m in a time capsule. This little girl looks like the absolute “spittin’ image” of the aforementioned old flame from ‘77.

No wonder.

I was soon to learn that this little girl was her daughter.

Now I should mention here that I always endeavored to imbed some type of “life lesson” within virtually every academic lesson. I felt that children should not only learn science from me, but learn to be good and caring citizens as well.

A lesson I often shared was by our entire class playing what I called the “gossip game”.

This game would begin with me saying something like, “Alright, ladies and gentlemen, if I can whisper words in someone’s ear and then we all take turns passing those same words around the class by whispering in each other’s ear, and if those words come back to me at the end being exactly the same … I’ll buy us all an ice cream from the cafeteria at lunchtime today.”

I would write down my initial exact words on a piece of paper and lay it face down on my desk, to be picked up and read aloud to the entire class by the last student in the chain - but not before that last student had stood and spoken aloud the exact words she had heard passed on. If those words then matched exactly with the words I had written down, the whole class got ice cream.

Of course, the words never came back to me the same as I had originally said them. Usually they were not even close.

I came to see why there is little wonder that we humans tend to gossip so much. It seems we tend to inherently mishear, misunderstand, and misinterpret even the most basic factual information (let alone juicy social gossip), no matter how high our motivation may be not to do so.

This game would be ended with a life lesson regarding “being mindful of our words” when we are talking about others. I always told the class, “Words can hurt even more than sticks and stones.”

As I ended with those words that particular morning, I noticed that silent tears had formed in the eyes of my new little girl student.

So when we went out for recess later that day, I gently took her aside and said, “I saw tears in your eyes this morning. I am sorry if playing that game upset you. I apologize to you right now if it did.”

She then turned and spoke so softly to me that I could scarcely hear her. “It’s not me you need to apologize to, Mr. Talley.”

“Please tell me more,” I said.

I will summarize what this dear young child told me that day.

“Mr. Talley, my mother called the school yesterday to find out the name of my new teacher. When she found out, she was so happy for me. She told me you would be my favorite teacher I would ever have. But I also heard her talking last night on the phone to one of her friends when she didn’t know I was listening. She told her friend a story about how you hurt her a long time ago by saying something bad about her to a bunch of boys. She said she was sitting in the next booth when you all were eating downtown one day, but you couldn’t see her sitting near you. You told those boys her perfume smelled worse than she did. You made them all laugh so hard. It was funny to you all. But it hurt Momma so bad. I heard Momma say she began to think she really did smell bad and didn’t even date anybody else again for a very long time. Momma said she had never known you to lie, so she took what you told those boys as the truth about her. You hurt Momma so bad, Mr. Talley. She said your words made her feel like she had died. You tell us not to use words that hurt others, but you did exactly what you tell us not to do.”

All I could think to say was, “I need to tell you both how very sorry I am.”

I will write no more here regarding any further conversation I had with this sweet little girl and her dear mother (other than to say I willingly ate a lot of crow when I did so).

But if you are like me, dear reader, we do well to pause and wonder … how many people have we unknowlingly (or knowingly) hurt with our words?

Often we may never know the damage our tongue has done. I certainly would never have known how badly my careless words had hurt one particular dear soul long ago, had not Fate and a courageous little girl both intervened.

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If you ask them if they are Chinese, they will tell you they are American.

Their “ethnicity” is Chinese, yes. But their patriotism, allegiance, and citizenship are American.

I taught some of the family when they were younger.

All are now out in the world doing great things.

World citizens, yes, they are. But Americans, foremost.

I love this family so much, for so many reasons.

They represent everything that is great about America ...

and about being a good human.

This wonderful family has for decades owned and operated a Chinese food restaurant on State Street in Bristol, called the Shanghai. In this pic you can see all the children, the parents, and their deeply beloved grandmother, who is seated front and center.

Over the past thirty years or so, I have eaten at the Shanghai more times than I can count.

I personally taught three of the children of this family when they were in elementary school. I still feel very close to them all.

Four of the five children in this family graduated as valedictorian of their respective class while at Bristol Virginia High School (and the other came pretty darn close).

You might want to read that last sentence again. How amazing a fact is that?

All the children eventually went off to prestigious colleges, many of them far away from Bristol. Colleges with names like Vanderbilt, Yale, Harvard, and Dartmouth. One attended college closer to home at ETSU. All five of the children earned full academic scholarships. All five are now grown and doing wonderful things out in the world, making their careers here in America.

Three of the children are now living on the West Coast. Two others are on or near the East Coast. This wonderful family has America covered.

(Word also has it that the children are intent on funding some type of scholarship opportunity for graduating seniors at Bristol Virginia High School - to be given annually in honor of their parents.)

I will tell you a brief story about one of the children of these honorable parents. This story is about Devon, the youngest child.

Devon was the one you could often find playing classical music on the piano (even as a young child) there at the back of the Shanghai.

When I taught him in elementary school, Devon begin to “slack” a bit.

His mother asked me, “Why he not make straight A like the others?”

I replied, “He’s every bit as smart as any of the others. But he also likes to have some fun.”

She said, “He can have fun making straight A.”

I told her I would talk to him about it, which I did.

Later, when Devon was a senior at Virginia High School, he wrote an application letter for a particular scholarship. Here is an excerpt from that letter, regarding my talk with him about how he should not “waste” his strong intellect.

Devon went on to make straight As the rest of the way, even while taking the most rigorous of subjects all the way through high school. He graduated as valedictorian of his class.

If you were ever a patron of the restaurant while the children were growing up, you’d see a couple of remarkable things going on while you ate there. You’d see the children either helping out in the family business or studying away at a table. You never saw any of the children sitting idly or wasting time. Ever.

An immensely strong work ethic and an abidingly deep honor of family; these two tenets were obviously instilled within these children since birth.

I will now return to the words I wrote at the beginning of this article. Good storytelling often repeats itself, as I will do here … right about now:

“If you ask them if they are Chinese, they will tell you they are American.

Their “ethnicity” is Chinese, yes. But their patriotism, allegiance, and citizenship are American.

I taught some of the family when they were younger.

All are now out in the world doing great things.

World citizens, yes, they are. But Americans, foremost.

I love this family so much, for so many reasons.

They represent everything that is great about America ...

and about being a good human.”

However, in a couple more weeks it will all be over. The parents are retiring. I cannot think of anyone who has earned retirement more than these people.

My hopes are that the restaurant will be sold to another wonderful family and live on in some way. If so, I will certainly give any new owners a try and eat there (and perhaps even write about them here).

Dear readers, you have two weeks left to eat at the Shanghai. (I plan to eat lunch there today, myself. Not kidding.) Please also consider going by sometime over the next two weeks if you possibly can. If you don’t have time to eat, just drop by and tell this wonderful family how much you have appreciated them for rearing such very bright and wonderfully good children who are all now scattered across America, changing the whole world for the good … and please thank them for being such an integral part of Bristol for the last several decades.

Thank you to all this good and wonderful family … for all you have done for Bristol, for America, indeed, for all of humanity.

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I didn’t recognize the number, so I let the caller go to voicemail.

When I played the voicemail back, I heard someone begin to sing, “Buh-buh-Benny and the Jets …“

The voice went on to say:

“What’s goin’ on, Benny boy? Are you out hikin’ with the bears? Or maybe teachin’ some good ol’ boys down at the jail? Or are you out helpin’ some homeless guy in an alley somewhere? Hey! I wish we were both together right now playin’ golf again. It’s Sully. Give me a call back, my man. I love ya.”

It was a voice I had not heard in nearly forty years. But I immediately recognized its owner as none other than Bristol’s own Frank Talmadge “Sully” Buchanan.

Talmadge, Tal … or Sully, as many close friends called him … came from one of Bristol’s most highly respected families. His father, Frank Talmadge Buchanan Senior, was a locally renowned and much-loved Bristol surgeon.

Sully’s brother George was a classmate of mine, a fellow member of our 1976 Bristol THS graduating class. Both George and Sully were wickedly witty … and a heckuva lot of fun just to be around … a tribute to their mother every bit as much as to their more famous father.

(Even though George … or Dutchy, as we called him … and I were the same age and true friends, it was his older brother Sully to whom I developed a stronger bond. We can struggle to pinpoint precisely “why” we become special friends with someone - and when we try to put it into words we virtually always come up short in our description, so I will not attempt to do so here).

Sully went on from THS to attend the University of Virginia and graduated with a degree in psychology. He later told me, “I knew I was crazy. So I knew I could understand crazy people.”

Makes sense to me.

But instead of shrinking heads, Sully headed to sunny Florida instead. There he eventually spent forty years as a PGA golf professional.

Upon his retirement as a golf pro, Sully decided to go into the business of selling used golf balls. With his many Florida golf connections, he had a large ready-made market. All he needed was people to retrieve the balls from the sometimes Gator-infested thick foilage of Florida golf courses.

“Benny boy,” he told me, “I’m gonna hire me a whole slew of Mexicans.” ("Mexican" is a name by which Sully referred - and certainly not derisively in any way - to any person of brown skin.)

Within a matter of just a few weeks, Sully called and told me, "I wish I could hire a million Mexicans. They’re not afraid of gators. They all work hard. They're all honest. And I love 'em all like brothers."

Back when we were students together at Bristol Tennessee High School, Sully had sported long whitish-blonde frizzy hair (and I do mean LONG hair). People often commented how much he looked a lot like a '70s rock star.

Yep, Sully looked a lot like a ‘70s rock star … and he was every bit as "cool", too.

I should not fail to mention here how much Sully adored his "little girl” … his daughter. I rarely talked with him that he didn't tell me something “great and wonderful” that she had done. (What people talk about most tells you who they are. Pretty much.) To Sully, it seemed that everything his little girl did was great and wonderful.

Sully also dearly loved his little brother, George “Dutchie” Buchanan. I don't think either one of the Buchanan boys could tell a lie. They were both as forthright and honest as any two people I ever knew … and like their good parents before them, they both did a lot of good in this world.

(By the way, often “just out of the blue” I would receive super cool text messages from Sully. One read, “Benny boy, why don’t you just go jump in a lake … I’m talkin’ South Holston Lake … after your next climb up Holston Mountain?” Another read: “Benny, what size hat you wear?”)

Even after being gone for nearly half a century, Sully still loved Bristol every bit as much as when he grew up here in these hills. Below is a pic of us together at a friend’s birthday party, taken during a visit back here after his retirement.

As you can see, Father Time eventually took Sully’s long blonde locks and replaced them with a shiny dome … much the same as Father Time has done with me. Though here I am covering my head with the new hat Sully had just given me.

Sully would sometimes "just out of the blue" send me money in the mail. The last mail I received from him included a note which read, "I'll always love Bristol, Benny. Spend these three Ben Franklins on the poor or somethin' like that in Bristol. Hell, you'll know what to do with it."

Not long after receiving those words, I got word from his brother that Sully had died, the victim of a sudden fatal infection that set up during routine back surgery.

What a true follow-your-own-drummer … what a fun and free spirit …
was Talmadge “Sully” Buchanan. He was what I would call a “real life rock star”, in all the ways that count most.

Sully may have spent forty years in Florida, but on one of his last visits back home to Bristol he told me, “Benny boy, I was always proud to tell people where I came from. I always told them how cool it was to be from Bristol.”

You were pretty dang cool yourself, Sully ... way more cool in real life than any '70s rock star.

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Real life stories and facts.

Bristol’s Rhythm and Roots Reunion is one of the nation’s premier music festivals. It is not just regional. Indeed, it is not just nationwide. With Bristol having been officially recognized by the US Congress as the actual birthplace of country music, the reknown of Bristol’s Rhythm and Roots has spread worldwide.

For nearly a decade, yours truly manned a booth on State Street during the annual Rhythm and Roots celebration. I sold books and t-shirts, with all the profits going to benefit local children’s endeavors.

Of all the many people I spoke with over the years from that booth, I remember one man above all.

This man told me he was from France. He wanted to buy one of my self-designed t-shirts (pictured below).

Had this man never told me he was from France, his beautiful accent would have given him away. English, spoken with an authentically full French accent, has to be one of the most pleasant sounds made by the human voice.

That and the fact that he looked like a movie actor portraying a member of the French Foreign Legion. The man was ruggedly handsome in that swashbuckling sort of way that I imagine is often just part of being from France.

While he was purchasing a shirt, I spoke to him. “You know, my father spent some time on a beach in France once upon a time … at a place called Normandy.”

I didn’t know how the man would react. So many years had passed since the Allies had freed France from the grip of the Nazi regime.

This man lit up like a French candlestick. “Sir, I thank your father from the bottom of my heart. I thank all of America.”

To which I replied, “How do you like our Bristol?”

The man spoke again, this time exuding even more reverence. “I have traveled to six continents. I have seen many magnificent places. I have met many wonderfully good people all over this world. Yet I have never been to a town quite as friendly as yours.”

Wow. Bristol. Just wow.

Historically Bristol has often been called the “twin” cities, because there exists both a Bristol VA and a Bristol TN.

Each twin city has its own completely separate government. Indeed, each Bristol city lies completely within different states - one is in TN and one in VA.

Perhaps the longest held community celebration of our twin city is the annual V-T game … when Bristol Virginia High School and Bristol Tennessee High School meet up every year to play each other in a football game. The 112th annual meeting of these two teams was played just this past Friday night.

By the way, I will sneak in here a clip of my grandson, Aaron Rose, making arguably one of the greatest runs ever made in all those V-T football games over the years. If you think I’m just a “bragging blinded-by-love Popaw”, just watch the video yourself. Ten (count ‘em, ten) separate Viking players hit my grandson (number 2 in the video) on this play, yet failed to bring him down before he crossed the goal line.

By the way, it’s a downright shame that Bristol icon Shamas Dougherty is no longer able to attend these games, due to his age and failing health. Please look up his name in a couple of my previous blogs here. Shamas is forever a Bristol legend. Though he has long been called the THS Vikings’ biggest fan, Shamas has somehow become universally loved on both sides of our good town.

Speaking of both sides of our good town, I “take to both” … as we say in these here parts.

I am a 1976 graduate of Bristol Tennessee High School (indeed, our 50th class reunion is less than a month away). I am, therefore, a Viking through and through.

Yet I taught for 30 years in Bristol VA Public Schools. My children and my older grandchildren all graduated from Bristol Virginia High School. I am, therefore, a Bearcat through and through.

Yes, two things can be true at the same time. I am 100% a Bristol Tennessee Viking. I am also 100% a Bristol Virginia Bearcat. I love both sides of our wondrous one-of-a-kind-city that straddles two states on either side of her center. The story of the Twin City of Bristol is surely a story found nowhere else in all the world.

I plan to write more hometown stories … much more … in coming editions. I plan to write more specifically about Bristol’s Birthplace of Country Music Museum. And the Shanghai Restaurant. And State Street itself. There is more … so much more … about Bristol to share.

I promise.

And when we folks from “the heart of Appalachian America” make a promise … we deliver.

To wind up today’s edition, let me again defer to the words of my world-traveler friend from France, who so exuberantly told me all those years ago, “I have traveled to six continents. I have seen many magnificent places. I have met many wonderfully good people all over this world. Yet I have never been to a town quite as friendly as yours.”

Bristol VA and TN … it’s a good place to live.

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As a teacher, I sometimes got asked by parents, “Mr. Talley, is my child smart?”

I would tell these parents (as politely as possible, of course) that they were asking the “wrong” question. They should, instead, be asking, “In what ways is my child is smart?”

I taught a child who repeated third grade (not by my personal recommendation, by the way). He made generally poor grades all the way through school … and eventually dropped out of high school.

This high school drop out is now a contractor in NC, building million-dollar homes, and living in one of them himself. As a young boy he was obviously highly mechanically intelligent all along, but that “type of smarts” was never even measured (let alone put at the premium for him as it should have been) during his public school years.

I taught another child who made straight A’s and scored perfect scores on all those governmentally-mandated Almighty year-end tests. To this day, he has never found meaningful work as an adult.

(I should also interject here that we do well when we remember that “smarts” is not everything. Persistence and hard work and “finding our way” go a long way, too.)

All good teachers recognize that all children are “smart”, each in their own way, and you can bet we do our darndest to help them find out how.

My question is; do you do the same with your child/grandchild?

Or do you do like so many - and go primarily by that school report card?

I was 30 before I realized I was “smart” (in the more “traditionally measured” sense of the word).

I had returned to school at ETSU to become a teacher, when I took a Mensa practice test in a class I was taking there. Since I scored extraordinarily high, my professor ( a dear man named Dr. John Taylor) suggested I take the “real” Mensa test in a more qualified setting.

So I sat for the official version and found out I had an IQ that ranked in the 99th percentile of the general population. This surprised me because I had always honestly thought I was “a bit dumb”.

I often can’t tell you what I ate for breakfast. And I sometimes momentarily forget where I’m going in a hallway - I may have to stop a moment to remember (nope, not kidding).

Throw in my “attention deficit disorder” (which simply means I have a very difficult time focusing for sustained periods of time on a single task - actually a lot of folks have it) to my educational equation and I had a brain not-so-fit for standard school. A different kind of “special education” student I was … and so remain. And there are legions of children sitting in schools across America right now who fit that same description.

I spent 30 years on Earth without realizing in what ways I was “smart” (which I found out - for me personally - was primarily anything to do with creativity, words, and logic). But how many countless millions of us never really find out “in what ways we are smart”?

In our region of the world, there is even an added cultural factor that can keep many locals from realizing in what ways we are smart.

And that would be our dialect.

I speak (as likely do many readers of these words) with an authentically thick Southern Appalachian Highland (aka “hillbilly”) dialect - of which I’m rightly very proud. Even in our neck of the woods, we too often assume that we Appalachian natives can’t be “that smart”, simply because of our dialect. Too many of us are our own worst enemy on that account, and therefore remain self-inflicted “diamonds in the rough”.

However, the main thing I see holding us back in American public education - from helping all children find out how they are smart - is our (governmentally mandated) emphasis on high-stakes testing (which in reality can coerce many, if not most, teachers to primarily “teach to the test” - sacrificing creativity and ingenuity; things we greatly need to enhance in our young people).

Your child may or may not be “smart” along standard scholastic measures (such as report cards, governmentally mandated testing, or formal IQ tests).

However, your child may very well be “very smart” in other ways; art, music, mechanics, dance, athletics, or social skills … or even in an area yet unrecognized by most people.

My father and I had what one might call diametrically opposed types of intelligence. Dad could repair anything mechanical that was broken. I mean virtually anything. A car. A sink. A stove. A voting machine. A stapler. Anything.

I am very much lacking in this type of mechanical aptitude. Heck, as a teacher I even handed staplers off to be fixed by the nearest mechanically inclined student whenever one broke in my classroom.

My father, however, had some trouble reading. Yes, he could read, but he never really liked it that much. He much preferred to work with his hands.

And he surely couldn’t comprehend and enjoy reading Shakespeare, or books about astronomy, quantum physics, and cosmology - as does his son.

So who was the “smartest”, my father - or me?

Well, it totally depends on what test you might give to measure our specific individual intelligence.

The brighest owl on Earth will look dumb if you measure its intelligence by how well it eats poop (whereas a dung beetle will qualify as an unparalleled genius on a test measuring its singularly meaningful niche of being smart).

My friends, you will do few things more meaningful in this life than to help your children/grandchildren find out “in what ways” they are smart.

Let them try a sport. Let them try art, dance, music, mechanics, chess, Scouts, volunteer work, anything-under-the-sun that may interest them. Neither you nor they may ever know in what ways they are smart until you “expose” them to new possibilities.

Whatever you do, don’t let school tests and report cards dictate the intelligence level of your child.

Don’t limit them to “what you think” they may be smart at. Introduce them to many different possibilities.

Help them find out in what ways they are smart.

Yes, you. Who else is better to do it?

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One very sad day about a decade ago, Rex took his own life.

The reason I wrote that last sentence is because that’s the main thing so many people who knew Rex seem to remember about him when I mention his name.

But Rex deserves to remembered for so much more than one bad decision he made when in a tragically complex and delusional state of mind.

Like all who die by their own hand, Rex lived a life prior.

And that is the life I choose to remember.

Rex Gearheart was a good man, a wonderful father, a great educator, and a former superintendent of Bristol VA Public Schools.

Rex did as much for the children of Bristol VA as anyone I have known in my lifetime. I will type that sentence again, because Rex deserves it. Rex did as much for the children of Bristol VA as anyone I have known in my lifetime.

His life was a bright light to many among us, including myself.

Rex cared particularly for the poor, which made me love him all the more.

Rex’s light shines on in countless wondrous ways. Every time I stoop to help the poor and needy in Bristol, I feel Rex’s spirit within me. Some may dwell on the darkness of how he took his own life. I choose to remember how graciously and constantly he gave light to so many families who still live on among us.

Some children live in a world that most of us who read these words would not recognize.

Instead of choosing between pizza and hamburger for dinner tonight, the family of the little girl in the pic below will be choosing between raiding a nearby dumpster or going hungry again.

Yet, even for such children, there is hope.

There exists in America a light shining so brightly that she and her family can see it, even from where they are … and if they incessantly travel toward it, that light will lead them out of darkness.

If you love democracy, my friends, then support American public schools. Every chance you get.

Don’t be one of those people who sit around constantly condemning what they don’t like about public education. By doing so, such people (whether they realize it or not) are ultimately also condemning the future for all our children and grandchildren - no matter whether they attend public or private schools.

The chance for every child in America (no matter how poor) to receive an equally great public education makes our entire republic stronger, better, more vibrant, more interconnected, more … American.

Without strong American public schools, American democracy has about as much chance as this little girl … if she did not have American public schools.

Thank God, she does.

Thank God, we all do.

Prostitutes may very well be among the most misunderstood people on this planet. During the many late nights I once spent out wandering among the poor and downtrodden of this world, I came across a few such “ladies of the night” over the years.

I ultimately found that when we speak badly of such people (as so many, even the best among us, are sometimes prone to do) we are really only talking about ourselves.

One lady of the night told me, “If you think about it, Mr. Talley, most everyone prostitutes themselves at sometime in their lives. How many wives give it up when they don’t really want to, to get something out of their husband? Sometimes people do things for love. Sometimes people do things for money. It could be a new car or a shopping spree, but we all give something up in some way to get something else in return. It’s just the way the world works.”

Call her words a dark view of life, if you’d like. I call it shining light on how much we are all much more alike than we might think.

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Imagine that you are a child. (It’s not that hard to do, right?)

Again, I must stress … imagine that you are a child. (Or else reading this article will not seem as real to you.)

Imagine that you have just been intentionally burned with a cigarrete … for spilling your milk. “And if you spill anything again, I’ll burn you again until you learn!” This from someone who is supposed to love you and protect you.

(Note: regarding this simulation, it does not matter whether you imagine yourself as a boy or a girl, as either can suffer such similarly terrible fates in real life.)

Imagine that you have just been sexually molested by your mother’s drunk boyfriend, while your mother is mindlessly drugged up in the next room. You don’t even know how to describe what keeps happening to you. All you know is that it leaves you shaking and ashamed, in both your body and your soul.

Imagine that your little stomach is in knots from hunger so ravaging that you cannot fall asleep. Food is available there where you live. You are just not allowed to eat it. If you try, you will be mercilessly beaten with the sharp buckle end of a belt. “You’re on punishment!” you are told, though you are not quite sure what for. You know you have school the next day … and you will be in trouble there for falling asleep in the only place your feel safe. But even if you are banished to “a silent lunch” from a teacher for not paying attention in class, you will at least still get food to eat. Finally … far into the night … you fall asleep … and dream of a safe place that does not exist.

Or does it?

Enter Isaiah 117 House.

When children are taken from their home (due to abuse or neglect from their caretakers) they now have a safe place to go until foster care is implemented.

Isaiah 117 House greatly reduces the trauma of transition by providing a home-like environment, clean clothes, food, and emotional support for local kids entering the foster system.

(Isaiah 117 House gets its calling directly from a verse found in the Old Testament Book of Isaiah, one which instructs us to: “Do right. Seek justice. Defend the oppressed.”)

The children served by Isaiah 117 House have been through enough trauma to last a lifetime. Suddenly they find a safe place. There they receive unconditional love, decent food, clothes, shelter, and toys (basic things that all children everywhere should have).

Your new hero or heroine (someone called a social worker) is finding you a new place to live called a foster home - a place where you will be cared for and loved, and no longer violenty abused and neglected. In the meantime, you feel safe (a feeling you have not known in a very long time, if ever).

The place you await for foster care is not a child welfare office, a hospital, or a police station (which are often common options in lieu of an Isaiah 117 House). It is a comfortable loving home. Indeed, it is a house … a house filled with loving people and all the comforts of a good “normal” home (a safe place of temporary transition where you feel unconditionally loved until you enter your new foster home).

This past Friday, I played in a fundraiser golf tournament on behalf of Isaiah 117 House at Clear Creek Golf Course, in Bristol VA. I got to meet the new support coordinator of this House, Logan Grace Hastie . I am pictured with Logan below.

Once upon a time I taught Logan as a little girl in elementary school. People like Logan are the angels that connect children who’ve suffered at the hands of a literal hell on earth to at least a touch of heaven - a place of unconditional love and safety.

A new Isaiah 117 House is slated to open in Bristol VA and Washington County soon. I understand one is already up and open in Bristol TN. I also understand, and am grateful, that there are currently over 60 such houses in our region.

Yet … unfortunately, the need is still there. It is hard to build enough of these safe sanctuaries to meet the actual unimaginably dire and horribly graphic reality that exists for so many children living right here in our midst.

Something can be done.

Something is being done.

You too can help.

If interested in providing foster care in Virginia: https://www.dss.virginia.gov/supporting.../foster-care/

If interested in providing foster care in Tennessee:

https://www.tn.gov/dcs/program-areas/foster-care.html

Everyone please visit:

https://isaiah117house.com/

Please consider a donation to this most noble of causes. If you’d like to donate specifically to the new Isaiah 117 House in Bristol VA/Washington County, please state your wish on the site.

Imagine again being a child … and imagine the wave of relief feeling that you will never have to be beaten, burned, molested, neglected, or starved. Ever again.

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Maybe it is a bit more than pure coincidence that “dog” in the English language is “God” spelled backwards.

What other living being among us can teach us more about the full meaning of “unconditional love” than can a loyal dog?

If you’ve ever been blessed enough in this world to have been loved by a dog, then you understand my words here. Completely.

If you have not in this life yet been so blessed, my friends, then you cannot possibly fully understand. And you are to be fully forgiven for that.

If you are not a fellow dog lover (I am reserving a column for my fellow cat lovers at another time), you can also be forgiven for now moving on from any further reading of my words here. In doing so, however, you will have missed out on reading about one of the greatest life lessons - and love stories - you may ever know.

Bella Dog (yes, that’s what we called her) came into our lives once upon a time. My son “rescued” her as a pup. (I am convinced that such “rescue” dogs also eventually “rescue” us with their love - and return it to us unconditionally - a hundredfold.)

Bella Dog was half pit bull and half greyhound, a beautifully put-together species, both swift and strong. Before my son rescued her, Bella Dog had suffered severely traumatic physical and mental injuries as a very young pup - having previously had her skull bashed in by someone you might (or might not) call human.

Over time Bella Dog continued to develop other health and anxiety issues, so my son and his dear wife eventually gave her to me - knowing I had much more time to care specifically for her.

Bella Dog always had my heart. And I evidently always had hers. She would howl sadly every single time I left the house without her. And she would squirm and squeal with what I can only call uncontrollable fits of joy upon any sight or sound of my return.

We hiked together somewhere every single day. We never (as in never) missed a day. Some days I took her twice, she loved it so much.

In a word, Bella Dog and I became inseparable. In fact, during our last ride to take our daily hike together, I looked at her and said, “Bella Dog, I’ve been hopin’ a gal would someday come along that would love everything about me just as I am. As I would her. And it finally happened.”

Little did I know that one beautifully bright Sunday morning (some three years ago now) was to be Bella Dog’s last day on Earth.

The last two pictures I ever took of her are shown here; Bella Dog loving on my dear granddaughter, Lenna Kate.

Early that fateful Sunday morning I took Bella Dog hiking up behind Avoca Elementary School in Bristol. This dog always minded me extremely well - perhaps better than any dog I ever knew (the only exception was when she saw a rabbit or geese). So up along the edge of the woods behind the ballfields near Avoca, I unleashed her to let her run along free with me a bit.

No sooner had I done so then I saw what grazed quietly in the open grassy field below us.

A flock of geese.

Bella Dog took after them in her own full flight. With her speed and strength, she easily caught up with them. (I should also note that I have no doubt Bella Dog almost certainly would not have harmed the geese. She saw all this as a game - a literal wild goose chase.) By sheer horrible luck, or fate, or the grace of God (or perhaps all three) she followed beneath the flying geese all the way to the Volunteer Parkway, then on across the four lanes of traffic and into the Avoca Christian Church front lawn.

I ran after her. Fast. Although I can hike 20 miles straight up and down mountains, I hadn’t run 300 yards in a straight all-out sprint in maybe 50 years. The lactic acid quickly built up in my legs. They suddenly quit working just before I reached the highway.

At that same moment Bella Dog turned and came running full speed back across the highway toward me. (I later kept reliving that moment in my mind, time after time. If only I had made myself run for maybe 3-4 more seconds I could have crossed the highway and gotten to her in time to save her.)

I do know that the last thing she saw in the instant before she died was me. She was running full speed toward me, with her eyes fixed on mine. I saw it all plain as day. She wore the most loving and excited look on her face, as if ready to tell me of her adventure chasing the geese.

Other than spending time with me, running full speed ahead was perhaps Bella Dog’s favorite thing to do.

The only solace I have had regarding her death is noting the fact that Bella Dog died looking at who she loved the most, while doing what she loved to do the most. That and the fact that her death was instantaneous. She apparently felt only a slight split second of pain. Her neck was completely snapped by a motorcycle going at full speed.

After hitting Bella Dog, the driver never even stopped to check on her. The collision didn’t slow him down in the slightest. He just continued to drive away. There were no other vehicles near Bella Dog at the time, in any of the four lanes. If she had made it past the lone motorcycle, she would easily have made it safely back to me.

My son, who loved Bella Dog every bit as much as I did, paid to have her body cremated. I have her ashes in an urn for now. When we eventually hope to feel more up to it, my son and I intend to spread some of her ashes along her favorite trail in the woods up behind Sunnybrook (exactly where some of my ashes will be spread after my body is cremated someday, too).

I suppose I will always feel a strong sense of guilt related to Bella Dog’s death. (Yes, we can all be prone to do that when those we love pass away.) Indeed, it is very difficult to describe this feeling fully. Bella Dog trusted me to protect her - and I failed. I did not expect the passage of time to fully relieve me of this guilt, and I can assure you that it has not. I feel my sense of guilt is still highly justified. Once again, my friends, as with so many things in this life, one must have experienced this feeling in full to truly understand the breadth and depth of it.

Upon knowing how deeply sad I felt about Bella Dog’s death, a friend sent me the following words, which I needed to hear. “Sweet Bella lives in the joyful moments of your existence. And that’s where she’s calling you to now.” In time, I have at least somewhat learned to heed these wise words. I am trying very hard to do so now, even now.

All in due time. Grieving must come first for the mind to heal - and each of us processes grief in different ways at different rates.

I never held an ounce of ill will toward the hit-and-run driver of the motorcycle. Though I do wish he could somehow know what a deeply loving soul he took out of this world (however accidental his actions may have been). Maybe he will know someday, somehow.

As is the way of dogs, I’m sure that Bella Dog will run to meet this man someday at the Rainbow Bridge - giving her full unconditional forgiveness, an act (seemingly impossible for so many humans) of which all dogs are divine masters.

Indeed, we can learn much about life - and about death - from a loyal and loving dog.

Even those who had their heads bashed in as pups. Maybe … even … especially those.

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It was my first day ever at Bristol Tennessee High School. The previous year I had attended Bluff City Jr. High and most all of my friends went on from there to East High School out in the county. Yet somehow (due to another story I will not tell here) I wound up being a Tennessee High School Viking.

So there I sat … a lonely, shy freshman in a room filled with people I did not know.

I don’t remember a thing about that first day, except my chemistry class. A man named Frank “Doc” Maples was my chemistry teacher.

In what I would come to find out was a commonplace superpower of his, Doc sensed my inner feelings - my discomfort and alienation. So near the end of class he came over to me, bent low and whispered in my ear:

“Young Benjamin, welcome to Bristol Tennessee High School. I can tell you are sad about it all right now. But you will make new friends here. You are gonna love my chemistry class and you will absolutley loooooooove being a Viking. Now wipe that silly frown off your face right this instant and do whatever you do the rest of today with joy, young man.”

Then Doc sashayed away. (Doc had a way of sashaying everywhere he went.)

In time I would learn that you simply could not be around Doc for long without feeling a sense of joy.

Doc was not only a chemistry and biology teacher. He also served as the trainer for the football teams at Tennessee High from 1956 - 1982 (hence the name “Doc”), as well as cooking every pre-game meal for each football team every year.

Doc only missed two THS football games in 60 years. (Dear reader, you might want to read the monumental dedication entrenched within that last sentence again.)

During the long-time Arbys Christmas Basketball Tournament, he served as Hospitality Director; cooking, directing and serving meals for as many as 400 people, twice a day.

Indeed, Frank “Doc” Maples was beloved by many.

Mimi Kind, a teaching colleague of Doc’s: “I loved him so much!!! I have many Doc stories! I remember when I was pregnant and would be craving chocolate, I would send a kid upstairs to tell him. In just a little while he would send down two huge pieces of fudge…still warm! Yum!”

(By the way, I once visited Doc at his home in Elizabethton, not long before he passed away. Of course, he had to fix me something to eat.)

Though he never married nor had any children of his own, a specialty of Doc’s was making handmade quilts for newborn babies. When he found out a young couple was about to have their first baby, a quilt made by Doc’s own hands often came their way.

No, Doc never married … nor ever even dated so far as anyone seemed to know. He instead dedicated his life, 100% of it, to the students at Tennessee High School. (That, and taking care of his dear mother during her last years at their home in Elizabethton.)

Former student, Nancy Godsey Butterworth: “Oh, how I adored that man!”

Former student, Lisa Meadows Crisman: “He was the favorite teacher for everyone!”

Former student, Tom Mullins: “One of my favorite teachers of all time! Teacher, trainer, pregame meal cook, and Interact sponsor.”

Former students Doug Cooper and Tara Tolbert: “What a character! Did a split in front of our chemistry class.”

Doc was not all fun and games, however. He could flat out teach. In fact, he was the 1961 Science Teacher of the Year in Tennessee.

Former student, David Greene: “He was a creative teacher who really worked to get me through chemistry. He had such a kind heart. RIP Doc.”

Doc also had an “equal rights” penchant about him. Without saying a single thing about race, he made all ethnicities feel treated with equal dignity in his presence.

Same with the monumental “gender gap” which existed (and still too often does) back in the day. He made girls feel like they were “smart” at science. Not only did he make them feel it, he showed them.

How fitting then that the Doc Maples Holiday Hoops Classic is part of his lasting legacy at THS. Established in 1996, this multi-day December event honors Doc by bringing together the best girls basketball teams in our area to play each other. (THS did not have a girls basketball team when I was there, a fact Doc often overtly lamented aloud.)

Doc made it to 90. He’d be 101 if still with us.

Rumor has it that Doc practically had to be “forced” into retirement from his full-time teaching position. He didn’t retire until age 78, which is older than any public school teacher of which I have heard.

As Doc would say, “Just hush your mouth and thank the good Lord above for it all.”

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I had just entered the home of a student whom I was teaching at the time. A couple of steps past the front door, I nearly tripped over what I thought might be a dead body. I was horrified. The mother of the home and her son, who had both answered my knock at the door, each dexterously (and apparently mindlessly, as well) stepped over the body on their way toward the kitchen. Mom motioned for me to follow.

I stood frozen at the doorway.

Then Mom yelled back at me, “It don’t matter if you tromp over Clyde on your way. He came in dead drunk again last night and passed out in his favorite place. If he raises up, I’m a-gonna bang him upside head with this here skillet. I just can’t resist it.”

Then she mumbled, “Best he don’t wake up anyhow. He ain’t never got nothin’ good to say about our boy. Mr. Talley, how about you? You come here to tell me how bad my boy is, too?”

I took off my ever-present hat, looked her straight in the eyes, and said, “No, ma’am. I have nothing but good to say about your boy. May I stay a couple of minutes and tell you about the good things I’ve seen him do in school?”

Her mouth flew open to nearly match the width of mine upon my entry to her home. Her hard eyes softened. Her previously raucous voice lowered almost to a whisper. “Ain’t nobody ever says nothin’ good about my boy - especially from school.” Then she hugged me and cordially invited me to stay.

“I’m about to stir up some fried baloney sandwiches!” she proudly announced.

I graciously accepted her offer, sitting down at the kitchen table to watch Mom fry baloney in a big iron skillet.

This lady promptly proceeded to fry baloney and swat the surrounding flies with equal aplomb (I even nailed one of the flies with my hat) - all while she eagerly listened to me tell her good (and true) things about her beloved son.

Just before she laid out the first batch of baloney, I heard her drunken husband begin to stir from his stupor. Mom disappeared from the kitchen, followed by the wretchedly thudding sound of a frying pan hitting a human head.

Indeed, this lady could multi-task quite well. She served me stale bread and fried baloney (along with possibly a fly or two) all while promptly returning her husband to his previously unconscious state on the floor.

Neither the mother nor the child acted surprised. In fact, I surmised that this scenario was not a totally uncommon occurrence within their humble abode.

Yet - in spite of having to juggle all those responsibilities while cooking dinner - this good lady made sure I had the best they had to offer in their world. Indeed, she and her son made me feel loved and accepted - and completely “at home” - as much as anyone possibly could.

At a knock on a different door (at a house bordering the Virginian Golf Club in Bristol), a student’s grandparents invited me into their multi-million-dollar mansion with a big ol’ fancy swimming pool - to gorge on the finest food your mind can possibly imagine.

I had just stopped by to say “Hi” and to brag on this family’s grandchild, who was a student in my class. I came wearing my customary visiting attire; old jeans, even older hiking boots, and (of course) my trademark hat.

To these people it didn’t matter if I came dressed (or smelled) like Blackbeard. The fact that I happened to drop by while this family was throwing a big party for important business clients didn’t stop them from making me feel as if I were worth a billion dollars - simply because my visit showed how much I loved their grandchild.

These good people, each one dressed in attire that may have cost more than all the clothes I bought in a year’s time, made me feel right at home. In fact, at my entrance to their humble abode the grandfather abruptly paused the dinner party proceedings for a moment. He immediately invited everyone there to stand up.

Then he said, “Let us all offer a toast of honor to this gentleman. He is my granddaughter’s teacher!” It didn’t matter to this man and his wife what I looked like or how little material wealth I may have had - they could tell how much I loved and appreciated their granddaughter. And that was the most important thing to them.

I’ve found that there seems to be a disturbing myth in America - a false narrative that people generally “don’t want visitors just dropping in”.

I’ve found quite the opposite to be true. I’ve found that people are “starving” for just-drop-by friendly visits - as long as one is mindful to stay only a brief time and stay positive while there.

My friends, if you are at all able, please go visit someone this week in their humble abode.

One visit can make a difference.

In their lives … and yours.

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Our ancestors lived and thrived in significantly segregated tribes for countless millennia.

Each tribe lived separated from the “other tribes” - those who were deemed to be “not like us”.

In order to survive, different tribes often competed over the same territory and resources. Therefore, we most assuredly did not see people who belonged to other tribes as being our brothers and sisters.

“We” were not like “Them”.

And we could not let Them become like Us. Because if we did, we were smart enough to know that fewer of Us would have the resources we needed to survive.

Fast forward to today, when our ancient xenophobic tendencies (whether they serve to actually help us survive now or not) remain deeply entwined within humanity's shared gene pool and countless cultures.

Witness the nearly 200 sovereign and independent nations which presently cover planet Earth, even as I type.

(As a brief aside, consider the United States of America. Yes, we have many great faults - several of which I often confront here in writing - but our Constitution recognizes, by law, that we are all “created equal”. This great American intermingling of differing cultures, ethnicities, religions, and politics has led to arguably the “most just” and “inclusive” nation that has yet existed on the planet. Yes, we can rightly be proud of that. And, yes, we as a nation are still far from being completely just, just yet.)

However, even most of us marvelously inclusive Americans still tend to think of our citizens as Us, while thinking of all other nations as Them.

For our nation - indeed, for all of humanity - we now need to collectively learn how to look upon every single member of our species as a brother or a sister.

(That is, if we truly want peace on Earth.)

In short, we need to dismantle our ancient xenophobic tendencies and learn, instead, how to look upon Them as Us.

I will share here an astounding example of how I know that such a thing can be done, and is not completely out of humanity’s reach:

For many summers now on end, I have taken hundreds of younger children hiking in the wild woods. I intentionally assemble the children into “mixed” groups - to better induce the learning of invaluable social skills.

Whenever I have watched younger children interact and play together, I rarely see even a hint of bigotry or prejudice (unless, as is sometimes the case, they have already been greatly swayed this way in a home environment by their caretakers).

But in general, with very few exceptions, I see pretty much universal acceptance of each other “as equals” among young children (no matter their superficial differences in skin color, religion, sexual identity, ethnicity, or socio-economic status).

By the time we are adults, we have often learned to unlove, mistrust, and even h;ate those whom we perceive as being “different” than us. The origin of that fact is at least somewhat understandable. As alluded to earlier in this column, throughout human history (and our even longer prehistory) it has likely not always been in our best interest (if we wanted to survive) to love everyone as if they were our sister and our brother.

But we live in a different world now.

We now live in a world where our mutual global survival rests on our willingness to learn how to be more like little children. It may sound corny or unattainble to some, but we need to learn how to see all humanity as our brothers and sisters.

A little child I once taught in elementary school looked up at me one day and said, “Mr. Talley, I’ve heard grownups say that lovin’ everybody is hard. But it really ain’t that hard. What’s hard is when people don’t love each other.”

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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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