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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A few years back I became determined to find her.

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

Yes, love can do that. And often does.

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

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

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

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

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

Like being in love.

Like feeling grief.

Like feeling gratitude.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At weddings.

And at funerals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The reasons?

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

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

The answers?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We both grinned ear to ear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes a kid would ask, “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remember that others are being greatly influenced by your behavior.

Little ears are listening to every word you say.

Little eyes are watching every move you make.

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

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

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

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

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

We faced three choices:

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

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

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

We chose number three.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because they get it wrong.

Every. Single. Time.

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

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

Don’t say “Appa-LAY-shuh.”

Say … “Appa-LATCH-uh”.

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