Fridays With Willis

In the 1960’s, Jackie DeShannon and her brother Randy were noodling on songs for an album they were working on. They remembered their mother saying “Put A Little Love In Your Heart” Jackie—impacted by all the stuff going on in the sixties, felt that love is a word we all need to hear. After recording, she called her mom and said, “I think I have just recorded the best song I ever wrote!” It reached number 4 on the Hot 100 in August 1969—and continued to rack up awards.

These lyrics salve our distresses; Think of your fellow man / Lend him a helping hand / Put a little love in your heart…You see it’s getting late / Oh, please don’t hesitate / … And the world will be a better place… / For you and me / You just wait and see / Another day goes by / Still the children cry … If you want the world to know / We won’t let hatred grow / Put a little love in your heart…

In June 2024 Randy, Jackie’s brother, told The Nashville Tennessean, I wish everyone would wake up with ‘Put A Little Love in Your Heart.’ … (And) just just a moment or two to be kind. A moment or two to … be a little more open to people because we all need to pull together because this country is not just segregated with this group and that. America is everybody and we need to reaffirm that within ourselves and … try to understand what it’s like to be in someone else’s shoes. Isn’t that the path to us being the best again for individuals and as a nation right here?

When this song hit the charts I was Wesley Foundation campus minister at Georgia Southern. It planted a renewing seed by it’s recurring theme …put a little love in your heart… My students, yea, students on Campuses across the nation, were in turbulent unrest—a loving spirit seemed absent. About the only group showing love in the tumult was The Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). Under the tutelage of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. , every morning after fasting and prayer, they faced angry, violent crowds; they showed love by not responding violently; by absorbing physical blows and virulent cursing, they taught the world that violence is not overcome by violence in return.

Since those days, United Methodist Student campus ministries in Georgia have grown dramatically in love, and strength. Their enormous outreach to others —in comparison to those of the 1960’s boggles my mind. Zach, my grandson—who spent 4 years in UGA Wesley Foundation, and a number of my close friends testify to its love, and outreach. …love in your heart… is not a magic potion. It does not transform as quickly as does a fire, nor as dramatically. Jackie’s brother Randy, said, Isn’t …(a little love in your heart) the path to us being the best again for individuals and as a nation right here?
© Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

You may have noticed—there are signs that Spring is here; trees and plants are greening, blossoms are popping out daily, and as I write this, pollen—that cuss-ed and bless-ed yellow breath of spring—is descending unmercifully. As Ray Stevens sang, “…everything is beautiful it it’s own way…” ; it is also true of Spring. Despite any downsides, we wouldn’t have it any other way. Spring brings renewal to the earth and a welcome renewal to human spirits; —and gardening comes to mind.

I am chagrined to confess the error of my attempt at gardening—therefore I share advice of experts instead my own. My disaster started with a half acre plot—planned for a building sometime in the future. I bought a hoe and a rake, and I hired a farmer to prepare the soil and lay out rows for my garden; there I planted peas, okra, butterbeans, squash, corn, eggplants, and beans.

Little green shoots peeking through rich soil thrilled me! Early each morning before going to the office, and every afternoon after work, I took my hoe and chopped weeds. Volunteer Nutgrass started taking hold—faster than I could hoe a row. I joked that before I reached the end of a row, Nutgrass was already popping up at the other end. That was almost true. Time and events colluded, exhausting me; by Fall, I had no garden, a reverse return on investment, and no interest in starting again.

As the promise of Spring draws near many people turn (or return) to gardening . Mayo Health Systems says there are numerous health benefits in gardening—among them—Increased exercise, Improved diet, Time in nature, Reduced stress levels, and Social connection. These five benefits stand tall in the face of health issues currently wreaking havoc in the land. A healthy gardening journey, though enticing, is not easy; sticking with a rigorous exercise program for improving health isn’t easy either. Results from gardening can be rewarding—in many ways.

For neophyte gardeners, Mayo Clinic recommends —Don’t take on more than you can handle (as I did) because that could cause more stress (it did). The larger the garden, the more work it is. It can quickly overwhelm you (ditto) if you don’t have enough resources or time to care for it (yep!). You can always increase the size of your garden in the future. Also, Build a network—find other people who are interested in gardening. Learn from each other’s successes and failures. —Unfortunately, I didn’t follow that advice with my garden, which is why I never dipped deeply into gardening.

Gardening, as Mayo Clinic research shows, provides a robust network of lasting health connections. There were things wrong with my dream on so many levels; the key is what Jesus made clear to his followers; count the costs. He was not speaking only of financial costs. Dreams immersed in serious thought and planning can foil a fantasy’s fatal blow.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

I admit it—my handwriting is terrible; always has been fairly poor. But after retiring—I suppose due to less discipline—it has gotten worse. Sometimes I have been unable to read a reminder note I made to myself. Paige and I were married for fifty-seven years, and having been a first-grade teacher, she often said, “I wish I had been your teacher—your handwriting would at least be legible.”

The decline in teaching cursive handwriting in some schools is sad to me. Recently, I heard of an elementary school child who said, “Mom, here is a note my teacher sent for you. She wrote it in code.” (actually a neatly handwritten note). My dad had distinctive handwriting; having flourishes and personal quirks. He had been taught Palmer’s Guide to Business Writing (1894), still popular into the the mid 20th Century, circa 1950. Dad had a writing box—an old neatly crafted box. In that box he kept a fountain pen—that must be filled with ink from time to time. The box had a bottle of blue “Skrip Ink,” writing paper, envelopes, and stamps. Every Sunday afternoon he wrote letters to his parents, who lived in different states.

As a kid, I was interested in his swirls and swags as he wrote those letters—but I was especially impressed with his signature. It rivaled that of John Hancock. When I was in the eight grade, my class received new English books. Over time that year, I practiced developing my own distinctive signature—in the middle margin of every page in the new book. I would be smarter today if I had had studied every page as carefully as I had crafted my signature. (as an adult, I realized I had damaged that new book). Years later, a bank teller, looking at my signature said, “We won’t have to worry about anyone forging that signature!” I took that as a compliment. It wasn’t.

Computers and other technologies have all but voided cursive writing. That is sad. In May, 2024 NPR published the following report: …giving up (Handwriting) this slower, more tactile way of expressing ourselves may come at a significant cost, according to a growing body of research that’s uncovering the surprising cognitive benefits of taking pen to paper, or even stylus to iPad — for both children and adults.

As a writer, I know this cost from experience; when I find an article I want to remember, and only highlight, copy, and paste it into a document, I barely remember it later or its main idea. For a number of years, I kept a hand written journal. Then I decided to start this Blog. The handwriting method was great for my mind—but to proof-read, I had to, well, read it; which my handwriting of late made that extremely difficult. So I compensate, by re-reading maybe as many as twenty times or more editing, proofing, and mulling over. It is not the same as the process of handwriting. But it does help give my cognition something of a workout.

Maybe you, as do I, appreciate, and even occasionally keep a handwritten note from a friend, or family member. We do so because we know that person spent time, attention and care by writing this note. Unlike a message texted, or in another electronic medium, we know this time, we received a part of that person’s time, attention, and most of all—their care. 

©Copyright 2025 Willis H. Moore

There are eighty million Methodists in the world associated with 80 member denominations (according to the World Methodist Council). They range all the way from Wesleyan Methodist, Independent Methodist, and in between, to United Methodist. Begun in the 18th century unintentionally by Father John Wesley, they grew exponentially in the New World. The Methodist denominations continue to grow today. In the late 1900’s a massive merger developed with The Methodist and The Evangelical United Brethren to form The United Methodist Church (sometimes humorously referred to as The Untied Methodist Church).

Methodists have always taken with good humor jokes and jabs; sometimes jokingly called “Sober Episcopalians,” because of John Wesley’s prohibition of alcohol at Holy Communion. Or “Dry Methodists,” because they baptize by sprinkling, rather than immersion (actually, they recognize any one of three forms of baptism). One Wag said a drought once got so bad Baptists were sprinkling and Methodists were using a damp rag.

My favorite Ribbing at Methodists comes from dear ole Garrison Keillor; (Full disclosure, I am Methodist born, Methodist bred, and when I die, I will be Methodist dead). Keillor said, “I do believe this: People, these Methodists, who love to sing in four-part harmony are the sort of people you could call up when you’re in deep distress. If you are dying, they will comfort you. If you are lonely, they will talk to you. And if you are hungry, they will give you (a chicken) salad!” …and another entry …Methodists believe in prayer, but would practically die if asked to pray out loud.” “Methodists will usually follow the official liturgy, and will feel it is their way of suffering for their sins….You know you are a Methodist if when you watch Star Wars and they say ‘May the Force be with you,’ you instinctively respond ‘And also with you.‘ Methodists think that the Bible forbids them from crossing the aisle while passing the peace. “

Differences do occur among human beings which is why we have so many Methodist denominations—and so many kinds of Baptists, and so many—well of any religious groups; we are made up of human beings; we human beings are flawed. The good news is that as we gather at the Lord’s Table, we acknowledge our “flawedness,” and seek reconciliation. A friend of mine who ran the print shop in my building had a placard in her office: POBODY IS NERFECT. Says it all.

Methodists, as do all the rest, have had their squabbles; some more public than others. Back in the late 1800’s Methodist Bishop Milton Wright (father of the first aviators, Orville and Wilbur Wright) was engrained in a number of squabbles in the denomination. Nevertheless, I remember words from Charlotte Elliott’s hymn: Just as I am, though tossed about/ with many a conflict, many a doubt, fightings and fears within, without,/ O Lamb of God, I come.

Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me is a popular Public Radio Program. The title plays off the familiar mental intellectual interlude, as in when you are asked a question—to which you know the answer—-problem is that the answer is “on the tip of your tongue” —and you want to speak it, but your voice refuses roll it out . You’ve been there; the correct word resonates with you.

Waiting is not a favorite thing for most people—honking horns on the street readily tell you that. Waiting has many facets; there is anxious waiting, as in a medical waiting room; excited waiting for the Cap and Gown; joyful waiting in the maternity ward; —to name a few. I have experienced all of the above, plus some. I learned early on as my family grew, that waiting does not have to be a negative or a waste. For decades, I made it a practice to keep a book in the car, as well as other reading choices; there is almost always waiting time.

I avoid talk radio entirely, and I limit TV. I try to plan carefully what I read—something that inspires, is wholesome, good information. It makes waiting refreshing. Usually it’s a book I’m working through, and something fun (a favorite fun book is a collection of Charlie Brown cartoons—Snoopy and The Red Barron).

Farmers know the value of waiting; waiting until the right season for a crop, waiting for seeds to germinate, the harvest to be ready for gathering; waiting that cannot be rushed, lest a crop be ruined. Musicians know the value of waiting—until the right time to sound their note; in some orchestral compositions Timpani players may have to wait mosst of the entire composition before playing any notes—sometimes only then to strike on queue. Such waiting adds delightful tonality to the experience.

Waiting-with-purpose is my favorite kind of waiting; for a delightful meal, for a visit with a dear friend, or finally to curl up with a good book. You, very likely, have your favorite kind of waiting-with-purpose. Sometimes that waiting may be simply taking a nap—which is a way of waiting for your spirit to catch up with your body. According to The American Heart Association, A good nap can get you out of that afternoon slump, recharge your energy, and leave you more alert and in a better mood.

The Prophet Isaiah said to those who were about to give up, that waiting on the Lord gives new strength, a strength that endures. The Psalmist made a great case for waiting: I would have lost heart, unless I had believed That I would see the goodness of the Lord In the land of the living. Wait on the Lord; Be of good courage, And He shall strengthen your heart; Wait, I say, on the Lord!

Copyright© Willis H. Moore 2025

I first heard of a Crocus years ago, while reading an article in The Saturday Review by Ace Goodman. The article was about facing difficulties, or dreary times and hope feeling faint. It seems that this tends to happen more often in Winter. There is actually a disease named for such winter woes; Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). SAD is a type of depression characterized by a recurrent seasonal pattern, with symptoms lasting about 4−5 months out of the year. (National Institute of Mental Health).

In the “dead of winter,” though not necessarily diagnosed with SAD, many folks do get in the doldrums —finding it hard to function with their usual joy and enthusiasm. Leaves are gone from deciduous trees, their bare limbs reaching to the sky as if pleading for cover and life. To go outside your warm house takes pretty strong motivation. And heavier than usual ice and snow can add to a melancholy feeling.

No wonder seed and plant catalogues arrive in the mail in the dead of Winter. The bright colorful pictures of flowers and shrubs bring hope that soon we can enjoy the beauty of outdoors. I often think of of Goodman’s description of the crocus, a harbinger of spring. To him, it was the sure promise of Spring to come . His wife had died during the previous year, a journey he had shared with his readers. The early blooming crocus awakened within him refreshing joy and hope—it does so for me as well.

When we moved to Atlanta, the house we bought had been owned by a nature-loving woman. We kept most of the shrubbery and landscaping—we wanted to see what plant surprises might surface over the next year—we had moved in early December. Our first night in Atlanta we were blessed with a few inches of snow. The ground already frozen, held on to the snow pack for days. It was beautiful, but troublesome. A few months later, as I walked along the driveway among the dead landscape, a glint of color caught my eye. It was a beautiful, tiny, purple (I learned later) Crocus. As it turned out it was the only one in our yard.

This beautiful, delicate Crocus was nestled within the pine bark, residual leaves, pine straw, and bare limbs of rosebushes. I paused to admire it; I found stakes to mark its spot—-to avoid overlooking it, small and close to the ground. In it’s own unique way this little Crocus was calling out to me, and the rest of the world; “take in this beauty.” There it was, a powerful splash of elegance, and a promise of spring.

Too easily, we pass by, overlooking significant beauty, miracles, and attendant joy in our journey. Jesus called attention to significant signals often along his journey—this time he called his disciples’ attention to a particular tree along the pathway. He paid attention.

© Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

Today is St. Valentine’s Day. It is not a national holiday. U. S. Mail service continues. Banks and businesses are open. Flags fly at full staff. Most of the world will live through the day as usual. (Oh, if you forgot to get candy, flowers or another favorite treat for your sweetie—there is still time to do so). I learned early on how important red roses were to Paige; I got red roses to her classroom every St. Valentine’s day—but one. That was when I learned how important RED roses were to her.

Exchanging Valentines at elementary school was a big deal when I was a kid. My dad put a lot of time and effort on valentine cards for us. He always saw to it that we had enough for every one of our classmates on Valentine’s Day. Also, I do not remember any meanness among my classmates at school—we simply had a fun day giving and receiving Valentines.

I was much older when I learned background of St. Valentine’s Day. St. Valentine was martyred circa the 3rd Century, but the romantic aura was not connected to the Day for about ten more Centuries. The connections between St. Valentine and romantic love are more like a net than a cord; there are many. It is thought the Courtly love themes around the Era of the Enlightenment initiated the idea.

There is something of a connection to love that reaches back to the third century. A persistent legend is that St. Valentine offended the Pope by ignoring the ban on his marrying young couples. He was arrested and martyred on February 14, hence the date established as St. Valentine’s day. Although the legends about St. Valentine vary in time, place, and detail, most of them carry a central thread; He lived, he married young couples, he defied the Pope, he was martyred. That is enough to give us this enduring celebration.

There are some branches of Christianity where St. Valentine’s Day is celebrated as a significant religious day—a Feast Day. For ghe Anglican Communion and the Lutheran Church the day is an official Feast Day. Also, in the Eastern Orthodox Church St. Valentines Day is also a Feast Day.

A “feast day” is a day in the Christian liturgical calendar dedicated to celebrating the life of a particular saint or significant event in the Church’s history, essentially a day of remembrance and celebration within the faith, where the word “feast” signifies a time of joy and commemoration rather than a large meal; (AI assisted).

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

I never considered myself a cat-lover. I never hated cats. I didn’t even dislike cats. Cats were just ever present fixtures on earth like chairs at a table, or leaves on a tree—you know they are there, and you assume they belong. To be forth coming, I have always been a dog lover—and for the past several decades a Pembroke Welsh Corgi fanatic. The first Corgi Paige and I had actually slept on my pillow, lying against the top of my head. Every dog since Brittany became family, until my last Corgi. Last, because I did’t want to face another “The Rainbow Bridge” crossing.

Then came Millie, a beautiful Siamese Snowshoe — cat.

Millie is a rescue, through a Veterinary clinic. Millie readily made herself at home with me—in her own way. Seasoned cat-lovers will understand this. She is a wonderful pet, and an interesting companion—when she wants to be; but unlike a dog. You can call a dog, and grinning, happily the dog will come bouncing to you, licking you at every chance. You can call a cat—. You can lead a dog with or without a leash. You can lead a cat—(in a crate) and take it with you. But first, you must get the cat INTO the crate—It’s a myth.

I am learning that Millie is a companion, in her own way at her own initiative. She is not the only pet in our household. Jennifer has a rescue Corgi, Claire. The interaction between the two pets reached, shall I say, détente—though never hostile; more like curiosity. Last week, Millie figured out how their relationship should go, and set her sights on it. I think Millie, now feeling a lot safer around Claire has decided to have fun with her—yesterday she pawed Claire as she passed by! She comes to the door of the room, chooses the right time, and dashes in, leaping into my lap. It annoys Claire, and I think I see a smug success look on Millie’s face.

These two house pets, different in almost every way have not only learned to create “a peaceable kingdom” but also a way to have fun. One is a dog. the other is a cat. Claire has a gimpy leg from an injury, Millie has a repaired eye. Management of and care for each requires different kinds of attention and help. Thankfully, they get along very well together—well, together is a bit of a stretch; it is more like, yes, détente.

Claire moved in, Millie was tolerant; not overjoyed, just stoic. Once the two established that they weren’t going to kill each other, they established consummate communication. Don’t get the idea they were overmuch excited being in the same house; they have accepted what it means to share, to be tolerant, and to enjoy their niche in this household. We human beings could learn a great deal from Millie.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

Mention fruit cake and everyone within earshot will have an opinion about it—and is likely to express said opinion, usually unfavorably. But I love the fruitcake—the one of which I speak is what Paige made each year. Actually we would make it together. I helped prepare ingredients— spending hours chopping pecans and candied cherries—Paige had definite opinions the size of nut chips (it required one quart of fresh pecans–that’s P-cans). Thankfully, our daughters eventually mastered the art of making that cake! The legend lives on.

The Claxton Fruitcake, darker than Paige’s, is known internationally. It was founded in 1910, and is still a product of Claxton, GA, in Southeast Georgia. I knew Mr. Albert Parker, and his family; he was the “daddy rabbit” of the company. He bought the company in 1945 and took the Claxton Fruitcake worldwide. I won’t compare the Claxton fruitcake to Paige’s. It is unfair to compare almost any factory-made food with home-kitchen-made food, good, home-kitchen, Southern comfort food.

Paige always started planning in late October and gathering ingredients for her annual fruitcake; it had to be ready for baking by Christmas. Last fall, Jennifer started as her mother would have. By Thanksgiving she was almost ready to start the assembly process. Then tragedy struck. Wade, Zach and Katie’s father, fell causing a Spinal Cord injury. It changed everything. Zach—with a full-time job. and Katie—in Law School— had to jump into new roles they could never have imagined. Jennifer took part helping them as much as she could. The fruitcake ingredients we had prepared were put on hold.

After Christmas, as Wade’s treatments were settling into routines, Jennifer set about to make The Fruitcake;—maybe a little out of stress relief, a little desire for diversion, and I think a lot honoring her mother. Jennifer was not entirely happy about how it turned out, but it is delicious. By the time you read this only crumbs will be left—-if that. Jennifer planned to cut it in half and use one half and freeze the other for later. So much for that idea!

Family customs and traditions are passed down through the years; tweaks, updates, and replacements often happen. The significant cherished traditions tend to help define a family. I don’t remember how The Fruitcake became a standard Christmas tradition for our family; The plethora of pictures of Paige, Katie, and Zach in our kitchen, scraping, stiring mixing bowls while assembling this masterpiece (and the famous Sour Cream Pound Cake) kinda tell a significant story.

In the Gospel of Luke there is a passage that gives insight into tradition in the early life of Jesus. He went to church as was his custom. In his his life story, we see that he did continue keeping that custom, but for me is it significant that Luke says so. Traditions and customs play an important role in how we define ourselves.

© Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

“Betcha can’t eat just one!”–teased ads from Lay’s Potato Chip Company Circa 1960—the ads popped up everywhere! We all tried it, some were successful. I don’t know if an official contest was ever launched, but go ahead and admit it–you ate two …or more. I did, and still do. The once-lowly potato is not lowly now, not only because of the potato chip, though that helps a heap—maybe the catchy “Betcha can’t eat just one!”—jingle also helped.

The infamous Potato Famine hit Ireland circa 1845; a fungal disease infected the main crop staple, potatoes, killing over a million Irish people and creating a devastating famine. Many Irish natives immigrated to other countries, including the United States. Earlier Irish immigrants had brought the potato to the USA, and Thomas Jefferson had supported the potato. When the Potato Famine hit in Ireland, the potato, as food, grew in popularity.

Jeremie Pavelski is a fifth-generation farmer in Wisconsin’s Central Sands region, produces 1.2 billion chipping potatoes. with most of his potatoes going to Lays. While Pavelski does not call himself an environmentalist, he does talk the talk and walk the walk. He looks to long term cultivation, unlike corporations that always focus on the quarterly bottom line.

What is a church dinner without potato salad, or a fast-food restaurant without French Fries (they aren’t really French), and of course, a picnic without, well, potato chips!? My mother at certain times used to ladle a serving of mashed potatoes onto my plate, making a nest in the middle; she filled it with snow peas. Maybe it was to entice me to eat my vegetables—I simply loved that dish.

I have always enjoyed potatoes; in salads, mashed potatoes, in soups, baked, potato-skin appetizers, fries, whatever. However, I did not enjoy de-bugging potato vines. When I was growing up, my dad would give me a can with about two inches of kerosene in it. I had to go down each row of potato plants—hand picking each potato bug dropping it into the kerosene, killing the bug. I didn’t mind the bugs so much but the kerosene was stifling.

One interesting aspect of growing our own potatoes was the “sets;” our own source of a new crop next year. A set is a slice of a potato that includes the eye, the little skin-dimple where—if a potato is left out in the air, a sprout develops. We would take each set, and space them in a row in the garden, cover them well, and in time add fertilizer to each plant. When harvested, a plant could have several potatoes on it to be dug, used, or stored.

Our world is a marvelous creation! When we are good stewards of our planet, we can be joyfully filled with the fruits of its abundance . God placing us in this garden of earth made it The potato is a generous part of that creation, and for our sustenance. .

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025