Call me redneck or culture challenged, but I want you to know my favorite female country singer is the late Patsy Cline. I have a boxed set of “The Patsy Cline Collection;” I watched the movie version of her life, “Sweet Dreams;” I attended the stage version of the Patsy Cline Story, (Well. OK. It was the Jekyll Island outdoor theatre version); I sprinkled every Patsy Cline song I had into my iPhone “playlist.”

On this day, March 5, fifty-seven years ago, Patsy Cline died in a heartbreaking airplane crash—in bad weather. She was thirty. She made her first professional appearance at the former WINC radio station. Patsy’s career rose rapidly. She was one of the first country music artists to crossover into pop. Patsy was a member of Country Music’s prestigious “Grand Ole Opry,” and was considered an avant garde for women in country music. She was the first female performer to be inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame.

Two other country singers died in that woeful airplane crash, Cowboy Copas and Hawkshaw Hawkins; the pilot died also . This tragic event cut short Patsy’s soaring career. Nevertheless, she had paved the way for countless other female singers, both country and pop.

Willie Nelson wrote “Crazy ” for Patsy. It remains one of her most popular songs. A primary attraction I have to Patsy Cline is her spectacular vocal range. Not quite up to that of my all-time favorite female singer, Julie Andrews, but Patsy’s range was astonishing. And she could yodle. OK, If you don’t know yodeling I’ll clue you; yodeling is vocally switching quickly back and forth from low notes to falsetto notes. Patsy raised her vocal gift to an art form. Listen to Eddy Arnold‘s “Cattle Call” —it is Yodeling at its best. I understand my namesake uncle was a good yodeler—I didn’t inherit the gift, for which you should be grateful. But I digress.

The tragic plane crash is a direct link to lost perspective; the facts are in the transcript from The National Transportation Safety Board’s report (NTSB): ——– “(The pilot) was informed that the en route weather was unfavorable and that the destination weather was below VFR (Visual Flight Rules) minima with further deterioration indicated before any improving trends could be expected. After receiving the weather briefing, the pilot talked with his wife in Nashville by telephone, and she informed him that the sun was shining in Nashville. The pilot then indicated his intention to continue the flight and would return if he found it necessary. Shortly thereafter, at 1807, (6:07 p.m.) the pilot taxied out and took off. During taxi, the pilot was again furnished with weather information by the tower operator. After takeoff, there were no further radio contacts with N-7000P “(–the airplane tail ID.) (Bold face mine).

The Pilot was Patsy’s manager. The fatal flight was fraught with failure. They had a performance scheduled for the next day. Pilots know that tension: it has a name; “The Get-Home-itis Syndrome.” In light of the NTSB report , to me, the pilot’s decision harks to that very human hubris–“I have to be there. I will go matter what! Ignore the signs. Get going!”

A sorry old country song, “Detour,” portends grim perspective;

Headed down life’s crooked road lots of things I never knowed
Because of me not knowin’, I now pine
Trouble got in the trail, spent the next 5 years in jail
Should have read (should have read) that detour sign!

Human history is cluttered with debris from ignored warnings; which we ignore to our peril. It doesn’t have to be that way. We have choices. I like how Jesus turned “Thou Shalt Not’s…” into positive “Thou Shalt’s…” . As instead of “Thou shalt Not Kill” he said, “Love your enemy…” Instead of “Thou shalt have no other gods before Me…” Jesus said, “Love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, mind, and soul…” Words that help and heal. When there is a warning (detour) sign, consider it. Think through the “Why.” Find the positive it harbors. Follow it. Usually it is for you own benefit. We can be better.

Voca is Latin for call or summons. My first call (voca) was farming. I grew up on a farm. I loved the smell of freshly turned earth, of freshly mown hay, the soft nuzzle of a calf’s nose on my elbow, the warmth of the sun on my back. In high school I enrolled in Vocational Agriculture. I joined Future Farmers of America (FFA). My counselor was the father of former Georgia Governor, Nathan Deal. I was our school newspaper reporter for FFA. Later I was tapped to be the public speaker for our Chapter.

Meanwhile, a stronger call (Voca, Summons,) was brewing. At my church, Deepstep Methodist, when asked to present the sermon for the annual youth service, I was terrified!! My youth counselor understood, and gave me a copy of a sermon by Rev. Norman Vincent Peale— to memorize for the event (plagiarism was not in my vocabulary). She knew Dr. Peale’s content could not fail! I still did not think of becoming a Methodist preacher. Far from it.

Yet. Even back at age ten, while listening to our pastor, I would silently tell myself, “I could NEVER do that! ?!! How does he do that, and with such ease?!?” Only years later, did I realize the voca (summons, the call) was already struggling, in my interior being, to be heard. The call became clear. My vocation was set. I answered the call. On January 11, 1956, I was officially licensed (not ordained at that point) to preach.

The COVID-19 Pandemic has many of us thinking about healthcare workers: They tolerate the bruising hours at work, the pain, the danger, caring for their patients, many of whom are dying. How do they do that? It is clear—they have the “Voca,” the “Summons,” The “Call.” You can usually tell the difference when someone is working just for the “money,” and those who have the Voca, the Summons, the Call.

I would not serve in law enforcement. It is not my calling. But I know, and have known many who lay down their lives in daily dedication because they have the call. I could not be a school teacher, although I have a B. S. in Education; but for decades I have known, lived with, and adored family members and others who rise early; going into poorly equipped classrooms, bringing supplies they paid for out of their own pockets; sometimes restoring castaway desks so each student would have one; sometimes facing parents who, belittle, criticize, and castigate them over the pettiest of matters. Again, it is the Voca, the Summons, the Call.

Bill Powell was a popular DJ on WMAZ morning radio in Macon, GA in the 60’s and 70’s. Bill often said, “If I didn’t need this to earn a living, I would do it for free!” You could tell he loved his job—no, his calling, his voca. He helped multitudes of Middle Georgians start their day with joy, jocularity, and hope, He did so joyfully every morning because it was his voca, calling. When you have found and live out your calling, not only are you blessed, but also you bless many. Far more than you will ever know.

According to Merriam-Webster, Moment is: “a: tendency or measure of tendency to produce motion especially about a point or axis. b: the product of quantity (such as a force) and the distance to a particular axis or point.” Roughly speaking, in terms of an aircraft, the “moment” has to do with weight and balance of the aircraft. For me, The Moment is “the present.” There is a good bit written these days about “living in the moment”– totally absorbing the present time.

Paige, my late wife, had a quote fastened on her computer; “Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That’s why we call it The Present.” She lived by that maxim. It is “Living in the Moment.” An ancient but favorite mentor of mine is Brother Lawrence, from a Carmelite monastery in the 1600’s. He is known for his teachings on “The Practice of the Presence of God” —experiencing God in every moment. Brother Lawrence found every moment, even when scrubbing pots in the galley, as sacred as The Eucharist.

Recently, while looking for a photo in my album (that’s stretching the term—it’s actually a packing box), I ran across a precious picture. It was Zach, my grandson and me. We were mowing the lawn. He is in front of me, holding onto the crossbar of the self-propelled mower; I am behind him, holding the handlebars. Obviously, Zach was intent on cutting grass. You could see it on his face.

As I pondered the picture I wondered about that moment. Did I savor the moment? Was I aware of its meaning to this little kid who could barely see over the crossbar? Did I help him savor a moment that would suddenly be over? That moment is gone. I cannot retrieve it. Actually, every moment captured in each photo in that passel of pictures is gone.

I can mulligrub over moments lost, or I can claim Paige’s maxim: “Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That’s why we call it the present.”-–Claim the moment. Not every moment is delightful. Yet—and yet; I recall some disastrous memories; like on vacation when a goat ate Paige’s purse at Six Flags, or the engine blew up on our car near Defuniak Springs, Florida. All of which often gave us later—-sometimes much later—lots of laughs and loads of stories to tell. The. Moment. Is. Now. Claim it. Savor it.

The only “cuss-word” my granddaddy ever used was “Aw Pshaw!’ I always thought it was a Deepstep made-up word. My Merriam-Webster dictionary actually says, No. it is real; “to express irritation, disapproval, contempt, or disbelief.” So, I stand corrected. He was on to something. I think I heard it used at the rise of any one of those definitions!

I have come across a term that broadens the field of acceptable epithets of vituperation which could include anything from cussin’. to culinary descriptions, to cures, comforts—and more. The term—-“Pickle Juice.” You bang your finger; instead of shouting a blue streak of cuss words, you shout, “Pickle Juice!” Or you bought a tough piece of meat; you are out of tenderizer, so you grab Pickle Juice—actual pickle Juice as tenderizer . A surprise freeze hits and ice is on your windshield; again—-the pickle juice solution. See? it works for vocabulary as well as for life problems.

You can’t make this stuff up!! Except for my lame substitute for cussing, all examples above are touted for such uses. For real. One source describes more than a dozen uses for—-pickle juice. They range from popsicles, meat tenderizing and indigestion cure, to weed killer and cleaning agent.

Cultures have communication quirks beyond their standard language. It amounts to a subtle language that only that culture understands. Songwriter and musician, Dobie Gray’s 1965 Soul hit, The “In” Crowd describes this phenomenon very well. So, with tongue-in-cheek, I propose a subtle substitute “cuss word:’ “Pickle Juice!” It allows vocal expression as emphatic as you care to make it.

Broadening the field of use, lies a plethora of choices. You can sound like natural chef in food conversations. During a culinary discussion you can casually comment, “Oh, you could add Pickle Juice to that….” or “Pickle Juice will do wonders there.” if someone questions your usage, you can always say, “Innovative Chefs like to experiment with lots of things. Some prefer exotic ingredients.”

At the very least, Pickle Juice tossed into a conversation has the unique possibility of lightening the tone. I recently read an article that offered ideas for doing just that when negative people darken the tone. Recently some of my friends have distanced themselves from negative conversation, or contacts. This is another opportunity to use Pickle Juice:—–just say “Oh Pickle Juice!” And go on to a higher level.

https://picklelicious.com/17-uses-for-pickle-juice/
Farmer’s Almanac  https://www.farmersalmanac.com/uses-for-pickle-juice-28005
Healthline https://www.healthline.com/health/food-nutrition/drinking-pickle-juice

I guess BBQ (or Barbecue) is in my bones. My first memories of BBQ hark back to a huge Oak tree. It was across a dirt road from my maternal grandaddy’s house on Deepstep Road. On special occasions, he and my uncles would dig a pit under that Oak tree. A grid of fence wire was laid on metal bars secured over the pit. Nearby, away from the tree canopy, an oakwood fire raged, creating abundant red hot coals. As the bed of coals grew, my uncles shoveled them under the metal grid. Lying on the grid, above the coals was a huge disemboweled hog, splayed wide open, skin side down. This started at sundown; shoveling the coals and roasting continued past dawn the next day.

Testing the meat doneness began well before daybreak. One morning, I happened to come on site in time for such tasting. I got my first bite of succulent, sometimes crunchy BBQ, torn right off the carcass. I was hooked! The pungent aroma of oakwood burning, mixed with the smoky fragrance of pork simmering over the red-hot coals captivated me. A unique culinary culture was instantly burned into my brain.

A reinforcing experience occurred upon my first taste of “store-bought” BBQ. On one of our family trips to Dacula, GA visiting my paternal grandparents. On the way home, we stopped at “The Hub,” a small restaurant somewhere on or near U.S. 278 and GA 11, in Rockdale County. Not only did I have a Heaven-sent, delicious BBQ sandwich and a bottle Coca Cola, but also saw my first TV show. It was Kukla, Fran, and Olli, playing of the restaurant TV. With such an amalgam of visual and satiating experiences, it is no wonder that Coke is the only beverage that goes with BBQ. For me, anyway.

Years ago, when I travelled Georgia doing church consultation, I could name and evaluate every BBQ joint in the state. (That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.) Sadly, some did not survive, such as The Hub. Others continue to thrive, and then there are the McBBQ-cookie-cutter franchises. I made a vetted list of favorite Georgia BBQ sites. It is available for a price$$$$$$ NOT. But, the list is in my head!

A few years ago my doctor raised the issue of my Cholesterol. Again. This time saying that if the indicators were not better at my next check up she would put me on medication. I promised to do better. Then said, “But, I really do like BBQ! Is there any way I can have an occasional BBQ sandwich and still be OK?” Without missing a beat, not looking up from her iPad, she said,”Yes. Lipitor!.” Nuff said. (But I still have BBQ sometime. Shhhhh.)

“You cannot choose your family, but you can choose your friends.” (Apologies to Harper Lee.) Like most aphorisms that is true, in a manner of speaking. You are born into a family, or family is born to you. And yes, to a degree you can choose your friends. It gets complicated.

I grew up with a sister and cousins. I had pals in high school, and in college I had a few close friends. But in ranking friendships a rendering occurs. Ed Yong of The Atlantic wrote; “The American novelist S. E. Hinton once said, ‘If you have two friends in your lifetime, you’re lucky. If you have one good friend, you’re more than lucky.’” Friends are those who know you, yet accept and love you; they are there in tough times and glory times; time and distance are rather irrelevant—these friendships remain solid.

Jerry and I had heavy and hilarious times over the years. As roommates at Emory University, we had different habits. I arose at 6:00 a.m. and after my morning ablutions went for breakfast. Back at the dorm, Jerry would have been showing signs of life. One morning, when I awakened, Jerry’s bed was empty. “Bathroom,” I thought. On my way to shower all was silent, and he was nowhere to be found. His clothes, keys, books,—all in place but no Jerry. And, the building was silent. As I headed across campus for breakfast there was no one in sight; silence was all I could hear. For a brief moment, I recalled that Jesus said, “Two men will be sleeping in a room. One will be taken. One will be left.” I quickly tossed that thought—-hoping, “Maybe this is NOT that day!”

As I neared Cox Hall, I saw a gray figure chugging through the early morning fog. It was Jerry—jogging. He had jogged down through the University Primate Center. Jogging is the only endeavour I know of his quitting. Ever. He was a driven, hilarious, intellectual, compassionate, friend.

Fond memories of Jerry include group conversations. When unseemly comments or judgements were made. Jerry, ever the Eagle Scout , would retort, gushing the Scout Law; “A Scout is Trustworthy-Loyal-Helpful-Friendly-Courteous-Kind-Obedient-Cheerful-Thrifty-Brave-Clean-and-Reverent,” making it clear that a moral line had been crossed.

Friendship is on my mind this week. Tuesday, twenty-nine years ago, my friend Jerry, died of heart complications. I think of him often. Sometimes an issue will arise and, I will think, “I should call Jerry about this.” And reality stabs me. He was smart, an Eagle Scout, a United Methodist Minister, and my friend. I miss him still.

The Scripture documents an icon of solid friendship “And Jonathan and David made a covenant together because Jonathan loved David as much as himself.” Whenever I muse over Jerry’s and my friendship, I like to claim it was a reasonable facsimile of Jonathan and David’s.

My family has long practiced “The Three Second Rule;” If you drop food on the floor—-and retrieve it within three seconds, it is OK to eat. The caution was to be sure it landed “Jelly side up!” I think even that rule was often broken. OK. No judgement! you KNOW, you have done the same, or some version of it!! Like that lucious Cinnamon Bun you were salivating for!!

Actually, a scientific study was done on “The Three Second Rule;”  Manchester Metropolitan University (MMU) studied five commonly eaten food items at various increments of time on the floor; 3, 5, and 10 seconds each. Food with higher salt content was safe longer; processed foods, of course proved lowest risk. Cooked pasta, fruit, etc., picked up harmful bacteria within three seconds. Biscuits, not only survived three seconds, but also five, and in some cases ten seconds. I coulda told ’em that! I grew up in Deepstep, GA. You don’t waste good food!

But I digress. I find “Jelly Side Up” a term of hope. It can have plenteous positive meanings. For example; you go for a job interview and find stiff competition. Later you get the call that you are hired; you tell your family “I landed “Jelly side up!” You see blue lights flashing behind you: Immediately you pull over, knowing you were over the speed limit. After checking your documentation, the officer says, “This is just a warning; you were going too fast. Please slow down now!” You landed “Jelly side up!”

“Jelly side up!” is Grace. You didn’t deserve it; you messed up, or were careless. You didn’t earn it, you took shortcuts. Grace opens new possibilities that you are sure were beyond your reach. A caring family, a true friend, a supportive colleague, “Jelly side up” occasions happen often. You notice these, because at some point you thought all was lost (remember that Cinnamon Bun?), but there is still hope, and you cling to it. You are grateful for “Jelly Side Up!”

The Gospel of Luke tells the story of a sorry son. He was selfish, wagered his way, lost his way, and hitting bottom, looked up. “Dad!” he thought. He got up out of the muck, strapped on his hiking sandals, and staggered homeward, rehearsing his anguished apology. His dad was again this day, keeping vigil on a little knoll near the homestead. He recognized a long way off, this waif coming down the path. This father hitched up his galluses, ran to meet this son, and hugging him, wept “Welcome home son.” (Luke 15: 11-23 RWV The Revised Willis Version). The boy landed “Jelly Side Up!”

The Human Condition is that we all are flawed. We need Grace. Like that sorry son, we long to land “Jelly Side Up!” We need to land Jelly Side Up. Grace is on our side. We will land “Jelly Side Up!”.

“What’s New!” A familiar greeting that leaves options open for a response. A lot is new. Today is a new day. Today ushers in a new year, 2021!!!! New calendars, new seed catalogues, new possibilities; they lie there for our eager exploration. This is a new entry into Fridayswithwillis.com. New calendars lay out the relentless return of a new day. Some days drag by, as did most in 2020. Others flash past, like the few cherished moments shared with loved ones—at a distance, in 2020.

Each new day has new mysteries, moments, and joys. Seed Catalogues glisten with horticultural delights; flowers, fruits, vegetables, and herbs—some, we never heard of—but want to try our hand at growing them anyway. But more than the attractive, succulent, beauties in the spectacular pictures, is the hope they offer. We drool over the pages, dreaming of wonders to come. Hope springs new in our hearts!

When I was twelve years old, a shiny red Farmall Tractor showed up near the front of grandaddy Veal’s country store. I went out and exulted over this new tractor. My uncle was not impressed; he said drolly, “A new paint job!” I Looked more closely. All the decals were correct. It really did look new—however, a few edges exposed grimy old corners. And, the painted tires looked worn. He was correct, it was only a new paint job.

Don’t we humans tend to simply smear some paint over incompleteness or cover our errors, attempting to take shortcuts to the new? Bandaids over human hurts; excuses for empty efforts; sanguine statements offered to friends and families in sorrow. During some of the more difficult days for his people, the Prophet Jeremiah said, “They have healed also the hurt of the daughter of my people slightly, saying, Peace, peace; when there is no peace.”Jeremiah 6:14

It is difficult to speak truth to troubled times. Difficult days cloud our concentration. Many will rail against Truth, but for new life to come forth, it is the path to take. Smearing paint over difficulties, or tossing covers over obstacles does not make them new, better, or disappear.

The year that ended a few hours ago was likely the most difficult year any of us—in many ways—- has ever experienced. It was filled with fear, financial failings, falsehoods, sickness, death of dear ones, empty hope. There were and are, however, miracles and spectacular new successes that continue to emerge. The New Year, can, and will produce new opportunities and possibilities with blossoms of new hope. Happy New Year!!

Today is “Christmas Day” in the Western world, following the Gregorian calendar. Russian Orthodox Christians follow the Julian calendar, which lists Christmas Day on January 7. In fact, the actual date of Jesus’ birth is not known. It really doesn’t matter. No one plans to create or compare actuarial tables for Jesus. Thus, “Jesus’ Birthday” is a misnomer. Christians celebrate the fact of Jesus’ birth, the only fact necessary; that fact is available, not only in the Bible, but also according to secular historians.

Apparently the word, Christmas is derived from “Christ’s Mass,” which originated from the earliest liturgical celebrations of Jesus’ birth. Present liturgical celebrations of Christmas encompass six or seven weeks for festivities; from the First Sunday in Advent (usually the first Sunday after Thanksgiving, depending on the Gregorian calendar) through twelve days after Christmas, Epiphany Day, January 6, again, per the Gregorian calendar.

Celebrations of Christmas range from meager “Nativity plays” to elaborate festivals of music and drama. Television movies, radio station music, and yes, even “Mall Music” rhapsodize in celebration of Christmas. Commerce has found a home in Christmas celebration, often to the dismay of orthodox Christians. However, I must point out that when Jesus threw the “money changers” out of the Temple, he did not throw out the Altar. There is a difference. Please pardon a little preaching here, but it behooves us all to make that distinction. Negative distractions will always abound; common sense however, is a useful tool in this matter.

Dear Reader, if you are reading this on Christmas Day, I hope for you a joyous and blessed Christmas Day— and all the days following. In the midst of this horrifying COVID-19 Pandemic, that is sickening, maiming, and killing millions, we need the Hope this day offers. The Apostle Paul wrote of this Hope to the beleaguered Christians in Corinth; “YET, (emphasis mine) we who have this spiritual treasure are like common clay pots, in order to show that the supreme power belongs to God, not to us. ⁸ We are often troubled, but not crushed; sometimes in doubt, but never in despair; ⁹ there are many enemies, but we are never without a friend; and though badly hurt at times, we are not destroyed.” (2 Cor. 4:4-9 GNT)

The year 2020 is drawing to a close—take heart with those words of the Apostle Paul. Merry Christmas —to you and your dear ones. Please stay safe!

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A lot has changed about Santa Claus over the centuries. The classic origin of Santa Claus was Saint Nicholas, (“Saint Nick”) a Greek bishop, in the 3rd century, from Myra, (modern day turkey). He was famous for secret gift giving, thus becoming the model for Santa Claus. Fast forward sixteen centuries to the early 19th century, when Clement Clarke Moore wrote “A Visit From St. Nicolas,” (“Twas The Night Before Christmas.”) (Moore was my 9th or twelfth cousin—I’m sure of that because all Moores had to start from a Moore somewhere!). The Santa Claus story, fleshed out, evolved over decades to provide a story line producing songs, tales, books, and, imagery that continues.

Down through the centuries the image of St. Nick gravitated along assorted depictions. And since the 1800’s he has mostly been seen as a rotund, jolly old man, wearing a red, white-fur-lined suit; a caricature of Santa Claus, the creation of Haddon Hubbard “Sunny” Sundblom. He created that icon for The Coca-Cola Company. Sundblom was an American artist of Finnish and Swedish descent and, if known at all, it is for the images of Santa Claus most familiar to most of the public.. Therefore, his character is the perennial image that comes to mind when Santa Claus is mentioned. Children visiting “Santa Claus” in malls and department stores, expect to see this “Jolly Old Elf” (who looks nothing like an elf.)

Sometimes complaints arise about the extreme focus on Santa Claus, shopping and commercialization of Christmas. Their fears are that the true meaning of Christmas is being hijacked. Traditions, stories,  myths, and images are fluid. There is no containing collateral sojourners. Running through the Christmas, Santa Claus, and decorations narratives is the theme of “Giving.”  Amid all the noise of Christmas, Christians joyfully celebrate the theme; The Gift of God’s Son, Jesus sets the stage. Controlling how, or why others celebrate Christmas, and the joy of giving is beyond that realm .

In Christian worship, during the season of Christmas, Joy, Hope, Love. and Peace are primary focal points. Countless means provide avenues for getting the message out. One of the favorite means of Celebrating Christmas is music. Secular and religious celebrations of Christmas are a melange of emigrated cultural traditions. The long view reflects the world into which the Messiah was born. The evolution of Christmas celebration today may not look the same centuries from now. The Reason for the Season, remains.