Mistakes. We all make them. Sometimes we try to hide or minimize our mistakes— they run the gamut. Mild, like spilled coffee—uuhhh—well that’s not so mild. All the way to deadly—as in looking at your cell phone while driving.

However, there can be an up side to mistakes; we can learn from mistakes. I suppose that is really the basic way we learn; try and try again to master a skill, practice a musical piece, or cook a meal. Fresh out of my first Army National Guard encampment as a cook, I volunteered to cook a meal for my grandparents. It was a train wreck of untold proportions. The recipe for a Company C meal missed dramatically as a family meal. They politely choked it down anyway—after all, I was their oldest grandson—-they tried to feel proud.

Psychologists Shelley Carson and Ellen Langer (2006) say there are “good mistakes” and “bad mistakes.” What makes the difference is how we respond to them. Good mistakes teach us valuable lessons. Bad mistakes are the ones we hide from in shame and regret. (from Psychology Today).

Our lives today are made much healthier, easier, productive, and fun due to a hat-full of good mistakes made over the years. X-Ray. Penecillin, Microwave Ovens, Matches, Super Glue, Post-it Notes, to name a few, These, and many wonders came as a result of a mistaken move, or accidentally creating something other than the intended outcome. One example; a scientist working to produce a specific adhesive, found one that didn’t meet the standard. It would stick but not hold fast, yet left no mark when removed. He took “from the cutting-room-floor” some pieces with him to choir practice . He used them to mark pages in his hymnal for the next church service. Other choir membres wanted to use some also; Post-it Notes—the rest is history.

Where would we be without mistakes? Even some bad mistakes— We learned to talk, walk, ride a bicycles, read, and make airplanes, through corridors corrageous mistakes. I remember teaching my little sister to ride a bicycle. Although she never broke a bone, actually I don’t remember any blood, but I remember multitudes of falls on the sandy dirt road by our house. But she learned. It became her favorite outside activity, ridng throughout the community.

We human beings are not perfect—in our efforts nor our intentions. We often get unintended consequences. Not all are bad. The good news is that God, who wants the best for us offers forgiveness and opens a better way for us. Jesus told a story of a young man whose life was the epitome of mistakes. Upon seeing his mistakes, he returned home to a forgiving father.

Copyright © Willis H. Moore 2025

(Apologies for this post‘s length. I could not bring myself to make it serial).

After decades of reflection, I have come to believe that my dad was something of a “renaissance” man. I use quotes, because he didn’t really fit into its classical definition. Stay with me.

My paternal grandparents married in the early 20th century. They divorced, apparently three or four years later. There was not any documentation in my home—conversation or otherwise—I have yet to research it. My grandmother, “Montie” moved with two small boys to Tampa Florida, where she established a chain of beauty shops, circa 1918. From family oral tradition, I gained glimpses of the story.

While Montie ran her businesses, my dad, still a school boy, was left each morning to get his little brother ready and take him to daycare before getting himself to school, where he played trumpet. After school, he delivered Western Union telegrams on bicycle around Tampa. He attended Berry College, in Rome, Georgia Barber College in Atlanta, and Monroe A & M School in Monroe, GA where he met my mother. The school was near his father’s Gwinnett County farm. He not only worked on the school farm, to pay for school, but also on breaks helped his dad on his farm.

My dad caught a bus from Tampa to my mother’s home and convinced her to go with him to Tampa, and get married. During that year, they left Tampa for Deepstep. Sometime later, I was born. My parents lived in a house on my grandfather’s farm where my dad began to farm next to their house. Dad bought a mule, Mac, for farming; He grew corn, peanuts, cotton, and a garden. For income supplelment, my dad opened a Saturday-only barber shop in a nook inside my maternal grandfather’s general store. Thanks to barber school and work in Montie’s shops, he supplemented his meager farm income.

At the end of WW II, dormant Kaolin mines were renewed in the county. Dad laced together a job at a Kaolin mine; he bought a new Chevrolet bus chassis, (production was still recovering from WW II) and located a used truck cab, bought a new hydraulic-powered dump body and went to work hauling Kaoli—- ten miles per load to the processing plant.

Dad learned to do his own truck maintenance. He bought essential tools as needed, building up his own home repair shop, I spent many hours in, under, and around his trucks as we did maintenance and repairs—ready for the next day’s hauling. He engaged a bulk gasoline tank and bought gas and oil wholesale. My daily job was to refill his truck gas tank before bedtime.

Meanwhile, he still farmed four acres next to our house, which was across the dirt road from my grandparents (a huge bonus I will always cherish). Dad bought a John Deere B tractor for tending the acreage. I was— joyfully—tasked with driving the tractor tilling and preparing the soil for our annual crop of oats etc. We had a garden, and lived next door to my grandfather’s general store. He gave us a family discount on things we didn’t grow. Although we were four miles from a paved road, we had necessities. The War now over, products (and dad’s steady income) brought some conveniences, and he bought a chest-type freezer. Meat from the farm animals was processed and frozen. My mother “canned” fruits and vegetables.

When the Kaolin mine began streamlining its shipping—pipeline and rail–trucking declined. My dad tried a variety of door-to-door sales, and other income streams. He found a job in automobile tire recapping business which turned out to be successful . After learning the business, and making productive contacts, he built his own tire recapping shop next door to our house. Then he quit his job. His only advertising was a 4×4 ad in the county newspaper, low prices, and word-of-mouth. His business thrived. He did his own work, never hiring helpers. A few years later, Radial automobile tires killed the recapping industry. Dad closed his shop and got a night job at J. P. Stevens Woolen mill. Days he continued to tend the small farm. He kept is night job until his death.

Fitting together the jigsaw puzzle of my dad’s life, I came to see how he not only survived—through two World Wars, his parents’ divorce, traumatic early years, lsuccessfully earning a hat-full of new vocations, dramatic cultural shifts, and, through difficult times—he came out ahead. I have to say, his work-ethic now lives on in his grandchildren. Therefore, at the risk of it being a misnomer, I call my dad a Renaissance Man.

In 1961 the Jarmels released the song, A Little Bit of Soap reaching #12 on the R&B charts; later it became a cover for a fair number of bands. Its catchy tune and poignant message of tortured love captured lonely hearts; A little bit of soap / Will wash away your lipstick on my face / But a little bit of soap / Will never never never ever erase / The pain in my heart, and my eyes / As I go / through the lonely years / A little bit of soap / Will never wash away my tears. But Grandma’s Lye-soap will bring even more tears—more about that later.

B. O. Plenty–a soap-o-phobe—was a character in the long running Dick Tracy comic strip, which ran for decades in the mid 20th century—a cultural indication that people not only noticed body odor, but also were able to joke about it. I find it interesting that the “health issue” of body odor developed long after bathing became a common practice. Regular baths emerged as society became more crowded and indoor plumbing was refined. Soap evolved from harsh lye soap for laundry and floor scrubbing into more delecate and scented bath aide.

Offensive body odor did not become a human hygiene/health issue until the mid to late 19th century. Until that time only minor attention was paid to smelly bodies. However, some form of soap has been used for nearly three thousand years. Royals and other wealthy people were able to afford spices, etc to tame, well, body odor sans soap. An example of perfume expense shows up in the Bible. Before the 1800’s soap was made from animal fats and alkalis—a soluble salt obtained from the ashes of plants and consisting largely of potassium or sodium carbonate.

From about 1200 to the early 1800’s, society began grouping into villages, and social interaction; by then, improvements were developing in soap making. Soap used before modern day versions—which likely your grandmother used—was called “lye soap.” Lye soap is a bit more refined than the first soaps. Here’s a humorous ditty —likely written by someone who knew of Lye soap personally—“Grandma’s Lye Soap”-came out in the 1950’s as a camp song, Here’s a verse; Little Therman, and Brother Herman, /Had an aversion to washing their ears… / Grandma scrubbed them with her lye soap, / And they haven’t heard a word in years!

One novel use of soap in the18th through the mid 20th centuries was to curb profanity, lying, biting, tobacco use, or verbal disrespect. Soap or soapy water was not only a threat, but also actual punishment—“I will wash your mouth out with soap!” as punishment for such offenses was effective.

Happily current society craves pleasant smelling interactions—we spend billions to smell good! The ubquitous industries—skincare, haircare, makeup, fragrances, toiletries, and oral cosmetics verify society’s wide acceptance of pleasant smelling humanity. It all starts with soap–a soapy cleansing.

Copyright© Willis H. Moore 2025

Neither Orkin Pest Control, nor your audiologist can treat or cure an ear-worm. It is not fatal. It is not harmful. Frustrating? Yes. Annoying? Thoroughly. But once it gets in your head, there is little you can do to remove it. You may try to block it. Once it is there, it is there ad interim To be clear, an ear-worm is not a worm; it is that tune fragment from a catchy song you heard—a sound-loop playing over and over in your head. According to Harvard Medical School, “Ear-worms” are unwanted catchy tunes that repeat in your head. These relentless tunes play in a loop in up to 98% of people in the western world. 

The reason it is difficult to get rid of an ear-worm is because you attempt to block it. Austrian Psychiatrist, Viktor Frankl calls it Paradoxical Intention. Psychiatrists now employ Paradoxical Intention with some patients to help them face and deal with fear. Another example of Paradoxical intention; while riding a bicycle, you see a pothole in the path. You keep telling yourself, “miss that pothole!” Result; you hit the pothole—because pothole was your focus. In some reports an ear-worm is also called an “Ironic Process.”

While agreeing with with real scientists, I also advise you not to try using will power to get rid of an ear-worm. The harder you try, the more ingrained it becomes. Ironic Process? Paradoxical Intention? They are good descriptions. I have known for years that Psychiatrists of note advise that instead of trying to block out the ear-worm …relax, accommodate it—let it play out. A few weeks ago, a catchy tune caught my ear. I tried to ignore it. It stuck for days! My trying hard to ignore it, dug it deeper into a brain groove. I finally said, “Oh heck! Let it play.” In time it faded among thousands of other tunes in my head.

In Psychology Today, Kelly Jakubowski Ph.D wrote an article on “Memory;” she said there could be benefits from ear-worms; 1) The majority of ear-worms do not seem particularly bothersome, 2) New research shows that ear- worms can improve memory for music and related events, and 3) ear-worms may also boost our moods in a similar way as listening to music externally. The advertising industry learned their value long ago; The first catchy tune used this way was in 1926, featuring the line “Have You Tried Wheaties?”.by a Barber Shop quartet.

When I was a kid, our pastor and his wife taught us to sing “Choruses—short songs with catchy tunes—unlike the long, laborious, songs in the hymnal. Decades later, I sometimes still hum those tunes. Charles Wesley knew the value of catchy tunes with songs that teach basics of the faith. He wrote more than 6,500 hymns, many still widely used.

This morning’s news reported that Brian Wilson, founder of The Beach Boys, died—this link refreshes an ear-worm for you.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

School’s out! “Freedom!”!—we thought as the doors of Deepstep Elementary School flung open into the great beyond. Nine months of classes, and now, nothing to do—Summer awaited (in those days, we had three months off!) I cannot recollect those feelings of liberation, openness and sheer joy! It was a point in time. The Present mattered.

What lay in the years ahead? We did not then ponder weighty thoughts. We were focused entirely on exploring plums ripening along the farm fence rows, blackberrys among prickly bushes, fishing in Deepstep Creek, and swiming at the Flowing Well. Life’s wonders and trials were not on our minds. We were too young to consider that life would also hold hurts, heartaches, and heavy loads on the road ahead.

How does one comprehend the future? Paige, my late wife, had a plaque on her computer table; The past is history. The future is a mystery. Today is a gift. That is why we call it the Present. That day at Deepstep Elementary School, I was in no hurry for the future—just the right-now-of-Summertime. No clock. No calendar. No thought of September-next.

On that day, if I could have seen my future, I would have been—1) too frightened by the formidable to step into the future, and/or 2) so excitedly anticipating my future, I would have missed the joys of the present. You, my dear reader, may face such conflictions. Another profound guide Jesus gave was; …stop worrying about tomorrow, because tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

His key word—“worry.” Worry debilitates, distracts, and degrades your mental, physical, and spiritual wellbeing. It is like donning a full backpack of hiking gear for running a marathon. The following statement offen attributed to the apostle Paul,, (likely because he was always so plainspoken)  Let’s throw off any extra baggage…that trips us up, Worrying—especially about the future –is as futile as it is fruitless.

A college buddy of mine found joy in teaching and singing. A retired Marine officer, he did not sit around worrying about the future. Classrooms, music practice rooms, tutoring, and volunteering in the public library—were how he found vitality. After I moved here, we began meeting for breakfast on Friday mornings. His eyes would light up as he spoke about students, music gigs, and all things present. He did not live in past regrets, nor in air castles of the future; today, the present, was his focus. I was delighted to be a part of his present in his final years

There is an old song, I know who holds tomorrow that includes these reassuring words—they speak about the future but they also call us to focus on the present: Many things about tomorrow / I don’t seem to understand / But I know who holds tomorrow / And I know who holds my hand. Music and Lyrics by Ira Stanphill (1950)

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

Over two dozen cities in the USA are sinking into the earth, according to Space.com. Space.com describes this phenomenon as “dripping into the earth”—not that reassuring. The rate of sink, or drip—is between two and 10 millimeters (0.08 and 0.4 inches) per year. Satellites show 28 US cities are sinking, including NYC and Chicago: “Infrastructure” can be silently compromised’ according to this report.

According to The Geologic History of Georgia, the Coastal Plain of Georgia emerged from the ocean after an approximately 100 million years of erosion occurred before the Late Cretaceous rocks of the Coastal Plain were deposited. So, your relatives in those twenty-eight sinking cities in the USA are safe from losing their property—at least in their lifetime,

The Media industry has not created a sinking cities panic so far! They alarm us enough as it is.zhheadlines are designed to sell news rather than inform. I remember the European folk tale,  Henny Penny; while she was outside happily strolling in the barnyard, an acorn fell her on her head. Convinced that the sky was falling, Henny Penny ran screaming to all the animals, “The Sky Is Falling! we have to do something!” The sly fox, sensing opportunity, took the lead, promising to lead them to safety. He assembled all the courtyard animals into a legion to take their case to the King. Instead of taking them safety, the fox led them into his den to—disaster.

This is not a “Henny-Penny” story. It is an earth stewardship story. We celebrate Earth Day annually—giving much attention to stewardship of the Earth. Astronauts published pictures of Planet Earth, taken from Space, showing this beautiful tiny blue ball seen from space. That view gives glorious perspective to us creatures on planet Earth. That tiny blue ball—yes tiny.—compared with views of the Universe. The lens of the James Webb Space Telescope—gives proper perspective.

The Psalmist in Psalm 8 gives clear, precise perspective for us.. The expectation of human stewardship, through the changing of seasons, is both an opportunity and a responsibility. Not only do the seasons change, the very shape of the earth changes—volcanoes, floods, winds, and earthquakes reshape the earth. The news gives regular reports of such events; we usually call them disasters. Recently was recorded a mild earthquake not far from my house(I think 2.4 )was reported, and it only rattling shelves .

Knowing the science of events past and how events reshaped mountains, and redirected rivers, Space.com’s projection gives us scientific verification. Years ago, a famous TV detective, Jack Webb (no connection to the James Webb Space Telescope) had a standard caveat; when inspecting a crime, he always said, “The Facts! Just the facts, mam!” The facts can go a long way to shield us from panic.

©Copyright 2025 Willis H. Moore

https://www.space.com/space-exploration/satellites/satellites-show-28-us-cities-are-sinking-including-nyc–chicago-infrastructure-can-be-silently-compromised

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My dad had a Sunday afternoon ritual; after a nap, he got out his writing box, containing a Parker fountain pen (for the benighted, that’s a writing instrument requiring refilling from an inkwell), a bottle of Skrip Blue-black ink (the bottle had a built-in inkwell), writing paper, stamps, and envelopes. His mother and stepfather lived in Tampa, Florida, and his father and stepmother lived in Dacula, Georgia. He wrote a newsy letter to each, stamped each envelope, and put them in the mailbox by the dirt-road. Every. Week.

By mid-week, we received a newsy, neatly penned letter from Grandmother Jewel Moore, a teacher, in Dacula, GA. Later in the week, a postcard came from Montie Howard—my maternal grandmother in Tampa, FL—hundreds of words written tiny, crowded onto that postcard—sometimes spilling to the other side of the card; not neatly written—but newsy. Each parent was distinctly different—but made regular, real family connections.

Writing letters, sent through the US Postal Service is now as near to extinction as the tiny Vaquita porpoise. A survey done by CBS, virtually sounds the death knell for letter writing. A large number of respondents to the survey (37%) reported not having written a personal letter in over five years. Next group below that only thirty-one percent had not written a personal letter in over one year. Fifteen percent of responders said they had never written a personal letter.

Nearly all civilizations have needed reliable message carriers. The earliest known postal system was begun by Darius The Great, more than five thousand years ago; it was known as The Royal Road. Couriers on horseback delivered messages and certain items efficiently across the vast Achaemenid Empire. The Pony Express functioned a lot like that.

Electronic devices moved communication galaxies beyond pen and paper communication. It makes most tasks quicker, more efficient, and less expensive. Here’s my caveat; nothing electronic can completely take the place of a timely, hand-written, personal message, sent through the mail, from a dear one. A physical envelope, bearing a carefully crafted message, that took time to write and to send—for you. The impact is palpable. You tend to keep some of these mailed messages in a drawer, a book, or another safe place. I have a few of those. You take it out, look it over, and read the message and cherish all over again that joyful connection.

During my first graduate program, I had a required three-month CPE residency at Central State Hospital. Although I had recently married, I still had to spend five days a week on the hospital campus—three hours from home. Commuting was out of the question. I wrote and mailed a letter to my bride every day. She died after our marriage of 57 years, and I found those letters; she had kept them all those years. That meant the letters were significant to her. A handwritten letter, stamped, and mailed speaks volumes to the recipient.

©Copyght 2025 Willis H. Moore

Uncle Jule, my grandmother’s brother, had a large neat pile of river stones in his front yard. I never knew why. I guessed they were for Aunt Eula’s flower garden. The stones were marble-size, just right for slingshot use. I didn’t have a Slingshot—butI had a dramatic imagination. Uncle Jule’s house was not fun—I learned that on this, my first visit to his house.

Upon arriving at their house in Oconee, GA, I went to Aunt Eula for her mandatory hug—reeking of Max Factor Primitif,—then I ran down the steps from the front porch—to that enticing pile of shiny stones! This pile of stones towered almost as high as the white picket fence surrounding their front yard, I stepped onto the rock-pile. Through a cloud of Prince Albert pipe tobacco smoke, Uncle Jule yelled at me—Boy! get off them rocks! You’re gonna scatter ’em all over the yard!” Chagrined, disappointed, and scared, I slunk back to the front porch. Until years later, when his house burned to the ground (that’s another story) those stones remained untouched in his front yard.

A pile of stones is heavy. Some heavier than others. Some piles of stone have heavier meaning. I never knew the meaning of Uncle Jule’s pile of stones. I’ve often wondered what vision bound him to that never-to-be-touched-pile of stones, Those stones did not just suddenly appear. They were chosen, placed in a pile, and curated for years; they were as precious to Uncle Jule as that Civil War Enfield, single-shot, muzzle-loading rifle hanging over the fireplace in their living room.

I remember another pile of stones. Traveling through Estonian countryside a few years ago, I saw a pile of stones at the edge of a freshly plowed field. Farther down the field, I saw similar piles of stones. I asked my guide why those stones were there? She explained. “This land is very stony. They move aside as many of the larger stones as possible so they can cultivate the land.” What a difference in a pile of stones—Uncle Jule’s and Estonian farmers’—preference versus purpose.

There is another pile of stones I must mention. After the Children of Israel crossed over the Jordan River into the Promised Land, Joshua made a dramatic assignment. One man from each of the twelve tribes was chosen. Each man had to go into the river and bring a stone from the center of the riverbed. Those twelve stones were set as a memorial. They would be an eternal reminder of God delivering them from slavery in Egypt. Joshua told them that, down through the ages, their children would ask, “What do these stones mean?”—they, and all following generations would retell the story of God’s great deliverance from Egyptian slavery. The pile of stones was both a permanent, visible reminder of the story, and an opportunity to tell the story.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

Peter W. Marty, Editor/Publisher of The Christian Century responded, In this current issue, to a reader who was looking for someone to write, the right words in this time of difficulty. Reflecting on that, I posit that at one time or another—maybe most of us—long for the right words. Especially in times of grief, or great sorrow, very likely you have that special person who can give you the right words you seek.

It has unexpectedly happened to me. In a conversation with my doctor. As we were ending the session, my doctor was paying attention; we had covered the matters I came for. As I was about to leave, she said, “You are grieving.” I thought, “Hey! You are right!” Those are the right words. That statement brought the right words to what I had been feeling for some time—I thought I had dealt directly with this, before. But her words were the right words—enlightening, understanding words.

We live in a multi-sensory bubble. Words, images, and influences buzz around us like hungry Northwoods mosquitoes—sometimes biting as painfully. Then, out of the blue, the right words open a spectrum of insight. Such an occasion happened last Sunday during Youth Day. The context matters, so without diminishing its signifcance, I will only say, one youth speaker concluded with the right words. Her words gave dramatic meaning to the entire worship service.

The right words may not be fancy, lofty words. They are words spoken with insight, heart, compassion, or all of the above. They are spoken by one who hears—in the best sense of the word. Sometimes the most eloquent right words—are no words at all. I think of Old Testament-Job’s friends. They came and sat silently with him in his grief—for days, giving the right words, —silent words—of care, a witness of presence.

I have heard that the greeting, “What’s the good word?” was a response to a pattern of preaching by mainline Protestant preachers in US cities generations ago. For a period of time those preachers’ sermons could be remembered well by a word, central to the sermon. After church, and during the week, people would greet each other with, “What is the good word?” I cannot verify this, but it makes a good story—and parts of that story are verifiable.

Words matter. Words can intimidate or inspire. Use words wisely; with care, kindness, and truthfully. All my life I have been something of a wordsmith—sometimes successfully. I have made some spectacular blunders. Back to Peter W. Marty; we live in a time when the right word is needed—the good, word. I think of words in the hymn, A Mighty Fortress Is Our God; in the third stanza Martin Luther wrote this: The Prince of Darkness grim, We tremble not for him; His rage we can endure, For lo! his doom is sure, One little word shall fell him.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025