The Goal Is In Sight (almost)

   For several months, from the time we first hiked in the Enterprise South Nature Park, we had stalked the 100 bunkers built here during the time of World War II.

      The map we used is shown above. The large circles with single digits in black on a gold background show designated parking areas, and the smaller green circles show the location of all the bunkers.

We had found and photographed No. 1.

   And No. 100, plus most of those between these bookends.

   But, and it is a large BUT,  the remaining 11 bunkers are located in areas where the roads are closed and non-authorized vehicles are prohibited.

   With the end in sight, we search for a way to get these.

   Stay tuned.

Confluence of Celebrations

    Yesterday morning a word popped up in my mind, one that I seldom use and had to look up the meaning in a dictionary before writing. 

   CONFLUENCE

   "A meeting of two separate entities, such as two rivers meeting to form a larger one."

   Hot Dog, here was the word for my blog post and I could look good using it.

   My streams would be Caroline's graduation from Blacksburg High on May 22, 2021 and my 85th birthday on that day. They would merge together to form the events of the weekend.

   As is the case for these confluent streams, one would be the important one and the other an opportunist.

   The Graduate and future Freshman at University of Central Florida.

   

   

   Caroline dressing for the occasion with her sister Laken working on the hair.

   

   Everyone in the family was excited and glad to celebrate.

   BHS Football stadium was ready, with plenty of extra chairs.   

   Proud Parents thinking "Only Three More to Go"

   The celebrating continued on through the day with games galore.

   Corn Hole and Pickleball were favorites and helped us work off all the good food.

   Lucy and David were eager to play and show off their skills.

   There were other decorations around the table as the whole family, 2 sets of grandparents, 5 kiddos and the 2 proud parents, sat down for a meal. It was a birthday celebration tacked on to the graduation.

   Dawn's dad, Golan, takes notes on how an 85th birthday ought to be celebrated. (Token no. of candles, birthday glass, funny glasses that lit up, and a balloon.)

   There was a special present from my charming wife.

   For Pickleball people the shirt reads in small print:

      What's the Score?

      Who Just Served?

      Were You 1 or 2?

   All joking aside, a good time was had by all. We were all glad to have two occasions to celebrate, and celebrate we did!

   Lucy will be the next to graduate, then Laken and David. 

   I believe there are at least 3 more times to make this dual event happen again. Can't Wait.

   

It Happened One Thursday..

   Thursday is Pickleball day. Along with Tuesday, they are my days to play at the BX.

   Since my charming wife has joined the exercise class at the BX, which meets at 10AM, I have changed my playing times on those two days to 10-12. This means we can drive in together, she can exercise from 10-11, and still have time to play in the last hour, or walk the track.

   One recent Thursday morning we showed up at the facility a little before 10. While she went upstairs to join her class, I walked into the gym to get ready to play. Passing by the first 3 courts, I noticed a new player. This was a tall lady, perhaps a former college basketball player, I thought.

   Looking back from the player waiting area, I thought she looked somewhat familiar, but with my memory the way it is, I dismissed the thought and got ready to play. 

   Soon the games began to finish, and the players from court 2 retreated into the waiting area to hydrate and wait for their next chance to play. 

   The tall, rather athletic looking woman was coming my way. Stopping in front of me, she put out her hand and asked, "Don Bowman?".

   Then it all came together. "Sally Thornton", I replied. 

   Sally had worked for me after I took over the management of the family produce brokerage business my Dad had begun back in 1946. After my college days, and a stint in the finance office of the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, Mayre and I had moved back to Chattanooga to work.

   Sally's dad had gone to work for Wayne L. Bowman Co. when my dad retired.  Jim had been a representative for the Washington State Apple Commission in the Southeast. 

   As business continued to increase, Jim suggested we hire his son Van, to join the sales team, and the Bowman-Thornton connection gathered in a new employee. 

   I don't remember the dates, but Sally, Jim's daughter came along after finishing her college basketball career at Tennessee Tech in Cookeville. She was such a good addition to our team that several years later we hired Jim's other son, Paul, to the sales staff.

   That is the back story on the picture. 

   I had not seen Sally since the early 90s, when I sold the business to the Thornton family, and left to teach school at CSAS.

   I found this picture of the Bowman Company, taken in the 80s. 

   Sally is on the far right and I am on the far left. Others on the front row left to right were: Cindy Kelley, my wife Mayre, my dad Wayne, and Carolyn Brown, ..Back row Van Thornton, Jessie Broadnax, Curtis Carroll, Jim Thornton.

   It was a good reunion. Some catching up on family and their lives, plus the opportunity to play some Pickleball with a good athletic lady and friend. I look forward to more games with her as my partner. 

   She is Good...

   Yes, Pickleball at the BX is the place to be. 

   You just never know what might happen or who might show up.

Who Do You Say That I Am?

   My plan this morning was to write a short blog about a reunion I had last week with a former employee of mine. I had a couple of pictures I planned on using to review our past association, but I need to put that post aside for a couple of days to focus on some things I want to highlight now.

   Don't worry, I will get to the reunion, and also back to more tales from my childhood and growing up years. 

   But first, I need to talk about something that is much more important.

   When I first went on Facebook, they wanted a profile picture. My choice was:

   Some may not know, but this is a Sorry piece from the board game of the same name. It was a game played often as my kids grew up. They made me use the yellow piece for my "man" because he was broken, but I chose the green one for Fb. A "whole piece" seemed somehow more mature. But inside a lot of the time I was broken and, indeed, a "sorry piece of work".

   Some 1100+ blog posts ago, I chose the moniker "Pilgrim" to post under, because I felt myself a man on a journey. I still am, and will be until I die.

   If you are up for a challenge, go ahead and read all the posts, and you can see where I came from and how I have traveled.

   BUT FIRST:

   For the past several weeks, Carolyn and I have been following a new series relating to the life of Jesus called The Chosen. I challenge you to go to the App Store and download it for yourself. The whole series project will be comprised of 8 seasons. Two seasons have already been shot, and the 8 episodes of season one and three episodes of season two are available to watch now on the app. Using the app on your phone, you can project the episodes on your TV. New episodes are posted as they are finished. Episode 4 of Season 2 will be posted this coming Tuesday night.

   Now I have been in church since nursery days. I have heard the stories of Jesus and His Disciples, and seen pictures and even films of the events of His days. In The Chosen, Jesus, whom the Bible shows as wholly human and wholly divine, is portrayed in His earthly ministry in a humanistic fashion that is very believable and authentic.

   The disciples, too, are men just like us. They have been given a plausible back story, and follow The Master with all the attitudes and feelings that we might have if we had been there with them. 

   In short, the characters are believably real, and I see myself in them as I watch. When Jesus says to Matthew, "Follow Me", and to the paralytic, "Take up your bed and walk", he is looking at me and asking me to do the same. It is powerful.

   These stories and characters are not made up. It appears to me, as a layman, that they are from The Bible with the authority of Scripture. Others that I have asked say the same.

   If you have become bored with the same old, same old, or if you have been turned off by others Christian or not, it is time for a new look and a new perspective.

   I was challenged to "Look and See" and I did.

   You should also.

   Then you can answer the more important question:

   Not, "Who Do You Say That I (Don) Am?", 

   But, "Who Do You Say That He (Jesus) Is?"...

   Peter answered this second question "You are the Christ, Son of the Living God"

      and I echo his answer. 

      How about you?

Church Memories

    As I sit here this morning, in the early part of the day, I find it funny which moments of a prior life come through the mist of history to stick in my mind. An example:

   One Sunday afternoon, not too far back, Carolyn and I drove downtown just to look around on a day when there was little traffic, neither automotive nor pedestrian. 

   Parking in the area of the courthouse, we walked the sidewalks of that part of downtown, trying to remember what buildings had been where and what they looked like. Some were gone completely, some partially intact, and some still as I remembered them.

   I had spent a good amount of time in that area around the 1912 courthouse, mainly because the church our family attended was right across 8th Street from it. Situated at the corner of Georgia Avenue and 8th Street was The First Christian Church, an area that is now a parking lot and garage.

   The parking garage and deck is not much of a landmark these days, but the stone steeple that was part of the First Methodist, across Georgia Avenue, is still standing. First Methodist merged with Centenary Methodist which was just a block or so to the east on McCallie. 

   Thinking back this morning, several miscellaneous images come to my mind. I remember the inside of the sanctuary, the baptistry on the left side down near the front where I was baptized as a preteen after completing the Pastor's Class. 

   I remember what the pulpit area looked like with the choir loft situated behind it. And I remembered an embarrassing moment when, as a teenager leading a youth service, I got ahead of myself, getting up from a pulpit chair to read my part, looking out over a congregation that seemed amused, and realizing as I turned to sit back down, after the reading, that I had gotten up too soon, and that the singers standing behind me had been ready to present a song, but had to wait in place until I finished. Why is it that moments like that are indelible?

   I also remember Christmas in that church. Not so much the serious part of the Christmas tradition, but Santa appearing in the fellowship hall under the sanctuary, handing out bags of candy and fruit to all the kids. Also performances by the kids, including a duet by my younger brother David and I, "Up On The Housetop", which, knowing my vocal prowess today, must have been a hoot. 

   One more incident sticks out. Our family was always there for services. One Sunday, after a snowfall the  Saturday night before, my mother was driving our car to church. Why my father was not along that morning is unclear, perhaps he had to work, but, regardless, here we were driving down McCallie Avenue toward church. Approaching the viaduct over the railroad tracks, we were chugging along, I believe in our 1941 Chevy, when we started up the east side of the viaduct, slid on the snow, made a UTurn without moving the steering wheel, and proceeded back east, from which direction we had just come. Without missing a beat, and with little drama, we drove back home, arriving safely to spend the morning on the couch reading. 

   At some point in the early 50s, the church built a new complex out on McCallie Avenue across from the University of Chattanooga, now UTC.

   Where it resides today.

   I spent most of my teen years in this new church, until I went off to college in Knoxville.

   Stories for another day.

Memory Lane

    My Mother was a collector. Not that the collected items would bring much money on the antique market. She did not have an original Babe Ruth baseball card, but she did tend to keep mementoes from her children's beginnings.

   She had all of my grade school report cards, the ones that had my teachers names and the grades of each of the areas of study as well as deportment grades. They are not to be shown in this space for obvious reasons.

   One small collection that brought back memories from a bunch of years back was a small stack of poorly written postcards from camp by her oldest son. 

   Yours truly...

   As near as I can figure, it was 1948. The summer after my 6th grade year at Sunnyside School. A good time to be alive. It was my first camp experience.

   The elementary cursive on the hastily written postcard stock told of a boy, away from home for two weeks, who had a problem with his family's response to his plight. I can remember it to this day. For a solid week this preteen had faithfully written home every day, but, even as others in his cabin received letters and cards at mail call, his name was not called.

   Now, lest you be upset at his parents for not writing in his time of need, they were due to visit him on that weekend between the two camp weeks. And they showed up as expected.

   The man-child was not happy, and his parents asked about his mood. When he explained about their supposed lack of concern, they were quick to apologize and promise to do better the second week. 

   Which they did.

   And peace was restored.

   Now that was not such a big deal. Seems like the parent's week had sped by busily, and they knew they would see him on the weekend. After all he was only 30 miles up the road, and camp was fun, wasn't it?

   A small item in one's life, right?

   Looking back on it from 2021, it was, but evidently not to a 12 year old.

   Those old cards did bring back a lot of memories and Carolyn and I decided to check out the YMCA camp on Lake Ocoee. It was Monday and our only chore was to make our weekly visit to Publix, so we went on north and east.

   The first landmark of the camp, Sugarloaf "Mtn", comes into sight as we drive the back roads of Polk County off US  Highway 64 out of Cleveland toward North Carolina. I have climbed it several times since those camp days, and it hardly fits the description of Mountain. Hill maybe, but not much larger.

   Camp Ocoee was begun back in 1923 and will celebrate 100 years in the camping business in 2023.

   So it has been 70+ years since I took that first icy plunge off the dock and into Lake Ocoee. Technically this is Parksville Reservoir, a lake created by the construction of a dam on the Ocoee River. Ocoee Dam No. 1 was opened in 1911 by the Tennessee Valley Authority.

   So much had changed since I had last visited the camp property back in 1958. This was at a weekend reunion of the adults and kids of families who had participated in Family Camp, a time when families rented cabins, ate their meals together in the dining hall, played sports, swam, and socialized together under the auspices of the Y. I can remember that year's reunion in 1958 because it was the weekend of the University of Chattanooga Mocs vs Tennessee Volunteers football game in Knoxville. The Mocs were usually cannon fodder for the Vols, but not in 1958, when the Vols were upset on their home field 14-6. Yours truly was a senior at UT at the time, and took much heat from the Chattanooga citizens.

   Jump ahead to 2021. The dining hall, home to many happy memories, great meals, slew (slough) juice, songs and skits. Just families enjoying each other's company for a couple of weeks.

   All that was left of the old dining hall. A new one replaced it on a lake plot south of the original camp. That old dining hall bell called us to many happy times. As a hungry boy its call had much appeal.

   The main road from the dining hall down to the lake front was lined with cabins. Originally the cabins were small, but the later ones had room for more campers and staff.

   The field where the camp offices were built was our softball field. You are looking from the home plate area toward left field. A strong hitter could propel the ball out of the field and up onto the side of the hill into the woods that sloped down to the playing area. Many a game was played here, both in the days when cabins played each other and at a later time for me when the adults joined in. With enough teenagers in Family Camp it would be the adults versus the young people. Mostly we won.

   Y camp was not all fun and games. There was a serious aspect. It was a Christian Camp, with vespers each evening, and church on Sunday at both the kids camp and the Family Camp.

   An aside: the families who came to the Family Camp were members of several churches in the Chattanooga area. Not only members, but lay leaders both in church, its denomination, and in the civic and business life of Chattanooga. We kids enjoyed and learned from men and women who took their Christianity seriously.

   One memory stands out in my mind, probably because it was out of my 12 year old's comfort zone growing up. There were no bathroom facilities in the cabins, so we trudged through the woods to what I remember as being a 4-hole outhouse. It was the first experience of this shy lad sitting in a latrine with 3 others. A bit uncomfortable at first, but commonplace after a few days or weeks. (Sorry, no picture. This structure was long gone.)

   Carolyn and I were fortunate that then camp director, B.J. Davis was in the office when we arrived, and he spent several minutes giving us the history of the camp before turning us loose to explore on our own. 

   It is fun to look back, and surprising too, when things that you had not thought of for years (maybe 70 or so), come rattling out of your subconscious.

   I'm happy I got the chance to relive so many happy times, and the chance to actually walk the same paths of long ago.

   It was, and is, a great place to be.

Baskets at Easter Time

    Before the time that this little boy knew anything about the real Easter story of tombs and resurrection, the big thing was an Easter basket, filled with colored eggs and perhaps some goodies. 

   Today this basket sits on a piece of furniture in a house that knew not this child. It is not filled with bright colors and chocolate, but holds a picture of a teenager in a uniform, and an old belt. My Mom and Dad (in the picture to the left) would be happy it is still used and on display.

   But the basket brings back memories of Easter on Tunnel Boulevard, where, even in the Great Depression and the beginnings of WWII, surprises and laughter filled the house and yard.

   Notice the basket in the pictures below..

   This child is looking for hidden eggs in a flower garden, If my memory serves me well, this small colorful garden sat next to a fence between 207 and 209 where the Mansfield family lived. Mr. Mansfield must have passed away, because the family last name changed to Perkins later. 

   This boy holds the same basket with eggs as he stands in the snow on a cold Easter Sunday. There is a story here, a story with all the elements of a regular Easter, but with the hazardous condition that the eggs cannot be hidden in the snow. Two reason emerge for this hazard:

      1. The snow is deep and the eggs once released from the basket sink to the bottom and out of sight.

      2. The footsteps of the hiding person lead to the spot every time.

   Where is all the suspense and fun in that?

   So we come to a logical conclusion, hide the eggs in the house.

   The eggs are counted, then hidden inside 207, then found with happiness.

   But there is one missing. No one can remember where the hiding place was. One egg is lost in the house. 

   A couple of weeks later a strange pungent odor is noticed. It smells of sulphur. Noses lead to a small table with a closed lid.

   There is the missing egg in all its glorious smell.

   That Easter was the last one where eggs were hidden in the house.

   That Easter basket has seen a lot of years. It has resided in several houses in several states. It has been used for a lot of different things and held by several tiny hands. 

   Today it holds memories of the past.

   It is also empty, just like the Easter tomb, but if you listen closely you can hear the Hope of the ages.

   CHRIST IS RISEN

   HE IS RISEN INDEED

   Amen and Amen