What’s in a name, part 1

Our middle son will turn 17 on May 2, and this is the perfect time to look at how our penchant for family names resulted in him being named “Harris Goodman Wallace.”

A young father holds his newborn son who is wrapped in a hospital blanket.
See what I mean about the hair?

Our second born was the only one of the three we didn’t know the gender of until he arrived. We’re planners. With Barron we learned the gender of our baby as soon as we reliably could tell from the ultrasound image. So in early December during Carla’s second pregnancy we went for an ultrasound, assuming it would be just as straightforward.

We thought we would know immediately the baby’s sex, and we could go to the deacon-church staff Christmas party that night at our pastor’s house and share the good news with everyone. Harris had other ideas. Despite the technician’s best efforts, his position and the placement of the umbilical cord prevented her from getting a conclusive image.

Not only were we glum at the party, we had to go with a neutral green to decorate his room. As with our firstborn, we had “Ruth” and “Helen” on standby if it was a girl. We were partial to a double name, and Carla liked both of my grandmother’s first names “Addie” and “Minnie.” “Ruth” was prevalent on both sides of our family, so it had to be in the name somewhere.

“Harris” was the middle name of Carla’s paternal grandfather, Lee Harris Barron. We were clear it was to be “Harris” and not “Harrison,” just like my name isn’t a short form of “Lawrence.” His middle name would come from Carla’s mother’s side of the family. “Goodman” is my mother-in-law’s maiden name, and we both liked its strength and predictive quality.

Of all our boys, Harris fittingly came out with the most hair allowing for a few gentle puns with “Hair-is.” Like his brothers, Harris also likes his name, although he is annoyed when people call him “Harrison” and the silly nickname our neighbor, Charlie, once gave him: “Hair-less.”

At 17 he is planning a career in public service and politics. He likes the sound of “Governor Harris Wallace,” “Senator Harris Wallace,” or even “President Harris Wallace.”

And for campaigning purposes, it doesn’t hurt that his middle name is “Goodman.” You may have heard that they’re hard to find.

What was your naming conventions for your children? Leave a comment on how you came up with your kids’ names and join the conversation!

My earliest memory

It’s difficult to separate my actual memories from my memories of old photographs. It’s why people take pictures in the first place.

Many of the images of my early childhood are captured on slides rather than prints, and the slides are in carousels at my parents’ house, packed away in closets, unseen in 30 or more years.

Whether I am remembering my childhood or the photos is hard to know, but one of the strongest impressions I have from those years is of our dog, Tippi.

a German shepherd dog lying prone in green grass
Alas, but the only images of me with Tippi are on slides. This photo of a female German Shepherd from Vertrauen German Shepherds, a breeder in Kansas City, is the closest I could find to what Tippi looked like, or at least my memory of her.

My dad worked nights as a mechanic for American Airlines, first at Love Field in Dallas and then at the new Dallas-Fort Worth Airport. In the 1970s, new neighborhoods were springing up across the Metroplex, and such was the case with ours in the suburb of Bedford, just a few minutes from the airport. Our house was the first one built on our street.

These circumstances led my parents to get a dog, a reliable guardian to keep my mom safe at night while Dad was at work, and a companion during the day in an isolated community that did not yet offer neighbors. My parents settled on a young but well-trained female German Shepherd. She was named in German, “Schwarz Spitze,” or “black tip,” because, obviously, the tip of her tail was black. My parents called her by the shortened nickname, “Tippi.”

As a toddler I struggled to say words that began with the letter “T.” In my language, “Tippi” was “Pippi.” My dad tried repeatedly to train me to say it correctly. He worked it into a list of other “T” words to trick my brain and tongue to suddenly cooperate.

“Say ‘tea,’ ‘toy,’ ‘top,’ ‘Tippi.”

I would respond with “’Tea!’ ‘Toy!’ ‘Top!’ ‘Pippi!”

The way he reacted with exasperation and laughter probably made me think it was a fun game. That and my genetic predisposition toward stubbornness kept me saying “Pippi” long after it was cute.

I remember watching “Sesame Street” while laying on our black couch, coffee table or red-tiled floor, always with a hand on Tippi. My protector, Tippi would sit obediently by my side or at my feet. And as I grew, Tippi remained attentive and fiercely loyal, (emphasis on the fierce). Anytime she perceived a threat to me, she growled and barked. Her protection extended to my friends who would come to the house to play. If we ever wanted to go in the backyard, we had to make sure she was in the garage or in the house.

A faint memory that has grown in impact because of its constant retelling was a time I marched along the fence in the backyard with a bucket on my head, holding Tippi by the tail and singing “I’m in the Lord’s Army.” If I had to guess, I was inspired by a scene from the World War II prisoner-of-war comedy “Hogan’s Heroes” in which armed guards patrolled the perimeter of the camp with German Shepherds. Never mind the questionable origins of the idea, my parents thought it was hilarious.

In the heat of Texas summers, Tippi loved to play with me in the water hose or the small wading pools my parents would set up for me. I clearly remember how she would try to bite the stream of water flowing from the hose like she was attacking a snake.

She retrieved balls, gnawed bones, ate crunchy dog food from a metal dog dish in the garage, and, according to family legend, once turned her nose up at a plate of beef stroganoff my mom had branched out to prepare for supper. My dad, lacking grace about his distaste for the meal, suggested the dog wouldn’t even eat it. In response, my mother jerked up his plate, opened the door to the garage and set it down in front of Tippi. She sniffed the plate, turned around and promptly went into the backyard.

I also have clear memories of the tumors Tippi began to develop when I was eight or nine. When I petted her, I was careful to avoid the painful lumps that had formed on her body, particularly the back of her neck. I observed her grow more and more listless, less active, displaying less of an appetite, and emitting the high pitched whine more frequently when there was no apparent prompting.

Finally, my parents had seen enough of her suffering, and one day while I was at school, they took her to the vet “to be put to sleep,” as they called it. Tippi left our lives that day, but she has never left my memory.

So strong was our bond that even though we had other dogs after we moved to Florida, I never allowed myself to feel attached. I knew no dog could ever be as good and smart and loyal as Tippi. I’m sure she frustrated my parents at times in the way our family dogs have frustrated me in my household, but as the kid with the dog, I have nothing but the best memories of my Pippi dog.

Fists of fury

“I’m a runner, not a fighter” is my standard line when the subject of fighting comes up.

I am not prone to aggression, but twice in my life I found myself involved in the kinds of fisticuffs that boys have been getting into since the beginning of time.

vintage sketch of two men with mustaches boxing
My fighting form resembled the gentlemanly and antiquated form best described as “old timey.”

The first of these bouts occurred when I was about 10 or 11. We were living in Bedford, Texas, and a new kid my age named Brad moved in across the street with his mom and teenage brother. My friend Jason had lived in that house, and we had always played well together. It was only natural that Brad and I would become friends purely on the basis of age and proximity.

We played together outdoors mostly, riding bikes, pretending to be soldiers or re-enacting our favorite “Star Wars” scenes. Because his single mom worked, Brad and I were typically under the supervision of Brad’s brother when we played in and around his house. Brad’s brother, whose name I have stricken from my memory, often abused his authority, arbitrarily ending our playtime or mocking our play. He couldn’t have been older than 13, but he exuded an air of superiority to distance himself from us “little kids.”

Martial arts fascinated Brad’s brother. Like a lot of kids at that time, he had discovered Bruce Lee movies and he made a set of nunchucks from wood and rope. He practiced with his nunchucks in the garage while Brad and I pretended to have lightsaber duels in the driveway. It was during one such session that Brad’s brother inserted himself into our play. Without warning, he started calling us names and used words I was forbidden from ever using.

When Brad protested, his brother forced him to go inside and closed the manual garage door in my face. Angry at the injustice and Brad’s brother’s general air of superiority, I began to hit the garage door with my “lightsaber,” a cut off wooden broom handle about two-and-a-half feet long. After just a few swings, Brad’s brother raised the garage door and confronted me with more yelling and cursing. In a rage, I began hitting him with the broom handle. Several blows landed on his legs and hips.

Any unbiased observer could see I was clearly the aggressor, and for a brief moment I had the upper hand. But this was not a duel of equals. Taller and stronger, Brad’s brother picked up one of the wooden handles he was using to make another set of nunchucks. He dodged my swing and flashed the nunchuck skills he had been practicing, hitting me square in the temple. The blow ended the combat immediately. Blinded by pain and seeing stars, I dropped my own weapon and ran home, crying. I knew enough not to involve parents, and I also knew I had started it.

Brad and I remained friends, but after that incident, we stayed in my yard. I avoided his brother and never had any more problems. We moved to Florida a year or two later.

That first fight taught me not to start something with someone bigger than me, and if you have to fight, aim for the head.

Not long after we moved to Lake Wales, I had the second and final fight of my life. Predictably, it came during an unsupervised moment in P.E. class in the spring of seventh grade. I attended Lake Wales Christian School, a kindergarten through 12th grade institution operated by the church my dad had been called to pastor the year before, and all of the boys from 7th to 12th grades had physical education together. One sunny day as we made our way down the hill from the locker room in the gym to the backstop for a game of softball, my seventh grade classmate David Griner overtook me from behind, playfully slapping the top of my head with his baseball glove.

It wasn’t a malicious attack, but I didn’t take it well. For reasons still unclear to me, I didn’t appreciate and didn’t see his swat on the head as innocent. Adrenaline flowing, I immediately turned to square off against my adversary. David’s mocking smile invited a punch, and I obliged. I was so caught up in the moment that I didn’t realize I was wearing my baseball glove. Though I am right handed, I inexplicably swung at him with my left hand. The leather Rawlings made contact with David’s lip, which immediately split spilling blood.

When he wiped his hand across his lip and saw blood, his playfulness evaporated. We squared off with the boys encircling us and began to wrestle, pulling at each other’s shirts and falling to the ground grappling in the Florida sand. In just a few seconds, several of the seniors stepped in and broke it up. David and I were wary of each other the rest of the day and probably for the rest of the week, but by the end of the school year, we were laughing about it with no lingering ill will.

It would be presumptuous to declare myself the winner of my fight with David, but I was the clear loser of my fight with Brad’s brother. My record in such contests wasn’t great, and as I matured, I learned to control my temper and found other ways to settle disputes.

The fights aren’t significant, and I’m not proud of them. They were stupid and childish, but they did teach me important life lessons. I do not advocate resorting to violence to sort out your differences, but getting walloped in the head and drawing blood in hand-to-hand combat gave me enough of a taste of fighting to know that calmer heads could arrive at better solutions.

Boys will be boys, but there are better ways to settle your differences.

The wisest person I’ve ever known

The Rev. Billy Mauldin was my pastor from birth until age 12 when my family moved to Central Florida. Brother Mauldin, as he was known in our home and in our church, embodied the calling of “pastor” for me and was my ideal for a preacher, counselor and leader.

Portrait of Pastor Billy Mauldin in a suit and tie. He is wearing glasses and standing in front of a blue background.
The Rev. Billy Mauldin

My earliest memories in life are of the nursery at First Baptist Church of Richland Hills, Texas, and my encounters with Bro. Mauldin in and around the church figure prominently. I can clearly see him in my mind’s eye emerging from the door to his office that opened onto the construction site behind the church building to tell us boys to stop throwing dirt clods against the bricks. And I can hear his voice ring out, “Lee Wallace!” when my brother reached down for one more clod to throw.

Bro. Mauldin had authority and dignity in the pulpit. His respect for the Bible and reverence for God were not artificial. His sincerity connected with me so profoundly that even when I didn’t understand all the words in his sermons, I understood the point. His ministry to our family was personal and infused with love. My parents had no better friend or trusted confidant.

Bro. Mauldin was one of the few people who exhibited a literal twinkle in his eye. At times his smile would be betrayed by a sadness in his eyes, but even in those moments, a tenderness and compassion came through that displayed genuine concern and affection for people.

He was tall with broad shoulders and hair that was always in place. Around me, he was almost always wearing a suit and tie, or else he had just taken off his tie after church. The rare times he was more casual and not in his “preacher’s suit” stick out in my mind. I remember him batting in a softball game at a church picnic, laughing from the porch swing during church camp at Jan-Kay Ranch and elbowing me at lunch to punctuate a joke at my father’s expense.

“You know, if your dad had been a girl, he would have been an old maid,” he would often say.

My dearest and most profound memory of Bro. Mauldin is of a Sunday immediately after church, when he welcomed me, all of 10 years of age, into his office and listened attentively as I declared through tears that I needed to be saved. I will never forget his kindness, smile, generosity, conviction and comfort in those moments as he led me through the sinner’s prayer and helped me experience the relief and elation of God’s forgiveness. He was with me at that life-changing moment and a week later when he baptized me.

He personified wisdom for me during my formative years as I sat under his preaching and experienced the blessing of his friendship. As a young adult I saw and appreciated how much his friendship meant to my dad, and when my dad couldn’t talk about his challenges in the ministry with anyone else, he could always count on Bro. Mauldin to listen and offer wise counsel.

I learned practical lessons from Bro. Mauldin as well. He lived in a modest but well-kept home that was always comfortable and welcoming. I experienced his hospitality firsthand the summer I turned 13 and spent a week with him and his wife, Jean, during a visit from Florida. He saved his money carefully and drove a new Oldsmobile or Cadillac every two years, always paying cash and never having to worry about maintenance or car repairs.

As I grew into adulthood, I appreciated that although he had deeply held convictions on the Bible and what it meant for our lives, he could see both sides of an issue. He was quick to point out, like a true prophet, the failings of both political parties in this country, though he was conservative through and through.

Bro. Mauldin passed away in March 2015, still very much a part of our family’s life up until his death. My youngest brother, Lyle, married his granddaughter, Nicole, and we were blessed to be connected by family as well as ministry.

Billy Mauldin was a role model, and his wisdom made a profound impact on me. I know many others from our days at First Baptist Church of Richland Hills who could say the same. I hope I have retained a bit of his humor, his kindness, his conviction and his wisdom and that it will be a part of my legacy when I’m gone.

Appreciating my brothers, part 1

Arthur Lee Wallace arrived on the scene on March 17, 1974, changing all of our lives. I was three-and-a-half and not convinced it was for the better. I eyed him with suspicion as he disrupted the established order that had me at the center. New baby Lee got all the attention. In my shyness, I shrank back from the cheek-pinches and glad handing. Lee stole the limelight.

Mother holds a young boy and a baby boy on her lap
In March of 1973, Mom brought this little guy home from the hospital. You can see my enthusiasm.

Our little St. Patrick’s Day leprechaun overcame a number of early illnesses and a crazy array of allergies to grow into one of my closest companions. As we both grew, the three-plus years that separated us didn’t seem to matter as much. Particularly when we moved from Dallas-Fort Worth to Lakes Wales, Florida, Lee was my constant playmate and only confidant. We shared a bedroom, so many hours of procrastinating sleep were filled with jokes and stories and imaginings.

As he grew and matured, Lee took to music both as an artistic expression of his creative impulse, and a sincere act of worship. Deeply spiritual and serious about his faith, Lee used his talent to express his love for Jesus and glorify God. Whether it was his voice, saxophone, piano or guitar, Lee’s musical talent always impressed me, and I still marvel at his ability to conduct a choir or orchestra.

A young boy in a plaid suits sits next to a screaming baby in a baby carrier on a sofa.
Despite appearances, I had nothing to do with Lee’s caterwauling on his first Easter, but, boy howdy, I sure was a sharp dresser.

Beyond his musical talent, I have always enjoyed Lee’s sense of humor. His wit is sometimes so dry and sarcastic that I don’t know how to take it when I’ve not had the pleasure of his company or conversation for a long time. He makes me laugh. His perspective finds humor in circumstances that would challenge a lesser person’s patience. His experience in ministry and public speaking has helped him hone his gift for comedy, but to me, he’s funniest one-on-one in the midst of day-to-day activities.

When we do have an opportunity to catch up, it’s his storytelling I enjoy most. Whether it’s describing a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles or a harrowing attack by an unleashed pit bull, Lee knows how to weave the details together to be poignant, suspenseful and hilarious, often all in the same tale. He’s always been truthful to a fault, but he knows how to season his stories with just a hint of exaggeration to give them impact. And when he gets on a roll, you will laugh until your abs hurt.

Two men in tuxedos
Lee was the first of the Wallace men to fall prey to matrimony, and he seemed so happy about it all.

My life and career have brought me into close and prolonged contact with preachers and other ministers. I never felt a call to local church ministry, but I’ve seen enough of it firsthand to know that sometimes ministers do not possess a strong work ethic. They feel that doing God’s work and making financial and reputational sacrifices entitles them to put forth less effort in their jobs.

Two of those Wallace boys… circa 2021.

Lee is not one of those ministers. He works hard and without complaint, understanding at a fundamental level that ministry is just as much about visiting the hospital and setting up tables as teaching a Sunday School class or preaching a sermon. He will clean toilets, mow grass, fry fish, wash cars, and visit people in their homes until he is completely spent, pouring himself into the lives of others. He has been a surrogate father to untold numbers of teenagers who needed Christ and the love and affirmation of an adult. He has been an encouraging presence to hundreds of elderly saints who needed a listening ear. I have always admired his dedication and approach to ministry, even if I have been concerned for his physical and emotional health.

A man and his wife and their teen-aged daughter stand on a bridge during the fall.
The boy turned out OK. This family portrait from a few years ago with his lovely wife, Karrie, and daughter Kalee, says it all.

Lee loves the Lord, his wife and daughter, and the church. He has the right priorities, and I love him for it.

Bravery isn’t the absence of fear

The concept of “being the man of the house” feels archaic in today’s equality-driven society, but in our home, that role comes with one unescapable duty: protect the occupants from bugs and critters.

That’s why I found myself doing battle in the middle of the night in my underwear with a little brown bat.

We moved to Lilburn, Georgia, from Macon in March of 2003. We were fortunate to find an affordable home with enough space to accommodate our growing family. It was located in a good school district and was only a 30-minute commute from my office. Built in 1973, the home had been updated in some ways and needed aesthetic improvements in others. One of the home’s best features was a large bonus room that had been converted from the garage. There were two huge closets, one we used for our computer desk and one that held all of our toys. It was the perfect playroom, and with a two-year-old, we spent most of our time in that room with a “Thomas the Tank Engine” DVD playing on the television.

The house also came with a big, tree-filled back yard. Developed in the 1970s, the neighborhood allotted a full acre per lot, and the huge, 30-plus-year-old pine trees in the back yard provided plenty of shade. The trees, including a huge magnolia and two silver maples in the front yard, also provided a habitat for a number of unwanted guests in our home. Those invaders helped us form a strong and long-lasting relationship with “Mr. Craig the Bug Man” to help keep our home bug-free. Because of Mr. Craig’s strong chemical defense, fulfilling my duty to serve and protect usually meant putting bugs out of their misery as the poison slowly took effect on their twitching carcasses or harvesting the stiff remains in the early morning before anyone else awoke to see the unpleasantness. I had not previously been called on to do hand-to-hand combat.

Our trees also provided ideal roosting spots for other potential unwanted guests in our home. At dusk in the spring and summer, I frequently saw bats dipping and diving, chasing mosquitoes and others flying insects. Not only did I admire their aerial maneuvers, but I appreciated their patrolling the skies around our house and eliminating pests. The eaves on our house had wire mesh screens covering the vent slats leading into the attic, but I never gave much thought as to why that was necessary. I certainly didn’t suspect that I would have an up-close encounter with the flying mammals.

We didn’t have an alarm system until our first home in Macon was burglarized. Thieves took some of Carla’s family heirloom jewelry and our two VCRs, but as with all break-ins, the biggest loss was our sense of security. Within a couple of days of the incident, we had an alarm system installed, complete with window-break sensors. These tricky devices set off the alarm every time we dropped a book, slammed a door or otherwise made a loud noise. The sensitivity of those sensors caused to me question our purchase every time they went off. Our experience with security systems on our Macon house taught us what to avoid, so when we moved to Lilburn and had an alarm system installed, we shifted from glass-break sensors to motion sensors. This seemed to be a good move until one night a few months after we moved in. We were tucked in our beds sleeping soundly when the house alarm was triggered by a balloon floating through the playroom.

The control panel was in our bedroom, and it revealed the source of the offending motion. The playroom was a natural point of entry since it was the first room you entered from the parking pad. We got used to the stuff in the playroom setting off the house alarm. So one spring night after a year or two of being lulled into complacency, I immediately suspected a balloon or some other similar offender when the alarm went off, and the playroom zone indicator light flashed. I got up, turned off the alarm, reset the system and stood there, waiting to see if this was not a drill. Less than a minute later, I got my answer. The alarm went off again. My heartbeat accelerated, and I thought, “This could be the real deal.”

Even though we possessed a handgun, given to us by my father-in-law after we got married, I went downstairs unarmed to investigate. I felt anything but brave as I knocked around and called out “Who’s there?” adopting the tactic of scaring an intruder away. I suspected something had fallen over in the toy closet, causing the door to open and setting off the motion sensor. I slowly navigated the back hall from the kitchen to playroom, flipped the light switch and scanned the empty playroom. Everything was in its place and the closet doors were still shut. The door was closed and dead bolted. The windows all appeared secure. I began to think we had a malfunctioning sensor on our hands.

That’s when it attacked.

Movement to my right caught my eye, and I instinctively ducked as something flapped past my head. It settled into the far corner of the room, resting on the upper molding. The little furry, winged creature stared back at me, likely as frightened as I was. My mind raced. How in the world was I going to get that thing out of my house?

Little Brown Bat on a white, flat surface exposing his teeth
Doesn’t he look fierce? Photo by Todd Cravens from Forsyth Wildlife.

I opened the back door and hoped he would find his way out. By this time, Carla had descended the stairs and called to me from the front of the house. I ducked back into the hallway and yelled back, “It’s a bat!” My worst fear wasn’t being bitten by a potentially rabid bat. No, hearing Carla’s voice made me realize I was truly I afraid the bat would escape the playroom and go exploring our home. There wasn’t a door to shut off the playroom from the rest of the house.

The bat remained in the corner for several minutes before I decided I had to take some action to encourage it to fly out of the open door. I retreated upstairs, went to my closet and emptied the dirty clothes from the laundry basket. It was the best I could come up with to use as a shield or a net. I went back downstairs and grabbed a broom from our closet of cleaning supplies just off the playroom. The bat hadn’t moved. My hastily conceived plan was to somehow trap him in the laundry basket using the broom. Once in the basket, I would keep the basket up against the wall or floor and move him to the back door where I would tilt the basket and release the bat into the night. Like I said, it was hastily conceived.

I approached the corner warily, laundry basket in my left hand, broom in my right. I was wearing only my boxers and realized if my neighbors were awake, they were getting quite a show.

When I got close enough to the bat, I triggered its motion sensors, and it took off again, flying to the opposite corner of the room. We played this zig-zag game of tag for about 10 minutes before the futility of my plan became apparent. That’s when the old cliché “blind as a bat” came to me. I had blinded him when I turned on the light. I knew if I turned off the light, the bat would have the upper hand, but it was more important for me to see him and know where he was at all times.

As the encounter dragged on, I decided I would have to risk a sneak attack and turn off the lights. The back-porch light was on, and moths and other flying bugs were doing their nightly dance around it. Hopeful the bat’s echolocation would click on in the darkness and the prey would catch his attention, I turned the playroom lights off and stood in the doorway to the hall with the laundry basket raised in front of my face to create a barrier to the rest of the house. After all of my vain attempts to dislodge our unwanted visitor, I finally turned to prayer.

Almost immediately the prayer was answered. I heard the now familiar rustle of furry wings move across the room and out the door. I quickly closed the back door and locked the deadbolt, as if that was necessary.

I flipped the lights back on and scanned the room again, finally lowering my broom sword and basket shield. With the adrenaline of the hunt still pumping, I took several deep breaths to slow my heart rate and calm down. Carla called out from the staircase asking if it was safe to inspect the scene of the intrusion for herself. I told her it was.

I had successfully defended her castle, proving myself worthy as the man of the house.

Just Like Mama Used to Say

I really miss colorful, old-timey idioms in everyday speech.

Original turns-of-phrase catch my ear and bring joy to my heart. The better a person is at coming up with such quips on the spot, the more I admire them for their quick wit, intellect and personality.

You know the kind of sayings  I’m talking about: “Dumber than a bag of hammers,” “Best thing since sliced bread,” “Poor as Job’s turkey,” “Useful as a screen door on a submarine” among others. I found an interesting starter-pack compilation over at HotToddy.com if you need a refresher.

Back in October when I was watching a lot of ESPN College GameDay, on account of my interest in glimpsing a certain Redcoat Marching Band trumpeter on the TEE-vee, I was treated to a special session of a Southern master of the art at the height of his game. Comedian Jeff Foxworthy was the guest picker for the segment when the show’s hosts and analysts pick the winners of the biggest games of the day concluding with Lee Corso donning the headgear of the mascot of the team he thinks will win the game of the week.

Georgia was hosting Kentucky in Athens and Foxworthy was the celebrity guest picker. He not only had interesting insights about each game, he crafted a special metaphor to match. My favorites were “tighter than Aunt Trudy’s stretch pants the day after Thanksgiving” and “As welcomed as a muddy dog at a wedding.” You can watch the whole segment over at the YouTube.

To be honest, I wish I was better at idiomatic language. I find that I increasingly cannot easily recall names, places, titles or even sometimes simple words in everyday conversation, nevermind being original, hilarious and insightful with my comparisons. But there’s hope.

Friends, I’m here to say that I’ve discovered the perfect antidote to mundane palaver. If you aspire to quintessentially Southern oratory, run, don’t walk, to the internet and pick yourself up a new card game that will test your creativity and provide hours of family fun, not to mention practice at being the envy of all your dialogical partners.

Just Like Mama Used to Say is a card game from the Birmingham, Alabama,-based media company It’s a Southern Thing. If you are a self-identified Southerner, your social media algorithms have probably brought their videos to your feeds on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Tik Tok.

During our COVID-impacted Christmas vacation, our family thoroughly enjoyed Just Like Mama Used to Say. We gave it to our oldest as a gift because he shares my love of Southernisms and making just the right comparison. It was a hit.

From our first session, we had some doozies. My favorites were “His truck was as fast as a pack of wiener dogs on a treadmill.” I don’t know that a pack of wiener dogs is all that fast, but it sure is fun to say.

Harris, Carla and Barron Wallace playing a card game called "Just Like Mama Used to Say."
“Just Like Mama Used to Say” entertained us mightily during some unplanned COVID-related down time during the holidays.

Gameplay is easy. If you’ve ever played Apples to Apples, you will immediately know how this game works. Players draw cards containing phrases, put them together to make an original phrase that is then selected as the winner of that round by the designated judge. Each player in turn gets a chance to be the judge, and the topics of each round are selected by random draw of a set of cards. The winner is the first person to have five of their idioms chosen. You can shorten or elongate games by decreasing or increasing the number of times your combination of cards is chosen, but you get the point. It’s as easy as instant grits.

After you’ve mastered the original deck of cards, you can order the “Back to School” and “Go to Church” expansion packs. It’s more fun than poking doodle bugs with a chopstick.

So if you appreciate a well-turned phrase, I encourage you to join me in committing to putting in the effort to be more colorful with your language. Maybe you have a few such sayings in your family’s collective memory you can bring back, if only to use ironically. Some may not have aged well, but if you act like you’ve got some sense, you can navigate those sensitivities.

Meanwhile, I’m going to be working on my material over on the Twitter. Not all of them will be winners, so y’all just give me a little grace. My hope is that in making the attempt, I can contribute to elevating our discourse, bringing a little laughter to our lives and inspiring others to make an effort at connecting and communicating.

I don’t know about you, but I could sure use a good dose of all that right about now.

Do you have any favorite Southern idioms? Leave a comment. You can even try out a few original lines. I promise no one will judge. We might say “Bless your heart,” but we won’t judge. 

Four walls and a roof

I hate moving.

Moving is one of my least favorite activities because when you’re married to Carla, moving means painting. I hate painting.

Our new home, less than a mile from our current residence in Lilburn.
Our new home, less than a mile from our current residence in Lilburn.

When we first got married we lived in an apartment with vaulted ceilings. Because of her need for color and beauty, she insisted we paint the rooms, forfeiting our security deposit and spending hours painting huge walls. Thus the pattern was established for our marriage.

A year later when we bought our first home, she walked in and pronounced with enthusiasm “This is perfect! We can move in right now!” Little did I know that by “perfect” she meant that I would take a week of vacation to paint every room in the house.

By the time we moved into our current home in Lilburn 11 years ago, I was on to her little scheme. Plus, we were moving for my job, and I was traveling more. Carla did most of the painting herself, so my complaining was really more of just rehashing old inconveniences rather than a current set of circumstances.

This time, though, is not just about the anticipated lower back pain, stirring up dust and pollen to provoke allergies and taking time off work to become physically exhausted for a week straight. This time, there is an emotional pain that underlies the entire process.

As much as I like to put on a façade of stoicism about changing houses, I really have grown attached to our house. We brought our oldest to this house when he was just 2, and we added two more sons here. It’s the only house they have really known.

At some point before we purchased our current house, the previous owners converted the garage into a large room that we use as our playroom. We live in this room more than any other room in the house. I will miss this room and the laughter and tears and conversations it has held. Carla’s colorful paint scheme and cheery window treatments have turned the room into a space for imagination and bonding. Along with the fingerprints, thousands of pushpin holes and furniture marks, there is a coating of love on these walls that can only come from 11 years of being a family together in it.

I wrote a novel in this house – at this very desk I’m writing this blog now. Yes, I know, I need to finish the re-write, but the spot I tuned into the mental channel to get the essential story that became my book happened right here in this house.

Carla and I figured out how to be married in this house. We had been husband and wife only six years when we moved, and we were still sorting out the issues that beset young married couples. Our relationship has only grown stronger and sweeter in our time together in this house.

We have celebrated 10 Christmases in this house, lovingly decorating inside and out each year. All our decorations have a place, and the boys know those traditions. I will miss sitting in my living room with a cup of decaf talking with Carla in the twinkling glow of the lit Christmas tree on cold December nights as we make our lists and travel plans. And of course, I will miss the Christmas mornings in that living room, strategically tucked around the corner from the stairs where for years we’ve forced the boys to pause for photos while Nanny and Poppy get in position to enjoy the scene.

I will miss the dining room or breakfast room, which we used to call it back before we converted the dining room into a guest room, because of all the conversations and laughter we’ve had in that room. I will not miss the tortured cries at having to eat vegetables, but something tells me that will be coming with us to our new eating space.

For the past six years, we have welcomed the young adults of Parkway Baptist Church into our home once a month for Second Sunday. That is truly an incredible time in which we get to extend hospitality to friends who share good food, life’s journey and the presence of Christ. Our cozy living room has been a suitable context for much meaningful dialogue on what really matters.

Our current home in 2003 when we moved in.
Our current home in 2003 when we moved in.

Perhaps more than the inside, I will fondly remember the hours I have spent taming the lawn: mowing, trimming, blowing, pruning, raking, digging and spreading. Yard work is therapeutic, and I’ve left a lot of stress and anxiety out in that yard.

We’re moving less than a mile away. We’re not leaving friendships behind because we will be able to visit and see our friends and neighbors as much as we like. We’re not changing school districts, so the boys will not have to navigate that transition. We’re not painting anything… yet … and this house we’re moving into is a lovingly maintained, beloved home sold by a family who is facing similar sentiments of loss and grief as they leave the place they built and raised a daughter in.

I hate moving, but if I have to move, I’m glad it’s this house and it’s at this time in our lives. We will make new memories there. We will bond even more tightly as a family, especially as Mama gets to spend more time with us in our daily routines. And I’m sure at some point there will be painting.

It’s amazing how attached you can get to a place in 11 years and how much stuff you can accumulate. I’m just glad you don’t have to pack memories. We would need a bigger truck.

Have you ever left behind a house that you loved? Do you like moving and move frequently? Share your favorite home memories in a comment below. It will do us all some good to share our homesickness.

Thoughts on Lanny

On Nov. 1, 2013, my father-in-law, Lanny Barron, was in an automobile accident on his way to his house in Sandersville from his family’s farm outside of town. He died on Thanksgiving, Nov. 28. Today’s essay is the eulogy I had the honor of delivering at Lanny’s funeral. He and Cynthia would have been married 49 years on March 28. He would have turned 72 on April 2. To help remember him during this significant week, Carla asked that I post this eulogy. I hope you get a glimpse of what made him special.

Lanny and Barron on the front porch several years ago. This smile is how I remember him.
Lanny and Barron on the front porch several years ago. This smile is how I remember him.

Lanny Carl Barron lived his life between the farm and town.

He spent his formative years on the family farm on the Sparta-Davisboro Road a few miles outside of town in what is known as the Downs Community. There he learned the ways of planting, harvesting, hunting, preparing food and generally occupying himself with practical pursuits ultimately meant to provide sustenance for his family.

His family moved into town as his father worked in law enforcement. He developed a love of sports and cars and other pursuits hot-blooded males of his generation appreciated. But he was never far from the farm and the woods.

In high school he met and fell in love with Cynthia Goodman. Though she went off to Georgia Southern and he to the U.S. Navy, his intense love only grew in their separation. Not one to put on much of a show or engage in what he referred to as “that kissy, kissy mess,” Lanny was smitten in a way that affected him to his core. And when Cynthia turned down his original proposal of marriage, the iron will and determination – some might call it stubbornness – that those who knew him well recognized as a central part of his character helped him woo her past the point of refusal.

They were married, and he spent his shifts, both days and nights, operating heavy equipment in the kaolin mines of Washington County, an honorable occupation many of you know well. As Cynthia went into the classroom to put her training and gifts of teaching and nurturing to use with the children of Tennille, Lanny had all he wanted out of life. Except for a child.

It was nearly a decade before Carla was born, and though he was, perhaps, better suited to teach a boy the importance of the land, honest character, the intricacies of the forward pass and the sacrifice bunt, Lanny was challenged to develop his more tender side as he learned to love and show affection to a daughter.

This wasn’t always easy for him, and for a time he struggled with his role as husband and father. But in her patience, love, and resolve, Cynthia helped him decide what was worth giving his life to and what was not. Lanny made up his mind that the woman who had been worth pursuing in his youth and the daughter they had so desperately wanted were worth spending time with, and once again through his will and determination he made the kind of life change that many are never able to accomplish.

Still, Lanny was not much of a churchman for many years. He could clearly recall his days as a young boy at the church at Downs, but his distaste for pretense and his ability to sniff out hypocrisy kept him from darkening the church door, though Cynthia and Carla were at church every time those doors were open.

In his 50s after suffering a heart attack, Lanny recommitted himself to the faith of his childhood. As he described it to me one day while driving from town out to the farm, he realized it was the church folk who visited him in the hospital and looked after Cynthia and Carla while he recovered. After that, Lanny was in church the first Sunday he was able, and he became a faithful member and servant. He was eventually named a deacon, a title to which he had not aspired in his earlier days. It was yet another example of him making up his mind and making a 180-degree turn, never to look back.

His lifestyle changes included a new commitment to physical fitness. He walked all over Washington County, mostly in the backwoods of his family’s land. By the time I met Lanny in 1996, he had shifted to riding a bike, and he could often be seen out on the Fall Line pedaling along with his little Pekingnese named Bossy, in the front basket.  He was a man who was nearly always in the company of a dog, and among those who grieve his passing now the most is his little buddy and constant companion, Jack.

Among the first occasions I had to spend an extended amount of time with Lanny was at Carla’s graduation from Mercer. His pride in the accomplishments of his daughter helped him overcome his distaste of pomp and circumstance. He put on a tie and made the drive over to Macon and along with about 10,000 other folks, he applauded his daughter achieving her college degree.

And when I went from being the boyfriend to the son-in-law, he put on a tuxedo to escort his beautiful Carla down the aisle.

For the past 16 years, the Lanny I have known has been a fan of the Golden Hawks, Bulldogs and Braves; quick with a joke (not many of which I would dare retell in this solemn gathering) and full of wisdom from his uncomplicated but principled upbringing. His mischievous smile was never brighter than when he picked at those he had fondness for, including Cynthia, his co-workers, church friends and, of course, his sister-in-law, Linda Goodman, who has always been able to give it back as good as she got it.

And at least a hand full of times I have been with him as he rode out to the farm to the Red House to find his nephew, Johnny, sitting on the back porch in the autumn, mid-morning sun. Better than any program on the Outdoor Channel, he loved to hear Johnny tell of the morning’s hunt. Lanny listened as Johnny with characteristic exaggeration and good humor described how the big one got away or humbly submit how his superior hunting skills led him to take a prized buck.

In those years Lanny and Cynthia together were wonderful caregivers to his mother, Ruth, who lived with them. He looked after his mother as dutifully and as conscientiously as I hope our boys will look after theirs. He was a model son, and an inspiration to Carla who has tried to be with him and her mama through every step of this journey.

I have seen firsthand his love for Cynthia in her recent years of illness. He was attentive to her every need and relished proving to her that he could cook, clean up and even do laundry.

In my experience with Lanny, he has been at his very best as a grandfather, or as my boys have known him, Poppy. Never too fond of hospital rooms, three times he made his way to be with us after the birth of our boys and every time, he held a new grandson, he would beam and pronounce them “handsome young men, just like their grandfather.”

He loved grilling for them and preparing their favorite foods. He absolutely loved seeing them devour a bowl of ice cream, even before their infant digestive tracks could handle it. He always asked them how they were doing in school and if they were chasing the little girls. He loved taking them out to the farm, letting them drive his camouflaged golf cart and feed and chase the goats.

He came to their performances at school and at church, and even adopted the new tradition of waiting out Santa’s arrival at our house in Lilburn. No visit with Poppy ever concluded without him reaching into his wallet and giving each of them a $20 bill. He pulled them close, hugged them, said “Love you, Buddy. Make your mama and daddy buy you some ice cream.”

I asked my boys what I should say today to let you know how much he meant to them. Carlton, in all the eloquence his five years could muster, said: “Poppy was really nice, and I loved his hamburgers and hotdogs.”

Harris, who three weeks ago sat down in his Poppy’s hospital room in Augusta and refused to leave until Poppy got better, said: “He taught me to drive a golf cart, and I could never beat him at checkers.”

Barron, his first-born grandson and the benefactor of his generous excesses of grandfatherly affection, said: “Poppy always wanted to hear me play my trumpet and my guitar, and I had fun last summer working with him on his old car.”

And if given the chance to stand here and offer words of your memories, you would no doubt mention many more traits that made Lanny Carl Barron the unique individual that he was. In the last three days I have heard stories from you that were familiar and part of the lore that was his life story. I have heard new stories that I had never known but were completely consistent with the man I have come to love and admire.

Let this not be the last days those stories escape your lips. Lanny lives on in each telling. Cynthia is comforted by the sound of his name and the knowledge that you miss him right along with her. Carla needs to be reminded often of the kind of person her daddy was, so she can know where she came from and what’s important in life. And these grandsons need to know their Poppy in fuller and richer ways than the perspective of their youth can afford them now.

If you have loved Lanny in life, I ask you to speak these stories with joy and laughter and with frequency. Lanny always enjoyed a laugh and a good story, grounded in timeless truths, even those tales that pointed out his own foibles. He will enjoy hearing you tell them from his new vantage point.

Perhaps no one has more stories than you, James. You are above all others, a man held in high esteem by Lanny. You have gone farther than the formal relationship of brother-in-law would obligate a man. You have been the sidekick in many of Lanny’s misadventures, always the voice of caution, always offering a word of reason, but all too often dismissed to Lanny’s detriment. Still, you went with him to the farm each morning to tend the goats. And you went with him to auctions and sales and wide-ranging quests for tractor parts or purchases of hay. Too many times you had to be the one to call 911 or worse, your sister, when things went badly. Lanny probably pushed you too far outside of your comfort zone too many times, but in his boldness and disregard for safety, he was comforted by your presence. There is no telling how many disasters you helped avert, how many inconveniences you prevented from becoming full-blown fiascoes. Lanny was fortunate to have you as a brother, and he knew it.

There are others of you here who were important to him whom I have not mentioned: Martha and Ann, Edna and Steve, Jason, Emily, Amy and all the extended family of aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews.

I never had the opportunity to meet Lanny’s older brother, John, but I know for a fact how much he looked up to him, and how important John’s family was to him. He treasured visits with Lois, Sherri, Johnny and Jonathan because they helped him feel connected to his roots, especially in the days after his daddy and mama had passed.

Lanny, today we lay your body to rest, knowing that you are not in this casket. Our faith leads us to anticipate a glorious reunion someday, and we are comforted by the idea that you sit with your mother and father, your brothers and your friends who have gone before you.

We have made a little bit of a fuss over you. I hope it’s OK and you don’t mind. You’ll have to forgive us, because you are worth it.

Somewhere between the farm and town, we lost you. May we never forget all that you have taught us from traveling that road back and forth. We are all better for knowing you.

Mercer pride

Suddenly, at about 2 p.m. Friday, this started popping up on people's Facebook profile across my network.
Suddenly, at about 2 p.m. Friday, this started popping up on people’s Facebook profile across my network.

I had just wrapped up a conference call and had about 15 minutes until I needed to leave my office for my next meeting on the other side of the Georgia Tech campus.

A quick check of the Mercer-Duke score revealed Duke had pulled ahead. No need to get excited. The Number 3 seed was doing what Number 3 seeds do in the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament.

I spent some time working on a PowerPoint presentation and managed a few more productive edits before I clicked back over to see the score. With just a couple of minutes left, Mercer, the overwhelming underdog, had pulled ahead.

“This might get interesting,” I thought.

So like a lot of other Mercer fans – an almost nonexistent term until yesterday – I indulged and gave up a few minutes of my day to see an improbable upset, leaving my office only when the outcome was no longer in doubt.

I wasn’t much good in my meeting. I kept checking Twitter and Facebook to see my myriad social media connections to Mercer light up with jubilation. The unbelievable had happened.

That’s when I felt it, a moment I had never felt as a holder of a master’s degree from Mercer: school pride. Did I mention I used to work there, too? No? Well, I did, and now that Mercer has defeated Duke in the NCAA tournament, you can bet I’ll be mentioning it a lot more in the future.

“Yeah, I used to work there… you know, Mercer? Yeah, that’s right, the school that beat Duke.”

The Mercer Entourage in Raleigh to witness the biggest win in school history. Photo courtesy of Cindy Drury of Mercer Campus Life.
The Mercer Entourage in Raleigh to witness the biggest win in school history. Photo courtesy of Cindy Drury of Mercer Campus Life.

In the South, you must have your teams. I know this is more of a football phenomenon in the Deep South, but when you look to the Appalachian or coastal regions, basketball is king.

Having pride in your school’s athletic accomplishments is not just a Southern thing, but in the New South, it definitely gives you markers with which you can identify yourself on social media. You are either a Dawg or a Jacket, an exclaimer of “Roll Tide” or “War Eagle,” a fan of Florida or Florida State and so on. This is a socially acceptable and even socially expected way to identify yourself.

And up until yesterday, the shorthand “Mercer fan” had not existed. Yes, I have plenty of friends who work at Mercer and some whose children go there, and a lot of people in my personal network, including my wife, went there, but even those with close connections to the school weren’t really rabid with Mercer basketball pride.

Even my wife, who has not one once of athletic interest, managed to come up with a Facebook post that entered the realm of euphoric fanaticism… for her:

“Be the Bear, Mercer Proud, and all that jazz!”

Lame, I know, but that’s the point: Mercer has a bunch of graduates and “fans” like this who are ill-prepared to celebrate a success of this magnitude. Even I didn’t know what to do with these feelings of Mercer pride at first, but now that I know what this is, it’s growing on me.

For all the academic purists out there, this is where you have to admit that athletics plays an important role in higher education. For every alumnus who goes on to invent something great or achieve a lofty position or have a national nightly cable show, not even Nancy Grace can give a school the kind of profile that a bracket-busting victory in the NCAA tournament can.

This is why schools have athletic programs. This is ultimately why Mercer reinstated its football program this year after a 72 year hiatus. Sports get people excited. High-profile victories against national powerhouse programs put you on their level, at least for a day. Alumni feel pride. The general public talks about your school. High school kids suddenly think they may want to go there. Donors are inspired to write big checks.

We’ll see what happens Sunday when Mercer takes on Tennessee, but for now, there’s plenty to celebrate for “Mercer Nation” … another term that has never before been used in the English language until yesterday.

I, for one, will break out my “Be the Bear” T-shirt and wear it with pride.

OK, Mercer fans, it’s your shining moment. Share what you were doing when Mercer beat Duke. Were you at the game in Raleigh? Were you at work sneaking a peak at the ESPN gamecast? What was it like? Leave a comment below and let the celebration continue.