ALBIE'S BLOG... from the high desert, Southeast AZ

ALBIE VS. REAL ARKANSAS MOONSHINE: A College Memory.

2012-02-24T20:45:00.000-07:00

"I Encounter Arkansas Moonshine"--

A college memory, 1987

I was thinking just today of something that happened to me back in college, in the spring semester of 1987, as I was attending John Brown University in Siloam Springs, Arkansas.

First, I should say I still have great fondness for those college days as in many ways they were very happy, not to mention a time when great friendships were made and fostered.

The story I will now relate took place during spring break in late March of that year, after a particularly icy Arkansas winter had just begun to thaw into the first stages of that state's remarkable springtime greenery. I was 22 going on 23 at this time, and was very bored. I never went home for spring break in those days, and was always one of the few students who stayed behind in the dorms for the week off. The campus would be a virtual ghost town during these breaks, and generally I kind of liked the time to relax and read, but at this particular juncture I was feeling very restless.

My mother had always nagged me by mail that I should visit my cousin Margaret in the little town of Hiwassie, since it was close by and she was my Mom's favorite niece. As I sat in the dorm listening to my stereo it occured to me that this would be an ideal time to do just that... and maybe get a few free meals in the process. [Ah, college days...lol]

Well I decided to crank up my old '73 Chevy pickup and make the trip. Hiwassie was actually less than 30 miles north of Siloam, but when I drove the winding and narrow country highways to get there it seemed more like about 75.

Margaret was my first cousin, even though she was [and is] about 30 years my senior. This is not an unusual circumstance in my family, and it has to do with the fact that my parents were 52 and 42 when thye had me, their youngest child.

Anyway... my cousin and her husband Jim were wonderful hosts, and I discovered that Jim Whitehead, a retired Marine, had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of country music and musicians, going back to Acuff and Tubb era. Just to paint the picture of how we bonded, I should say that in those days almost NOTHING would have impressed me more in a man... lol. We sat in that comfortable living room and listened long and late to records by everyone from Johnny Cash and Marty Robbins to T. Texas Tyler and Webb Pierce.

I spent the night and in the morning ate a huge breakfast of biscuits, gravy, scrambled eggs and buttered grits. In Arkansas, in those days... and possibly still today... grits seemed to always be served with breakfast, even in restaurants. To this day I like to order them when I eat at Denny's [All of this, by the way, has nothing to do with my actual story, but I like remembering it anyway. It is a pleasant recollection of good times and fellowship with family.]

Toward late afternoon I decided to head back to the dorm and said my goodbyes all around. Margaret gave me a nice care package for the road, and I drove off feeling satisfied in the blessings of home and hearth.

As I drove back to Siloam I stopped for gas at a Fina station in the little town of Decatur. As I pumped gas into the prehistoric green monster [as my buddies from school lovingly refered to my ride] I heard someone call my name from the shadows.

"Al. Al, over here."

I looked and to my amazement discerned the form of Matt Havighurst, a 20-something guy who had worked briefly as a night janitor at my college the semester before. Matt was not a student, but a "townie" who picked up hours working part time at the college. He had only worked there for a couple months but I had made his acquaintence through my best friend John Errickson, who ran the dishroom at the college and practically lived in the school cafeteria. He [John] actually had a key to the kitchen and thus knew all the late night cleaning staff.

Anyway I was shocked to see someone I knew in Decatur and asked Matt what he was doing there.

"I live here with my uncle," he said with a winning smile. "I got a job at Peterson Farms in the hatchery. Stinkin' chickens." He chuckled and spit out some Skoal. "Eh, what else am I a'gonna do in the poultry capital of the USA, right? So what are you doing here, man?"

"Just passing through," I replied. "Headin' back to JBU. I'm on spring break this week."

"Well then you got nowhere to be, right?" he said, this time patting me on the shoulder with a big and friendly hand.

"No, I guess not."

I have since learned, of course, that much of the trouble in the world stems from young fellas having "nowhere to be." LOL

"Well I was just headin' over to my cousin Gage's house. He's gonna rent a VCR and some movies. Wanna come over?"

[By the way, who remembers that? RENTING a VCR?? Lord, I am old! LOL]

"Sure," I replied.

"Great, cuz you're drivin'!"

Gage's house was actually outside Decatur, in a little area called, if memory serves, Crystal Lake. Gage was about 30 and a very large man, probably about 6 foot 6 and 300 pounds. He was friendly and drunk, and he had indeed rented a VCR and several movies, one of which, THE COLOR OF MONEY, he was watching when we entered the house.

After introductions were made, Gage's pretty brunette wife [whose name I sadly cannot recall] said "Would you all care for a drink?"

"Sure," said Matt. "I'll have a beer and so will Al." Then he paused, and, as though a great inspiration had just overcome his spirit, his eyes lit up and he added:

"Hey you know what? We should drink some shine!"

"Shine?" I said, with a nervousness that must have been HIGHLY visible. "What do you mean? Moonshine?"

Everyone laughed, and Gage said, "Yup, Al, the real thing. Our uncle has a little still and knows how to make corn liquor. It's totally illegal. He don't sell it or nothin' but he does make this shine and we have some if you think you can handle it."

"No," I replied, "I'd better just have a brewski."

"Oh come on, Al!" said Matt. "You should try it. It ain't bad as it sounds. It's got flavor. Besides, when you gonna get this chance again, man?"

"Is it good?"

"Well No. But it could be worse. And it does what it's 'sposta!" This last statement met with a great deal of laughter from everyone but me. "C'mon, Gage'll get it for us. I'll drink it with you too... shot for shot."

Now... looking back I can't quite figure out how those words were any kind of reassurance, but somehow they were. I nodded slightly and that was the whole family's cue to prepare for action.

Before I knew it Mrs. Cousin Gage had set a large quart Mason jar and two short plastic cups on the coffee table. In brief terms Gage explained that what we were about to imbibe was indeed "Corn Liquor," similar to Everclear or PGA but with a "whole different character cuz it's homemade."

One difference between this stuff and all the pure grain alcohol I had ever seen in my life was that it was definitely NOT odorless. In fact, the smell was the first thing I noticed... a particularly pungent alcohol smell with a touch of another odor, which... I kid you not... smelled for the life of me like mildew! I began to have serious second thoughts.

"OK boys," said Gage [who, interestingly, abstained from the stuff that entire night], "The best thing to do is just slam your shot on the count of three. Ready? One... Two... Three!"

At 3 I looked at Matt and saw him slam his shot happily, so I followed suit.

To put it mildly, this stuff may have looked like water, but it tasted like... well... The Wrath To Come... yep, that's a good desciption. LOL.

My deep swig had all the alluring sensation of say, swallowing a BLOW TORCH or maybe a PRICKLY PEAR LEAF. I thought my wrist-watch must have exploded and my suspenders must have snapped... only I wasn't wearing either of those items.

"Now space it out," said Gage. "Don't hit it again for a while. You can drink some juice between shots. So just relax and watch the movie."

I tried to do that. Through watering eyes I tried to concentrate on Paul Newman shooting 9-ball but I found it dificult to say the least. The juice provided was pineapple, and to this day that stuff can make me queasy from the associatioon. Probably every 5 minutes or so Gage would coach us through another shot and I was really starting to swim around in his small living room.

After 5 shots [according to the stats presented to me the next day] Matt decided that WATCHING pool was no good... we must PLAY it!

"Whadda ya think, Al? Wanna knock some balls around?"

"Sure do," I slurred, anxious to escape the physical presence of... that.... STUFF.

"I say we go shoot shome pool. Right now!"

Well, the rest of the evening is to this day a bit blurry. I remember going to a little pool hall where Matt and the Gages knew everybody. I remember shooting some absolutely terrible pool, and falling down a couple times. I remember singing-- in those pre-karaoke days-- along with a jukebox and being a real source of entertainment to a whole crowd of people. I remember high-fiving about 50 people til my hand was starting to get sore. I distictly remember one of Mrs. Gage's female buddies hanging on my shoulder for a while, and the 2 of us singing the then popular country song "It Ain't Cool To Be Crazy About You"...

Oh and... I remember throwing up. Big.

Yeah, that I definitely remember.

When I awoke on the floor of Gage's living room I felt like death warmed over. All I wanted in the world was to be back at my nice cozy little dorm room down in the nice college in the nice dry county. I said a polite goodbye to Mrs. Gage and asked her to relay one to my buddy Matt who was still crashed on the couch. I fumbled to the door and looked for my truck but it wasn't there. Then I fumbled in my pocket for my keys and they were gone too.

"Oh yeah," said my hostess, "Gage took your truck on some errands. He'll be back soon."

Although I began internally to panic and imagine a Hitchcock movie ending to my experience, Gage did return in just a few minutes. After more quick goodbyes I got in my truck and headed back to school. According to my gas meter, Gage had used about half a tank of gas on his "errands," but I did NOT care. Once back at the dorm I laid down and rested.

After about 40 cups of coffee over the next 48 hours... I was a new man.

I didnt swear off drinking that day like I probably should have... but I definitely did swear off Moonshine. And that's a little old pledge I have had NO trouble keeping.

I wonder what ever happened to those folks...

PEACE.

BETTER LIVING THROUGH OLD COMICS #4: "Making A Map"

2012-02-18T13:06:00.002-07:00

How about a quick Cartography lesson?

From DELL'S TARZAN ANNUAL #2: 1952:

PEACE

Mini-Sermon From MAZE JACKSON

2012-02-18T13:02:00.000-07:00

THE POSSIBILITIES OF FAITH

by Maze Jackson [1923-1996]

TEXT: "If thou canst believe, all things are possible to him that believeth" (Mark 9:23)

INTRODUCTION: These are bold and stupendous words. Side by side these two astounding declarations stand, "All things are possible with God"; "All things are possible to him that believeth."

Let us consider the possibilities of faith:

I. SALVATION IS POSSIBLE TO HIM THAT BELIEVETH

No matter how vile the sin, how many or how great the sins, how aggravated the guilt, how deep the corruption, how long the career of impenitence and crime, it is everywhere, and forever true, "He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life."

II. SANCTIFICATION IS POSSIBLE TO HIM THAT BELIEVETH

"Inheritance among them that are sanctified by faith is in me," is still the inscription over the gates of our full inheritance.

III. GREAT POWER FOR SERVICE IS POSSIBLE TO HIM THAT BELIEVETH
The gift of the Holy Ghost is received by faith. The power of the apostles was in proportion to their faith.
IV. ALL DIFFICULTIES AND DANGERS MUST GIVE WAY BEFORE THE OMNIPOTENCE OF FAITH

By faith the walls of Jericho fell down after they had been compassed seven days, and still the mightiest citadels of the adversary must give way before the steadfast and victorious march of faith.
V. ALL THE VICTORIES OF PRAYER ARE POSSIBLE TO HIM THAT BELIEVETH
"Whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive." "When we pray believe that ye receive the things that ye ask and ye shall have them." It is not the strength or the length of the prayer that prevails but the simplicity of its confidence.

VI. ALL PEACE AND JOY ARE POSSIBLE TO HIM THAT BELIEVETH
The apostle's prayer for the Romans is that the God of hope shall fill them with all joy and peace in believing. It is God's will and purpose that the unbelieving soul shall be an unhappy soul, and that he shall be kept in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on God and trusting in Him.

VII. THE LORD'S COMING WILL DOUBTLESS BE GIVEN AT LAST TO FAITH:
There will be a generation who shall say, "Lo! this is our God, we have waited for him." As yet it is our blessed hope but it will some day become more.

PEACE.

BETTER LIVING THROUGH OLD COMICS #3: "Build A Wigwam!"

2012-02-18T12:39:00.003-07:00

From Dell Comics' Four Color #312 [TONTO], January 1951... This is more like it! I think my son could actually use something like this. Imagine the envy of the neighborhood kids if he had him a "lodge" like this here one!

Here's a working model, too...

PEACE

POETRY BREAK #6: "Old Doc Brown" by Red Foley

2012-02-12T14:50:00.006-07:00

Albie's note: I like this old recitative poem written by the great Red Foley. It's a pretty neat tribute to country doctors. I have been reading a really good ol' western-- set in AZ-- called Doc Dillahay by Paul S. Powers [which I hope to review soon] so this was very timely to me. Probably the best known recorded version was by Johnny Cash and included on his legendary 1961 concept album RIDE THIS TRAIN. The Youtube clip here is a live version from Cash's TV show originally taped back in 1970! Oh and i just had to include a classic Dell comics info page along the same lines... it is from Four Color #877 [a 1958 adaptation of the TV show Frontier Doctor starring Willcox, AZ's own Rex Allen!]

Hope someone else enjoys this stuff!

OLD DOC BROWN

He was just an old country doctor in a little country town--
Fame and fortune had passed him by though we never saw him frown--
As day by day in his kindly way he'd serve us one and all;
Many a patient forgot to pay-- although Doc's fees were small.

Though he needed his dimes, and there were times that he'd receive a fee,
He'd pass it onto some poor soul that needed it worse than he.
He had to sell his furniture-- couldn't pay his office rent--
So to a dusty room over a livery stable Doc Brown and his satchel went.

And on the hitchin' post at the curb below, to advertise his wares,
He'd nailed a little sign that read "Doc Brown has moved upstairs."
There he kept on helping folks get well-- for his heart was jus' pure gold--
But anyone with eyes could see that Doc was gettin' old.

Then one day he didn't answer when they knocked upon his door.
Old Doc Brown was layin' down but his soul was no more.
They found him there in that old black suit-- on his face was a smile of content--
But all the money they could find on him was a quarter and a copper cent.

So they opened up his ledger and what they saw gave their hearts a pull--
Beside each debtor's name old Doc had written these words: "Paid In Full!"
Old Doc should have had a funeral fine enough for a king;
It's a ghastly joke-- our town was broke-- and no one could give a thing.

'Cept Jones, the undertaker, he did mighty well--
Donatin' an old iron casket he had never been able to sell.
And the funeral procession-- it wasn't much for grace and pomp and style--
But those wagon loads of mourners? They stretched out for more than a mile!

We wanted to give him a monument-- we kinda figured we owed him one--
'Cause he made our town a better place for all the good he'd done.
We pulled up that old hitchin' post where Doc had nailed a sign;
We'd painted it white and to all of us it certainly did look fine.

Now the rains and the snows have washed away our white trimmin's of paint
There ain't nothin' left but Doc's own sign and that's gettin' pretty faint.
But you can still see that old hitchin' post as if in answer to our prayers
Mutely tellin' the whole wide world: "Doc Brown... has moved upstairs."

Red Foley [1910-1968]

Now, here's the video clip:

PEACE

"Luke, the beloved physician, and Demas, greet you..."

Colossians 4:14

HYMN TIME #2: "Higher Ground"

2012-02-07T17:07:00.004-07:00

The author of this classic 1898 hymn was Johnson Oatman, Jr., a businessman who wrote 3,000 gospel songs in his leisure time! Oatman was ordained by the Methodist Episcopal denomination but never pastored a church. His Hymns were nearly always well received, even though he was paid no more than $1.00 for each of his texts! The music was written by the amazing Charles Gabriel [1856-1932], who also contribted the tunes to "Send The Light," "His Eye Is On The Sparrow" and many others.

Still sung widely in hymn-singing churches today, the words express well the devotional spirit of the days when men like D. L. Moody, R.A. Torrey and Andrew Murray attracted large, interested crowds. Listen to the words as sung by these talented young folks; they will convict you as you hear in them old Oatman's obvious desire for a deeper spiritual life, continuing on a higher plane of fellowship with God than he has ever before experienced...

"Come, and let us go up to the mountain of the LORD..."

Micah 4:2

Johnson Oatman [1856-1922]

Charles H. Gabriel

PEACE

BETTER LIVING THROUGH OLD COMICS #2: "La Fiesta!"

2012-02-04T13:47:00.001-07:00

From the inside cover of Dell FOUR COLOR #933 [A Disney ZORRO comic] ...

Sounds great, doesn't it? While we're at it, here is a mural of the same subject from a High School in Lawndale, Cal. It was painted by a WPA artist named Virgil Zenor in 1937!

"A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance..." Ecclesiastes 3:4

PEACE

"ROY ROGERS Finds Blood In The Badlands" DELL Comic from 1945!

2012-02-03T15:27:00.002-07:00

COOL STUFF FROM LIBRARY BOOKS #15-- J. WILBUR CHAPMAN: "In the presence of mine enemies."

2012-02-02T13:55:00.001-07:00

"In the presence of mine enemies." Psalm 23:5

"The good man has his enemies; he would not be like his Lord if he had not. If we were without enemies, we might fear that we were not the friends of God, for the friendship of the world is enmity with God. Yet see the quietude of the godly man in spite of and in the face of his enemies."

There was an old Roman custom, which may have prevailed even in David's time, which would shed light on this part of the psalm. When a soldier had won a victory and taken the enemy prisoners, a feast was made for him, and the captives were bound to the pillars of the banqueting-hall; and in their presence he was made to sit down and eat. This certainly may be realized in your experience and mine.

A man's foes are they of his own household, and our worst enemies are from within. With some it is temper; with others, pride; with still others, unholy thoughts; and with many, the disposition to actual outbreaking sin. But there is deliverance from all, and there may be so complete a submission to Christ that he, becoming the master of your life, will bind them all and cause you to feast in their presence.

Suggestions for To-day.

1. Open your eyes to the fact that you are not free from danger. Sin is not dead, and the old nature may be easily revived.

2. Remember that sin is mightier than your resolution or your will. Determination not to sin is not the secret of victory.

3. Put your whole life in the undisputed control of Christ. He is the secret of victory always and everywhere.

From The Secret of a Happy Day: Quiet Hour Meditations by J. Wilbur Chapman. Boston: United Society of Christian Endeavor, ©1899

HYMN TIME #1: "Brethren We Have Met To Worship"

2012-01-29T14:28:00.004-07:00

This is one of my very favorite Hymns. "Brethren we have met to worship" or Holy Manna, was first published in the Baptist Hymnal "The Columbian Harmony" [words by George Atkins, music by William Moore] way back in the Year of Our Lord 1825! To hear it today is to hear the very Spirit of the American Camp Meetings of nearly 200 years ago. As Dr. James Sightler has noted, this hymn "echoes the blessings of the past while it faintly envisions, as through a glass darkly, the Great Things God has in store for us in a better and brighter world to come."

The version here, by a family group called The Seminole String Band, captures it perfectly! Take a listen:

"O come, let us sing unto the LORD: let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation."
Psalm 95:1

ANOTHER UNUSUAL WESTERN: Mark Twain's "DOUBLE BARRELLED DETECTIVE STORY"

2012-01-27T22:01:00.005-07:00

In 1902 Sam Clemens was 67 years old and he and his alter ego Mark Twain were already safely lionized as "the Lincoln of our literature" [according to the oft-quoted assessment by William Dean Howells.] His greatest literary achievements were all behind him to be sure, and he was by all accounts dogged by increasing depression and skepticism, but he was still churning out cleverly crafted tales and essays which, amazingly enough, are mostly still worth reading today.

That same year he decided to return to the "mining camp" settings of his earliest successes, and lampoon the current craze for mystery fiction all at once in one tersely entertaining novella called "The Double Barrelled Detective Story."

Now... I like old westerns of all kinds, and I was raised on Mark Twain [my father was an enormous fan-- his favorite book beside THE BIBLE was THE INNOCENTS ABROAD] so it was natural that, when scrolling through the free offerings on my new Kindle device I would jump at the chance to read this story.

"We ought never to do wrong when people are looking."

These are the very first words spoken in this detailed and complicated little story. Twain quickly introduces us to one Archy Stillman, the bastard son of a wronged woman who is blessed with superhuman olfactory senses -- basically a human bloodhound.

When he's sixteen, Archie's mother convinces him to find the trail of his biological father and then enact a scheme to elaborately wreak havoc on his life and reputation, all to fulfill her own pathological blood-lust for revenge.

Five years later, after Archy's quest has literally taken him around the world, he ends up in a mining camp in Denver, Colorado where the nephew of Sherlock Holmes [Yes, the Great Detective actually makes a cameo in this forgotten Twain classic] has murdered a man by blowing up his cabin. Holmes uses all of his bizarrely detailed scientific methods to reach a brilliant-- and totally preposterous-- conclusion, only to be completely disproven by humble Archy's common sense and amazing sense of smell.

If old Twain is known for any one thing above all else, it is probably his epic, legendary, and thoroughly American Irreverence, which is, all said, in fine form here. In fact, if you are a huge fan of the Doyle tales of Holmes and Watson, the fun the author has here just might make you cringe. I guess it figures that a world-class hater of pomp and snobbery like Twain would have no patience for a mastermind like Sherlock, and this may just be the earliest "Holmesian pastiche" to derive its humor entirely from painting the world's favorite consulting sleuth as a glorified and duly worshiped blowhard, idiot and fascist megalomaniac. [The portrayal here reminded me most of the Michael Caine movie version in the 1994 revisionist classic WITHOUT A CLUE.]

As usual with Twain, the plot is convoluted and relies heavily on coincidence, but these are hardly even negatives at this stage-- they are now more like essential elements we expect as part of the charm of this greatest of American Authors.

All in all I recommend it. It never fails to entertain... and more than once it even made me chuckle as I read it. Also it contains some great prose and really evocative frontier descriptions.

I give it 4 stars out of 5.

PEACE.

BETTER LIVING THROUGH OLD COMICS #1: "Build A Dog Sled"

2012-01-19T13:05:00.004-07:00

Here is the inside front cover of Dell's SERGEANT PRESTON [Four Color #344, 1951] I don't have much use for it here in AZ, but it was too cool not to pass on... MUSH!

HILARIOUS NOVEL: JIMMY THE KID by Westlake

2012-01-19T13:01:00.004-07:00

The late, great Donald Westlake was the undisputed King of the "Comic Caper Novel"... and his books about unlucky master thief John Dortmunder form probably the only truly and consistently "laugh out loud" mystery series in publishing history. I suppose the fans of these stories will always have their favorites, and mine remains the 1974 classic JIMMY THE KID.

Here is a good description of the main character from the "THRILLING DETECTIVE" website:

"The thing about Dortmunder is that he's a genius, a certifiable criminal mastermind. He's also the world's unluckiest crook -- no matter how careful his schemes, no matter how brilliant and elaborate and intricately plotted, right down to the (almost) last detail, something always goes wrong. No wonder Dortmunder, already a two-time loser, is plagued by worry. And it doesn't help that his usual co-horts are, uh, more than a little eccentric. And not exactly the brightest Crayolas in the box."

In this entry Dortmunder and his gang have been inspired by a real crime novel, CHILD HEIST, actually written by Westlake himself under his Pseudonym Richard Stark as part of the famous hard-boiled Parker series! They use the novel-- acquired by one of the inept gang members during a prison stretch-- as a kind of a guidebook, attempting to follow it step by step and commit their crime in the same smooth, professional way that Parker does. Westlake has a great deal of fun with his Stark "alter-ego" in this novel, and even includes a few actual excerpts from CHILD HEIST, which are uniformly followed by Dortmunder and gang’s bungling attempts to imitate it.

Nothing [of course] goes quite as planned, and DW derives a great deal of amusement out of actually damaging the mystique of his Stark "self" by repeatedly pointing out how many things just happen to go Parker’s way in fiction... and what would inevitably happen if things were just a little more real and different.

This book on the whole is VERY amusing-- I guarantee you will laugh out loud several times-- and a couple of moments (such as the actual kidnapping in particular) are extremely funny. Folks who aren’t familiar with Westlake’s classic series are in for a real treat if this is their introduction, and Dortmunder fans who have missed it somehow should acquire a copy ASAP!.

Highly recommended. PEACE.

[An artists conception of the Dortmunder gang]

COOL STUFF FROM LIBRARY BOOKS #14: "JOURNEY FROM JUGTOWN" by Vance Havner...

2012-01-17T15:33:00.007-07:00

Albie's note: Vance Havner [1901-1986] was an amazing Baptist Preacher and writer. This North Carolinean started preaching at 14 [!], and didn't stop til he went to glory! That alone is a great legacy, but Uncle Vance also preached some of the greatest messages I have ever heard and read. By all accounts he was among the most homespun of country preachers, possessing a southern charm that always belied his great intellect and persuasive power. A preacher friend of mine has said it well: "Old Vance was half Charles Spurgeon and half Billy Sunday with the voice and style of a Will Rogers." I wish I coulda met him!

The following autobiographical selection from the book THE BEST OF VANCE HAVNER forms a great introduction to this good ol' man of God... enjoy!

JOURNEY FROM JUGTOWN
by Vance Havner

When Abraham's servant started out to look for a wife for Isaac, he prayed for divine guidance. He needed it. A man looking for a wife for himself needs all the light he can get. This man was looking for a wife for somebody else! Later on he said, "I being in the way, the Lord led me..." (GENESIS 24:27).

This is my testimony from the summit of the years. I would change that little chorus a bit and sing, "My Lord led the way through the wilderness; all I had to do was to follow."

I grew up in the North Carolina hills. From our front porch we could see at night the lights of five little towns. From the back porch one could see Grandfather Mountain, Table Rock, an companion peaks standing like sentinels along the western skyline. My home community was called Jugtown because in the early years there were little shops up and down the road where the potters wrought vessels of clay. I lived the simple, happy life of an old-fashioned country boy. I tramped the woods with a shepherd dog. There was plenty of outdoors, and all the plain joys of rustic youth uncushioned by modern conveniences. It would drive a teen-ager frantic these days but I thrived on it.

Father was an austere but devout Christian, the pastor's right-hand man at old Corinth Baptist Church. The country preachers always stayed at our house on Saturday before the fourth Sunday in each month, when they came by horse and buggy to preach the monthly sermon. Some of those sermons were long enough to last a month and sounded more like filibusters-but it was sound preaching. Father always let me sit up late on those Saturday nights, before the open fire, and listen to him and the minister talk about the things of God. It beat all the television that has been seen since.

Father should have been a preacher. Two of his brothers did preach; one as a Baptist, the other as a Methodist. Mother was a gentle, kindly soul content to be a housewife. Her life as a "keeper at home" would be anathema to the emancipated woman of today.

I grew up with a Bible in one hand a bird book in the other. Pilgrim 's Progress. Foxe's Book of Martyrs, and a set of good classical literature formed our library. I never knew the day when I did not feel that I should preach and write. I memorized Bible portions, made little Sunday School talks, and sent my first "sermon" to our small-town newspaper when I was nine.

When I was ten, I professed faith in Christ. A revival was in progress at Corinth Church, but I came to Jesus alone in the woods. Always following an unbeaten path, I did not got to the mourner's bench as the custom was, but made my decision in a solitary place. There was no dramatic experience such as some can relate; I came as a child in simple trust. I did not understand all about the plan of salvation. I do not understand all about electricity, but I don't intend to sit in the dark until I do.

I was baptized in the South Fork River and a year later I asked the church to license me to preach. I began with a talk at the First Baptist Church of Hickory, twelve miles from my home. I have been in bigger towns and churches since, but none looked as large as did Hickory that night. Dad and I went over in an early Ford with thirty horsepower-twenty of them dead. I stood on a chair and spoke while the pastor of the church stood on one side and the state evangelist stood on the other: like Aaron and Hur holding up the hands of Moses.

For several years I preached on Sundays in town and country churches as a boy preacher. Of course, crowds came out of curiosity. Then I went to a Baptist boarding school called South Fork Institute. I was not a star student, but often sat listening to a bird singing outside rather than to a professor teaching on the inside. I went next to what is now Gardner-Webb College. It was during the First World War. We were singing Tipperary and Over There, and girl students wept as boy friends left for camp and for France to make the world safe for democracy. It hasn't been safe for anything since.

The principal of this school advised me, one day, to blaze my own trail instead of following the prescribed course of ministerial training. He told me that I was no genius, but would do well to follow an unbeaten path. I went on to Catawba College for a year, then to Wake Forest. I was restless and wanted to preach. One day, I packed my belongings and left. A professor saw me at the railroad station and said, "Young man, you'll regret this." I haven't regretted it yet. I am not advising others to follow that course, but I believe it was best for me.

I started preaching again, but without guidelines or precedent for my kind of ministry. I made many mistakes, went up blind alleys and dead-end streets. I took a rural pastorate in eastern North Carolina. I became somewhat enamored of the liberal approach which was beginning to gain favor. It did not become malignant in my case, but I did have enough of the virus in my system to preach popular sermons that convicted nobody. The unbelievers liked my preaching and I had a good crowd, but many of them died unsaved under my ministry.

I resigned after one year and returned to my old home in the hills. Father died that winter, leaving mother and me with a grocery store which was robbed and burned one night. The Lord made it clear to my heart that if I would preach the old message I had proclaimed as a boy, He would make a way for me. I remember reading J. Gresham Machen's Christianity and Liberalism out in the woods to my great profit. I returned to the old message, and the first thing I had to do was go back to my country pastorate and preach it for three years. I studied my Bible, tramped the country roads, and laid a good foundation for the years to come. No preacher has had complete preparation who has not been pastor of a country church. It still affords, even in this insane age, some opportunity for meditation and reflection in solitude, that lost art of the modern ministry.

From 1934 to 1939, I was pastor of the oldest Baptist Church in the South, the First Church of Charleston, S.C. I shall always treasure those five years in that quaint, historic old city. Many blessed experiences were mine, especially a stirring of my heart as to the filling of the Holy Spirit. I was brought to a new dimension by reading Deeper Experiences of Famous Christians.

In my country pastorate, I had written my first book, By the Still Waters. I wrote for the Charlotte Observer and for religious publications. One of them, Revelation, edited by Donald Grey Barnhouse of Philadelphia, was helpful in opening doors up north for Bible Conferences. Moody Bible Institute's Founder's Week, Winona Lake, Montrose, Maranatha, Pinebrook, Canadian Keswick, and on the West Coast, the Torrey Conference in Los Angeles, Mount Hermon and many more, eventually appeared on my itinerary. "I being in the way, the Lord lead me." No man with God's message need politick, nor pull wires, nor sit hunched over cafeteria tables making contacts, nor wait for some talent scout to find him. He need not chase key men around, if he knows the Keeper of the keys!

So many calls came that I left Charleston and took to the road in 1940. I was in a low state physically, for I had been suffering from nervous exhaustion for two years, and a traveling ministry seemed the last thing a preacher in my condition should undertake. It meant getting adjusted and yet never getting adjusted week after week to different beds, food, climates, environment, and continually rising to the occasion. Yet the way had opened, and I could only go forward.

My first engagement was with the Mel Trotter Mission Bible Conference in Grand Rapids. I got as far as Chicago, came down with the flu, and wound up in a hospital. The devil sat on the foot of the bed and laughed at my discomfiture. The doctor told me to go south. I wired the Florida Bible Institute and accepted an invitation I had declined earlier. There I recuperated, and met a gracious little lady who became my wife and has meant more to me than anyone else on earth. The Lord knew I needed to go south instead of north! Also, in that school I met a lean, lanky student by the name of Billy Graham. we had our pictures taken on the campus. Twenty years later, we posed for another snapshot. What God wrought in twenty years!

I married Sara Allred in 1940, and we took to the road. I could write a book on how the Lord has made a way for us without any conniving on my part. I have seen doors open that I couldn't have pried loose with a crowbar. I have no organization and have never prepared even a brochure for publicity, yet I could have kept another man busy with calls I could not accept. Satan tried to tell me that nobody would stand for my kind of preaching, and that I would starve to death. I look like I'm starving, but I eat three meals a day. I am often reminded of Will Rogers. During the depression of the thirties, when college graduates were walking the streets looking for work, Will was making a good living in his homely way. One day he said to a friend, "It's dinner time and I ain't et." His friend suggested, "You mean you haven't eaten." Will replied, "I notice that a lot of people who haven't eaten ain't et!"

From Bible conferences all over the country, and from church revivals, I gradually became occupied almost full time with my own denomination, the Southern Baptists. I had been a Southern Baptist since I was a boy, except for a brief time when I was a member of First Baptist, Minneapolis, Minnesota, while Dr. W. B. Riley was pastor. Dr. Riley baptized my wife who had been of the Quaker persuasion. I was on a program with Dr. W. A. Criswell of First Baptist, Dallas, in a conference held in the old Baptist Tabernacle of Atlanta, Georgia. Later, I was invited to the Texas Evangelistic Conference for 1949, meeting in First Baptist Church of Dallas. Thus began a new field of ministry in evangelistic conferences, as well as church revivals, all over the convention.

A serious illness in 1960 almost took my life. After major surgery, a blood clot brought me to the door of death. A fine Christian nurse sat by my bed all that night, at her own request, praying and watching. Prayers went up all over the country form Moody Bible Institute to the Florida Baptist Evangelistic Conference where I was to have been speaking. Billy Graham called my wife that night from Miami to say, "We had prayer for Vance and I told my wife that I believed the Lord would let Vance live awhile longer to prepare sermons for the rest of us to preach!" The Lord definitely healed me, and after five months out of the pulpit, I started again in First Baptist of Houston, Texas.

Today, after twenty-seven years on the road, fifty-two years in the ministry, and twenty books, I can only marvel at the way God has gone before me in this journey from Jugtown.

Abraham's servant, when he found the wife for Isaac, was invited to linger ten days, but he said, "Hinder me not, seeing the Lord hath prospered my way..." (GENESIS 24:56). I am resolved to make that reply when any subtle suggestion arises to take it easy and relax on my heavenly errand. When God has prospered man's way, he had better be on his way!

All the way my Saviour leads me.
What have I to ask beside?
Can I doubt His tender mercy
Who through life has been my Guide?

Retirement age is supposed to mean that I should sit in a rocking chair, wait for my social security check, and reminisce about the good old days. I have no thought of retiring. I would say with Caleb, "... give me this mountain... "! (JOSHUA 14:12). I am not asking for molehills. Old soldiers need not fade away. I have asked like Hezekiah for an extension of time; like Jabez, for an enlargement of coast; like Elisha, for an endurement of power. Caleb did not suffer, like the ten frightened spies, from a grasshopper complex. Too many cowards are cringing before the giants of Anak.

God give us Calebs looking for mountains to conquer!

Taken from The Best Of Vance Havner, Fleming H. Revell Company (1969)

AND NOW HERE'S A VIDEO OF THE MAN HIMSELF!

PEACE

Remembering My First L'Amour: "BRIONNE"

2012-01-13T22:33:00.002-07:00

If you're a typical Louis L'Amour fan, I already know a couple things about you.

First, you've read more of his books his books than you could possibly recount without some serious thought... and second, there was a first book you by read him that got ya hooked out of the gate.

For me the book was BRIONNE, first published in 1968; a Bantam paperback original with an attractive painted cover [Mine was, I think, the exact edition pictured above.]

Although it's never listed as one of Louis' best books, it was still a great introduction the man's work. The fast paced story concerns a westward trek made by a typical L'amour hero [Major James Brionne] and his son Mat, who are-- of course-- being pursued by some bad guys from Brionne's past. Along the way there are 2 mysterious strangers [one male, one female]; some great frontier wisdom imparted from father to son; and a pretty well-written prairie fire sequence.

When I say Brionne is a typical L'Amour hero, I mean that he is well-read, well-educated, an army veteran, and has a strong sense of his own ancestry [In this case the forebears are french, which was-- of course-- somewhat autobiographical for Louis himself.]

I agree with Harlan ellison that what really set Louis aside from all the other competition was his often under-rated writing style, which always conveyed a straight-froward sense of courage and wisdom. Brionne is just plain good company.

All in all, a great read even... when I peruse it today.

COOL STUFF FROM LIBRARY BOOKS #13: Billy Sunday on ANGER

2012-01-10T14:48:00.004-07:00

Albie's note: When was the last time you heard a sermon preached against anger and the abject loss of one's temper? More often I have instead heard pulpit references to my right to righteous anger, as if The Bible had nothing to say against losing my temper like a spoiled child.

Well. old Billy Sunday preached about it! In fact, here is one of his favorite verses:

"Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry: for anger resteth in the bosom of fools."

ECCLESIATES 7:9

CHECK OUT THIS SERMON EXCERPT FROM AN OLD BIOGRAPHY OF THE "BASEBALL EVANGELIST":

“I have only two minutes more and then I am through. Bad temper.

"You abuse your wife and you abuse your children; and you lady, abuse your husband; turn your old Gatling-gun tongue loose.

"A lady came to me and said, 'Mr. Sunday, I know I have a bad temper, but its ok, I am over with it in a minute.' So is the shotgun, ma'am, and it blows everything to pieces!

"And then, finally, you abuse the telephone girl because she doesn't connect you in a minute. Bad temper.

"I see you abuse your wife, you go cussing around if supper isn't ready on time; cussing because the coffee isn't hot; you dig your fork into a hunk of beefsteak and put it on your plate and then you say: 'Where did you get this, woman, in the harness shop? Take it out and make a hinge for the door!'

"Then, rascal, you go to your store, or office, and smile and everybody thinks you are just an angel about to sprout wings and fly to the imperial realm above. Hypocrite!

"Bad temper! You growl at your children; you snap and snarl around the house until they have to go to the neighbors to see a smile. They never get a kind word - no wonder so many of them go to the Devil quick.”

SOURCE: Billy Sunday, The Need for Revivals, From "Billy Sunday: The Man and His Message," by William T. Ellis, Philadelphia: John C. Winston Co., 1914

BRIGHTEN THE CORNER WHERE YOU ARE!

5 Unusual Westerns You Might Like...

2012-01-05T21:37:00.002-07:00

1. HOPALONG CASSIDY AND THE FIVE MEN OF EVIL

I got my copy of this "graphic novel" in a comic book store in Mesa AZ around 1997. I think it cost about 6 bucks and I am right glad I hung on to it... 'cuz used copies at Amazon are starting around $134!! I don't know why in the world it is that valuable but I DO know I love it for what it is... awesome entertainment!

Basically it is a reprint of a story arc of the Dan Spiegel - drawn comic strip that came out during the "Hoppy boom" of the early '50s. The "script" is credited to Republic serial writer Royal Cole and it's a great sequential tale about Hoppy and sidekick "Mesquite" pursing five psychotic hillbillies to a dramatic-- and surprisingly violent-- conclusion.

Great if you can find it [and have no fear... I found a couple different offers for less than 10 bux with a little deeper web search.]

2. FIGHTING PARSON OF THE OLD WEST by Bernard Palmer
[also published as PARSON JOHN]

This is a great "Christian Western" first published by Moody Press back in 1942. It is a surprisingly well-rendered and frank picture of the working life of a preacher in the lawless Sand Hills region of Nebraska Territory just after the Civil War. The lead character Pastor John Woodring [a fictionalization of the author's real-life grandfather] is presented as a sincere but driven man of faith who fights corruption, murder, subjugation of womenfolk, and even his own doubts through a quick moving narrative.

This book is written in a straightforward style that makes it suitable for reading aloud to children. It actually deals with some mature subject matter [prostitution is one example] but does so in a thoroughly tasteful style. Great little read.

3. MAIL ORDER BRIDE [1964]

This overlooked gem of a movie was completely new to me when I saw it last night DVR'd from the Turner Movie channel [Praise God for DirectTV!]

Made the year I was born, this western "dramedy" is the delightful tale of a savvy old frontier codger [played beautifully by the great Buddy Ebsen] who who pressures the wild son of his dead friend into marrying a mail-order bride in an attempt to settle the crazy youth down a notch. Much hilarity ensues.

That short description may make it sound pretty run-of-the-mill, but an amazing cast-- and expert direction from no less a hand than Burt Kennedy-- really elevate this charming piece of Americana to a special level.

Plus it features Denver Pyle as a wacky preacher man... bonus!

4. REBEL SPURS by Andre Norton

Sci-fi legend Mary Alice Norton wrote this oater back in '50s and as far as I know it is her only true western. She should've written more.

This sequel to her civil war novel Ride Proud, Rebel finds hero Drew Currie involved in horse racing, horse stealing and a pretty good mystery in 1860s Arizona! As a plus for me it all takes place in my home county [Santa Cruz Co. on the Mex border!] and Norton's research into period setting and detail is highly impressive. Great coming-of-age element involved too.

5. THE LAST OUTLAW [1936]

Finally we have my all time favorite movie... and I mean that sincerely.

B-western great Harry Carey turns in the bittersweet performance of a lifetime as aging outlaw Dean Payton, and Hoot Gibson is unbelievably funny as a cynical young cowpoke. This is a smart, greathearted western that will please just about anybody. I have shown it to a score of friends so far and NONE have failed to LOVE it.

This one I cannot recommend highly enough. Look it for it on VHS... sadly, the DVD has yet to appear.

PEACE.

"Ramblin' Man" -- DEL SHANNON SINGS HANK WILLIAMS

2012-01-04T17:35:00.005-07:00

DEL SHANNON SINGS HANK WILLIAMS

1964

In 1964 Del Shannon was one of the few American artists still riding high in the wake of the so-called "British Invasion." He had scored a big hit with his self-penned "Keep Searchin'" [classic] and many English acts publicly considered him a precursor and a major influence. Why, at this critical point, he would decide to record an album of Hank Williams covers-- a project that seems in hindsight to have almost obviously been doomed to financial failure-- is anyone's guess.

I gotta tell ya, though, I am glad he did it. Del [1934-1990], a Michigan native who had enjoyed a string of driving, vocally charged hits though the early sixties, may not have seemed like the guy to sing "Kaw-Liga" and "Your Cheatin' Heart," but he made them strangely his own, believe you me!

I first found this album on vinyl at PDQ Records in Tucson back about 1985 or so, and it has long been one of my "guilty pleasure" lifetime selections. Click on the Youtube sample below to hear my very favorite cut, the amazing "Ramblin' Man."

Tell me if that man couldn't flat rip apart an old country classic!

Album cuts

Del Shannon – Sings Hank Williams

01. You Cheating Heart (3:07)
02. Kaw-Liga (3:08)
03. I Can't Help It (2:35)
04. Honky Tonk Blues (2:21)
05. Lonesome Whistle (2:17)
06. You Win Again (3:12)
07. Ramblin' Man (3:23)
08. Hey Good Looking (2:36)
09. Long Gone Lonesome Blues (2:13)
10. Weary Blues (From Waitin') (3:18)
11. I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry (2:58)
12. Cold Cold Heart (2:47)

RIP Dell!

A Jack Keller HOT ROD classic!

2012-01-02T15:24:00.006-07:00

Albie's note: I like to fit scripture into my blogs any ol' way I can, but what can ya do when the blog in question is a scan of a groovy Charlton "Hot Rod" comic from the 1960s drawn by the great Jack Keller?

Oh wait, I think I found a strangely appropriate verse!

"The chariots shall rage in the streets, they shall justle one against another in the broad ways: they shall seem like torches, they shall run like the lightnings." -- Nahum 2:4 :)

Charlton car comics weren't just fun to look at, they were always cautionary morality plays, too. Keller had 3 pretty interchangable heroes in these comics [Scot Jackson, Rick Roberts and today's star Clint Curtis] who took time during various high speed adventures to instruct readers about fair play, auto safety and personal responsibility. In today's selection, our erstwhile heroes [Curtis and some good clean-cut Americans from the Road Knights car club] dispense a most valuable four-color lesson: Taking what belongs to others is not only wrong, it could very well land you in "Jailsville," man!

So... without further ado, here are

CLINT CURTIS AND THE ROAD KNIGHTS

in "STOP THIEF!"

from HOT RODS AND RACING CARS #82

[Charlton, 1966]

Another scripture comes to mind at the end of our tale:

"Let him that stole steal no more!" -- Ephesians 4:28a

PEACE.

POETRY BREAK #5: "WESTERN WAGONS" by The Benets

2011-12-31T11:07:00.009-07:00

"Western Wagons"
by the Benets

"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for,
the evidence of things not seen."
Hebrews 11:1
FRONTIER PARAPHRASE:
"Now faith is being sure of what we’d hoped for and plum certain of what lies over the hill that we cannot see..."

They went with axe and rifle
Before the trails were blazed;
They went with goods and family
In the prairie-schooner days,
With banjo and with frying pan ---
Oh, Susanna, don't you cry!
For I'm off to California,
To get rich or to try!

We've broken land and cleared it,
But we're tired of where we are.
They say that wild Nebraska
Is a better place, by far.
There's gold in far Wyoming,
There's black earth in Ioway.
So pack up the kids and blankets,
For we're moving west today!

The meek ones never started
And the weak died on the road,
And all across the continent
The endless campfires glowed.
We'd taken land and settled,
But a wagon train passed by,
And we're going West tomorrow,
Lordy, never ask me why.

We're going West tomorrow,
Where the promises can't fail.
O'er the hills in legions, boys,
And crowd the dusty trail!
We shall starve and freeze and suffer,
We shall die and tame the lands.
But we're going West tomorrow,
With our fortune in our hands.

Rosemary

and Stephen Vincent Benet

In Defense Of The "Color Episodes": My first Andy Griffith Show blog...

2011-12-26T14:35:00.011-07:00

Perhaps the assertion that "The Andy Griffith Show" is the greatest sitcom of all time is an arguable one, but certainly [and perhaps inarguably] it ranks among the 25 best episodic television shows ever produced in the USA. Its cult, both in the US and around the world, is unrivaled by that of any other American TV show, with perhaps the exception of that 3-season contemporary '60s offering "Star Trek."

So you see, with a fan-base situation like this one, one humble blogger from AZ feels kind of intimidated to even join the decades-long discussion!

But still... here I go.

Now, I should say at the outset that I am truly a big fan... not the biggest, by any means, but avid enough that I can actually be entertained by a perusal through the endless and almost excruciatingly detailed discussions that permeate the plethora of websites and message boards devoted to TAGS [as we aficionados always abbreviate the object of our sad but harmless obsession.] I own all 8 seasons of the original classic on DVD, and will undoubtedly buy the 3 seasons of "Mayberry RFD" [the much-maligned continuation of the franchise] should they ever become similarly available. I have watched every episode at least once, and most of them twice or even several times.

Unquestionably TAGS is a true American classic, especially in its first 5 seasons-- the ones that still featured Don Knotts in his classic role as Deputy Barney Fife. Barney and Sheriff Andy Taylor had an undeniable working chemistry and timing that really went far above and beyond the typical "straight man and goofy sidekick" dynamic. In comedic terms, it was truly a marriage made in heaven, and both Knotts and star Griffith deserve all their due as brilliant comedic actors.

Over 5 seasons this chemistry was not only used and explored in some really well-written episodes, but a backdrop of amazing supporting characters was steadily developed until TAGS became one of the great ensemble comedies in all of entertainment history... an episodic tour-de-force that still amazes and charms even the youngest, hippest, and most sophisticated viewers to this very day.

But then... at the close of the 5th season... there arose a tragedy equally epic!

At the fabled end of that season, Don Knotts departed to pursue a mediocre movie career.

Barney was now gone, the show switched to color, and Sheriff Andy, left to toil on with his lesser cast as the new sidekicks, suddenly changed into a serious, almost morose lead character.

I would venture to suppose that this transition is the subject of more controversy in "TAGS-dom" than any other one topic. Virtually any TAGS fan can be counted on to have a strong opinion of some kind concerning this grave issue.

Now... although these last 3 seasons have extremely vocal and even hateful detractors [check around the message boards awhile and you'll see what I mean], it is worth noting that these seasons were still quite popular in the USA at the time of their production. In fact, Season 8, the final season, ended as the #1 show in the country for the year it first aired, and Amazon.com stats show that these seasons have sold pretty much as well as the first 5 on DVD. [I know I didn't hesitate to keep buying them!] "Mayberry RFD" was indeed less popular, but still stayed in the top 20 for all 3 of its seasons, and was only eventually canceled as part of CBS' now infamous purge of "rural programming" in an early '70s effort to streamline its image moving into the "me" decade.

So, here's my confession:

Despite their obvious inferiority [and I do acknowledge it] I have actually grown to like these color episodes. Not only that, I will state unequivocally that at least 2 of my 10 favorite episodes were in color, and neither one has Barney Fife as a character. [Knotts made 5 guest appearances in the color seasons.]

First, let me concede the negatives. For one thing, Andy Griffith himself often seems just plain bored in these later episodes, and that, in and of itself, is a pretty sad development.

Second, the writers felt compelled to create several new characters, and a few of them [like Warren the New Deputy and Emmett the Fix-It man] are blatantly ill-conceived and painfully superfluous. [As far as Warren goes, I always wonder why Jerry Van Dyke-- as the "banjo playing deputy"-- wasn't retained from the tail end of season 5... he would have been a MUCH better choice.]

And third, there truly is something painful about the character of Helen Crump in these later color episodes. Now... unlike most fans, I am not all that hard on Helen, actually. Her character is somewhat harsh, as people always note, but I actually feel it is a very realistic depiction of teachers in those days. Also, 'net posters always rag on her looks, but in all honesty she was pretty hot [and no doubt hotter than these guys' own women-- just a hunch.] Plus... like it or not, Griffith himself chose her as the love interest for fictional Andy, feeling that there was a good chemistry there. I think the real problem was that the story lines of Andy's love life just weren't funny without Barney there to be the foil. I personally think the writers should have just stopped writing "conflict" stories about Andy's love life entirely; there was just no way to make them funny anymore.

Having said all this... I still think there are some real positives to the later seasons.

First, people talk about the stories becoming stupid, but to be fair TAGS always had some really hair-brained episodes. While Goober Pyle believing a dog could talk in season 6 was indeed truly, staggeringly stupid, I actually found it less dumb than Barney's escapade with the goat who ate dynamite back in season 3 [my personal choice for "stupidest episode of the entire run."]

Also, many people think Goober was an annoying character and write endlessly about it, but even Barney could really get on my nerves sometimes. There was this alarming streak of selfishness in Barney that could be at times funny, but at other times downright unfunny... and those episodes [dozens of them!] where Andy lies and manipulates events to spare his deputy/cousin's feelings can be not only stupid, but pathetic, emotionally warped, and morally offensive... all at once! [Watch carefully a so-called classic like "Barney And The Choir," where the entire town joins in Andy's bizarre deception, and I think you'll see what I mean.] I think even Andy and Barn were only as good a couple characters as they were written to be... and sometimes they were written to be a pair of genuine jackasses! Say what you will about Goober's exaggerated mental defects, he was at least truly well-meaning at all times, and this made for some really great "lesson" episodes, like "Goober Goes To An Auto Show," one of the best of all the color episodes.

Thirdly, the characters of Opie and Aunt Bee have some great and shining moments in these later seasons. "The Ball Game" and "Opie's Job" are actually better showcases for Ronnie Howard's burgeoning talents than even the vastly over-rated "Opie The Birdman;" and the color Aunt Bee episodes deserve credit for really exploring the varying and different emotional facets of that most under-valued of all the main characters.

Finally, [and I know I'll take some flack for this one] I actually like the character of Howard Sprague. He's one of those "town bachelor" characters so strangely common in a lot of older fiction, and therefore the "gay" jokes about him will probably never stop... but actually, he's a fine, well-conceived character. In fact, all these fans who gripe about him so feverishly and diligently actually only manage to confirm something about the character that they somehow never stop to consider: he is an absolutely unforgettable fictional creation! Think about it. Those writers managed, in this one late case, to create a character that is still indelibly stuck in all our minds... even in the wake of such great departed creations as Barney and Gomer! That, like it or not, is no mean achievement.

Also, the various scripts revolving around Howard's inter-personal troubles show genuine compassion for the geeky outsider in a much less offensive way than did all the weird, "co-dependent," Barney-as-pathetic-boob, episodes of the vaunted earlier seasons.

So anyway... I guess I "done done it" now! I have gone and outed myself as a fan of the last 3 seasons of TAGS.

Oh well... Let the chips fall where they may.

PEACE

QUOTATIONS FROM CHAIRMAN LOUIS... L'AMOUR, THAT IS...

2011-12-21T21:26:00.004-07:00

“The trail is the thing, not the end of the trail. Travel too fast, and you miss all you are traveling for.”

“I would not sit waiting for some vague tomorrow, nor for something to happen. One could wait a lifetime, and find nothing at the end of the waiting. I would begin here, I would make something happen.”

“For one who reads, there is no limit to the number of lives that may be lived, for fiction, biography, and history offer an inexhaustible number of lives in many parts of the world, in all periods of time.”

“When you go to a country, you must learn how to say two things: how to ask for food, and to tell a woman that you love her. Of these the second is more important, for if you tell a woman you love her, she will certainly feed you.”

“Victory is won not in miles but in inches. Win a little now, hold your ground, and later, win a little more.”

“Adventure is just a romantic name for trouble. It sounds swell when you write about it, but it's hell when you meet it face to face in a dark and lonely place.”

“The way I see it, every time a man gets up in the morning he starts his life over. Sure, the bills are there to pay, and the job is there to do, but you don't have to stay in a pattern. You can always start over, saddle a fresh horse and take another trail.”

“There is nothing more dangerous than a woman with a shotgun. Because you don't know when it's going to go off...and neither does she.”

“No man ever raised a monument to a cynic or wrote a poem about a man without faith.”

“He never knew when he was whipped ... So he never was.......”

“If you want the law to leave you alone, keep your hair trimmed and your boots shined.”

“Too often I would hear men boast of the miles covered that day, rarely of what they had seen.”

PEACE

COOL STUFF FROM LIBRARY BOOKS #12: "D.L. Moody Visits A Prison"

2011-12-20T20:08:00.002-07:00

Moody Visits A Prison

I have good news to tell you--Christ is come after you.

I was at the Fulton-street prayer-meeting, a good many years ago, one Saturday night, and when the meeting was over, a man came to me and said, "I would like to have you go down to the city prison to-morrow, and preach to the prisoners."

I said I would be very glad to go. There was no chapel in connection with that prison, and I was to preach to them in their cells. I had to stand at a little iron railing and talk down a great, long narrow passageway, to some three or four hundred of them, I suppose, all out of sight. It was pretty difficult work; I never preached to the bare walls before.

When it was over I thought I would like to see to whom I had been preaching, and how they had received the gospel. I went to the first door, where the inmates could have heard me best, and looked in at a little window, and there were some men playing cards. I suppose they had been playing all the while.

"How is it with you here?" I said.

"Well, stranger, we don't want you to get a bad idea of us. False witnesses swore a lie, and that is how we are here."

"Oh," I said, "Christ cannot save anybody here; there is nobody lost." I went to the next cell. "Well, friend, how is it with you?"

"Oh," said the prisoner, "the man that did the deed looked very much like me, so they caught me and I am here."

He was innocent, too! I passed along to the next cell.

"How is it with you?'"

"Well, we got into bad company, and the man that did it got clear, and we got taken up, but we never did anything."

I went along to the next cell.

"How is it with you?"

"Our trial comes on next week, but they have nothing against us, and we'll get free."

I went round to nearly every cell but the answer was always the same--they had never done anything. Why, I never saw so many innocent men together in my life. There was nobody to blame but the magistrates, according to their way of it. These men were wrapping their filthy rags of self-righteousness about them. And that has been the story for six thousand years. I got discouraged as I went through the prison, on, and on, and on, cell after cell, and every man had an excuse. If he hadn't one, the devil helped him to make one. I had got almost through the prison, when I came to a cell and found a man with his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands. Two little streams of tears were running down his cheeks; they did not come by drops that time.

"What's the trouble?" I said. He looked up, the picture of remorse and despair.

"Oh, my sins are more than I can bear."

"Thank God for that," I replied.

"What," said he, "you are the man that has been preaching to us, ain't you?"

"Yes."

"I think you said you were a friend?"

"I am."

"And yet you are glad that my sins are more than I can bear!"

"I will explain," I said "If your sins are more than you can bear, won't you cast them on One who will bear them for you?"

"Who's that?"

"The Lord Jesus."

"He won't bear my sins."

"Why not?"

"I have sinned against Him all my life."

"I don't care if you have; the blood of Jesus Christ, God's Son, cleanses from all sin."

Then I told him how Christ had come to seek and save that which was lost; to open the prison doors and set the captives free. It was like a cup of refreshment to find a man who believed he was lost, so I stood there, and held up a crucified Saviour to him. "Christ was delivered for our offenses, died for our sins, rose again for our justification."

For a long time the man could not believe that such a miserable wretch could be saved. He went on to enumerate his sins, and I told him that the blood of Christ could cover them all. After I had talked with him I said, "Now let us pray."

He got down on his knees inside the cell, and I got down outside, and I said, "You pray."

"Why," he said, "it would be blasphemy for me to call on God."

"You call on God," I said.

He knelt down, and, like the poor publican, he lifted up his voice and said, "God be merciful to me, a vile wretch!" I put my hand through the window, and as I shook hands with him a tear fell on my hand that burned down into my soul. It was a tear of repentance. He believed he was lost. Then I tried to get him to believe that Christ had come to save him. I left him still in darkness.

"I will be at the hotel," I said, "between nine and ten o'clock, and I will pray for you."

Next morning, I felt so much interested, that I thought I must see him before I went back to Chicago. No sooner had my eye lighted on his face, than I saw that remorse and despair had fled away, and his countenance was beaming with celestial light; the tears of joy had come into his eyes, and the tears of despair were gone. The sun of Righteousness had broken out across his path; his soul was leaping within him for joy; he had received Christ as Zaccheus did--joyfully.

"Tell me about it," I said.

"Well, I do not know what time it was; I think it was about midnight. I had been in distress a long time, when all at once my great burden fell off, and now, I believe I am the happiest man in New York."

I think he was the happiest man I saw from the time I left Chicago till I got back again. His face was lighted up with the light that comes from the celestial hills. I bade him good-by, and I expect to meet him in another world.

Can you tell me why the Son of God came down to that prison that night, and, passing cell after cell, went to that one, and set the captive free? It was because the man believed he was lost.

From MOODY'S ANECDOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS,RELATED IN HIS REVIVAL WORK
BY DWIGHT L. MOODY.
CHICAGO: Rhodes and McClure Publishing Co. 1899

RFD: "Rescued From The Dump"-- a commentary on Job 33: 19-33 by P.S.R.

2011-12-18T16:35:00.004-07:00

JOB 33:19-33
He is chastened also with pain upon his bed, and the multitude of his bones with strong pain: So that his life abhorreth bread, and his soul dainty meat. His flesh is consumed away, that it cannot be seen; and his bones that were not seen stick out. Yea, his soul draweth near unto the grave, and his life to the destroyers. If there be a messenger with him, an interpreter, one among a thousand, to shew unto man his uprightness: Then he is gracious unto him, and saith, Deliver him from going down to the pit: I have found a ransom. His flesh shall be fresher than a child's: he shall return to the days of his youth: He shall pray unto God, and he will be favourable unto him: and he shall see his face with joy: for he will render unto man his righteousness. He looketh upon men, and if any say, I have sinned, and perverted that which was right, and it profited me not; He will deliver his soul from going into the pit, and his life shall see the light. Lo, all these things worketh God oftentimes with man, To bring back his soul from the pit, to be enlightened with the light of the living. Mark well, O Job, hearken unto me: hold thy peace, and I will speak. If thou hast any thing to say, answer me: speak, for I desire to justify thee. If not, hearken unto me: hold thy peace, and I shall teach thee wisdom.

Now here we find RUIN (v 22), REVELATION (v 23), REPENTANCE (v 27), RANSOM (v 24), REGENERATION (v 25), RECONCILIATION (v 26), and RESURRECTION (v 30).

And this old story has been told and enacted so many times in the history of sinful man that 3,000 volumes of 1,000 page each would not tell the story. God's salvation has carried thousands of men (literally) from the "guttermost to the uttermost," and if the truth for many a life were posted over the door posts of that heart, it would read "RFD"--Rescued From the Dump.

Here is John Gimenez, who began to fool with hallucinogens and Lysergic Acid Diethylamine (LSD), and finally began to "take off" as a mainliner on heroin. Gimenez was a first-class Junkie before he was 25 years old; he was "on the horse" when God rescued him from the dump. In his childhood, Gimenez knew more about "Murphy men," hustlers, chickies, bulls, fences, horse parties, narcos, "booting it," skin pops, pushers, and muggers than most of you will ever know about your Bible.

At Mountain Dale (a Christian rehabilitation center), Gimenez finally wound up "cold turkey," after touching the brink of insanity and suicide half a dozen times; a burnt-out wreck at 30 years of age, Gimenez had "had the treatment"; he had drained the barrel of life and found nothing in the bottom of it but gravel and broken glass. At Mountain Dale, a converted "knife" man (Jackie Dean) suddenly woke up the "barracks" one night, at three in the morning, hollering, "Devil get outta here! Leave this place right now; in the name of Jesus, GO!!" Gimenez got up in a cold sweat and went outside the building while the rest of the men knelt inside to pray. In his own words, Gimenez was "crying, weeping way down deep inside." Gimenez said that God was shaking him like he had dumped a dirty rag into a washer and was banging it round and round. With the men inside praying for him, Gimenez staggered down a dirt road at 3:20 a.m. He began to weep and laugh at the same time. Suddenly all the heaviness left him and he began to sing: "Jesus, Jesus, praise your name! Thank you Lord! Come here Jesus!!"

At 7:00 a.m., that former addict (with nothing behind him but sin and nothing ahead of him but a harvest (Gal. 6:7, 8) that would cause the angel Gabriel to tremble) came back into the barracks and fell asleep. He didn't wake up till noon, and when he got up he was a new creature in Christ, filled with the Holy Spirit, born again, and burning with a desire to witness for Christ instead of smoking pot. Gimenez says: "Man, it was like an explosion!" In writing to one of his former friends (who was still "carrying the monkey"), Gimenez says, "Curtis, you'll make it man, with Jesus Christ! Don't you forget it, Jesus is HIGHER than HIGH!" (And for those of us who have read Colossians 1:16- 18, an "Amen" would be just as appropriate following this junkie expression as it would be following a reading of John 3:16).

And over in this corner is Thomas Noah Carter, arrested in Arizona for dope and malpractice of medicine. Both of his grandfathers were preachers. Thomas Noah Carter studied at Mercer University and was the graduate of a Medical College, but he never received Christ, and he never believed the Bible. His mother prayed for him for more than twenty years. In jail, Carter cursed God and the Bible. A tubercular condition siezed him, and he went from 225 pounds to 118 pounds in less than six months. One time in his cell, he passed into a catalyptic state, and the prison doctor pronounced him dead. The prison officials notified Carter's aged mother but she wrote them a letter saying: "I don't believe it. I've been praying for twenty years that God would make a preacher out of him, and I haven't heard him preach yet!" He wasn't dead, but he was half dead. A week later Carter's voice failed him, and he could only curse God in a whisper. Carter then went to the chapel and came forward at an invitation, but the Chaplain told him that he was too wicked to be saved (Isa. 1:18!); so, in despair, Carter returned to his cell, tore a blanket into strips (intending to hang himself) and prepared to die. But Carter's preparation miscarried. Just as he was tearing a third strip off of the blanket, a Bible fell out of it! Carter sat down on his bunk, in a sweat, and opened the Book: It opened at 1 John 1:7. As he read 1 John 1 and 2, the Lord said to him: "If you will teach and preach this Book, I'll save and heal you!" Carter began to shout; he woke up all the prisoners in his cell block. The Warden and two guards came in to give him some "special treatment," but the warden got converted coming through the door! (God had been dealing with the warden for nearly three months, and as he stepped into the cell block and heard Carter yelling, "Glory to God! Praise God for the Lord Jesus Christ!" the warden accepted Christ on the spot!)

When they opened the cell, Carter rushed to him and hugged him and yelled, "Warden, I've just been saved! I've just been saved!" and before the body guards could interfere, the warden was yelling, "Me too, Carter, me too!!"

Thomas Noah Carter was given an unconditional pardon after serving four years of a ten-year sentence, and he preached the truth of God till the day that he died: RFD--"Rescued From the Dump!"

And who could forget old "Bulldog" Charlie Wyman from Kent, Kentucky!? You could "read the wallpaper" on the walls of the house where he was born-- it was literally newsprint!; and the house had a ground sandstone floor. When Charlie was a boy his mother whipped him three times because of three fist fights he had with an older boy at school who had challenged him. Each time she whipped him, Charlie would say, "Mother, if you whip me again, I'll beat that boy up worse than the last time." The third time (after he had put the older boy in the hospital) he said, "Mother, I'm going back and whip that kid again, and if you whip me one more time, I'll kill him." So, Charlie's "home discipline" (without a father) ended there at the age of 15. The rest of Charlie Wyman's life reads like a Zane Grey novel or a Hollywood "Western." He shot out all the street lights in his home town as fast as they were put in, and he whipped every deputy sheriff that came to town to arrest him. He took the guns out of the holster of a sheriff and told him to "be a good boy and go home before you get into trouble." He crippled a man for life in one gun fight, killed two men in another, and shot all the fingers off a man's hand ecept one, and in a bloody shot-gun versus .38 duel, one man went insane, one died of wounds, and Charlie caused the death of a clean-cut youngster (named Foss) who was not even involved in the fight. Running a liquor store and pool hall, "Bulldog" Charlie Wyman ran that town.

Then, in 1913, a small, circuit-riding, country preacher came to town. His name was "Night Hawk" Tom, and he was called that because it was rumored that no man could know as much about the sins of his congregation as "Night Hawk" knew unless he was abroad at night "window peeping." The first time Wyman saw Tom going down the street to the "meetin' house," he said, "ah, that little rabbit! Ah ain't going to kill him; ah'll jus run him outta town."

The next day Night Hawk Tom crossed the street to Charlie's pool hall, introduced himself, took Charlie's hand, and invited him to the revival meeting. When he left, Charlie shook his head and said to himself, "Now I wonder why a good man like that would take time out to talk to a rascal like ME?" Well, the "steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord," and Charlie didn't know it, but he wasn't about to run Night Hawk Tom out of anywhere.

The next night (after the revival had been running for a week), Wyman got terribly sick. He closed down the pool hall early, and, in a drizzling rain, he walked home down the dark streets of the town. As the downpour increased, he stepped into a front yard and took temporary shelter under the eaves of a large two-story house. The house had belonged to a young woman (Gaussey) whose husband was serving time for killing a man during a gunfight with Wyman. Leaning on the gate post near the window, Charlie Wyman wound up his "career." You see, the townspeople at the meeting had been praying for Charlie Wyman in public and private devotions for nearly a month, and as Wyman huddled against the house, below a bay window, he saw Alice Guassey-- the wife of the man who was in jail--come into the room with her two small children. They knelt, facing the window, and as the storm slacked and the rain stopped, Wyman heard that woman and her children praying aloud: "Oh God, please save the godless sinner, Charlie Wyman! Oh Lord, please save us and our town from that murderer! Don't let him burn in Hell, Lord, please save him!"

That prayer struck old "Bulldog" Charlie through like an arrow that pierces to the marrow of the bones. Charlie said to himself: "I am the man for whom she is praying! Oh my God!"

To make a long story short, Charlie was in church the next night. Before an amazed congregation, he literally ran to the altar at the invitation and knelt there, as he said with "blood dripping off my hands." At the altar, that old-time Methodist Circuit rider told him to repent and make restitution before asking God for any favors-- that's how they did it in those days! Charlie got up and went to the Banker and apologized to him for some bad checks; he then turned himself in to the sheriff whom he had made "dance" with bullets when the sheriff came to arrest him; when asked for someone to sign his bond, Charlie moaned, "Nobody in this country would sign a bond for me!"

"Well," said the sheriff, "do you mean business for God?"

With tears raining down his face, Wyman said, "Oh I want to do right. I want to be GOOD Man! I want to go to Heaven; if I have to go to the penitentiary the rest of my life, I must make it to Heaven!"

The sheriff bonded him out.

"Bulldog" Charlie preached the old-time gospel for nearly fifty years after God rescued him from the dump (Job 33:24, 27, 28). And time would fail us to tell of those legions of "mouldy saints" with "unwashed breath" whom God salvaged for His glory and made their "harps" (Job 30:31) sound forth the praises of Zion.

On the 14th day of March, 1949, a drunken bum, working as a discjockey at a radio station (WEAR, Pensacola, Florida), received Christ as his Saviour. He made the decision in the record room of the station surrounded by album covers of Hank Williams, Patti Page, Tony Martin, Tex Ritter, Doris Day, Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, Dizzie Gillespie, Artie Shaw, Peggy Lee, Benny Goodman, and Stan Kenton. At 27 years of age this D. J. had "had the treatment." Raised as an Episcopalian, with a vestryman for a father, educated as a college graduate with a major in Radio and Psychology, trained as an Infantry officer with 46 months active duty as a Rifle Platoon leader, catechized as a Roman Catholic proselyte by a Jesuit priest from Loyola, and acquainted with the world system through jobs as a lifeguard, bartender, beach boy, radio announcer, newspaper cartoonist, and dance band drummer, this wreck had reached the end of the rope.

Liquor had not solved his problems, lust and dissipation had failed to provide any happiness, education and science had failed miserably, religion and mysticism had accomplished nothing of a permanent nature, and three years of "TM" and Zen Buddhism had failed to still the voice of outraged conscience and guilt. At 27, this junk heap was on his way to the junk yard-- lost, drunk, ruined, disillusioned, bitter, broke, and alone in the world "having no hope, and without God" (Eph. 2:12).

A country Baptist preacher named Hugh Pyle led him to Christ in the radio station that morning. In less than a month, he was studying the Bible. In less than a year, he was preparing for the ministry, and that depraved sinner (who had tried everything short of murder and suicide to attain his ends) has been preaching and teaching the living words of the living God for more than 28 years. What he could not find in two universities, three religious systems, four years of Government service, and every hell hole from Bourbon Street (New Orleans) to Hell's Half-acre (Honolulu, Hawaii), he found in God's Book!

Many a man who had worn out his constitution is living on his by-laws, or as an octogenarian said: "If I'dda known I was gonna live this long, I would have taken better care of myself!" There are physical wrecks on this earth, social wrecks, financial wrecks, and spiritual wrecks, but our God is a "junk specialist," and He can take a physical wreck like the man in Mark 5:5, or the woman in Mark 5:26, and restore their health.

He can take a religious wreck like Paul [Saul Of Tarsus] and make a flaming evangelist out of him.

He can take a scholarly wreck like R. A. Torrey or B. H. Carroll and make them preach the Virgin Birth, the Blood Atonement, and the physical Resurrection.

He can take a social wreck like the Samaritan woman of John 4:18 (or Mary Magdalene) and make her fit to dine with princes and angels (Rev. 19:9)!

And there has been many a "wreck" salvaged by God, who went on to greater service in the Lord's vineyard than the smooth, slick, flawless, keptand -cared-for "late models," like the "elder brother" of Luke 15. Many of these "cultured" Christians (Luke 7:39) thought that because they had morals, money, property, education, and prestige that God was obligated to use them; sometimes God will use an INSTITUTION when He can't find a man in it that He can do anything with by himself. "Corporative Christianity" and Communism are very popular these days, and when you hear many of these smooth, slick, professional motivators bragging about "THEIR" work, they are often referring to 10-200 Christians who are doing the work in their stead, paying the bills in their stead, teaching the converts in their stead, and working on slave wages to promote the "work." 1 Corinthians 3:13 will iron a lot of things out.

RFD-- Rescued From the Dump. "His flesh shall be fresher than a child's: he shall return to the days of his youth...he shall pray unto God...he shall see his face with joy...He will deliver his soul from going into the pit, and his life SHALL SEE THE LIGHT" (Job 33:25-28). And God works these things "OFTENTIMES" (v 29) with man!

from THE BIBLE BELIEVER'S COMMENTARY ON THE BOOK OF JOB, by Peter S. Ruckman

BOOK REVIEW: "Cracker Barrel Trouble Shooter" by Jim Kjelgaard

2011-12-14T16:55:00.005-07:00

BOOK REVIEW:

"Cracker Barrel Trouble Shooter"

by Jim Kjelgaard

Jim Kjelgaard, one of my very favorite authors, wrote this little book in 1954. It's a bit of a change of pace from the usual JK book. While it has a great dog character, it is not a "dog story," and while it is set in a rural mountain hamlet and includes a couple of great fishing chapters, it is not his usual "outdoor" story either. Add to this the fact that there is actually a well-rendered romantic sub-plot [with an honest to goodness female!] and it's clear that Cracker Barrel is just "off-trail" enough as a JK venture to make it a perfect cold weather mid-December read.

The story is as charming as some classic old Andy Griffith episode. When college student Bill Rawl’s uncle dies suddenly of an unexpected heart attack, young Bill is left with a little money and the full ownership of a country general store in some unnamed eastern state [judging by Kjelgaard's choice of fictional place names like Elk Shanty and Cannasport it seems very Northeastern... or mayhap what ya might call "Maine-ish"] Bill decides to leave his architectural college studies, as well as his unpromising and painful start toward a boxing career, to instead pack up for the hills and work his "new" old "cracker barrel" store out of its oppressive debts.

After Bill makes the acquaintance of a friendly hunter named Rifle Eye Smith, and an amusing stray blue tick hound called Lamb Chops, [a truly great Kjelgaard canine] he finds that his uncle had left the store in the care of a senile old man and his granddaughter Jan, with whom Bill strikes up an immediate friendship. [Jan is a great character, by the way, and just the kind of lively, witty, believable love interest you'd have bet Kjelgaard couldn't have created.] Soon Bill has encounters with some mysterious enemies as he determines to make his store a financial success. The chapters detailing Bill's strategies for meeting this goal and his struggles to master the arts of fishing and hunting [there is some great writing about angling for Brook trout with grasshopper lures] are quite entertaining, and I couldn't help thinking how much my Libertarian friends would appreciate JK's rollicking emphasis on free trade and gun ownership [old "Rifle Eye," for example, insists on toting his firearm into city stores, with much comical dialogue ensuing, of course.]

The mystery, such as it is, is pretty thin, but this is more than made up for by the humorous and lively tone of the writing. In fact, I have decided that this book is now my "go-to recommendation" for those folks new to Kjelgaard who sometimes ask about a good place to start.

I never saw this book growing up, but I wish I had. It is a really great "Boy's book" that I would no doubt have loved... and I will surely be reading it to my own boy sometime.

Highly recommended.

PEACE

PRODUCT REVIEW: "Old Time Radio's Greatest Westerns"

2011-12-07T22:55:00.006-07:00

PRODUCT REVIEW:

"Old Time Radio's Greatest Westerns"
Audio Cassette Album, 20 cassettes
Produced by Radio Spirits, Inc. (original issue June 1, 1999)
ISBN-10: 1570191980
ISBN-13: 978-1570191985

If you know me at all, you know I'm a great lover of Westerns.

As I have noted elsewhere on this blog, I was indoctrinated as a sagebrush fan early on in my small town Arizona boyhood. TV westerns, print westerns, big screen westerns... I loved them all... from THE LONE RANGER to Louis L'Amour to THE APPLE DUMPLING GANG.

Born in 1964, I am in no way old enough to remember these radio shows, but when I saw this set offered on The Radio Spirits website back around 2003 or so, I couldn't resist buying the whole shootin' match. As I recall, it ran me the astronomical sum of about 50 U.S. bucks at the time [less than a dollar a show, actually] but I assure you, I was in NO WAY disappointed.

The 60 shows that make up this marvelous collection of cassettes [I don't know if it was ever offered on CD or not] easily divide into three types: 1) Westerns from anthology series, 2) so-called "adult" Westerns, and 3) "juvenile" Westerns.

Of these three categories, the Westerns drawn from the various old radio anthology series are uniformly the slickest, if not actually the best. The anthology series' represented in the collection are: "The Cavalcade of America," "Escape," "The Screen Director's Playhouse," and "Suspense." I especially love the Daniel Boone episode of the Cavalcade starring Raymond Massey. Written by the great historian Marquis James, author of one of my favorite books [THE RAVEN, a Pulitzer-winning biography of Sam Houston] it is one of the best half hours of narrative drama I have ever heard. [An interesting choice was including the adaptation of "Paleface" from "The Screen Director's Playhouse." A Bob Hope comedy nestled in among all these other somber, "first-nighter" type oaters was a lively and amusing diversion!]

The "adult" Westerns [at the time the label simply meant "non-kiddie" shows] included "Dr. Sixgun," "Fort Laramie," "Frontier Gentleman," "Gunsmoke," "Have Gun Will Travel," "Hawk Larabee," "Luke Slaughter of Tombstone," "Tales of the Texas Rangers," and my all-time favorite: Jimmy Stewart as "The Six Shooter."

"The Six Shooter," in case you've never heard it, is a great story-driven western thought so highly of by star Jimmy Stewart that he performed in it for basic union wages just to save budget money [or so I have read anyway.] I must say, I can see why he was so proud of that one: it is quite unlike any other western that you will ever hear. Not only is the emphasis decidedly away from the standard violence of the traditional "shoot-em-up," but in the 30 or so episodes I have listened to at this stage I can only remember one time where the hero even fired a shot! Great, offbeat little western drama. [This show did go on to TV as something called "The Restless Gun" [with John Payne taking the lead role] but it was nowhere near as great as the original.]

"Luke Slaughter Of Tombstone" is a long forgotten '50s show that seems to me to have been an attempt to create an imitation of Matt Dillon and the "GUNSMOKE" saga, which were all the rage in that time frame.

"Hawk Larabee" seemed more like a sophisticated juvenile Western to me, but the enclosed booklet said it was squarely aimed at adults. I loved it, though... especially the gimmick of having a singing group perform bridges between the acts of the drama. Great stuff... with great atmosphere!

"Have Gun Will Travel" and "Gunsmoke" have a production quality in keeping with their TV counterparts, but I must confess neither show does anything special for me. I dislike the former because John Dehner [a very great voice and movie actor in his own right] always seems just plain wrong in the "Paladin" role that I so closely associate with the great Richard Boone [the TV version.].

The latter,"Gunsmoke," just grates on me, probably because of my whole Libertarian political outlook. I just can't seem to warm up to any show that glorifies a big, bad-ass federal appointee throwing his weight around. It was VERY well done, to be sure... night-and-day better thasn the TV version. I just never had much taste for either. Just me, I reckon... :)

"Frontier Gentleman," also starring John Dehner, tells first-person tales of a British journalist musing his way through the wild and woolly West. It is, in my opinion, a much better vehicle for Dehner and every episode I have ever heard has boasted a really well-written script. The 3 included here are no exceptions.

"Fort Laramie" and "Tales of the Texas Rangers" also fall into the "adult" Western category, but they actually ably represent 2 separate and distinct sub-genres as well.

"Fort Laramie" (starring Raymond Burr) is a very good offering in the sub-genre of realistic war, or Cavalry stories. [Incidentally, the set also includes a great adaptation of a James Warner Bellah Calvary story from the "Escape" anthology show. Entitled "Command," it is a great character study of a young officer's first encounter with combat.]

"Tales of the Texas Rangers" is actually a police procedural show of the "Dragnet" variety, and a good one at that. This show features plots that are fact-based and realistic, and the great Joel McCrea plays a likable hero who is both admirable and believable. It's really more of a true crime detective series than a true western, and it is set in mid 20th Century Texas.

Oddly, I think I enjoyed the juvenile Westerns the best. They were "The Cisco Kid," "Hopalong Cassidy," "The Lone Ranger," "Red Ryder," "Roy Rogers," "Straight Arrow," and "Wild Bill Hickock."

"Red Ryder" and "Roy Rogers" are very "kiddie" type shows to be sure, but the heroes are so likable and earnest that they manage to be just great fun all around. My boy Gideon and I loved them. "The Cisco Kid" is well done, but hard to listen to, somehow. Maybe the hokey accents are part of the problem.

"The Lone Ranger" is cool and iconic, but he's best taken in small doses, like the 3 decent episodes here. Don't get me wrong, I love the masked man, but on radio he comes on really strong. [Truth be told, the incessant "overture" music is main difficulty with this otherwise classic show.]

"Wild Bill Hickock" (with Andy Devine as Jingles providing comic relief) is a pretty durned enjoyable show, even though the plots seem a little thin.

"Straight Arrow" is a show with a staggeringly inane premise that still manages to be very entertaining, albeit on a kid's level. The title character is a super hero Comanche warrior whose secret identity is as "Steve Adams," a white rancher. Mr. Arrow is of course able to shoot his bow with remarkable accuracy from a variety or complicated horseback situations. Like I say, its pretty stinkin' dumb... but also strangely cool. [This show also spawned some really great comic books, too... check around the scan blogs for samples!]

"Hopalong Cassidy" has to be the VERY best of the juveniles. The plots for this expertly crafted show were really just detective stories transplanted to the Old West. However, William Boyd and Andy Clyde [as Hoppy and sidekick California Carlson] were both amazing voice actors, and the show is downright riveting. Great music, too.

All in all, this set is indispensable for any fan of American westerns or Old Time Radio. I only wish it were even larger and therefore able to include some of the shows I have only read about but have never actually heard. If only, for example, they had put in the "Tom Mix Straight Shooters Show," which the late radio historian Jim Harmon claimed was as great as anything in all the medium's golden age; or the Juvenile "Tennessee Jed" about which childhood fans Jerry Garcia and The Grateful Dead wrote a great old song: or even a sample of the radio original of TV standard "Death Valley Days," which is always described in the books as top-notch by the writers who remember it. Some day I would really like to hear some of that stuff.

Still, beggars can NOT be choosers, right?

Anyway... I highly recommend this marvelous set, which also includes a nicely illustrated and very informative program guide.

Happy trails!

[Reviewed by Albie]

"The Politics Of F TROOP": Hilarious article by Michael Tennant

2011-12-01T22:58:00.004-07:00

Albie's Note: A few years back I got stuck working a hotel desk on Christmas Eve ... but through boredom (I had already seen Ralphie's and George Bailey's sagas many times), I came across this strange article about a retro TV show and it's political meaning. I remembered this show from childhood (it was a great fave of my late father's) so I couldn't help but read it. As an ideological libertarian I found it funny but also downright profound! Hope someone else out there enjoys it, too.

A Western Even Libertarians Can Love

by Michael Tennant

A brief discussion of the old TV western Bat Masterson, and westerns of that era in general, has been taking place on my favorite libertarian blog. Lew Rockwell was disturbed to find that a program of which he had fond memories actually perpetuated the myths of the noble Yankee white man and the ignorant, savage red man, while Ryan McMaken pointed out that the western myths had the added effect of increasing the public's acceptance of a large, centralized, corporate state. Thus did the discussion end largely in despair of finding a western series with which libertarians can be comfortable.
I hereby nominate for the most libertarian-friendly western TV series not a stalwart, deadly serious, white-hats-versus-black-hats drama like Gunsmoke but the 1965—67 situation comedy F Troop.
Now it might seem odd to suggest a series in which the central characters are, for the most part, members of the United States Army as a libertarian's dream. However, when one considers the particulars of the show, it becomes obvious that, as is often the case, comedy can tell the truth which drama shrinks from bringing to light.
First of all, the men of F Troop are a miserable lot of lazy bumblers, exactly the sort of people who in real life couldn't be employed anywhere except on the federal gravy train. Stationed at Fort Courage (the last word that could be used to describe the soldiers therein), Kansas, they include the exceptionally myopic lookout, Vanderbilt; the over-the-hill and slightly senile Duffy; the overweight immigrant Hoffenmueller; the eager but far from musically inclined young bugler, Dobbs; and the scheming Sgt. Morgan O'Rourke (played brilliantly by real-life Army cavalry vet Forrest Tucker) and his rather dim sidekick and partner in crime, Cpl. Randolph Agarn (Larry Storch). O'Rourke and Agarn are forever scheming to make money off the taxpayers' backs, ordering more supplies than necessary and diverting the excess to their own profitable ventures, including the local saloon. The commanding officer of F Troop is Capt. Wilton Parmenter (Ken Berry), a clumsy but well-meaning sort who accidentally continues his family's tradition of military heroism by sneezing in the midst of a retreat during a Civil War battle. His sneeze is misinterpreted as a command to charge, and the troops reverse direction and win the battle for the Union. (Okay, so this one thing makes him less than a hero to most libertarian readers, but since it was an accident, I'm willing to cut him some slack.) His "reward" is to take command of Fort Courage.
Now I ask you: Where else in popular culture could you find a more accurate portrayal of how the federal government, including its military, actually operates? People who couldn't find work in the private sector get sinecures on the government payroll and then do their level best to extract as much as they can out of the taxpayer, while the people in charge are incompetent dolts who would be just as useless in the private sector as their subordinates.
Whereas Gen. Sheridan, much to Lew's dismay, was featured positively in Bat Masterson, Gen. Custer fares much more poorly in F Troop. In the episode "Old Ironpants," Capt. Parmenter attends an officers' training school run by Custer. Upon his return to Fort Courage, accompanied by Custer, he bids the general adieu with the parting comment, "Good luck on your new assignment at Little Big Horn." Meanwhile, Parmenter has been transformed into a Custer clone, complete with goatee. He proceeds to treat everyone in Fort Courage like dirt, drilling the men to death and even trying to have his erstwhile girlfriend, Wrangler Jane (Melody Patterson-- yowzah!), arrested for the mere act of being friendly and speaking to him. (When O'Rourke tells Parmenter that he can't arrest Jane because she's a civilian, the captain replies, "Then draft her. Then arrest her.") The men and Jane have to "un-Custer" him in order to be treated like human beings again.
Now that's how to portray a mass murdering general — as a man who considers his own soldiers worthless objects that are beneath his dignity and entirely expendable. No wonder he had no trouble slaughtering Indians by the score (when they didn't get him first) and ordering his men on to certain death! As far as he was concerned, only one person, himself, and only one cause, the glory of the U.S. government, mattered. It certainly beats the glorification of Sheridan on Bat Masterson.
Finally, and probably unwittingly, F Troop demonstrates the glories of capitalism. Wrangler Jane, one of the most kindhearted and good-natured characters on the show, runs the local general store. O'Rourke and Agarn, for all their faults in skimming from the army for their own gain, run a profitable business in partnership with the local Indian tribe, the Hekawis. The Hekawis, while comic figures just as the soldiers are, are treated with a great deal of respect by their business partners, who often come to them for help. Best of all, it is precisely this partnership that keeps the relationship between the white man and the red man peaceful — not that the Hekawis seem particularly eager to fight, but it doesn't hurt that they stand to lose substantial cash if they disrupt the relationship. For example, in one episode Don Rickles guest stars as Bald Eagle, the renegade son of Hekawi Chief Wild Eagle. When he asks Wild Eagle if he will lead the Hekawis in an attack on the fort, Wild Eagle replies, "Not during big end-of-month sale." Thus we see that trade is a powerful deterrent to armed hostilities.
So let's hear it for the men (and woman) of Fort Courage! In their own highly comedic ways — and F Troop, as far as I am concerned, is one of the funniest TV series ever, especially in its first season — they show us the bad, the ugly, and the just plain inept of government and the good of free markets and respect for individuals, whether soldiers, civilians, or "Indians."

POETRY BREAK #4: "The Quitter" by Robert W. Service

2011-11-30T17:47:00.003-07:00

POETRY BREAK #4:

"The Quitter" by Robert W. Service

Albie's note: Need some kind of a pick-me-up? We’ve all probably had moments of very real discouragement in our lives... moments when we feel seriously tempted to pack it in and just give up. As hokey as it sounds, it really is precisely at those times we should simply grit our teeth and keep truckin'. Proverbs tells us "For a just man falleth seven times, and riseth up again" [Prov. 24:16]

Quitting is the easy thing to do. It’s that "keep-going-on" thing that’s hard. According to this old poem, your reaction to difficulties determines your mettle... Drive on!

The Quitter

When you’re lost in the Wild, and you’re scared as a child,
And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you’re sore as a boil, it’s according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and... die.
But the Code of a Man says: “Fight all you can,”
And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it’s easy to blow...
It’s the "hell-served-for-breakfast" that’s hard.

“You’re sick of the game!” Well, now, that’s a shame.
You’re young and you’re brave and you’re bright.
“You’ve had a raw deal!” I know — but don’t squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It’s the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don’t be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit; it’s so easy to quit:
It’s the keeping-your-chin-up that’s hard.

It’s easy to cry that you’re beaten — and die;
It’s easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope’s out of sight —
Why, that’s the best game of them all!
And though you come out of each gruelling bout,
All broken and beaten and scarred,
Just have one more try — it’s dead easy to die,
It’s the keeping-on-living that’s hard.

ROBERT W. SERVICE [1874-1958]
from the book RHYMES OF A ROLLING STONE, 1912

Count your blessings-- YOU are RICH!

2011-11-22T19:38:00.004-07:00

"YOU ARE RICH!"

From the standpoint of material wealth, Americans have difficulty realizing how rich we are. However, going through this little “mental exercise” suggested by Robert Heilbroner can help us to count our blessings. Imagine doing the following, and you will see how daily life is for as many as a billion people in the world.

1. Take out all the furniture in your home except for one table and a couple of chairs. Use blankets and pads for beds.

2. Take away all of your clothing except for your oldest dress or suit, shirt or blouse. Leave only one pair of shoes.

3. Empty the pantry and the refrigerator except for a small bag of flour, some sugar and salt, a few potatoes, some onions, and a dish of dried beans.

4. Dismantle the bathroom, shut off the running water, and remove all the electrical wiring in your house.

5. Take away the house itself and move the family into the tool shed.

6. Place your “house” in a shantytown.

7. Cancel all subscriptions to newspapers, magazines, and book clubs. This is no great loss because now none of you can read anyway.

8. Leave only one radio for the whole shantytown.

9. Move the nearest hospital or clinic ten miles away and put a midwife in charge instead of a doctor.

10. Throw away your bankbooks, stock certificates, pension plans, and insurance policies. Leave the family a cash hoard of ten dollars.

11. Give the head of the family a few acres to cultivate on which he can raise a few hundred dollars of cash crops, of which one third will go to the landlord and one tenth to the moneylenders.

12. Lop off twenty-five or more years in life expectancy.

By comparison, how rich we are! And with our wealth comes responsibility to use it wisely, not to be wasteful, and to help others.

Think on these things.

-Steve Williams, from THE GOSPEL TRACT HAVESTER, November 2008

Cool Stuff From Library Books #11: "THANKSGIVING DAY--1941" by Stephen Vincent Benet

2011-11-22T18:54:00.008-07:00

THANKSGIVING DAY--1941

 by Stephen Vincent Benet

There are many days in the year that we celebrate, but this one
is wholly of our earth. Three hundred and eighteen years ago,
long before we were ever a nation, a handful of men and women who
wished to live for an idea and were willing to die for it, first
set this day apart as a day of thanks. They were neither rich nor
powerful, those men and women of Plymouth; they had bought the
very ground they stood on by the deaths of their nearest and
dearest. After three years of toil and suffering, they had made a
small settlement and planted a few cleared fields. Behind them
lay the ocean; before them, the untamed forest. They had come a
long way to stand between sea and forest; they had left all ease
and security behind them. Even so, they could not know whether
their experiment in freedom would succeed or fail; they could not
even be sure that Plymouth Colony would live through the next
winter. It is hard for us to realize that; it was what they
faced, under all their courage. Nevertheless, cut off from all
they had known, alone beyond our knowledge, they gave thanks in
humble sincerity for God's mercies and the gift of corn.

Today, one hundred and thirty million Americans keep the day they
first set apart. We all know what Thanksgiving is--it's turkey
day and pumpkin pie day--the day of the meeting of friends and
the gathering of families. It does not belong to any one creed or
stock among us, it does not honor any one great man. It is the
whole family's day--the whole people's day--the day at the turn
of the year when we can all get together, think over the past
months a little, feel a sense of harvest, a kinship with our
land. It is one of the most secure and friendly of all our
feasts. And yet it was first founded in insecurity, by men who
stood up to danger. And that spirit is still alive.

This year it is and must be a sober feast. And yet, if we know
our hearts, as a people, we can be grateful--not in vainglory or
self-satisfaction, but for essential things. Let us speak out
some of the things that are in our hearts.

We are grateful to those before us who made this country and
fought for it, who hewed it out of the wilderness and sowed it
with the wheat of freedom. We are grateful to all Americans, of
all kinds and sorts and beliefs, who stood up on their hind legs
and protested against injustice, from the first plantings till
now. We are grateful to the great men, present and past, who have
risen from our earth to lead us, and to the innumerable many
whose names are not in the histories but without whose laughter
and courage, endurance and resolution, all our history would have
been in vain.

We are grateful for our land itself--not for its material
resources or the plenty of its fields--but for its vast diversity
under the great bond of union. We are grateful for Connecticut
elm and Georgia pine, for the big stars over Texas and the bread
of the Middle West. We are grateful to little towns with common
place names where people get along with each other, not because
they are told to, but just because they believe in getting along.
That's the way we like to have it, and mean to have it. We are
grateful because we believe that all those who would confuse and
divide us with counsels of class hatred, race hatred, despair and
defeat know little of the temper of our people. We are grateful
to all the others, to every good neighbor, to each man and woman
of good will.

We are grateful to those who guard the far-flung outposts of our
nation--to the men on the lonely sea patrols, on the high patrols
of the air. To the men in the camps, to the men on the ships, to
the men of the air, to all those who keep watch and guard, we pay
our tribute today. Nor can that tribute be paid in fine words
alone. These are our own men we have summoned--it is the business
of all of us to back them with the firm resolution of a united
nation. And that shall be done.

Most of all we are grateful, under God, for the spirit that walks
abroad in this land of ours--the spirit that has made us and kept
us free. It is many years indeed since men first came here for
freedom. The democracy we cherish is the work of many years and
many men. But as those first men and women first gave thanks, in
a dark hour, for the corn that meant life to them, so let us give
thanks today--not for the little things of the easy years but for
the land we cherish, the way of life we honor, and the freedom we
shall maintain.

From the book: We Stand United and other Radio Scripts [1940-1942]

Albie's note:

I like old Benet's thoughts in this radio address.

Thankfulness is vital to any nation of people.

Here's hoping you and yours have a great holiday!

PEACE.

"You say, 'If I had a little more, I should be very satisfied.'

You make a mistake. If you are not content with what you have,

you would not be satisfied if it were doubled."

--Charles Haddon Spurgeon

BOOK REVIEW: "The Valiant Ones" by Norman A. Fox

2011-11-14T18:37:00.005-07:00

BOOK REVIEW:

"The Valiant Ones" by Norman A. Fox

A collection of eleven classic pulp-era western stories dealing with the courageous men and women-- including explorers, soldiers, and settlers-- who opened the American West...

"The cowards never started and the week died on the road,
 And all across the continent the endless campfires glowed.
 We´d taken land and settled-but a traveler passed by-
 And we´re going West tomorrow-Lordy, never ask us why!"

From WESTERN WAGONS by Stephen Vincent Benet

The above quote stands in the flyleaf of Norman A. Fox's 1957 collection ONLY THE VALIANT. Its words form a fitting introduction to this collection of Fox's best magazine western fiction from 1946 to 1951.

Assembled by the author himself a scant 2 years before his untimely death at age 48, this is one of the better single author collections of western fiction I have ever encountered [and I rather avidly collect western short story collections.]

What makes any short story collection great is first and foremost variety. In fact, this one thing is what keeps most western story collections sadly separated from a cohesive overall quality.

This collection, however, is just about perfect in assembling stories devoted to conveying different aspects of the frontier experience. "Saddlebag Sawbones" tells of a range-land physician standing off a group of outlaws; "The Fitness Of Sean O'Fallon" tells of an unlikely hero of the original Pony Express; "Homesteader's Wife" realistically depicts the bleakness, sorrows, and occasional joys of a small time rancher's better half; and "Only The Dead Ride Proudly" is a much-anthologized tale set against the real-life backdrop of the river steamboat that carried the wounded from Custer's last stand to Fort Abraham Lincoln in record time.

I really like Fox's writing, by the way. He may not be a prose master along the lines of all-time western greats like Ernest Haycox, Dorothy Johnson or Verne Athanas, but his ability to write descriptions of setting and landscape, as well as his rendering of action scenes, is easily as competent as his pulp-era contemporaries Luke Short and Peter Dawson [and yes, that's a pretty substantial compliment coming from me.]

Beyond the writing itself, there is much to be said in favor of Fox's compelling story-telling, which is filled with realistic situations and well-drawn characters. A really nice character study is "Old Man Owlhoot," a "modern" western story about a reporters's search for the truth about a Montana old-timer who claims he rode with Kid Curry in the wild days of the northwest. It is an unusually heart-felt story succeeds in suggesting the inherent dignity that can be found in even the simplest characters that populate our world.

So all in all I highly recommend THE VALIANT ONES. If you like western short stories, It is an entertaining collection of tales that is well worth finding and checking out.

PEACE

POETRY BREAK #3: "Watermelon Time"

2011-11-09T17:50:00.000-07:00

"WATERMELON TIME"

1891

by James Whitcomb Riley

(October 7, 1849 – July 22, 1916)

Old watermelon time is a-comin' round again,
   And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me,
For the way I hanker after watermelons is a sin--
   Which is the why and wherefore, as you can plainly see.

Oh! it's in the sandy soil watermelons does the best,
   And it's there they'll lay and waller in the sunshine and
       the dew
Til they wear all the green streaks clean off of their
       breast;
And you bet I ain't a-findin' any fault with them; are you?

There ain't no better thing in the vegetable line;
And they don't need much 'tendin', as every farmer
     knows;
And when their ripe and ready for to pluck from the vine,
I want to say to you they're the best fruit that grows.

It's some likes the yellow-core, and some likes the red.
And it's some says "The Little Californy" is the best;
But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head,
Is the old "Edinburg Mountain-sprout," of the west...

You don't want no pumpkins nigh your watermelon vines--
'Cause, some-way-another, they'll spile your melons,
     shore;--
I've seed 'em taste like punkins, from the core to the rinds,
   (Which may be a fact you have heard of before.)

But your melons that's raised right and 'tended to with
     care,
You can walk around amongst 'em with a parent's
     pride and joy,
And thump 'em on the heads with as fatherly a air
As if each one of them was your little girl or boy.

I joy in my heart just to hear that rippin' sound
When you split one down the back and jolt the halves
     in two,
And the friends you love the best is gethered all around--
And you says unto your sweetheart, "Oh, here's the
     core for you!"

And I like to slice 'em up in big pieces fer 'em all,
Especially the childern, and watch their high delight
As one by one the rinds with their pink notches fall,
And they holler for some more, with unquenched
     appetite.

Boys take to it natural, and I like to see 'em eat--
A slice of watermelon's like a frenchharp in their
     hands,
And when they "saw" it through their mouth such music
     can't be beat--
'Cause it's music both the spirit and the stomach
     understands.

Oh, there's more in watermelons than the purty-colored
     meat,
And the overflowin' sweetness of the water squished
     betwixt
The up'ard and the down'ard motions of a feller's teeth,
And it's the taste of ripe old age and juicy childhood
     mixed.

For I never taste a melon but my thoughts fly away
To the summertime of youth; and again I see the dawn,
And the fadin' afternoon of the long summer day,
And the dusk and dew a-fallin', and the night a-comin'
     on.

And there's the corn around us, and the lispin' leaves and
     trees,
And the stars a-peekin' down on us as still as silver
     mice,
And us boys in the watermelons on our hands and knees,
And the new-moon hangin' o'er us like a yellow-cored
     slice.

Oh! it's watermelon time is a-comin' round again,
And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me,
For the way I hanker after watermelons is a sin--
Which is the why and wherefore, as you can plainly see.

Taken from the collection

FARM RHYMES [1921]

POETRY BREAK #2: "WHEN THE MISSISSIPPI FLOWED IN INDIANA"

2011-11-06T11:41:00.003-07:00

WHEN THE MISSISSIPPI FLOWED

IN INDIANA

by Vachel Lindsay

Albie's note: Vachel Lindsay [1879-1931] was a great and undervalued American poet whose raucous, almost musical verse is totally unique in American letters. A mystical and dreamy fellow who died a suicide in 1931, Lindsay enjoyed great fame in his lifetime but is all but forgotten today. I love this poem about childhood and books, which first appeared in The Red Cross Magazine in 1919 under the title "The Cave Of Becky Thatcher." I especially like the phrase "the soul's deep Mississippi."

Hope you enjoy it, too.

"WHEN THE MISSISSIPPI FLOWED IN INDIANA"

Inscribed to Bruce Campbell, who read Tom Sawyer with me in the old home

Beneath Time's roaring cannon
Many walls fall down.
But though the guns break every stone,
Level every town: —
Within our Grandma's old front hall
Some wonders flourish yet: —
The Pavement of Verona,
Where stands young Juliet,
The roof of Blue-beard's palace,
And Kublai Khan's wild ground,
The cave of young Aladdin,
Where the jewel-flowers were found,
And the garden of old Sparta
Where little Helen played,
The grotto of Miranda
That Prospero arrayed,

And the cave, by the Mississippi,
Where Becky Thatcher strayed.

On that Indiana stairway
Gleams Cinderella's shoe.
Upon that mighty mountainside
Walks Snow-white in the dew.
Upon that grassy hillside
Trips shining Nicolette: —
That stairway of remembrance
Time's cannon will not get —
That chattering slope of glory
Our little cousins made,
That hill by the Mississippi
Where Becky Thatcher strayed.

Spring beauties on that cliff side,
Love in the air,

While the soul's deep Mississippi
Sweeps on, forever fair.
And he who enters in the cave,
Nothing shall make afraid,
The cave by the Mississippi
Where Tom and Becky strayed.

POETRY BREAK #1: "Lament of the Frontier Guard"

2011-11-05T15:47:00.003-07:00

Lament of the Frontier Guard
by Ezra Pound

[translated from the Chinese of 'Rihaku,' actually Li Bai (Chinese: 李白, Lǐ Bái or Lǐ Bó; lived 701 – 762)]

Albie's note: I have a real love/hate thing for the American poet, critic, editor, and all-around genius Ezra Pound, [1885-1972] the Idaho native who is often considered the father of modernist verse. On one hand, he was a real nut-job... an expatriated and arrogant "tortured artist" type who ended up a senile recluse in Italy muttering anti-Semitic conspiracy theories.

On the other, more interesting, hand, he was a true literary genius who left a body of striking and powerful poetry I always seem to "re-discover" at various stages of my life. A good Pound poem is completely unique and rewarding, and the following example, from his classic 1915 volume Cathay, is no exception. Hope you enjoy this great poem about, among other things, the eternal perplexity of war.

Lament of the Frontier Guard

By the North Gate, the wind blows full of sand,
Lonely from the beginning of time until now!
Trees fall, the grass goes yellow with autumn.
I climb the towers and towers
to watch out the barbarous land:
Desolate castle, the sky, the wide desert.
There is no wall left to this village.
Bones white with a thousand frosts,
High heaps, covered with trees and grass;
Who brought this to pass?
Who has brought the flaming imperial anger?
Who has brought the army with drums and with kettle-drums?
Barbarous kings.

A gracious spring, turned to blood-ravenous autumn,
A turmoil of wars; men, spread over the middle kingdom,
Three hundred and sixty thousand,
And sorrow, sorrow like rain.
Sorrow to go, and sorrow, sorrow returning,
Desolate, desolate fields,
And no children of warfare upon them,
No longer the men for offence and defence.
Ah, how shall you know the dreary sorrow at the North Gate,
With Rihoku's name forgotten,
And we guardsmen fed to the tigers.

By Rihaku

CHARLES SPURGEON takes on "Christian War-Mongers"... good article by Laurence Vance

2011-11-05T14:39:00.000-07:00

Charles Spurgeon

on Christian War Fever

by Laurence M. Vance

We know all too well about Christian war fever — that sickening blind worship of the state that has elevated our Recent and Current Presidents to Messiah status and seeks to justify his immoral, unscriptural, unconstitutional war in Iraq by incessantly repeating the mantras "obey the powers that be" and "God is a God of war." But who is Charles Spurgeon and why should we care what he said about war?

Charles Haddon Spurgeon (1834—1892) was an English Baptist minister who served as pastor of the Metropolitan Tabernacle in London from 1861 until his death. But Spurgeon was no ordinary minister. He was a pastor, a preacher, a teacher, an author, an editor, and the overseer of a pastor's college, a Christian literature society, and an orphanage. He is still widely revered today among Baptists (and others as well) as one of the greatest Baptist ministers in history.

Spurgeon preached his first sermon as a teenager and, in 1854, was called to the pastorate of the historic New Park Street Church, Southwark, London. During his thirty-eight-year tenure, the church increased from 232 to over 5,000. During the remodeling of the Park Street chapel to house the growing congregation, Spurgeon preached at the 5,000-seat Exeter Hall, a public auditorium. But because the remodeled chapel was still too small to accommodate the crowds, the church began construction of the Metropolitan Tabernacle, which sat 5,500 and had standing room for 500 more. In the interim, Spurgeon preached to thousands at the Surrey Gardens Music Hall. He was truly one of the most popular preachers in history. When he died in 1892, 60,000 people filed past his casket in the Tabernacle.

Spurgeon lives today through his sermons. From 1855 until his death, his Sunday morning sermons were published weekly. By 1865, Spurgeon's sermons were selling 25,000 copies every week. They would eventually be translated into more than twenty languages. The sermons were then collected in one volume and reissued at the end of each year in book form. After Spurgeon's death, the series continued until 1917 using his Sunday evening sermons. The six volumes of the New Park Street Pulpit (1855—1860) and the fifty-seven volumes of the Metropolitan Tabernacle Pulpit (1861—1917) contain 3,561 sermons, 25 million words, and fill 41,500 pages. Many of these volumes are available online, and most are in print.

Unlike some Baptist preachers today who shamelessly serve as spokesmen or apologists for Bush and his "splendid little war" in Iraq, Spurgeon was not the least bit excited about war and war fever.

Spurgeon on War

Spurgeon's comments on war can be found in his sermons on a variety of topics. He rarely preached a sermon that was specifically about war. His observations about war are overwhelmingly negative:

Long have I held that war is an enormous crime; long have I regarded all battles as but murder on a large scale. ("India's Ills and England's Sorrows," September 6, 1857, Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens).

So combustible are the materials of which this great world is made, that I am ever apprehensive of war. I do not account it wonderful that one nation should strive against another, I account if far more wonderful that they are not all at arms. Whence come wars and fightings? Come they not from your lusts? Considering how much lust there is in the world, we might well conceive that there would be more war than we see. Sin is the mother of wars; and remembering how plentiful sin is, we need not marvel if it brings forth multitudes of them. We may look for them. If the coming of Christ be indeed drawing nigh, then we must expect wars and rumors of wars through all the nations of the earth. ("The God of Peace," November 4, 1855, New Park Street Chapel).

There is yet one more point which I must mention here in which the gospel is the best help to man. We must remember to-day, that there are districts of the earth where the ground is yet red with blood. There are sad portions of our globe that as yet must have the name of Aceldama, the field of gore, there are spots where the horse-hoof is splashed with blood; where the very carcasses of men are the food of ravens and of jackalls, the mounds of Balaclava are as yet scarcely green, and the spots where rest the relics of our own murdered sisters and brothers are not covered with the memorial stone. War has ravaged whole districts; even in these late times the dogs of war are not yet muzzled. Oh! what shall we do to put an end to war? Mars, where is the chain that shall bind thee like Prometheus, to the rock? How shall we imprison thee for ever, thou cruel Moloch; how shall we for ever chain thee? Behold here is the great chain, that which one day is to bind the great serpent; it has the blood-red links of love. The gospel of Jesus Christ the crucified one, shall yet hush the clarion of war, and break the battle-bow in sunder. ("The Cry of the Heathen," April 25, 1858, Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens).

It is astonishing how distance blunts the keen edge of anything that is disagreeable. War is at all times a most fearful scourge. The thought of slain bodies and of murdered men must always harrow up the soul; but because we hear of these things in the distance, there are few Englishmen who can truly enter into their horrors. If we should hear the booming of cannon on the deep which girdles this island; if we should see at our doors the marks of carnage and bloodshed; then should we more thoroughly appreciate what war means. But distance takes away the horror, and we therefore speak of war with too much levity, and even read of it with an interest not sufficiently linked with pain. ("A Present Religion," May 30, 1858, Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens).

Better far for us to have famine than war. From all civil war and all the desperate wickedness which it involves, good Lord deliver us; and if thou smitest us as thou hast done, it is better to fall into the hand of God than into the hand of man. ("Christian Sympathy," November 9, 1862, Metropolitan Tabernacle).

Oh! that God would put an end in the world to all wars between nations, as well as all strifes between individuals. ("The Fruits of Grace," January 21, 1872, Metropolitan Tabernacle).

Spurgeon on Peace

Like Thomas Jefferson, Spurgeon did not just speak about the evils of war without also relating the blessings of peace:

He is the God of peace, for he is the restorer of it; though wars have broken out through sin. He is the preserver of peace. Whenever I see peace in the world, I ascribe it to God, and if it is continued, I shall always believe it is because God interferes to prevent war. ("The God of Peace," November 4, 1855, New Park Street Chapel).

Have you not noticed how magnificently peace winneth its reprisals at the hand of war? Look through this country. Methinks if the angel of peace should go with us, as we journey through it, and stop at the various ancient towns where there are dismantled castles, and high mounds from which every vestige of a building has long been swept, the angel would look us in the face, and say, "I have done all this: war scattered my peaceful subjects, burned down my cottages, ravaged my temples, and laid my mansions with the dust. But I have attacked war in his own strongholds and I have routed him. Walk through his halls. Can you hear now the tramp of the warrior? Where now the sound of the clarion and the drum?" The sheep is feeding from the cannon's mouth, and the bird builds his nest where once the warrior did hang his helmet. As rare curiosities we dig up the swords and spears of our forefathers, and little do we reck that in this we are doing tribute to peace. For peace is the conqueror. It hath been a long duel, and much blood hath been shed, but peace hath been the victor. War, after all, has but spasmodic triumphs; and again it sinks — it dies, but peace ever reigneth. If she be driven from one part of the earth, yet she dwelleth in another; and while war, with busy hand, is piling up here a wall, and there a rampart, and there a tower, peace with her gentle finger, is covering over the castle with the mees and the ivy, and eating the stone from the top, and letting it lie level with the earth. . . . I think this is a fine thought for the lover of peace; and who among us is not? Who among us ought not to be? Is not the gospel all peace? ("The Desolations of the Lord, the Consolation of His Saints," April 28, 1858, Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens, on behalf of the Baptist Missionary Society).

Spurgeon on Imperialism in the Name of Christianity

Imperialism is bad enough, but it is even worse when it is done in the name of Christianity. Unlike Christian pragmatists today who think that U.S. wars and interventions will be a boon to Christianity, Spurgeon was not deceived:

The church, we affirm, can neither be preserved nor can its interests be promoted by human armies. We have all thought otherwise in our time, and have foolishly said when a fresh territory was annexed to our empire, "Ah! what a providence that England has annexed Oude," — or taken to itself some other territory — "Now a door is opened for the Gospel. A Christian power will necessarily encourage Christianity, and seeing that a Christian power is at the head of the Government, it will be likely that the natives will be induced to search into the authenticity of our revelation, and so great results will follow. Who can tell but that, at the point of the British bayonet, the Gospel will be carried, and that, by the edge of the true sword of valiant men, Christ's Gospel will be proclaimed?" I have said so myself; and now I know I am a fool for my pains, and that Christ's church hath been also miserably befooled; for this I will assert, and prove too, that the progress of the arms of a Christian nation is not the progress of Christianity, and that the spread of our empire, so far from being advantageous to the Gospel, I will hold, and this day proclaim, hath been hostile to it.

But I have another string to my bow, I believe that the help of Government would have been far worse than its opposition, I do regret that the [East India] Company sometimes discourages missionary enterprise; but I believe that, had they encouraged it, it would have been far worse still, for their encouragement would have been the greatest hindrance we could receive. If I had to-morrow to go to India to preach the Gospel, I should pray to God, if such a thing could be, that he would give me a black face and make me like a Hindoo; for otherwise I should feel that when I preached I should be regarded as one of the lords — one of the oppressors it may sometime be added — and I should not expect my congregation to listen to me as a man speaking to men, a brother to brother, a Christian full of love, but they would hear me, and only cavil at me, because even my white face would give me some appearance of superiority. Why in England, our missionaries and our clergymen have assumed a kind of superiority and dignity over the people; they have called themselves clergy, and the people laity; and the result has been that they have weakened their influence. I have thought it right to come amongst my fellow men, and be a man amongst men, just one of themselves, their equal and their friend; and they have rallied around me, and not refused to love me. And I should not expect to be successful in preaching the gospel, unless I might stand and feel that I am a brother, bone of their bone, and flesh of their flesh. If I cannot stand before them thus, I cannot get at their hearts. Send me, then, to India as one of the dominant ruling race, and you give me a work I cannot accomplish when you tell me to evangelise its inhabitants. In that day when John Williams fell in Erromanga, ye wept, but it was a more hopeful day for Erromanga than the day when our missionaries in India first landed there. I had rather go to preach to the greatest savages that live, than I would go to preach in the place that is under British rule. Not for the fault of Britain, but simply because I, as a Briton, would be looked upon as one of the superiors, one of the lords, and that would take away much of my power to do good. Now, will you just cast your eye upon the wide world? Did you ever hear of a nation under British rule being converted to God? Mr. Moffat and our great friend Dr. Livingstone have been laboring in Africa with great success, and many have been converted. Did you ever hear of Kaffir tribes protected by England, ever being converted? It is only a people that have been left to themselves, and preached to by men as men, that have been brought to God. For my part, I conceive, that when an enterprise begins in martyrdom, it is none the less likely to succeed, but when conquerors begin to preach the gospel to those they have conquered, it will not succeed, God will teach us that it is not by might All swords that have ever flashed from scabbards have not aided Christ a single grain. Mahommedans' religion might be sustained by scimitars, but Christians' religion must be sustained by love. The great crime of war can never promote the religion of peace. The battle, and the garment rolled in blood, are not a fitting prelude to "peace on earth, goodwill to men." And I do firmly hold, that the slaughter of men, that bayonets, and swords, and guns, have never yet been, and never can be, promoters of the gospel. The gospel will proceed without them, but never through them. "Not by might." Now don't be fooled again, if you hear of the English conquering in China, don't go down on your knees and thank God for it, and say it's such a heavenly thing for the spread of the gospel — it just is not. Experience teaches you that, and if you look upon the map you will find I have stated only the truth, that where our arms have been victorious, the gospel has been hindered rather than not; so that where South Sea Islanders have bowed their knees and cast their idols to the bats, British Hindoos have kept their idols, and where Bechuanas and Bushmen have turned unto the Lord, British Affairs have not been converted, not perhaps because they were British, but because the very fact of the missionary being a Briton, put him above them, and weakened their influence. Hush thy trump, O war; put away thy gaudy trappings and thy bloodstained drapery, if thou thinkest that the cannon with the cross upon it is really sanctified, and if thou imaginest that thy banner hath become holy, thou dreamest of a lie. God wanteth not thee to help his cause. "It is not by armies, nor by power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord." ("Independence of Christianity," August 31, 1857, Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens).

While, however, we shall anxiously watch the contest, it will be quite as well if we mingle in it ourselves. Not that this nation of England should touch it; God forbid. If tyrants fight, let them fight; let free men stand aloof. Why should England have aught to do with all the coming battles? As God has cut us off from Europe by a boisterous sea, so let us be kept apart from all the broils and turmoils into which tyrants and their slaves may fall. ("War! War! War!" May 1, 1859, Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens).

Spurgeon on Christianity and War

If there is anyone who should be opposed to strife and bloodshed it is the man that names the name of Christ. Spurgeon considered the spirit of war to be absolutely foreign to the spirit of Christianity:

The Church of Christ is continually represented under the figure of an army; yet its Captain is the Prince of Peace; its object is the establishment of peace, and its soldiers are men of a peaceful disposition. The spirit of war is at the extremely opposite point to the spirit of the gospel. ("The Vanguard and Rereward of the Church," December 26, 1858, Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens).

Far be it from us to lay the blood of men at God's door. Let us not for one moment be guilty of any thought that the sin and the iniquity which have brought war into the world is of God. ("The Desolations of the Lord, the Consolation of His Saints," April 28, 1858, Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens, on behalf of the Baptist Missionary Society).

What saves us from war at this moment? What influence is it that is always contrary to war, and always cries for peace? Why, it is the Christian element among us which counts anything better than bloodshed! ("Jesus — ‘All Blessing and All Blest'," February 1, 1891, Metropolitan Tabernacle).

The Lord's battles, what are they? Not the garment rolled in blood, not the noise, and smoke, and din of human slaughter. These may be the devil's battles, if you please, but not the Lord's. They may be days of God's vengeance but in their strife the servant of Jesus may not mingle. We stand aloof. Our kingdom is not of this world; else would God's servants fight with sword and spear. Ours is a spiritual kingdom, and the weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but spiritual, and mighty through God, to the pulling down of strongholds. ("War! War! War!" May 1, 1859, Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens).

War is to our minds the most difficult thing to sanctify to God. The genius of the Christian religion is altogether contrary to everything like strife of any kind, much more to the deadly clash of arms. . . . Now I say again, I am no apologist for war, from my soul I loathe it, and I do not understand the position of a Christian man as a warrior, but still I greatly rejoice that there are to be found at this present day in the ranks many of those who fear God and adorn the doctrine of God their Saviour. ("A Peal of Bells," July 7, 1861, Metropolitan Tabernacle).

If men receive Christ, there will be no more oppression: the true Christian does to others as he would that they should do to him, and there is no more contention of classes, nor grinding of the faces of the poor. Slavery must go down where Christianity rules, and mark you, if Romanism be once destroyed, and pure Christianity shall govern all nations, war itself must come to an end; for if there be anything which this book denounces and counts the hugest of all crimes, it is the crime of war. Put up thy sword into thy sheath, for hath not he said, "Thou shalt not kill," and he meant not that it was a sin to kill one but a glory to kill a million, but he meant that bloodshed on the smallest or largest scale was sinful. Let Christ govern, and men shall break the bow and cut the spear in sunder, and burn the chariot in the fire. It is joy to all nations that Christ is born, the Prince of Peace, the King who rules in righteousness. ("Joy Born at Bethlehem," December 24, 1871, Metropolitan Tabernacle).

Spurgeon on True Christian Warfare

As I have previously pointed out, there is no denying the fact that the Bible likens a Christian to a soldier. But as Spurgeon points out, the Christian's true warfare is a spiritual one:

First of all, note that this crusade, this sacred, holy war of which I speak, is not with men, but with Satan and with error. "We wrestle not with flesh and blood." Christian men are not at war with any man that walks the earth. We are at war with infidelity, but the persons of infidels we love and pray for; we are at warfare with any heresy, but we have no enmity against heretics; we are opposed to, and cry war to the knife with everything that opposes God and his truth: but towards every man we would still endeavour to carry out the holy maxim, "Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you." The Christian soldier hath no gun and no sword, for he fighteth not with men. It is with "spiritual wickedness in high places" that he fights, and with other principalities and powers than with those that sit on thrones and hold sceptres in their hands. I have marked, however, that some Christian men — and it is a feeling to which all of us are prone — are very apt to make Christ's war a war of flesh and blood, instead of a war with wrong and spiritual wickedness. Have you never noticed in religious controversies how men will fall foul of each other, and make personal remarks and abuse each other? What is that but forgetting what Christ's war is? We are not fighting against men; we are fighting for men rather than against them. We are fighting for God and his truth against error and against sin; but not against men. Woe, woe, to the Christian who forgets this sacred canon of warfare. Touch not the persons of men, but smite their sin with a stout heart and with strong arm. Slay both the little ones and the great; let nothing be spared that is against God and his truth; but we have no war with the persons of poor mistaken men. ("The War of Truth," January 11, 1857, Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens).

But now let us observe that the warfare which the Christian carries on, may be said for his encouragement, to be a most righteous warfare. In every other conflict in which men have engaged, there have been two opinions, some have said the war was right, and some have said it was wrong; but in regard to the sacred war in which all believers have been engaged, there has been only one opinion among right-minded men. When the ancient priest stirred up the Crusaders to the fight, he made them shout Deus vult — God wills it. And we may far more truly say the same. A war against falsehood, a war against sin, is God's war; it is a war which commends itself to every Christian man, seeing he is quite certain that he has the seal of God's approval when he goes to wage war against God's enemies. Beloved, we have no doubt whatever, when we lift up our voices like a trumpet against sin, that our warfare is justified by the eternal laws of justice. Would to God that every war had so just and true an excuse as the war which God wages with Amalek — with sin in the world! ("The War of Truth," January 11, 1857, Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens).

Spurgeon on Christian War Fever

Spurgeon's remarks about war can be found not only in his sermons, but also in the monthly magazine he edited, The Sword and the Trowel. In an article from April of 1878, "Periodical War Madness," Spurgeon issued his most scathing denunciation of Christian war fever:

A friend who was some long time ago prostrated by African fever assures us that he still feels it once a year. The enemy was repulsed in its first assault, but it annually resumes the attack, and will probably do so as long as our friend survives. This curious phenomenon has its parallel in the moral world, for certain evils may be subdued and apparently driven out of a man, and yet they return with great fury and resume their former sway. The like is true of races and nations. At intervals the world goes mad, and mad in the very same direction in which it had confessed its former insanity, and resolved never to rave again. England, at set seasons, runs wild with the war lunacy, foams at the mouth, bellows out "Rule Britannia," shows her teeth, and in general behaves herself like a mad creature: then her doctors bleed her, and put her through a course of depletion until she comes to her senses, settles down to her cotton-spinning and shop-keeping, and wonders what could have ailed her. A very few months ago it would have been difficult to discover an apologist for the Crimean war, and yet in this year of grace 1878 we find ourselves surrounded by a furious crowd whose intemperate language renders it almost a miracle that peace yet continues. If they do not desire war, they are mere bullies; but if they do desire it, they certainly go the right way to bring it about.

One stands amazed at the singular change which has come over the populace, who, if they are faithfully represented by their journals, have learned nothing by experience, but long to throat their burned hand again into the fire. The mistakes of former days should minister to the wisdom of the present generation, for history is a nation's education; it is, therefore, to the last degree, unfortunate when the people relapse into their acknowledged errors, and repeat the blunders of their sires. If our country has been fairly depicted by the advocates for war, its condition is disappointing to the believer in progress, and alarming to the patriot who gazes into the future. We are still pugnacious, still believers in brute force, still ready to shed blood, still able to contemplate ravaged lands and murdered thousands without horror, still eager to test our ability to kill our fellow men. We are persuaded that a large portion of our fellow citizens are clear of this charge, but the noisier, if not the more numerous party, clamour for a warlike policy as loudly as if it involved no slaughter, and were rather a boon to mankind than an unmitigated curse. A mysterious argument, founded upon the protection of certain mythical "British interests" is set up as an excuse, but the fact is that the national bull-dog wants to fix his teeth into somebody's leg, and growls because he does not quite see how to do it. The fighting instinct is asking to be gratified, and waxes violent because it is denied indulgence.
It is cause for gratitude that the cool heads among us are now sufficiently numerous to act as a check upon the more passionate. We are not now all mad at the same time, nor are quite so many bitten by the ban-dog. When last our people barked at the Russian bear, Messrs. Cobden and Bright and a small band of sensible men entered a protest which only enraged the fighting party; but now, thank God, the advocates of peace are heard, and even though abused, their power is felt. They may be unpopular, but they are certainly influential; their opponents have to stand upon the defensive, and exhibit some show of apologetic argument, whereas aforetime they laughed the peace-man to scorn as un-English, fanatical, and idiotic. Though our people have not advanced as we could desire, yet there has been progress, and that of a solid kind. Statesmen are now found who forego considerations of party to obey the higher dictates of humanity; ministers of the gospel now more frequently denounce the crime of carnage and pray for peace and among the masses there are juster ideas of the lamentable results of war. We are bound to be thankful even for small mercies, and on that ground we rejoice in the faintest sign of advance towards truthful estimates of bloodshed; but we are sorry to temper our rejoicing with a large measure of regret that our fellow countrymen, ay, and fellow Christians are still so far from being educated upon this most important subject. Many who did run well apparently, and were theoretical lovers of peace, lost their heads in the general excitement and went over to the enemy; some of them, fearful lest English prestige, alias British swagger, should suffer; others afraid that Russia, by capturing Constantinople, would block our road to India; and a third class, carried away by unreasoning sympathy with the dominant feeling around them. Times of feverish excitement test our attachment to great principles, and are probably intended by providence to act as a gauge as to their real growth; viewing the past few months in that light, there has been cause for congratulation, but greater reason for regret.

What is the cause of these periodical outbreaks of passion? Why does a peaceful nation bluster and threaten for a few months, and even commence fighting, when in a short time it sighs for peace, and illuminates its streets as soon as peace is proclaimed? The immediate causes differ, but the abiding reason is the same — man is fallen, and belongs to a race of which infallible revelation declares "their feet are swift to shed blood; destruction and misery are in their ways, and the way of peace they have not known." Wars and fightings arise from the inward lusts of the corrupt heart, and so long as human nature is unrenewed, battles and sieges, wars and rumours of wars will make up the history of nations. Civilized man is the same creature as the savage; he is washed and clothed, but intrinsically he is the same being. As beneath the Russian's skin you find the Tartar, so the Englishman is the savage Briton, or plundering Saxon, wearing broadcloth made from the wool of the sheep, but with a wild fierce heart within his breast. A prizefight a few years ago excited universal interest, and would do so again if it exhibited gameness and pluck, endurance and mettle. As a race we have these qualities and admire them, and it is idle to deny that if we were unrestrained by education and unrenewed by grace, there is not a man among us but would delight to see, or at least to read of, a fair stand-up fight, whether between fighting men or fighting cocks. We are not cruel, and therefore the brutal contests of Roman gladiators, or the disgusting scenes of Spanish bull-fights, would never be tolerated among us; but we are a fighting nation, and are never better pleased than when we see an exhibition of spirit and courage. Doubtless some good runs side by side with this characteristic of our countrymen, and we are far from wishing to depreciate bravery and valour, but at the same time this is one of the difficulties which the peace advocate must not fail to recognize. A tamer people might more readily adopt our tenets, not from conviction, but from force of circumstances; we find a warrior race slow to learn the doctrine of "peace on earth, good will toward men"; nor may this discourage us, for such a race is worth instructing, and when thoroughly indoctrinated will be mighty to spread abroad the glorious truth. Rome covets England because she knows it to be the centre and pivot of the world, and we covet it also for the self-same reason: let Great Britain once declare from her heart that her empire is peace, and the whole earth shall be in a fair way to sit still and be at rest. We are far from this consummation at present, nor need we wonder when we remember the hearts of men and the passions which rage therein, and especially when we note the peculiarly warlike constituents of which our nation is composed. Observe the bold dash of the Irish, the stern valour of the Scotch, the fierce fire of the Welsh, and the dogged resolution of the English, and you see before you stormy elements ready at any time to brew a tempest.

What, then, is to be done? Shall we unite with the clamorous patriots of the hour and sacrifice peace to political selfishness? Or shall we in silence maintain our own views, and despair of their ever being received by our own countrymen? There is no need to take either course: let us believe in our principles, and wait till the present mania comes to an end. We would persuade all lovers of peace to labour perseveringly to spread the spirit of love and gentleness, which is indeed the spirit of Christ, and to give a practical bearing to what else may become mere theory. The fight-spirit must be battled with in all its forms, and the genius of gentleness must be cultivated. Cruelty to animals, the lust for destroying living things, the desire for revenge, the indulgence of anger — all these we must war against by manifesting and inculcating pity, compassion, forgiveness, kindness, and goodness in the fear of the Lord. Children must be trained with meekness and not with passion, and our dealings with our fellow-men must manifest our readiness to suffer wrong rather than to inflict it upon others. Nor is this all: the truth as to war must be more and more insisted on: the loss of time, labour, treasure, and life must be shown, and the satanic crimes to which it leads must be laid bare. It is the sum of all villainies, and ought to be stripped of its flaunting colours, and to have its bloody horrors revealed; its music should be hushed, that men may hear the moans and groans, the cries and shrieks of dying men and ravished women. War brings out the devil in man, wakes up the hellish legion within his fallen nature, and binds his better faculties hand and foot. Its natural tendency is to hurl nations back into barbarism, and retard the growth of everything good and holy. When undertaken from a dire necessity, as the last resource of an oppressed people, it may become heroic, and its after results may compensate for its immediate evils; but war wantonly undertaken, for self-interest, ambition, or wounded pride is evil, only evil, and that continually. It ought not to be smiled upon as a brilliant spectacle, nor talked of with a light heart; it is a fitter theme for tears and intercessions. To see a soldier a Christian is a joy; to see a Christian a soldier is another matter. We may not judge another man, but we may discourage thoughtless inclinations in the young and ignorant. A sweeping condemnation would arouse antagonism, and possibly provoke the very spirit we world allay; while quiet and holy influence may sober and ultimately overcome misdirected tendencies. Many of our bravest soldiers are on the side of peace, and in the present crisis have spoken out more boldly on the right side than we might reasonably have expected of them. This must be duly acknowledged and taken into account, and we must speak accordingly. Rash advocates mar the cause they love, and this also is not to be wondered at, since a portion of the same fighting nature is in them also, and leads them to be furious for peace, and warlike on behalf of love. The temptation to fight Christ's battles with the devil's weapons comes upon us all at times, and it is not marvellous that men speak of "fighting Quakers," and "bigots for liberality." We must guard our own spirits, and not lend ourselves to the service of strife by bitter contentions for peace; this, we fear, has not always been remembered, and the consequences have been more lamentable than would at first sight appear: opponents have been needlessly created, and prejudices have been foolishly confirmed. Let us profit by all the mistakes of zealots, and at the same lime let us not become so extremely prudent as to lose all earnestness. The cause is a good one, let us urge it onward with blended vigour and discretion.

Seeing that the war-spirit is not slain, and only at the best wounded, we must in quiet times industriously inculcate the doctrines of peace. The work begun must be deepened and made more real, and where nothing has been taught we must begin in real earnest. It is wise to keep the evil spirit down when it is down. We had better shear its locks while it sleeps, for if once the giant awakes it snaps all arguments as Samson broke the new ropes. As a drunkard should be reasoned with in his sober intervals, and not when he is in liquor, so must our nation be instructed in peace when it's fit of passion is over, and not when it is enraged. Have we well and wisely used the period since the last great war? Perhaps not; and it may be that the late ebullition has come to warn us, lest we beguile ourselves into the false notion that a millennium has commenced, and dream that men are about to beat their spears into pruning-hooks. Peace teaching, which is but another name for practical gospel teaching, must be incessant, line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little. "Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself" must resound from our pulpits, and be practised in our homes. "Let us love one another, for love is of God," must be more in our hearts and lives. Above all we must evangelize the masses, carry the truth of the loving God to their homes, preach Jesus and his dying love in their streets, and gather men to his fold. All soul-saving work is a blow at the war-spirit. Make a man a Christian, and he becomes a lover of his race; instruct him, and he becomes ashamed of blows and battles; sanctify him, and he sweetens into an embodiment of love. May the Holy Ghost do such work on all sides among our countrymen, and we shall see their outbursts of rage become less frequent and less violent, for there will be a strong counteracting influence to keep down the evil, and to restrain it when in a measure it breaks loose.

Charles Spurgeon was not alone, for as I have pointed out elsewhere, Baptist ministers in America during the nineteenth century held the same opinions about Christianity and war. Christian agitation or apology for war is an aberration from the principles of Christianity, the folly of which is exceeded only by its appalling misuse of Scripture.

Modern conservative, fundamentalist, and evangelical Christians, all of whom might claim him as one of their own, have much to learn from Spurgeon, not only for his example of an uncompromising and successful Christian minister, but also for his consistent opposition to war and Christian war fever.

Laurence M. Vance is a freelance writer and an adjunct instructor in accounting and economics at Pensacola Junior College in Pensacola, FL. His new book is Christianity and War and Other Essays Against the Warfare State.

Read his stuff. If you can recieve it, t'll give you MUCH to think on.

COOL STUFF FROM LIBRARY BOOKS, Entry #10... "Billy Sunday, UNSHACKLED!"

2011-10-20T18:37:00.006-07:00

COOL STUFF FROM LIBRARY BOOKS, Entry #10
"Billy Sunday, UNSHACKLED!"

From: "THE PACIFIC GARDEN MISSION
A Doorway to Heaven"
By Carl F. H. Henry
Copyright @ 1942

CHAPTER SIX

LOADING THE BASES ON THE SAWDUST TRAIL

Billy Sunday never saw his father who walked thirty miles to enlist in the Civil War and died
with scores of other Iowa infantrymen after fording a partly frozen river. From the front lines he
had written the expectant mother, “If it is a boy, name him William Ashley.” Mother and
children lived in the Ames, Iowa, log cabin for years before they managed to move into a frame
house. Perhaps that accounted for Billy Sunday’s illness the first three years of his life, which an
itinerant doctor cured with a syrup stewed from wild roots.

The lad had an intense love for his grandmother. When she died, the family did not tell Billy for
two days. Heartbroken, he mourned at the casket, refusing to be moved. The second day after the
funeral Billy vanished; no searching party could locate him. Finally his pet dog picked the scent
through the snow, and, leading the posse to the cemetery, stopped where the lad lay thrown
across the grave, chill-bitten by a cold November wind, and sobbing so that the friends despaired
of his ever stopping. For weeks his life was at low ebb, but the healing tide finally came.

The wolf of poverty hovered constantly at the log cabin door, so that Sunday’s mother finally
decided to put her two boys in a nearby soldiers’ orphanage. She prayed and wept while the boys
slept on the train. When Billy said “goodbye” he never dreamed that for the last thirty years of
his mother’s life, which ended June 25, 1918, he would have the joy of providing a really decent
home for her. That last June morning when he called her to breakfast she had gone on to heaven
without stopping to kiss her boy “goodbye.”

Sunday’s first job after leaving the orphanage in his mid-teens was mopping a hotel which he
also served as barker, orating its advantages to incoming train arrivals. Three months of that was
enough. Then, learning that Iowa’s lieutenant governor needed a boy, he polished his shoes, had
his hair trimmed, and convinced Colonel John Scott’s wife that he, Billy Sunday, was the young
man qualified for the job.

Colonel and Mrs. Scott sent him to high school, where, after two years he became school janitor,
meanwhile continuing his odd jobs for the lieutenant governor.

His baseball career began with a local team in Marshall-town, Iowa, for which Sunday played
left field. It so happened that Pop Anson, captain of Chicago’s famous National league White
Sox (now the Cubs), spent his winters in Marshalltown.

When the topic turned to baseball, which was Anson’s usual diet, he found the townspeople
talking about Billy Sunday’s speed on the diamond and his ability to nab fly balls that nobody
else would even attempt catching.

Considering that Sunday could run three hundred yards in thirty-four seconds, it was no surprise
that he caught flies like some folks catch a cold. Cap Anson’s aunt, who lived in Marshalltown,
urged the sportsman to take Billy to Chicago for a trial. In the spring, accordingly, a telegram
summoned young Sunday for a Windy City tryout. Buying a new green suit for six dollars and
borrowing money for the trip, Billy met the captain.

On Sunday’s first day on the diamond, Anson set the lad to a foot race against Fred Pfeffer, crack
runner for the Chicago team. Sunday had no running shoes, so ran barefoot. He not only won the
race by fifteen feet, but won his way into the hearts of the players. Cap Anson tossed him a
twenty-dollar gold piece.

During his first few seasons, Sunday succeeded in batting so poorly that the team considered it a
total mistake when he actually did connect. He struck out the first thirteen times at the plate.
Thereafter he began to find his stride.

Sunday broke into professional baseball when its players were rough, profane and hard-drinking
fighters. He did not need much encouragement for profanity himself, nor was he adverse to wine
and beer. During the winter months he attended Northwestern University; during the summer he
whacked the horsehide. He proved a splendid base-runner and a brilliant fielder. Seldom faring
exceptionally in the batter’s box against professional pitchers, he nevertheless in one game got a
home run and a single against an outstanding twirler. He was at his best when he stole four bases
while Connie Mack of the Philadelphia Athletics was catching.

Sunday’s later pulpit pre-eminence did not spin a halo about his previous athletic success; rather
his evangelistic success gained added glow from the days on the diamond, for he was known to
sports fans of his generation as the speediest base-runner and most daring base-stealer in
baseball. In his earlier days he took too many chances, and his judgment was not always sound.
But his control over the ball enabled him to throw straight and swiftly, and he was so fast on his
feet that more than one top-rate player threw wild in the effort to head him off. He could stretch
ordinary one-base hits into doubles without trouble to anyone but the opposing team, and he was
the first man to run the circuit of bases in fourteen seconds.

In 1886, when Sunday had been three years on the Chicago nine, he walked down State Street
one Sunday afternoon with some of the biggest names in baseball. (In those days they played no
Sunday games, for there would have been no crowds). The party entered a saloon, had a round of
drinks, then walked to the vacant lot at State and Van Buren Streets. Whenever Billy Sunday
passed that lot in later years, even when Siegel & Cooper’s big department store had been
erected over it, he took off his hat, bowed his head and thanked God for saving him. Forty years
after Sunday’s decision, a policeman saw him stop and close his eyes in the midst of a crowd. He
offered to call a wagon if the man felt sick. Billy Sunday introduced himself and held a one-man
street meeting.

When Sunday and his baseball associates reached State and Van Buren on that memorable day,
some men and women in a horse-drawn wagon were playing horns, flutes and slide trombones,
and were singing hymns he had heard in Sunday school and which his mother used to sing- in the
Iowa log cabin. The baseball crowd sat on the curbstone and listened. Suddenly a winsome,
square-faced Irishman arose. That was Harry Monroe. He told how he once passed counterfeit
money for a gang of criminals and how he had been converted at Pacific Garden Mission.

“Don’t you men want to hear the story,” said Monroe, as he stepped toward the curb, “of other
men who used to be dips, yeggs, burglars, second-story workers, and who today are respectable
and have fine families? Or women who were slaves to dope and drink, or harlots who sold their
womanhood in the red light districts here, and who are now married in happy homes? Come
down to the mission tonight at 100 East Van Buren and you’ll hear stories that will stir you, even
if you’ve never been inside a church, or if you’ve wandered far away from God and your
mother’s religion.”

Billy Sunday turned to the fellows at his side and said, “Boys, I’m saying goodbye to the old
life.” Some of the men chuckled, others laughed, others were serious. Some of them paid no
attention at all.

That night at the mission Sunday was fascinated by the testimonies of men who went from the
guttermost to the uppermost. Again and again he attended and one night he went forward and
publicly professed Christ as Saviour.

The night he went forward he was not drunk, despite the story to that effect. Unfortunately,
Sunday himself gave that story credence when, in relating his conversion experience, he declared
that he “knocked over several chairs getting to the front.”

Harry Monroe had given the message and Sunday was under tremendous conviction. Mother
Clarke came back to his side and said, putting her arm around Billy, “Young man, God loves
you. Jesus died for you, and He wants you to love Him and give your heart to Him.” The ball
player could no longer resist. He swung clumsily around the chairs, walked to the front and sat
down. Harry Monroe came to his side and they knelt for prayer.

The next three nights Billy Sunday never slept a wink. He dreaded the jibes of the ball team at
ten o’clock Wednesday morning practice and during the afternoon game. He trembled when he
walked out to the field. There was Mike Kelly, one of Chicago’s outstanding stars, coming
toward him. Mike was a Catholic, and Billy expected almost anything.

“Billy,” he said, “I’ve read in the papers what you’ve done. Religion isn’t my long suit. It’s a
long time since I’ve been to mass. But I won’t knock you, and if anyone does, I’ll knock him.”
Then came the rest of the team, all of them, to pat Billy on the back and wish him the best of
luck. They were at a loss for words, too, and Sunday felt as if a millstone had dropped from his
neck.

Billy Sunday became even a better baseball player. He always insisted that taking Christ as
Saviour will make a man better at whatever he does, providing it’s a decent job.

That afternoon the Chicago team was pitted against Detroit, one of the hardest hitting squads in
the country. The Detroiters could be behind nine to nothing at the start of the ninth, and yet push
over ten runs in the final inning; they had a reputation for redeeming themselves.

This day, Chicago eked out a narrow lead right to the last inning. The Chicago twirler, John
Clarkson, one of the greatest pitchers of the day, had worked his famous “zipper” ball, with an
illusory upshoot, overtime. Two Detroit batters went down in the ninth. Billy Sunday, playing
right field, called in, “One more, John, and they’re done!”

The next batter was Charlie Bennett, Detroit catcher, who hit right-handed and nine times out of
ten sailed the horsehide deep into right center field. Sunday was playing far back, and followed
five speedy tosses, while Bennett came through with two strikes and three balls. The Chicagoans
knew that Bennett couldn’t hit a high ball close to the body, but he could set a low ball off like
dynamite. Clarkson braced himself for a bullet-ball high and inside. His foot slipped. The ball
went low. The resultant crack of ball and bat echoed through the stands.

Over in right field Billy Sunday saw it whirling through the sky, far over his head. Like a bolt of
lightning he turned. Following the approximate course, he ran so fast he forgot he could do one
hundred yards in ten seconds flat. As he ran, he prayed, “Lord, I’m on the spot, and now I’m a
Christian. If you ever help me, please do it now.”

The grandstand and bleachers were wild with excitement and thunderous shouting. To the crowd
standing along the right field wall Sunday yelled, “Get out of the way!” Through the opening he
sped, stopped, stuck his hand into the clouds with a leap. His fingers closed over the ball. As he
landed, he lost balance and fell, but jumped up with the horsehide secure in his hand.

The crowd went almost insane. Pop bottles, hats, cushions, and practically everything else went
flying into the air. Tom Johnson, later mayor of Cleveland, threw his arms around Billy and
shoved a ten dollar bill into his hand. At the clubhouse the whole team gave him a cheer, took off
his uniform and dressed him up. Then the crowd rushed in, carrying him off on its shoulders. At
the gate, brown-eyed, black-haired Helen Thompson threw her arms around him and kissed him.
She was the Mrs. Sunday-to-be.

Not many days later when the Chicago team traveled to a St. Louis series, Sunday happened into
a second-hand book store and for thirty-five cents bought his first Bible. At the end of the
season he joined the Bible class of Chicago’s Central Y. M. C. A., back in the days—as Mrs.
Sunday still puts it—“when the Y had Bibles, not billiards.”

After Sunday’s conversion in 1886, he spent three additional years with the Chicago team. The
people in the stands as well as his teammates knew that he had a working religion. On Sundays
he gave Y. M. C. A. talks, for which he was in great demand, and the sports pages all alluded to
his church activity.

An apt Bible student, he often testified, gave a brief Bible message, and then an invitation. He
developed increasing ability as a personal worker. Whenever the team traveled around the
country, Sunday was booked for meetings in local churches or with Bible clubs eager to hear his
testimony.

When he left the Chicago team, it was to spend a year each with the Pittsburgh and Philadelphia
clubs, but it was not difficult to discern that his interest in full-time Christian service was
growing.

Five years after his conversion, Sunday obtained a release from the three-year contract with
Philadelphia in order to enter some form of Christian service. No sooner done than Jim Hart of
the Cincinnati team pushed a $3,500 contract under his eyes. It was a tremendous temptation,
especially when Billy’s baseball friends told him it was the opportunity of a lifetime. After all,
players are on the diamond only seven months of the year, and Hart was including the first
month’s $500 check in advance. That night Sunday prayed, not stopping until five o’clock the
next morning. He refused Hart’s offer.

Billy’s alternative, that of going into Y. M. C. A. work as a subordinate secretary at $83.33 per
month, which sometimes proved as much as six months’ overdue, seemed a great anticlimax to
his baseball friends. To Sunday, that decisive March of 1891 was one of the greatest parting of
the ways in his life.

~ end of chapter 6 ~

***

COOL STUFF FROM LIBRARY BOOKS Entry #9: BLAZING COMBAT!

2011-10-13T18:38:00.002-07:00

COOL STUFF FROM LIBRARY BOOKS

Entry #9:

BLAZING COMBAT!

Well now... back to the good ol' Sierra Vista Public Library [Cochise County, AZ] stacks for another shot of interesting popular culture!

There it was... in the "Graphic Novels" section [mostly an enormous waste of time; save for some wonderful re-packaging of old time comics, such as the one in question today] staring out at me... from the goof folks at Fantagraphics Books:

A wonderful and complete collection of [for my money anyway] the greatest comic mag Warren Publishing ever produced: the late, great, and long-lamented BLAZING COMBAT!

To say that BLAZING COMBAT was a "war comic" is sort of like saying that Rembrant Van Rijn could draw pictures: a vast understatement.

For 4 glorious issues in 1965 and '66, Archie Goodwin [1937-1998] edited what comic-book historian Richard Arndt has assessed as, "Probably the best war comic ever published". It was done in magazine format in entirely black and white [so the B&W reproduction is not bothersome this time] and it made a valiant attempt to bring realism and literary quality to the the genre of pictorial combat fiction.

Though it only lasted 4 issues, it has long been sought by collectors for its great quality. I myself found a copy of issue #4 back in 1997 as a Bible college student in Tempe, AZ and then and there determined to read the full collection before I left this mortal coil.

Now, due to the magic of unexpected re-prints found on the stacks of local public libraries, I can honestly say I have read the whole run... and what a run it was!

If you're familiar with the four original comic books (or rather "magazines," as this title was published) then you know full well what to expect. If you never saw them then brace yourself-- you're in for a treat!

As much as i love the HAUNTED TANK and SGT. ROCK tales from my misspent youth, as well as the re-prints of the old EC '50s combat classics, the stories in BC are clearly a step above. These are unsanitized vignettes of war from stages throughout world history. It is well worth noting that the concept here [despite the 60s timeframe for publication] was never to be actually anti-war but instead to represent, as nearly as possible, the brutal and perplexing reality of war. [Don't get me wrong... I am a pretty big peacenik myself-- my Christian/Libertarian stand on war and statism is pretty much summed up by the old Anabaptist Confessions of the 16th century... or the important current writings of Laurence W. Vance.]

Perhaps I should say it this way: if HERE the stories seem to scream the adage "War Is Hell," it is only from the context that it is also a strange and inevitable re-occurrence throughout human history: an unfortunate-- and sometimes even nessessary-- reminder of man's fallen nature.

These 29 stories range in setting from ancient wars, to the American Revolution, to both World Wars and even through the Vietnam Conflict [contemporary at the time of the mag's composition.]

Almost always the tales focus on some lone combatant and his personal struggle to survive his circumstances and to somehow cling to some semblance of humanity. Some actually tell "heroic" or inspiring stories, such as the neat take on the Battle of Britain, or the cool recounting of the still-amazing career of World War I Canadian ace Billy Bishop (72 confirmed air kills.)

Other sagas show the deeper and more depresing side of war, such as the one about the WWII G.I. prying gold fillings from dead bodies in the Pacific theater, or the recurring tales conveying the terror of fresh troops walking into mad-house theatres of all-out carnage. One amazing story called "Landscape" not only shows the Vietnam War's effects on a native peasant farmer, but stands as a remarkably prescient critique of all the inherent and intrinsic problems involved in the waging of that sad and misbegotten quagmire of a war.

Editor Goodwin himself is to be given much of the credit for the milestone that is BC, since he wrote or co-wrote nearly all of the stories. [This is actually a great benefit to the collection as a whole, by the way, since the stories thus share a cohesive and fairly uniform thematic "voice."]

But still, what would it all have been without all the amazing artwork!? Severen, Frazetta, Heath, Wood... I could go on and ON! It's a who's who of graphic greatness... and each of these old masters is caught at the absolute top of their game!

Kudos MUST also be given here to the good folks at Fantagraphics Books. As usual, their reproduction is outstanding. High-quality matte paper retains the detail of the artwork (which was reproduced from the original films) and the overall effect is amazingly, jarringly professional.

All in all, I can't give this one a high enough recommendation.

NOTE: A reviewer at Amazon has actually tallied the settings for the stories as follows: "American Revolution 1, American Civil War 3, Spanish-American War 1, World War I 4, World War II 10, Korea 3, Vietnam 4, Misc. 3 (US Cavalry vs. Indians, Post-Apocalypse, Thermopylae)"

Thanks, pal.

Oh, and as the old DC comics used to always [rather ironically] say at the end:

"MAKE WAR NO MORE"

[It's a nice thought, anyway, right?]

How important is FATHERHOOD? Interesting stats...

2011-10-01T14:53:00.000-07:00

How important is FATHERHOOD?

Here are some VERY interesting stats, to say the least...

Did you know that:

•43% of U.S. children live without their father (U.S. Bureau of the Census).

•63% of youth suicides are from fatherless homes (U.S. Department of Health and Human Services and U.S. Bureau of the Census).

•90% of all homeless and runaway children are from fatherless homes (U.S. Bureau of the Census).

•85% of all children who show behavior disorders come from fatherless homes (Center for Disease Control).

•80% of rapists with anger problems come from fatherless homes (Justice & Behavior, Vol 14, p. 403-26).

•71% of pregnant teenagers lack a father (U.S. Department of Health and Human Services press release, March 26, 1999).

•71% of all high school dropouts come from fatherless homes (National Principals Association Report on the State of High Schools).

•75% of all adolescent patients in chemical abuse centers come from fatherless homes (Rainbows for All God’s Children).

•70% of youths in state-operated institutions come from fatherless homes (U.S. Dept. of Justice, Sept. 1988).

•85% of all youths in prison come from fatherless homes (Fulton Co. Georgia, Texas Department of Corrections, 1992).

Joshua 1:9

King James Version (KJV):

"Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the LORD thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest."

Great missions story: MERV ROSELL and the "4 ships!"

2011-09-23T16:58:00.005-07:00

MERV ROSELL AND THE FOUR SHIPS

Or... Ato Lakew on the Four Ships

Circa 1973

[NOTE: This article was written originally by Steve Van Nattan... AE]

Merv Rosell was a noted Bible speaker to youth and college students in the USA. He spoke to Youth For Christ gatherings and at Schroon Lake, as well as many Bible Conferences. His reception and the alleged results of his speaking were legend, so it was assumed that if he were to tour the missionfields, He would be a great asset.

Problem: Merv Rosell knew nothing about cultural adjustment. Nevertheless; some well meaning missionaries convinced Merv to visit Ethiopia while we were there as missionaries. Merv came with all his best sermons well memorized, and he gave it his best shot. He was the very picture of zeal, and he truly loved the college students and youth who gathered to hear him.

As is often the case, the students also absorbed the hubris as it oozed from all sides as missionaries and Merv himself talked of his great exploits in former days. So there was a mutual air of expectation in the Addis Ababa Church and Youth Center the evening of Merv Rosell's great super-rally. The house was packed and they were standing all the way out to the street. Many missionaries were there also. There had been much planning and prayer that this event would bear fruit in the Lord, and no one anticipated just how their prayers were about to be answered.

Merv was to speak in English, and Ato Lakew, a leader in the Word of Life churches in Ethiopia, and a fluent English speaker, was to interpret. This was a well used technique, and it had every possibility of working well since Ato Lakew was also a man of real depth in the Word of God.

After some rousing songs, Merv was introduced. He made very little small talk, but got right to his task of preaching his heart out. Merv announced,

"Tonight, I am going to talk to you about the four ships."

That was straightforward enough to Ato Lakew. He translated that at once. Then Merv gave the list of "ships"-- "Fellowship, Discipleship, Stewardship...." and there was one more I cannot remember.

Well, Ato Lakew looked cool on the outside, but inside he was doing a fast and well controlled panic. This linguistic trick of starting with "ships" and then jumping to alliterations of the state of being "........ships" was 100% impossible in Amheric, the language of Ethiopia. The language is 99% mechanical, and these tricks are virtually unknown. The crowd could even have been insulted, thinking Merv was playing a trick on them.

Ato Lakew was a rare man. He was famous with us missionaries for his mastery of, not only our language English, but he had figured out our humor and idiomatic way of thinking. He understood exactly where Merv Rosell was headed. So, Ato Lakew fully realized that it was already too late to rescue the thing. If he stopped Merv Rosell and explained the thing, Merv would get all flustered and possibly lose his train of thought. And the crowd would be partially lost due to the confusion. Furthermore; Merv had preached a number of times in Addis Ababa, and he might not have another sermon he could resort to.

In one of those very special and supreme moments of God's Grace in fast forward mode, the Holy Spirit gave Ato Lakew a sermon. Lakew had only those periods of time in which Merv was talking, but it came out great. Lakew did preach on the four ships also-- The ship Jesus was in during the storm, the ship Jesus used to preach from, the ship Jonah took to flee from God's will, and one more I forgot. What great lessons are in those events, and Lakew was given cross references along the way from his memory and the Holy Spirit's proddings.

The end of the message was a trick, for Ato Lakew had to wind down to the altar call at the same pace as Merv Rosell. God helped him, and both sermons ended with great conviction in the respective hearers. At the altar call a good number came forward to either respond to the English sermon or the Amheric sermon. Some of the missionaries who know both languages were delighted, for they got to hear two great sermons in the same evening.

Merv Rosell never knew what happened. No doubt, he counted all the responses as notches on his gun. Ato Lakew was much too humble to let Merv know the truth. And is there a moral to this story from real life? Absolutely. The Lord knew what Merv would do, and He made sure a man of fast wit and deep knowledge of the Word of God was the interpreter. God got the victory. Do you ever wonder if you can get anything right and give a testimony or teach a Sunday School class?

Next time you doubt God's power to use you, think of Ato Lakew.

Quotes from the funniest man alive!

2011-09-10T10:06:00.001-07:00

Jim Gaffigan Quotes

Jim Gaffigan's comic timing is impeccable. He knows how to tickle your funny bone. Jim Gaffigan's self deprecating humor brings out the best response from his listeners. Enjoy the unbridled humor in these Jim Gaffigan quotes.

Pie can’t compete with cake. Put candles in a cake, it’s a birthday cake. Put candles in a pie, and somebody’s drunk in the kitchen.
I come from a very big family... nine parents.
I love everything about bacon. Even the sound of bacon cooking sounds like applause!
Whenever I'm out of town for at least a week, I feel like I should write a postcard or something, but you can be a genius, you try and write a postcard you come across like a moron anyway: "This city's got big buildings. I like food. Bye."
Actually, the reason I look like this is because my father was from Sweden and my mother was Elton John.
The only advantage to wearing glasses is that you can do that dramatic removal.
But in Indiana it's not like New York where everyone's like, 'We're from New York and we're the best' or 'We're from Texas and we like things big' it's more like 'We're from Indiana and we're gonna move."
I was watching the Animal Planet. Did you know that the male seahorse has the baby? Why don't they just call that one the female?
We’re never satisfied when it comes to food. "You know what’d be good on this burger? A ham sandwich. Instead of a bun, let’s use two donuts. That way we can have it for breakfast. Look out McGriddle. Here comes the donut-ham-hamburger!"
There is the vegetarian Hot Pocket for those of us who don't want to eat meat, but would still like diarrhea.
I love how New York is so multicultural. I wish I was ethnic. I'm nothing. Because if you're Hispanic and you get angry, people are like, "He's got a Latin temper!" If you're a white guy and you get angry, people are like, "That guy's a jerk."

R.S. Beal: "Radiant In Old Age"

2011-09-10T09:59:00.004-07:00

Not many pastors serve effectively for fifty-one years in one pastorate!

Dr. Richard S. Beal was pastor of the historic First Baptist Church of Tucson, Arizona, [now sadly re-located from its mammoth facilities at 5th and 5th in the downtown Old Pueblo] from 1918-1969. Under his leadership this church grew from 200 members to more than 3,000 members. Also, twelve churches in the community are the fruits of the church's local outreach. During that busy half century, over 200 young people entered the ministry and mission fields.

Dr. Beal was a leader in the formation of the Conservative Baptist Association. He was among the pastor who originially left the old Northern Baptist Convention to form the CBA in 1947. As a boy growing up in a small AZ CBA church [Sonoita Bible Church] I would often hear him spoken of the way celebrities are spoken of today. He was a true denominational legend.

He authored several books including his annual volumes of his collected Tucson pulpit entitled Rivers in the Desert (ten volumes total with 52 sermons in each).

And get this: Dr. Beal died in 1989 at 102 years of age!! So his advice about growing old is probably well worth hearing. He and Mrs. Beal had five children who are all active in Christian work.

Radiant In Old Age

By R. S. Beal

Judging by the enthusiasm with which Paul writes concerning Timothy and his loved ones, I am constrained to feel that his mother and grandmother were radiant Christians, full of faith and devotion: "When I call to remembrance the unfeigned faith that is in thee, which dwelt first in thy grandmother Lois, and thy mother Eunice; and I am persuaded that in thee also" (2 Tim. 1:5).

While this is the only passage in the Bible containing the word "grandmother," nevertheless it stands connected with a testimony that is striking concerning the life and labors of this elderly woman. She has found the Saviour precious to her own heart and in faithfulness taught her daughter who in turn instructed her son in the things of God. It is apparent that this grandmother’s faith was bright and virile to the end of her days. Instead of the years causing a dimming of lights, hers shone even more brightly at eventide. This grandmother is an illustration of what I believe God wants in all of us as we face the advancing years.

God’s respect for old age is expressed in these beautiful words, "Hearken unto thy father that begat thee, and despise not thy mother when she is old" (Prov. 23:22). We praise God for the faithfulness of the elderly whose labors continue until this good hour. Their hearts are alive to the needs of others; they are alive to the bubbling joys of little children; they are ever ready to offer words of encouragement to our youth who would do well to take their advice and thus save themselves the experimental pain and loss of time of the trial-and-failure method.

These patriarchal saints have kept themselves abreast of the needs of this old world and have inspired all to press on in the cause of evangelism. The flame of youth has been transformed into the radiance of age just as seemed to be the case with grandmother Lois.

The Fear of Old Age

As men travel along with seemingly increasing speed on the downward slope of life’s trail, some seem to gather fears which become an awful burden. That peace of mind, the abiding rest of soul, and the measure of wisdom gleaned from the sweet, the bitter and the perplexing experiences of life are not theirs. There are fears of physical helplessness, of mental lapses, of poverty and of disease. Some have expressed to me the fear that in the end their family will not want to be burdened with them in their infirmity.

We may not have come to the place of the Apostle Paul where he said, "For I am in a strait (literally, dilemma) betwixt two, having a desire to depart, and to be with Christ; which is far better" (Phil. 1:23). Whether or not we have a desire to depart, we as Christians should have the fortitude to face old age and death with the full assurance of faith knowing that God our Father will care for us to the very end.

"But my God shall supply all your need according to His riches in glory by Christ Jesus" (Phil. 4:19), and we can praise God there is no age limit to this glorious promise. The failure is always in ourselves and not with Him who has made the promise.

Of all the seasons, I believe autumn is most beautiful. Instead of it being a time of decline, does not autumn mean golden harvest and the gathering of luscious fruit? Surely the year comes to its own in the autumn. We have sown in the spring, cultivated and worked through the summer, all for the glory of autumn.

The Faith of Old Age

Instead of faith growing weaker as we grow older, it ought to grow stronger because supporting it is not only the plain statements of the Word of God but also the confirmation of experience. When we were young we might have wondered if God were as good as His Word, but now that we have come near to the end of the journey the genuineness of Christianity should be very real to each of us.

It is blessed to read, "But the path of the just is as the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day" (Prov. 4:18). This being true, none of us need waste time and fritter away faith by living in the past. Mourning over the failures of yesterday and the mistakes and errors of long ago will not help matters. Paul wrote, "…forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus" (Phil. 3:13-14).

We must be on our guard lest we repose faith in ourselves and confidently boast of our accomplishments. The warning has been sounded in these words, "Behold, Thou hast made my days as an handbreadth; and mine age is as nothing before Thee: verily every man at his best state is altogether vanity" (Psa. 39:5).

Do we believe our Bibles sufficiently concerning God’s daily care for us that we can live free from worry? Do we accept in simple faith what is revealed about the life to come so that we actually find ourselves homesick for heaven? Nothing is so inspiring to me as to find elderly people full of faith and hope and love, never sounding a sour note, but always singing God’s praises and looking forward with sweet anticipation to the time when they shall see Him face to face.

The Firmness of Old Age

Instead of feebleness, God decrees there shall be strength. While it is true that our steps may falter and we find ourselves limited in many ways, yet there is not indication that weakness need prevail within. "For which cause we faint not; but though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day" (2 Cor. 4:16).

I often fall back upon that wonderful little statement embedded deep in the first Psalm: "…his leaf also shall not wither…" [literally, fade] (Psa. 1:3). And I take it to mean that God is providing perpetual springtime for His children so far as the inner man is concerned. "Those that be planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts of our God. They shall still bring forth fruit in old age; they shall be fat and flourishing" (Psa. 92:13-14).

No matter how old we are, we can keep a heart full of love toward everybody. We can learn to be patient with those who may try our patience. If we cannot love them with complacency, we can love them with compassion and pity. God gives definite instruction to the elderly. Because the years have increased is not reason that any of us should grow to be indifferent, or to feel that we have reached that station in life where certain laxities may be enjoyed which are denied to those who are younger.

We read, "That the aged men be sober, grave, temperate, sound in faith, in charity, in patience. The aged women likewise, that they be in behavior as becometh holiness, not false accusers, not given to much wine, teachers of good things" (Titus 2:2-3).

Paul spoke of himself as "Paul the aged" (Phm. v. 9), yet he was firm and true to the day of his martyrdom. He accepted the bitter with the sweet and rejoiced in both. He knew that the bitter may be better for God’s children than the sweet. No matter how old we get, there can be no letup in our Christian development.

There is something better than growing old gracefully and that is growing old graciously. We are not to spend our time talking about failures, and we are not to boast about our success. Let us be careful to maintain a strong testimony for our Savior until the day He calls us to be with Himself.

Let us also be faithful to the work the Lord continues to entrust to us. Have you ever stopped to think of what God said to Joshua? He was an old man a year past being a hundred, when we read of him, "Now Joshua was old and stricken in years; and the Lord said unto him, Thou art old and stricken in years, and there remaineth yet very much land to be possessed" (Josh. 13:1). God did not put His servant on the shelf but reminded him that even though he was old, there was still much to be accomplished.

Joy in Old Age

We usually connect pleasure with youth and think they are the only ones who have a good time, but the child of God knows that "in Thy presence is fulness of joy…" (Psa. 16:11). And "these things have I spoken unto you, that My joy might remain in you, and that your joy might be full" (John 15:11).

The happiest people in the world should be the Christian aged. It is to be expected that their type of entertainment would be different than it was when they were young. Nevertheless, none need go about with a long face. When the Holy Spirit led Paul to write, "Finally, my brethren, rejoice in the Lord…" (Phil. 3:1), He did not intend that this should belong to youth alone, or to those who were well and hardy, but to all those who were the recipients of God’s grace.

Nothing ever happens to a child of God without it being under the supervision of his heavenly Father. He brings things about so that we can say, "We know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to His purpose" (Rom. 8:28).

Often the happiest and most contented folk are those who are nearest Home. The hope of the Christian makes light the heavy burdens of life.

Thank God, there is a Friend who sticketh closer than a brother and it is in Him that we find salvation and satisfaction. This Friend makes life worth living down to the last breath and in the end takes us Home to be with Himself.

– Christian Victory

Bob Jones, Sr. "The Most Interesting Civil War Story I Ever Heard"

2011-09-03T16:37:00.007-07:00

"The Most Interesting
Civil War Story

I Ever Heard"

by Dr. Bob Jones, Sr.
(1883-1968)

The most interesting story I ever heard was told me years ago by a man over eighty years of age. We were sitting together on a projecting rock of a mountainside in Arkansas. Here is the story:

“I was down in this country during the Civil War. Across on the other side yonder there were hundreds of tents where our soldiers were encamped. Measles broke out and many of the brave young men died. The epidemic got so bad we stretched some tents farther down the valley and moved all the measles patients into these tents. This, of course, was done to protect, as far as possible, the health of the healthy soldiers. I was wardmaster in charge of the tents where the measles patients were located.

“One night while I was on the ward, I passed a bunk where there was a very sick young soldier not more than seventeen years of age. The boy looked at me with a pathetic expression and said:

“‘Wardmaster, I believe I’m going to die. I’m not a Christian. My mother and father aren’t Christians. I never did attend church. I did go with a boyfriend to Sunday school just once. A woman taught the Sunday school class. She read us something out of the Bible about a man who went to see Jesus one night. Jesus told this man he must be born again. The teacher said all people must be born again in order to go to heaven when they die. I have never been born again, and I don’t want to die like this. Won’t you please get the chaplain so he can tell me how to be born again?’”

The old man hesitated for a moment. “You know, in those days I was an agnostic—at least, that is what I called myself. So I told the boy, ‘You don’t need a chaplain. Just be quiet now. Don’t worry, you’ll be all right.’ I went around the ward, and in about an hour I came back to the boy’s bed. He looked at me out of such sad, staring eyes as he said, ‘Wardmaster, if you won’t get me the chaplain, please get me the doctor. I am choking to death.’ ‘All right, my son, I’ll get the doctor,’ I said. So I went off and found the doctor. He came and mopped out the throat of the lad so he could breathe a little easier. I knew the boy was going to die. I had seen many other cases just like his. The doctor and I went away from the bed.

“In about an hour I came back expecting to find the boy dead but he was still struggling. He said, ‘There is no use, Wardmaster. I have got to die, and I haven’t been born again. Whether you believe in it or not, won’t you find the chaplain and let him tell me how to be born again?’ I looked at him for a moment and said, ‘All right, my son, I will get the chaplain.’

“I walked away a few paces and then turned and went back to the boy’s bedside. I said, ‘My boy, I am not going to get you the chaplain. I am going to tell you what to do myself. Now, understand, I am an agnostic. I don’t know whether there is any God. I don’t know whether there is any heaven. I don’t know whether there is any hell. I don’t know anything. Yes, I do. I know one thing. I know my mother was a good woman. I know if there is a God my mother knew Him. So I will tell you what my mother told me. You can try it and see if it works. Now, I am going to teach you a verse of Scripture. The verse is John 3:16.

“‘God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ ‘My mother said that I cannot save myself, but if I will believe in Jesus, He will save me.’

“I asked the boy to say the verse with me. I started and he followed with a weak and trembling voice. ‘God so loved the world,’ ‘God so loved the world’; ‘He gave His only begotten Son,’ ‘He gave His only begotten Son’; ‘that whosoever believeth in Him,’ ‘that whosoever believeth in Him’; ‘should not perish,’ ‘should not perish’; ‘but have everlasting life,’ ‘but have everlasting life.’ ‘Now, my boy, my mother said if a person will trust Jesus, he will not perish but have everlasting life.’

“He closed his eyes, stretched his hands across his breast and in a whisper he quoted slowly, repeating some of the words several times: ‘God so loved the world...He gave His only begotten Son ... that whosoever, whosoever ... whosoever believeth, believeth in Him, believeth in Him.’

“Then he stopped and said in a clear voice, ‘Praise God, Wardmaster, it works. I believe in Him! I shall not perish! I have everlasting life! I have been born again. Wardmaster, your mother was right. Why don’t you try it? Do what your mother said. It works, Wardmaster. This thing works! Wardmaster, before I go I want to ask you to do something for me. Take a kiss to my mother and tell her what you told me, and tell her that her dying son said, “It works.”’”

The old man, wiping tears out of his eyes and tears out of the wrinkles of his face, said, “The lad was right. It does work. Whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish but now has everlasting life. It works. I know it works!”

“I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth; to the Jew first, and also to the Greek” (Romans 1:16).

Bob Jones preaching, circa 1928

Book Review: THE BIBLE BELIEVER'S COMMENTARY ON THE BOOK OF JOB

2011-07-31T20:02:00.001-07:00

Peter Ruckman is a living legend of sorts. Seems like if you've heard of him at all, you either lament his very existence or revere him as a great teacher. I never encounter any middle ground on this... it's amazing.

I had heard all about Ruckman before I ever read a word that he wrote, and then when I DID first read words from him they were quotes in volatile anti-Ruckman polemic. I avoided him for several more years and then happened-- quite by chance-- to hear him on an Ad-lib "Question and answer" tape recorded live at a tiny Baptist Church in Idaho. His answers totally disarmed me... he was intelligent, he was humorous, and he had a command of scripture that betrayed years of reading and memorization. He was far from the caricature of an undisciplined and rebellious nutjob which so many people had wanted me to envisage. This commentary was the first book of his that I actually read.

The Book of Job is, of course, the oldest book in our Bible, and it touches on one of mankind's oldest dilemmas and conundrums; namely... "Why do the righteous suffer?"

Pete Ruckman's stab at JOB is a strange and marvelous book, really... unlike any other commentary on this or any O.T. book you will ever find. The main reason for this is that Dr. Pete's starting point [as in all his commentaries] is that the KJV 1611 text is perfect and infallible. Say what you will about this... but it DOES make a person's take on this most divergently translated of ALL Bible books totally unique. [And brother, UNIQUE is the word!]

First off, Ruckman finds all sorts of prophetic, tribulation and millenial references. Ssome are very convincing, some much less so. He also positively concludes-- in the face of virtually every other commentator-- that the human scribe of the book was one of it's characters, Elihu! This may sound weird, but Dr. Ruckman DOES actually show that this is clearly demonstrable from the text of the King James [read it and you will see his reasoning.]

Also--and quite uniquely and effectively I might add-- Ruck uses gut-wrenching stories from church history and such varied books as Remarque's ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT and Wurmbrand's TORTURED FOR CHRIST to back up Job's theses. I like these passages a lot, actually, but be warned... they keep this being a "family commentary."

His last 5 chapters [on the final summation by Jehovah Himself-- "Where were you?", etc.] is a masterful defense of God's ultimate justification of Himself in JOB. You have to read it and see what I mean.

Also, the extended passage on Job 33 ["delivered from the pit" or in Ruckman's phrase "RFD: Rescued from the dump"] makes me cry every time I read it. It is one of the best celebrations of simple Biblical salvation I have ever read I am glad doc did so much reading in his life. He mentally collected a whole storehouse of salvation stories alone, and i love it when he relays them like this!

My only complaint with this amazing tome is that Ruckman takes entirely too much time to trash other commentators. I know why he does this so repetitiously, but it really does get tiresome. In fact, if much of this material were cut the commentary would literally be about 200 pages thinner!

Still... it is an absolutely one-of-a-kind reading experience. I highly recommend it, no matter where you stand on Ruckman.

St. Jerome on I John 5:7

2011-07-29T19:50:00.007-07:00

[I found this interesting... it comes from a website that deals with New Testament textual criticism from a position defending the "Textus Receptus" reformation text type that underlies our King James Version and (to a somewhat lesser extent) New King James Version Bibles. While many would contend that there is a bias here and that the "Jerome Preface" is itself sometimes considered "spurious," I will say that I myself do believe that St. Jerome DID indeed write this-- mainly because the reliable and scholarly old commentator JOHN GILL (1697-1771), who had access to enormous textual resources and lived in a time of great scholarship in classical languages, seems to have had no doubt of it's authenticity. ]

St. Jerome [c.347-420 A.D]

On the "Johanine Comma" [I John 5:7]

Jerome's Preface to the Latin Vulgate
regarding the First John 5:7 comma:

The translation below was made by Thomas Caldwell, S. J. of Marquette University in Milwaukee, WI. The translation comes from the Codex Fuldensis (c. A. D. 541-546). This Latin codex is available at http://books.google.com, on pg. 399. The preface claims to be by Jerome, the translator of the Latin Vulgate. The prologue has textual critical value because it bears on the question of the authenticity of the "Johannine Comma," 1 John 5:7 (“For there are three that bear record in heaven, the Father, the Word, and the Holy Ghost: and these three are one.” KJV).
If the preface is indeed by Jerome, it would provide evidence that there were Greek copies in his day that contained the Comma, and that Jerome thought that others who seem to have held to heretical doctrine had removed the verse from their manuscripts. Such a belief on Jerome’s part would explain the presence of the Comma in the overwhelming majority of copies of the Latin Vulgate. There is certainly evidence for the Comma in the Old Latin Bible and various other sources before Jerome (see, e. g., “‘And These Three Are One’; A Case for the Authenticity of 1 John 5:7-8 Rooted in Biblical Exegesis,” Jesse M. Boyd. http://thross7.googlepages.com). If the Prologue is not by Jerome, whoever wrote it would still make the assertion that the Comma was originally present but was removed by unfaithful and heretical scribes.
Of course, both Jerome and the copyist of the codex Fuldensis died many centuries ago and nobody today can ask them what actually happened. It is certainly true that many opponents of the genuineness of the Comma would dismiss out of hand the possibility that this Prologue truly comes from Jerome based on the assumption that there cannot be genuine evidence at so early a date for the Comma, just as they dismiss Cyprian’s quotation of the Comma in A. D. 251 (“The Lord says, ‘I and the Father are one;’ and again it is written of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, ‘And these three are one.’” On The Unity of the Church, Treatise 1:6. Trans. Church Fathers: The Ante-Nicene Fathers, ed. Alexander Roberts & James Donaldson.) on the assumption that Cyprian simply cannot have quoted it, since it allegedly did not yet exist.
However, the fact that many people dismiss the evidence of this Prologue to the Comma from unreasonable biases does not of itself mean that the work did indeed come from Jerome’s hand.

Latin Version
PROLOGUS IN EPISTULAS CANONICAS.
Non ita ordo est apud graecos qui integre sapiunt et fidem rectam sectantur· Epistularam septem quae canonicae nuncupantur· ut in latinis codicibus inuenitur quod petrusprimus est in numero apostolorum primae sint etiam eius 5 epistulae in ordine ceterarum· Sed sicut euangelistas dudum ad ueritatis lineam correximus ita has proprio ordine deo nos iuuante reddidimus Est enim prima earum una iacobi· petri duae· iohannis tres· et iudae una 10 Quae sicut ab eis digestae sunt ita quoque ab interpraetibus fideliter in latinum eloquium uerterentur nec ambiguitatem legentibus facerent nec sermonum se uarietas inpugnaret· illo praecipue loco ubi de unitate trinitatis in prima iohannis epistula positum legimus in qua est ab infidelibus 15 translatoribus multum erratum esse fidei ueritate conperimus trium tantummodo uocabula hoc est aquae sanguinis et spiritus in ipsa sua editione potentes et patri uerbique ac spiritus testimonium omittentes» In quo maxime et fides catholica roboratur et patris et fili et spiritus sancti una diuinitatis 20 substantia conprobatur· In ceteris uero epistulis quantum nostra aliorum distet editio lectoris prudentiae derelinquo· Sed tu uirgo christi eusthocium dum a me inpensius scribturae ueritatem inquiris meam quodammodo senectutem inuidorum dentibus conrodendam exponis qui me falsarium corruptoremque 25 sanctarum pronuntiant scribturarum· Sed ego in tali opere nec aemulorum meorum inuidentiam pertimesco nec sanctae scribturae ueritatem poscentibus denegabo

English Translation:
Jerome’s Prologue to the Canonical Epistles1

"The order of the seven Epistles which are called canonical is not the same among the Greeks who follow the correct faith and the one found in the Latin codices, where Peter, being the first among the apostles, also has his two epistles first. But just as we have corrected the evangelists into their proper order, so with God’s help have we done with these. The first is one of James, then two of Peter, three of John and one of Jude.

"Just as these are properly understood and so translated faithfully by interpreters into Latin without leaving ambiguity for the readers nor [allowing] the variety of genres to conflict, especially in that text where we read the unity of the trinity is placed in the first letter of John, where much error has occurred at the hands of unfaithful translators contrary to the truth of faith, who have kept just the three words water, blood and spirit in this edition omitting mention of Father, Word and Spirit in which especially the catholic faith is strengthened and the unity of substance of Father, Son and Holy Spirit is attested.

"In the other epistles to what extent our edition varies from others I leave to the prudence of the reader. But you, virgin of Christ, Eustocium, when you ask me urgently about the truth of scripture you expose my old age to being gnawed at by the teeth of envious ones who accuse me of being a falsifier and corruptor of the scriptures. But in such work I neither fear the envy of my critics nor deny the truth of scripture to those who seek it."

Amen, brother Jerome...

Oh, and people...

TRUST YOUR BIBLE!!

Also... In case anyone wants to see it, here is the part of John Gill's comment on the Comma that deals with Jerome:

"and the Latin translation, which bears the name of Jerom, has it, and who, in an epistle of his to Eustochium, prefixed to his translation of these canonical epistles, complains of the omission of it by unfaithful interpreters... and as to its not being cited by some of the ancient fathers, this can be no sufficient proof of the spuriousness of it, since it might be in the original copy, though not in the copies used by them, through the carelessness or unfaithfulness of transcribers; or it might be in their copies, and yet not cited by them, they having Scriptures enough without it, to defend the doctrine of the Trinity, and the divinity of Christ: and yet, after all, certain it is, that it is cited by many of them; by Fulgentius F26, in the beginning of the "sixth" century, against the Arians, without any scruple or hesitation; and Jerom, as before observed, has it in his translation made in the latter end of the "fourth" century..."

John Gill's complete commentary.

MOVIE REVIEW: "Prince Valiant" 1954

2011-07-28T18:13:00.003-07:00

With all the talk going on in geekdom about the new CAPTAIN AMERICA feature being possibly the best film treatment of a comics character ever [I can't wait to see it in a few months at the "dollar" theatre!], some "slightly-on-the-geeky-side" co-workers and I were just discussing today what our all-time fave "four-color-to-silver-screen" adaptations are.

Some chose Raimi's SPIDERMAN cycle for its remarkable [for Hollywood, anyway] fidelity to source material; some went with Chris Reeves' turn in SUPERMAN I for starting the whole blockbuster-from-comics trend; and one even went with the oddball choice of last year's JONAH HEX for [he said] sheer over-the-top entertainment value [still haven't seen it so I can't fairly offer any jibe here... even though I feel tempted. :) ]

My choice, however, was easily the most obscure and certainly the hardest to explain: 1954's PRINCE VALIANT... starring Robert Wagner... in a wig.

Yikes! Try defending that choice to the geeks at the water cooler!

But Alas, I will just admit it... if I am to be truly honest, this creaky old Technicolor CinemaScope Swords-and-Sandals nonsense epic does indeed top my list.

Mostly it's just nostalgia, I suppose-- I first saw it when i was about 9 and it took me away like no movie ever had before, and, on some levels, like none ever would again. I can't explain it, really, but even seeing STAR WARS about 3 years later in it's first run did not match my exhilaration upon first seeing PV. I would view it again many times throughout childhood and well into my adolescence, never missing a TV showing afterward if I could help it. It was truly high adventure to me, and captured my young imagination so purely I still feel some of the gusto even today when I occasionally pop the letterbox disc into the DVD player.

The worst part about my choice is that it is, above all, simply a terrible adaptation. Released in lavish style back in '54, the film must have frustrated many diehard fans of Hal Foster's original classic strip. While it carries over much of its source material's spirit and enthusiasm, as well as its visual grandness, the plot is WAY off... not even close... and most of the characters even emerge as entirely different beings from their newsprint namesakes (e.g. Princess Aleta, Gawain, even Val himself.)

Then there's the cast. While Janet Leigh and Debra Paget are both amazing eye-candy, their performances here are somehow only adequate at best. The great Sterling Hayden is completely miscast as Valiant's mentor Sir Gawain. Now, I actually like Hayden's work a lot, but I find his stiff acting style only effective in certain stern hard-boiled roles [such as, for 2 examples, his fascinating turns as the head hood in Kubrick's THE KILLING and the show-stealing walk-on as abolitionist John Brown in the 80s TV mini-series THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.] In Valiant, his delivery of lines like "Unhand the lad, varlet!" is almost unbearably funny.

Still, it all works surprisingly well. In fact, this film is actually much more enjoyable than the far more faithful '90s remake. This surprising fact is attributable, I believe, to 2 things.

First, the script for the '54 version, written by a highly paid pro named Dudley Nichols, ably manages to transform Foster's lusty picaresque strip into a glorious send-up of Victorian boy's books and blood-and-thunder dime novels. In fact, fans of the now-revived juvenile fiction of G.A. Henty could easily view this film as almost a tribute to that great author, complete with relentless Victorianisms and a theme of paganism versus emerging "muscular Christianity."

Second, two of the performances are downright brilliant. James Mason, as the villian of the piece [the mysterious Black Knight] gives his role a depth that is engossing and rewarding to watch. In the story, the Black knight is driven to treachery by his second-rate, adopted status to the man who raised him: King Arthur himself. A lesser actor would have probably just grimaced his way through, but Mason turns every line and facial expression into a glimse of a truly tortured soul. Mason is amazing here.

The other thespian praise I will hand out may surprise some. Robert Wagner himself brings a vigor to the title role that completely propels the movie. I must say I have come to really like Wagner as an actor. He was extremely popular at the time [Fox gave him starring roles in at least a dozen of their highest budget production through the 1950s] and I long thought of him as a pretty boy actor... but his undersatatement and intensity in films like STOPOVER TOKYO, THE HUNTERS, and the great western epic WHITE FEATHER [must see for any western buff] has never, to my knowkledge, been appreciated in print. In Valiant he takes a downright silly role and gives it all he has, and he upstages a bunch of hardcore veterans in process.

So... The action is great-- well-done, and stunt-heavy; the color and widescreen processing is luscious; and the scenery is breathtaking. [Also worth mentioning: a marvellous political incorrectness reigns throughout! e.g. "The cross is our salvation!", Wagner screams at one point to scoffing villian Mason... NICE!]

But all in all, my vote comes straight from my culturally over-fed inner child. It is he who just won't let it go.

Who knows? Maybe in 40 years even Rogan's GREEN HORNET could be some old guy's oddball choice for "best comic movie ever."

[By the way, as a note to other parents... your kids-- even if they are jaded techno-junkies-- WILL love this. They may just have trouble admitting it.]

Peace.

"What Is Repentance?" By Gipsy Smith

2011-07-20T19:00:00.006-07:00

One of the first Christian books to really effect me as an adult was one called FROM THE FOREST I CAME: THE LIFE OF GIPSY SMITH by David Lazell, an old Moody paperback I first read in about 1992. I recommend it to any reader as one of the most charming religious biographies you could ever read. The old Gipsy's heart and soul really come through and you will marvel at his life led in the steps of Jesus.

A real gipsy born in a wagon, Smith (31 March 1860- 4 August 1947) became one of the best known evangelists in a day when preaching giants walked this earth.

Here is an example of his preaching from the good folks at the revival newspaper Herald Of His Coming. It is an excellent example of the old-time Methodist view of "turning to Christ." I think we need the soundness and clarity of the old Gipsy today.

Enjoy.

What Is Repentance?
By Gipsy Smith

If there is a man or woman who has been trying to live a Christian life and has no joy in it, and no victory in it, and no song in it--I know the reason. It is that they have never repented. They have started wrong.

Repentance is the most neglected doctrine in the New Testament and the most unpopular. People do not like to be called to repentance and you do not often hear it preached. And yet the Bible is a handbook of repentance. It enforces it, commands it, and so demands it that no substitute can be accepted for it.

Over sixty times the Scriptures enforce it, and all the Epistles are written to show men how to repent, so that no one need be in a fog as to what repentance means, yet multitudes of people are.

A spurious repentance means a spurious Christian life, and the reason many church-goers have no joy and peace in the Holy Ghost is because they do not obey the Scripture-- "Repent ye, and believe the gospel" (Mark 1:15).

You ask, "What is repentance?" It is not conviction on sin. Conviction is an element of repentance but you can be convicted without repenting. No one repents until he is convicted, but not all who are convicted do repent.

Conviction is not enough. It is not repentance, and "except ye repent, ye shall...perish" (Luke 13:3). Is sorrow repentance? No, it is not enough to be sorry for your sins. Something more than tears is needed.

If repentance is not conviction, and not sorrow, what is it? Is it promising to do better? No. Some of you have been doing that for years and you are further from God than ever.

Is repentance reading the Bible or praying? No. It is the sanest thing in God’s Word and one of the most beautiful.

What is it to repent? Repentance is turning from sin to God.

Repentance is getting hold of that which is your curse by the hair of its head and tearing it out by the roots. Pride is one of them. Pride can be as damning as drunkenness--and is. There is pride of face, pride of place, pride of grace, and pride of race.

We need saving from our good self, our religious self, our spiritual self--as much as from our bad self. Satan is very subtle and if he cannot hinder by our badness, he will hinder by our goodness. If he cannot hinder us by our depths, he will hinder by our heights. If he cannot alienate us from God, he will hinder us by our self-righteousness, and if we are not careful he will come to us as an angel of light.

Pride, self-righteousness, sham, fraud, hypocrisy, lust, duplicity--the sin in your life which enslaves you, let it go. Kill it--and all other things in your life that are wrong will slink away like so many whipped curs.

What is repentance then? It is the moral response of the awakened soul to the call of God, the home of the soul. Have you repented? Have you turned from sin unto God?

"Be watchful, and strengthen the things which remain, that are ready to die: for I have not found thy works perfect before God. Remember therefore how thou hast received and heard, and hold fast, and repent...As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten: be zealous therefore, and repent" (Rev. 3:2,3,19).

COOL STUFF FROM LIBRARY BOOKS, Entry #8: "The Hands Of GOD" by Dean Burgon-- from Spurgeon's TREASURY OF DAVID

2011-06-22T11:17:00.004-07:00

In Bisbee, AZ's historic Public Library, there is an ancient set of Charles Spurgeon's great commentary on the Book Of Psalms, entitled THE TREASURY OF DAVID. The librarian there once told me that this particular set is over 100 years old and is now part of the non-circulating "special collections" section, reserved for books still remaining from old Territorial Cochise County Library [Arizona became a state in 1912 so these books are very old indeed!]

Although I own my own set in a much later edition [passed down from my mother, RIP] I really enjoyed looking at these old volumes... my mind imagining the solace and comfort they may well have given to some miner, rancher, or cowboy a long, dry century ago. [The photo below is from a set currently on eBay, but it looks exactly like the Bisbee set... I am sure it is the same or very nearly the same edition...]

If you're not familiar with Spurgeon's masterpiece, let me just say that it is truly a a commentary unlike any other, as it contains a wealth of illuminating extracts and quotes from literally hundreds of commentators-- both contemporaries of Spurgeon as well as the great Puritan expositors of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Preachers and teachers have long appreciated the homiletical hints on almost every verse, concise sermon outlines, and provocative seed thoughts. If this sounds interesting to you, get a copy at once. I am told it is now a popular e-book item for Kindle readers.

Just recently I was struck by this extract written by Dean John Burgon [1813-1888], the great Bible Scholar and early defender of the Textus Receptus Greek New Testament and its Authorized Translation into English. In this amazing excerpt, Burgon comments on Psalm 138:8,

"The LORD will perfect that which concerneth me: thy mercy, O LORD, endureth for ever: forsake not the works of thine own hands."

"'Thine own hands!' Let us consider:

"His creating hands formed our souls at the beginning;

"his nail pierced hands redeemed them on Calvary;

"his glorified hands will hold our souls fast and not let them go for ever.

"Unto his hands let us commend our spirits, sure that even though the works of our hands have made void the works of his hands, yet his hands will again make perfect all that our hands have unmade."

--J.W. Burgon.

AMEN!

from Spurgeon, Charles H. "Commentary on Psalms 138:8". "C.H. Spurgeons's The Treasury of David," first published 1865-1885.

COOL STUFF FROM LIBRARY BOOKS, Entry #7: "The Thrill Of It All!"

2011-06-11T11:48:00.007-07:00

If you love old B-westerns like I do, I sincerely hope your public library is like mine and has a copy of this old book:

"The Thrill Of It All!"

by Alan G. Barbour

[subtitled "A Pictorial History of the B-Western from the Great Train Robbery and Other Silent Classics to the Color Films of the Genre's Last Days of Glory in the 50's"]

200 pages, Collier Books, New York, first edition, 1971.

Although I didn't actually live through the original era of the American B-Western [generally gauged as running from the early 1920s thru the mid-'50s], I still have fond, fond memories of enjoying the exciting '40s and '50s "horse operas" every Saturday morning at my Aunt Hope's house in Patagonia, AZ circa 1975-78. A Phoenix station called KPHO [the legendary channel 5!] would play about 3 of these movies, back to back, and I would sit spellbound... great times spent with Hoppy and Mesquite, Buck Jones, Johnny Mack Brown and Lash LaRue [just to name a precious few!]

Looking back, I think that I connected with these movies not only because of their endearing simplicity, their marvelous western scenery [Lone Pine, CA!], and their vigorous, sometimes truly remakable stunt-work, but also because of their rollicking and jolly attitude: their blissful and downright libertarian world-view. In the world of these "shoot-em-ups" [as my Dad always labeled them] the chief villian was always some kind of a collectivist control-freak-- drawing our free-wheeling hero reluctantly into action, usually in defense of a small business concern of some kind. [And did that rancher, store-keeper, or newspaper editor always seem to have a pretty and conveniently motherless daughter to serve as innocent and pure eye-candy? A beautiful silk-bloused cow-lass who would never be kissed but only hugged cautiously?? Yup... almost always... lol]

Only years later would I question the strange set-up of this bizzarre-- yet pleasing-- alternate universe... and by then I could fully enjoy-- as fully as few other 21 year olds could have-- the devastatingly perfect satire of the 1985 classic film RUSTLER'S RHAPSODY! [Favorite line: "Boss... I'm tired of gettin' shot in the hand!"... lol ] For the pre-adolescent time at hand, however, I was hooked.

Yessir, the B-western will always be a part of me... for better or worse.

Well... One day, while "sleuthing through the stacks" at The Sierra Vista Public Library, I discovered this invaluable tome, still considered the the most comprehensive single book on the subject. Within minutes I was lost in it's 200 amazing photo-filled pages... expertly captioned with fun information about every memorable cinematic "White Hat" player [and a bunch of the "Black Hats," too!]

For anyone who has ANY recollections of these movies, this book is no less than a joyous treasure trove! Surely and sadly out of print now, it can still be found at public libraries like mine [God love them!] or from many electronic book sellers. I have seen copies on line for as little as 5 bucks!

The book itself is made up almost entirely of photos-- both publicity stills and classic movie posters like the one above.... but what a photo document they make! Really, there is only about two pages of well written and informative text per "chapter," so this stands as a truly archival photo history of a unique and un-justly neglected part of American entertainment history.

If it isn't everything you need to see and read about the American B-western, then God help you, partner-- you're as much of a fanatic as Albie The Good is! :)

In any case, if i just described you, dig up a copy pronto! You will NOT be sorry.