EGO DEFLATION —EXHIBIT A

  

I’m always on the lookout for Bargain Books.

Part of this stems from scarcity of funds for textbooks when I was in college and seminary.  Often, I resorted to borrowing a book or trying to find it in the campus library.

Also, for the past several years, my wife Pansy has been collecting gently used books to take to an Appalachian mission ministry.  She makes regular trips to Good Will and Habitat for Humanity Re-Store along with locally sponsored charity shops.

Often a need arises for repair, so she takes those not-so-gently used books to her book hospital in the laundry room.

To remove writing and marks, she uses Q-tips, erasers, invisible tape, quick dry correction fluid, peroxide, alcohol, and Goo Gone to remove stickers, grease, tar and crayon marks.  To cover problems she cannot remove, she also uses stick-um name tags and attractive stickers that suggest connections with the stories. 

For my part in searching for inexpensive books, I regularly go to the book store in our county library. Most of their children’s books — either donated to the library or discarded by the library — sell for ten, twenty-five, or fifty cents apiece.  

Many of these originally sold in bookstores for twelve, fifteen, or nineteen dollars.  So I have congratulated myself for being a smart shopper, paying tiny fractions of the list price for books.

And then something happened on a recent visit to the library store that made me think or re-think these prices.

They have books for youth and adults as well as for children, and I browsed in other sections.  On a shelf of Christmas books, I was surprised to see a copy of one of my books,  Christmas Memories from Seven to Seventy, that I wrote in 2008.

I got a second surprise when I saw the price tag: one dollar! One dollar for a book amazon.com lists for twelve dollars!

Then a third surprise when I saw the name of the person whose name was in the book.  I had personally inscribed the book: “To Esmeralda, a dear friend and colleague.”

So two blows to my ego in a matter of a few seconds.

Seeing my book sell for a dollar?  Why, sure, I know we get kids’ books all the time for a quarter.  But mine for a measly buck? That’s another story.  

And then a longtime friend devaluing my writing by giving it away!  Would I do that to her if she wrote a  book?  Possibly, but probably not, unless it became necessary to downsize my personal library. I’m too sentimental. I shudder and grab for a tissue to wipe away my tears as we put in the trash or take to the recycling center.

Both these aspects of finding my book in the get-rid-of-these-quick corner were genuine.  But I did not feel insulted or put down.  In fact, after I saw whose name is in the book, I stepped over to the counter, identified myself  to the volunteer workers and showed them what I had found.

We chatted and laughed about the price. Then one of the volunteers bought it for the dollar price and got me to sign it a second time, this time for her.

Bottom line: If I give something to someone or sell something to someone, of course, that person can and should do what she pleases with the gift or purchase, whatever impact that decision may have on my ego.

So I will continue going to charity shops and yard sales in search of rock bottom prices for children’s books to take to Appalachian children, and I will continue writing books for the widest possible readership, even for those who give the books away, even for those who buy one for a dollar.

July 4, 1945 . . . or Thereabout

They stood on a busy corner in Sweetwater, Texas, just across from the courthouse square with their satchels of “Watchtower” magazines.

I didn’t know it at the time, but it had been illegal until recently for them to be there promoting their Jehovah’s Witnesses faith.

July 4, 1918 .  .  .  or Thereabout

During World War I, when their group was fairly new, law officers broke up their public meetings because they were considered a threat to the nation.  Guest speakers brought in to lead services were run out of town.

Folks with this strange religion were considered traitors because they refused to salute the flag or say the pledge or go to war.  They had to take their appeal all the way to the U. S. Supreme Court before they were free to stand on that corner in Sweetwater.

July 4, 2017 .  .  .  or Thereabout

The Witnesses have had trouble in other countries.  They were outlawed in the old Soviet Union but enjoyed freedom in Russia until recently.  Now the hammer has dropped again.  Russian leaders are closing down Kingdom Halls, driving many congregations to meet quietly in homes.  It’s illegal to go door to door with their “Watchtower.”

Eight-year-old children of Jehovah’s Witnesses homes are humiliated in front of classmates in school.  Adult Witnesses get punched in the face because their religion is banned by the government.

As a Baptist, I have little in common theologically with the Witnesses.  But I share one essential belief with them: Jehovah’s Witnesses in this country should have the same freedom of religion that I have.  Unless Muslims and Jehovah’s Witnesses and atheists have religious freedom, then freedom for Methodists and Baptists and Pentecostals and Catholics is not secure either.

May you and they have a happy Independence Day.

RUM-A-PUM-PUM

[Adapted from my Once for a Shining Hour book, available through amazon.com.]

The birth of Jesus stirs the imagination of storytellers and musicians.  So let’s use our imagination with “The Little Drummer Boy” in the song that arrived at the manger in the 1950s and became a fast favorite.  

The story mustn't get lost in the “rum-a-pum-pum” of the drumbeats. The little drummer at the manger is almost hidden from view by the regal Kings from the East.   He is self-conscious as they place their gold, frankincense, and myrrh on the ground before the Baby.

His drum is strapped around his neck, as it always is when he goes about. But he has absolutely nothing to place alongside the costly gifts from the Kings to the little Baby King.  

As the boy thinks it over, he feels relieved that he has nothing.  Anything he has ever owned in his whole life would look shoddy by comparison.  

He wonders what led him here in the first place.  Just then, the woman looks his way.  He doesn’t know her thoughts, but he feels he is no more out of place than those ragged, dirty, smelly shepherds who have gathered around, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, looking at the Baby and His parents.  It’s the Kings who make the drummer uneasy — and the Baby they call King.

Earlier, he heard the shepherds talking among themselves — about angels and bright lights on the hillside beyond the little town of Bethlehem, how the angels told them to come to town and hunt this Baby whose coming is good news to everyone, for shepherds and, perhaps, he thought, even for a boy with a drum.

With all the to-do of the Kings, dressed in their elaborate robes as they bring expensive presents, the lad isn’t sure what he should do or could do.  Maybe he ought to slip away quietly and play his drum to himself as he heads for home.

He loves to play his drum, and he’s been told, lots of times, that he’s good with it.  Oh, sometimes his mother gets on him for playing so loudly while she’s cooking and doing housework. When that happens, he drifts out along the dirt road of the village, playing his drum as he goes.  That’s when he gets lots of compliments.  

An old man down the street has helped him learn different rhythms.  A couple of times, the old man even let him keep time on his drum when some other men were playing their lyres and pipes.  That helped him gain confidence.

At the manger, as he’s wondering whether he should leave, a thought flashes through his mind: He does have one thing he could offer the Little King.  He could play his drum.  But then, he thinks; the woman and man might frown and tell him to stop the noise and get out of their way, just like his mother when she wants some peace and quiet.  

Well, should he offer to play, or not?

Yes.  

No.  

Yes. 

No.  

Yes!

The man and woman look up at the shepherds and the Kings and then right at him.

Now’s his chance.  So he asks, hurriedly: “Shall-I-play-for-you-and-your-little-boy?  On-my-drum-I-mean.”

The man smiles.  The woman nods her head, as if to say, “Go ahead.”

So he starts playing, playing with all his might.  One or two of the shepherds join him, slapping their knees and bellies as he does some special licks he learned from the old man down the street.  He plays and plays, giving it his very best.  Everybody in the stable seems to be in rhythm.  A passerby stops to look in, then starts snapping his fingers, trying to keep up with the drummer.  Feet are tapping.  Even one of the Kings is patting his hands together.

For moments, the boy forgets where he is as he pours himself into his rhythms.  Then he happens to glance down at the Baby.  “He’s looking at me!  He’s looking at me!” the boy thinks. “Can you believe it? He’s smiling!  The Little King is smiling.  He’s smiling at me! He likes my drum!”

Then he stops playing.  Everyone is silent.  Nobody moves or says anything for several seconds. Then he hears applause.  People gather around him, patting him on the back.  

“Great rhythm.”  

“Good show.” 

“How long you been playin’?” one of the shepherds asks.

The drummer is speechless.  He feels almost outside himself as he continues looking at the Little King and His parents.  As the others drift into the night, the Drummer still stands, still looking in awe at the family in the stable.

Finally, he puts his sticks in his belt and turns to go.  But then, he feels a firm hand on his shoulder.  He looks up into the kind, steady eyes of the man.  “Thank you, young man.  Thank you very much.”  

“Oh, no,” the boy says.  “Thank you, sir.  Thank you for letting me play for your little boy.”

As the woman begins wrapping the Baby more securely in the wide bands of cloth, she, too, thanks the drummer. “That was so special.  Thank you for coming to see us tonight.  When he’s old enough to understand, we will tell our son what you did.”

“I wish I had something I could leave with you.”

“Oh, you do.  You do.  You gave us a memory we will long cherish.  The sound of your rhythms will linger in our minds longer than you imagine.  You gave him a truly unique gift, something only you could give.”

Those words ring in the drummer’s ears as he starts for home.  

His fingers tap rhythms almost silently on the drumhead as he walks briskly through the chill night air.  He smiles to himself as he says over and over, “The Little Baby King smiled at me.  He smiled at me.  He smiled at me and my drum.”

Can we let our imaginations run wild as we think what we can offer that would bring a smile from the Newborn King?

Whether we have the wealth of the Three Kings, the simple possessions of the shepherds,  or nothing but the inner resources of the Little Drummer Boy, if we offer our best, we will see the smile of the King.

Thanks Acrostic 2: General Thanksgiving

T Today (and Every Day)

Turkey (and the Trimmings)

TV

Telephone

H Home and Health and Hope and History and Hindsight

A Anderson University, where I taught twenty-three years in two separate tenures 

N Nights (time for rest)

K Kitchen and Kisses 

S Sunshine

G Groceries: Grits, Gravy, Granola, Grapes, Goobers, Goodies; Gravity

I Imagination, Intellect, Ideas, Ideals

V Vision, Voice, Video, Vitamins, Violins, Violets, Victory in Jesus

I I (Myself), Individuals, Income, Internet, Invitations

N Noon, Newspaper, New Testament

G Giggles

Thanks Acrostic # 1: Extended Family

On this Thanksgiving Day 2016, I give thanks for my extended family: Pansy and me in South Carolina; Russell and Sabina in New York City; Jonathan and Vicky and Ethan and Addie in Chicago; the whole mob of Webbs, Ways, and Culps in Texas as far west as Greg in Midland; Caitlin and Charles in the Northwest; and Evelyn and Kisaku, Masaki and Yuri in Japan.

T Travis, Terry — nephews

H Hopkins, Roy  — Brother-in-law, Pansy’s brother   

A   Addie, granddaughter 

Apologies to any I have inadvertently omitted on this list

N   Nieces whose names don't fit the acrostic: Evelyn, Crystal, Caitlin, Lindsey, Jullia, Rachel, Stephanie, Miranda

K   Kisaku, Kathy, Kathryn, Karen

S Sister, because there’s no “M” for Marie

Sibs, since there’s no “L” for Leonard and Lew

Susan, Shelia, Sheila Rene, Schaila  

Spouse, because there’s no “P” for Pansy

Sons, because there’s no “R” for Russell or “J” for Jonathan

Sabina Wolfson, Russell’s wife

G   Garry Don, Greg, Gus  

I   In-Laws: Gay and John Rush; Marie Webb, Shelia Webb,

V   Vicky, Jonathan’s wife

I   In Memoriam: 

Travis and Vandelia Webb

Roy and Mazie Hopkins

Leta and Jeff Culp

Larry Culp

Lee Roy and Lila Webb

Judy Webb

Don Way

        Lloyd Wayne Webb

Randall Webb

N     Nephews whose names don't fit the acrostic:

Lloyd, James, Jack, Sam, Josh, Richard, Zach, Chase 

G Grandson, because there’s no “E” for Ethan

Great Grand Nieces and Nephews not otherwise identified

Labor Day Insights

Labor Day is special.

It’s the end of summer, for all practical purposes.

It’s the last long week before Thanksgiving.

It’s time at the lake — picnicking and boating.

It’s special sales at the mall.

It’s All the Above.

But it’s much, much more.

The First Monday in September became an official national holiday when U. S. President Grover Cleveland pressed Congress to rush through a bill in June 1894, establishing Labor Day.

The first official Labor Day parades marched on September 3 of that year.

Behind the pleasant, family-style last lazy day of summer lurks a dark blot in U. S. history. With the rise of the Industrial Revolution, working conditions in the factories soon became abominable:  
• Workers put in twelve hours a day in the factories, often seven days a week, with no established minimum wage.  

• With no child labor laws, children as young as five and six years old toiled in the sweat shops.

• Corporations provided slum-type housing for employees and deducted rent from the meagre paychecks.

Desperate, despicable conditions continued in the early decades of the twentieth century causing Carl Sandburg to give a poet’s eye report on the lives of many in Chicago.  In his poem, “Jack,” the title character “was a swarthy, swaggering son of a gun” who “worked thirty years on the railroad ten hours a day” and then died in the poorhouse.

Sandburg describes the “Ice Handler” who broke the noses of two scabs who loosened the nuts on the wheels of six ice wagons, causing the wheels to come off and the ice to melt before it could be delivered.

In “They Will Say” the poet says the worst thing people will ever say about Chicago is that they 

“took little children away from the sun and the dew” and “put them between walls” to “die empty-hearted” for little pay.  

“Mill Doors” tells much the same story.  He says good-by to the young as he says, “You never come back.” They go in “hopeless open doors .  .  . for—how many cents a day?”

His “Muckers” shows twenty men who watch workmen in the muck whose boots slosh in “suckholes” as they dig to prepare to install new gas mains.  Ten of the twenty onlookers say, “It’s a hell of a job.” The other ten say they wish they had the job.

The title character, “Anna Imroth,” was a young factory girl working upstairs with others like her when a fire broke out.  All her work companions jumped to safety, but Anna died.  Sandburg quotes  the oft-heard pious but unthinking statement, “It is the hand of God.” But then he adds “.  .  . and the lack of fire escapes.”

To combat intolerable conditions such as Sandburg described, workers formed unions and began making demands of the companies.  When those fortunate enough to have existing jobs struck for higher pay and better working conditions, corporation officials turned deaf ears, and violence often erupted. Both sides initiated violence.  

When Pullman workers went on strike in May 1894, the larger, broader American Railroad Union called for a supporting boycott. One hundred and fifty thousand railway workers in twenty-seven  states joined the strike, refusing to operate Pullman rail cars.  This stoppage prompted President Cleveland to call for the holiday as a token appeasement of the strikers.  

Six days after the first Labor Day, however, with passenger service and mail train service virtually at a standstill, railway leaders pressured Cleveland to take action.  In response, he invoked the Sherman Antitrust Act,  declaring the stoppage a federal crime. He sent in twelve thousand federal troops to break the strike.  Fighting and riots went on for days. Strikers overturned and burned railcars. Troops responded with violence, killing as many as thirty workers before the strikes ended and train service was restored. 

In my comparatively luxurious living, I may tend to sniff at Sandburg’s descriptions, considering them exaggerations or, at least, remnants of the unpleasant past.  I may tend to condemn what I consider excesses of union protests and think unions no longer useful or necessary. But before I write off unions, I need to remember how their efforts brought shorter hours and improved pay, paving the way for greater improvements with Social Security, Medicare, the Affordable Care Act, and other laws that make life better for many additional citizens.

When I read or re-read a little history, this day off at summer’s end looks a bit different.

Hearing from Lots of Friends

More than one-hundred-sixty friends and family members sent me birthday well wishes.

You might say I asked them to do this, and I suppose you would be right:

I put my picture up on Facebook and announced it was my birthday.  Otherwise, I could have counted the number of birthday greetings on my fingers and toes (without actually going to my toes).  And that was a wonderful number in itself.

But back to Facebook.  About half those responses were “Likes.” It was fun to read through the list of those who checked the “Like” icon. Clicking “Like” — you should pardon the expression — might be likened to driving by and honking or waving but not stopping to say “Hello.” With this gesture, the “Likes” told me they saw my — shall I say — likeness and let me know they know I’m still alive after eighty-two years.

Beyond the “Likes,” an additional eighty or so took the trouble to say a few words or write a sentence.  

A few wrote paragraphs.  

Some put up art work with candles and cakes and posters and balloons.  

One of my most outrageously creative former Anderson University students sent a wild video-to-end-all-videos, with explosions, fires, cakes, and an echo-chamber voice calling my name and wishing me “Happy Birthday.”

The list of “Likers” and “Writers” included nephews and nieces, great nieces, a fellow minister or two, colleagues from journalism graduate school, fellow members of community volunteer boards, a neighbor, fellow church members, my barber, fellow emeritus professors, members of Lifelong Learning classes I’ve taught at Anderson University, just plain friends, and a whole raft of former students at AU.

International greetings came from a father in Germany and his son in an internship in China.  The son lived with a family next door to us a year or so back as an exchange student.

Stateside, I heard from Wisconsin, Alabama, Georgia, Virginia, the District of Columbia, Michigan, Tennessee, Texas, Missouri, North Carolina, Maryland, Colorado, Iowa, and Mississippi.

It’s hard to grasp that I heard from one hundred sixty-plus people on my birthday, even though these responses came after I posted my mug shot.  Most of those folks, I count as personal friends.  Not all intimate friends, but friends all the same.  A few on the list, I hardly remember.  After all, I turned eighty-two the day I put up my picture. :0)

I consider a post from Ivan Liechty, one of my former students from Anderson College (now Anderson University), especially significant for any day of the year.  Ivan gave me permission to quote his post which follows:

“Happy Birthday! Thank you for your mentorship when I was at AC; even though I took a turn in the wrong direction for a little while, I did come back to a better life and am so thankful for everything. 

“By the way, Inherit the Wind [a play I recommended that he read] is still one of my favorite books and movies (the Spencer Tracy version). I commonly tell people that nobody is all good and nobody is all bad and that as soon as our statues get a crack on them we are too quick to want to tear the entire thing down (paraphrasing). That book has taught me to always look at the motivation behind someone's actions and even if I disagree, frustrated or angered, as long as their actions are not malicious in intent then everything can be worked out and forgiven... At the same time I hope that my misgivings and misunderstandings are never caused by malicious intent on my part.”

Inherit the Wind is a drama based on the so-called Monkey Trial in Dayton, Tennessee in 1925.  A high school biology teacher, John Scopes, was on trial for teaching evolution, which was against the law in Tennessee. The trial attracted international attention in part because two famous lawyers headed the legal teams: Clarence Darrow, for the defense, and a former secretary of state, William Jennings Bryan, for the prosecution.

This is a dramatization, written several decades after the trial, and not a transcript of the proceedings. But in the courtroom scene, Henry Drummond, the character representing Clarence Darrow, says he is trying to establish that everyone — including the judge — has the right to think.  The judge says the right to think is not on trial.  Drummond-Darrow insists it is “very much on trial” and “fearfully in danger” in what is happening as witnesses are interrogated by the prosecution.

The playwrights, Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee, may have been looking beyond 1925 when they put those lines in about the right to think being on trial.  Several states in the Deep South, including Tennessee where the Monkey Trial took place, keep on passing anti-evolution laws.

My point in having students read this play and other provocative material was to try to get them to think new thoughts.  I am haunted by the memory of a request from a young man who came to my office many years ago: “Mr. Webb, can you tell me some books it will be safe for me to read?”

I don’t know what I said in response to that request.  I probably sputtered and stuttered and stammered.  I had never been asked that before and have never been asked it since. 

As I hear from my students — on my birthday and other days — my hope continues to be renewed that I succeeded at times in my efforts to get them to think along lines that may not always be safe.