Ramblings of Charles Prier – Writer-Insomniac-General Know-it-All

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The Legend of the Parson’s Shoe

Parson Marcus Burns was a blessing to the Villagers of Ballycarry in 18th century Northern Ireland. When he came to visit, if their floor squeaked it stop squeaking, if their roof leaked, it stopped leaking. Babies stopped crying, dog stopped barking, colors were brighter and the air throughout their home took on a clean and wholesome fragrance. The Parson’s visits brought peace and tranquility to the family along with a sense of security that there would always be plenty of everything they needed.

Some thought the Parson was accident prone because he was known to suffer numerous bruises, scratches, and minor lacerations from odd accidents. Actually, Satan hated him, he cursed him and placed obstacles in front of him to trip him up everywhere he could. He would cause otherwise friendly puppies to bite him and kittens to scratch him. At inconvenient times, bees and unprovoked wasp would sting him. Parson Burns was undaunted by Satan’s efforts. He kept his faith and cheerfully continued his visits with the villagers.

One day while visiting a newlywed couple the bridegroom mentioned that he was concerned that their well was going dry. While leaning over to look into the well, Parson Burns slipped falling headfirst into the well. The young parishioner, trying to save him grabbed the Parson by one leg. Unfortunately, he kept slipping and slipping until he was holding him only by his shoe. Finally the Parson’s foot slipped out of his shoe and he continued to fall into the well which, since being bless, was filled with water. All efforts to save Parson Burns from drowning failed.

The newlywed parishioners kept the Parson’s shoe, placing it in a position of prominence in their home. Throughout their lifetime their home was abundantly blessed with plenty of everything they needed.

Since that time the Villagers of Ballycarry have given a single Parson’s shoe to newlywed couples to remind them of the Parson’s blessing, encourage them to keep the faith and to symbolize their wish that everyone in their home would always have plenty of everything they need. –The Towne Crier, 1796

Just for the fun of it

 We played ball when I was a kid. Sometimes it was with a softball or just a rubber ball. Since hardly anyone had ball gloves, we rarely played hard ball. Sometimes even the bat was home-made, fashioned from a board or pole by someone handy with tools.

I remember a time at my uncle’s place, four or five of us were hitting and throwing a ball around in a freshly mowed hay-field near his house. Others joined us. Someone brought a real bat. Pieces of board appeared and served as markers for bases. Soon we had a crowd of all ages. Everyone got to play and no one kept score. We played till dusty dark – a full afternoon of ball playing, just for the fun of it.

My father was an orphan raised by elderly foster parents. He worked hard all his short life but he took having fun almost as seriously as work. On weekends, we would often picnic on a creek near a swimming hole. There was always a campfire and Mom would fry chicken in a cast iron Dutch oven and roast potatoes and corn-on-the-cob over the coals. We would play in the creek, fish, or hunt treasures till exhausted. These outings didn’t cost much so we could do them often just for the fun of it.

Without a special occasion, we would sometimes make ice cream. We had a hand-crank, ice-cream maker. The neighbors would come and everyone would get to help crank. Someone always put an ice chip down someone shirt – just for the fun of it.

Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit my daddy’s knack doing things just for fun. Many of my leisure activities were attached to an obligation or associated somehow with work. Parties fulfilled social obligations or provided business contacts; even vacations were often combined with business trips. Like many of my associates, I rarely did anything just for the fun of it.

It’s sad that nowadays even kid’s ball games have evolved into achievement oriented, competitive, institutions like T-ball and little league championships and no longer exist just for the fun of it.

There are things I’ve learned to do just for fun. Parades are fun. I like to fish from the bank with a simple pole and worms for bait. Fancy boats and sophisticated fishing tackle seem to take the fun out of fishing.

This Fourth of July, on the spur-of-the-moment, we went out to watch the fireworks. Now we share a simple but pleasant memory.

The western skies near us offer beautiful sunsets almost daily. At one time, I would have felt obligated to fiddle with a camera and worry with framing, focus, and f-stops trying to capture in a single dimension the sunset’s unique beauty. How foolish;  it’s much better to caress and share the moment with someone you care about – just for the fun of it. –CP

 

 

Where Are You Young Jeffery?

It has been more than fifteen years since that day. Jeffery would be about twenty-five today.
I was deep in thought that summer morning when the desperate cries for help from my front yard penetrated the stillness of my small study.
I opened the door to see a youngster, I later learned was Jeffery, running up the street toward our house screaming for help at the top of his lungs. I grabbed the portable telephone and stepped to the porch prepared to call 911. A couple was running a short distance behind calling to him. The sobbing youngster quickly moved behind positioning me between him and the couple; all the while, crying that they were going to kill him.
Everyone seemed to start talking at once. Sorting through the confusion, I learned that Jeffery was the couple’s nephew; that they were contractors working on a job down the street; and there had been a minor altercation to which Jeffery overreacted. The Boy’s mother had allegedly placed him with his uncle because of behavior problems she couldn’t handle.
I realized I had become the mediator in a family dispute for which my qualifications to resolve had been inaccurately assumed. The only thing I was sure of was that Jeffery believed he was in danger.
“I’m sorry to put you in this situation”, said the uncle. “If you’ll just call his mother, she will tell you what I said is true.”
Jeffery said, “I don’t want to stay with them, I want to talk to my mom. I want to go home.”
“Calm down Jeffery, let him call your mom. Let’s get this mess straightened out so this man can go back to his business.” The uncle said.
I handed the phone to the uncle and asked him to dial her number. He dialed and handed it back. The boy’s mother repeated the uncle’s story to me adding that she had even called the police on occasion.
The thought, is this really his mom, went through my head. I said to her     “Jeffery wants to talk to you” and handed the phone to Jeffery.
“Momma please, I want to come home,” he said. “I’m scared. They say I am evil, there’s a demon in me.” His voice was loud and whiney. “Last night they took me to this place where all these people held me down and prayed over me. I’m scared; I think they want to kill me. Please… can I come home? I’ll be good. I promise.”
I don’t know what his mom said to him but after a few minutes, a glass of water, and promises from his uncle that he wasn’t in trouble Jeffery calmed down and they returned to their jobsite.
Through these years I catch myself watching half hoping to see him or his uncle; I haven’t seen either. Today I wonder about young Jeffery. Was he just a spoiled  young man with growing pains or a victim being traumatized by a cult or group of otherwise well-intentioned individuals. CP

Small Town USA

A recent road trip had us passing through many small towns. There are towns off the main road. Then there are towns off the back road. Weldon, Arkansas is off Highway 17 and Jackson County Road 22; neither are main roads unless you live in Weldon.

The homes of the 100 residents looked neat, almost prosperous although the median annual income is probably less than $30k. No doubt, everyone took pride in what God had given them. No one is struggling or living below the poverty line.

We didn’t see many people. Those we saw seemed happy, curious, and carefree with no concern about what is going on in Egypt or even Washington, DC. Their crops were green and abundant. The road was smooth. I got lost in my mind, everything was so Peaceful and unfamiliar. I didn’t recognize any place or the feelings I felt… but I yearned to.

 

Why I like My New Book

Primarily because I did it all myself; all the stories are from my imagination and are recorded as if I personally witnessed the story-line images. The essays are mostly fragments of memories, some enhanced with maybes, or could-have-beens, born of later events or experiences. Others are simply the result of mental fits of anger, love, pride, or remorse thoughtfully presented.

I did all the mechanical tasks myself; the design, typing, layout, selecting the images and arranging the mundane but necessary nits associated with finally publishing. All of this is to efficiently mark the end of a project that has stimulated and amused me for the last few years.

I encounter a lot of people who say they don’t read books; that’s a shame. However, I believe that even they would enjoy this book. I think they would learn to find a few minutes away from their busy lives to savor the taste of a different perspective.

Not only a good read but a great gift for almost anyone.

Available at Amazon, Lulu, and my website under Books

Christmas Memories

We have a box of odds and ends that we retrieve from the attic each Christmas. Many items have been placed in the tattered but sturdy old box over the years.

There’s a string or two of Christmas lights that haven’t worked in this decade; it’s a good place to look for spare bulbs. There are many odd looking parts left over from assembling the kid’s toys on Christmas Eve. Amazingly, the toys seemed to work okay without them.

There is an unused 1976 calendar commemorating the U.S. bi-centennial. And a roll of exposed film, long ago expired, that still sparks speculation about the images it might contain.

There are two Christmas cards all sealed up and ready to mail — except for the incomplete addresses of friends who have moved far away. And some old decorations we don’t use anymore but can’t bring ourselves to throw away.

Rummaging through the old box each year stirs up memories of Christmases past and it usually prompts our annual discussion on the correct way to pronounce Poinsettia.  Then we talk about the way Grandma Hester always used to holler, “Christmas Eve Gift!” when she first saw you on Christmas Eve. Presumably, in her day when two people met on Christmas Eve, the first one to offer the greeting “Christmas Eve Gift!” was to receive a gift from the other.

During this season, a simple thought can bloom in to intricate memories of singing along with the Christmas music playing on the radio, the aroma of cakes, pies and other goodies in the air, and the elaborately tinseled Christmas tree in the living room.

There were no artificial trees in those days. We always cut our own from the woods somewhere nearby.  Mom and Dad could make even the ugliest tree look beautiful. It sparkled and gleamed although there were no colored lights. Many of the decorations were old and homemade. Wonder and mystery surrounded the packages under the tree. Some were bound in last year’s boxes with wrapping paper recycled by ironing out the wrinkles.

We had apples wrapped in purple paper, oranges and nuts; even a coconut which when held a certain way looked like a monkey’s face – or as someone always remarked, “a lot like uncle Jess.”

I know these words and phrases do not reflect the true meaning of Christmas. Nevertheless, I believe playing “Christmas Eve Gift” and the joy of remembering happy moments at Christmastime are yet more gifts from God for saints and sinners all. Merry Christmas!

All About Joe

It’s hard for Joe to be angry with anyone. He can’t be aggressively physical or, except for a brief moment, hurl a hateful verbal attack; this does not mean that he likes everyone, or loves them. It’s just that somehow there is a piece of himself in their place… he feels their feelings, or thinks he does.

He has a strong need for harmony. Conflict in his personal world paralyzes him; this is especially true when it involves those near him and those he loves. He is unhappy and frustrated when he cannot bridge the gaps with respect and reason to relieve conflicts — the conflicts that interfere with dreaming dreams and building memories.

He recognizes that today connects as much to the past as to the future. Failure of a relationship destroys a heritage, sours memories, and invalidates achievements while it makes worthless all the trials, hardships, and sacrifices endured throughout. Even worse, the scars discouraged future effort and their nagging memories burden future contentment.

Joe believes that only death can be as bleak as a final declaration of rejection. In fact, without recourse or hope of appeal, it is worse than death because it holds the spirit captive and robs the mind of any conscious worth.

He understands the feelings of inferiority and the frustrations created by those who watch the gates from a superior position. It’s a feeling akin to rejection but enhanced with a sense of being restrained in a small place, freedom is in sight, yet unreachable. He doesn’t blame these gatekeepers, for unless they are bitter, they are simply savoring their moments, indifferent, and probably unaware — not really trying to hurt or take pleasantness away.

Therefore, he will continue to confront each encounter in search of sweetness – leaving bits of his soul as necessary until he is finally used up. -CP

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