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I have never claimed to be the sharpest knife in the drawer. I am a spontaneous person, and I do a lot of things without thinking them through. Some of them are pretty dumb. But recently I set a new standard. Yes, I did what must surely qualify as the dumbest thing in the history of dumb things.

The story requires a bit of set up. Our house has a finished basement which we often use as a playroom for the grandkids when they come to visit. Over the last couple years, we have accumulated piles of toys, pieces of toys, and partial pieces of the pieces of toys. When the tykes go home, we just shovel everything into a pile against the wall. One day, we decided it would be nice, and certainly neater, to order one of those toy storage organizers, with the twelve cube-shaped baskets that fit snugly into separate compartments.

Sharon picked one she liked off the internet and ordered it. It arrived, unassembled, in a huge box about four days later outside our front door. I opened the door, wrapped my arms around it, and tried to lift it into the house. Whoa! Not a chance. Apparently, there was more lumber and hardware in there than I had anticipated, and it weighted a ton! The best I could do was lean the giant box over and drag it through the doorway. I then dragged it to the kitchen door leading to the basement, pathetically grunting and groaning all the way. Several times during this lengthy process, Sharon pointed out that I shouldn’t do this alone, and offered to help me. But being the masculine, macho husband that I am, I cavalierly refused.

Eventually, I opened the kitchen door, which leads to a fifteen step descension. At the bottom of those steps is the door to the garage, while the door to the playroom is on the right. Both doors were closed. I stopped and pondered for a moment the best way to get the box down the steps. Once again, Sharon offered to help. Once again, I declined. I decided to lean the box down on its side, push it partially over the first step, and slide it down.

That’s when it happened. I did the dumbest thing in the history of dumb things. After leaning the box over the top step, I let go of it so as to move around ahead of it and ease it down one step at a time. You can guess what happened. The instant I let go, that huge, heavy box took off down the steps like a rocket launched out of a silo. It flew down the stairway and smashed into the garage door so hard, the doorknob was dislodged from the door.

Did you ever have one of those moments where you just stand there in suspended animation, wondering if what you just witnessed really happened? Hoping you’re about to wake up from some bizarre dream? That was me staring in disbelief at the top of the steps. Did I really just do that? Could any human being be that stupid? Upon hearing the tremendous crash, Sharon came running, and recognized immediately what happened. If ever there was an I-told-you-so moment, that was it. She must love me. She just smiled gently and said accidents will happen. Maybe the ashen look on my face scared her.

Needless to say, we now need a new garage door. What bothers me the most, is that there were so many more sensible courses of action. Taking the contents out of the box upstairs, or letting Sharon help me slide it down the steps, or just dragging the dang thing around the outside of the house and coming in through the garage! Duh!

I really don’t even know why I’m writing about this. I should be taking this ridiculous incident to the grave. Maybe, in some sick corner of my mind, I’m hoping there are readers out there who will comment about something they’ve done, something they thought was even dumber, just to make me feel better.

I’m waiting…….

So the Lord said to Moses “Take Joshua, the son of Nun, a man in whom is the spirit of leadership, and lay your hand on him.” — Numbers 27:18

The Bible makes it clear that men are to be leaders. Leaders in their families, leaders in their communities and leaders in their church.

Leading is usually not a comfortable place to be. It’s much safer to lay back in the crowd, take time to survey the landscape, let someone else set the direction and then judge the reaction to it. If it works, then fall in step. If it gets criticized, distance yourself from it.

This is precisely the way politics works. For example, several of the people running for state and national office in Alabama are trying very hard to become connected with Donald Trump, while doing their best to distance themselves from any hint of being liberal. That’s the safe path to election in this state.

But Christianity is not politics. In fact, it’s the opposite. Politics is the art of being popular, which necessitates drawing attention to oneself. By contrast, Christianity emphasizes humility and service to others. Surrendering self to follow Jesus and his teachings. Politicians lay back, see which way the wind is blowing, and then jump on the bandwagon.

The Bible tells the story of the transition of leadership from Moses to Joshua. Moses had sent out a group of twelve scouts to see if conquering the promised land was doable. Most of them came back wanting to play it safe. The natives were too big, too strong, too numerous, they reported. There’s no way the Jews could defeat them. Only Joshua and Caleb came back with confidence that, with God’s guidance, they could accomplish anything.

That’s leadership. That’s what it looks like. Not playing it safe, not laying back in the crowd to see what works, what’s popular. Trusting God to lead you in directions that you may not be comfortable with, but are destined to travel. As Moses neared the end of his time on earth, God told him to make Joshua the new leader. The Lord knew Joshua would choose the obedient path, a path that could make him very unpopular with the crowd, based on the negative reports of the other scouts. In fact, at one point the Jews wanted to stone him.

Being a leader makes you vulnerable. Leaders get criticized. People expect them to have all the answers. They expect leaders to be fair, though their own perception of fairness is often skewed toward themselves. Leaders get pressure to succeed. In the business world, an unsuccessful leader gets fired. Who needs all of that?

We do. There has never been a more urgent need for men to step up and stand out, both by word and by example. It’s not a subjugation of women. It’s a complement to them. With God, being an unsuccessful leader is impossible. Even if you don’t please people, you are running the race for which you were created. Pleasing people is not the goal.

It is particularly critical for the men of our senior generation, of which I am a part, to set this tone for our younger observers. They need to see men of conviction, unafraid to proclaim the word of Christ, unafraid to be the first in line for ministry and prayer, unafraid to trust in God’s providence with our finances.

We’ve raised our families. We’ve shown them how to work hard and provide. We’ve shown them how to love and forgive. Now let’s show them how to lead.

It’s a man thing.

I was driving through a Trussville neighborhood recently when I saw something that warmed my heart. A group of children were gathered in an empty lot playing baseball. They looked to range between about eight and twelve years old and they were having a blast. There were no uniforms, no coaches, no scoreboards, no beautifully manicured ball diamonds, no bleachers full of emotional parents and grandparents.

You almost never see that anymore, and there are good reasons for it. The trend seems to be toward building huge houses with small yards, so most families don’t have a yard big enough on which to play ball. Some of the newer subdivisions have a common ball diamond in the playground area, but you rarely see anybody using it.

Then too, the time when mom and dad could feel okay with their child running out the door unsupervised to go play in somebody else’s yard is, sadly, long past. In this scary world we live in today, parents want their eyeballs on the kids as much as possible, and I don’t blame them. Then there are video games and the internet. Why play ball outside when you can slay dragons and alien invaders in your bedroom, while munching on trail mix and slurping down a Coke?

It wasn’t always so. I grew up back in prehistoric times, the late 1950’s and early 60’s, far before anybody knew what a computer chip was, much less a QR code. Seeing those kids play ball took me back fondly to those days, when the topic of conversation on the school bus ride home was always, whose yard is the game in today? We would bolt off the bus, rush into the house, knock down a quick snack, then grab our ball glove and favorite bat and head out to the designated backyard to play for a few hours until the sun went down.

We had to improvise. First base was a rock. Second base was a piece of cardboard. Third base was my friend Joey’s T-shirt. He hated that shirt, but his mom made him wear it, so he quickly stripped it off once out of sight. Home plate was a ball glove supplied by somebody from the team at bat. There was an understanding that it was unnecessary to step on it when batting or scoring. We didn’t have to choose up sides. We knew who we wanted to play with.

There was no outfield wall. Nobody put up privacy fences in those days. The lots were huge and wide open, and the boundary was the woods. If you managed to hit the ball into the woods, you just kept running the bases while the outfielders searched frantically for the ball amidst the brush, the leaves, and the scattered patches of poison ivy. There were frequent disputes about the score, but when it became too dark to continue playing, we all just headed home, not really caring who won. Man, I miss those days.

I frequently go jogging through the Trussville sports park on busy Saturdays. Often baseball, football, soccer and lacrosse are all in full swing. Cars are parked everywhere. In fact, creative parking has become an art form on those days. Sometimes I stop for a few minutes to observe a ball game from a distance. I see the kids stepping up to the plate, with a capacity crowd watching and reacting to their every move, while coaches yell instructions. I would have been petrified at that age. Are they enjoying and basking in all the attention? Or just feeling pressure and stress?

I certainly have no problem with organized youth sports. It gives our young people something constructive to do and teaches them many positive traits. And there is always the chance your child may excel and begin the path that leads to a scholarship one day. The Trussville Park & Rec department does a great job at what must be a daunting task, finding fields and time slots for hundreds of games and thousands of kids.

I just find myself comparing the kids under those expensive batting helmets to the ones I saw in that empty lot, and wonder who’s having more fun.

“The proud man may learn humility, but he will be proud of it.” — Mignon McLaughlin

That’s one of my all-time favorite quotes. I have always been fascinated by the concept of humility. What exactly is it? A state of mind? A lifestyle? Is humility something you have? Or is it something you are. Can a person be humble in some things, but not in others? Or do you have to be one hundred percent totally humble to have humility?

I once heard a preacher say that humility is the strangest virtue of all because the moment you think you finally have it, you’ve lost it! For my part, I can only paraphrase a famous saying. I can’t define true humility, but I know it when I see it. I used to think humility was living a life of service to others without caring if you received any credit or acknowledgement. But after having the privilege of a lifetime of observing some truly humble people, I have come to see it goes deeper than that.

Real humility is a mission of serving others without even realizing there is credit or acknowledgement to be had. The truly humble seem to just live right for the sheer joy that it brings. Most often I have found it connected to a person’s spiritual relationship. In the Bible, the book of James states “Humble yourselves before the Lord and He will lift you up.” Psalm 149 says “For the Lord takes delight in His people. He crowns the humble with victory.” Sure enough, that seems to work for the authentically humble folks that I know. They just live a life of unselfishness because they are secure the love will come back to them. You could, in fact, make the argument that the only way to achieve real humility is through faith in such a higher power.

If you’re lucky, you know people like this. You’ve seen it modeled. You recognize it right away, don’t you? It sticks out like car headlights on a dark street. People who do for others so consistently and quietly, that they might even be a bit surprised and puzzled by any notice or credit.

Here’s an example. United Ability, located off Lakeshore Drive in the Homewood area, provides programs for people who are genuinely disabled. The teachers in those classrooms work very hard and deal with a lot of adversity. But you probably knew that. What you may not know, is that there is a separate staff, whose full time job is to take the participants to the bathroom and, if necessary, help them to execute their bodily functions, clean them up and return them to the classroom. That’s what they do. Every day.

They are called PCA’s, which stands for personal care attendant. You would not expect these workers to be particularly happy campers. You would be wrong. Most of them go about their jobs with a smile on their face, a sweet disposition, and the offer of a helping hand wherever it is needed, while going largely unrecognized by the general public. They are angels of mercy not only to the special needs people they tend to, but to the teachers they assist. I know this to be true. For two years, I was one of the substitute teachers they ministered to.

Seeing humility like that modeled in real life brings home my distance from it. I still get offended when I open a door for someone and they don’t respond with a “thank you”. It’s not for lack of wanting to be humble. (Is it even okay to want to be humble?) I enjoy service to others, and I like to think I have done a bit of it. But alas, I must sheepishly confess that I enjoy, maybe even need, a little acknowledgement once in awhile. Just a little pat on the back. An occasional “attaboy”. I guess I want to be humble, but I want everyone to know that I’m humble.

Thomas Merton said “Pride makes us artificial and humility makes us real”. I suppose that’s what makes true humility so easy to spot, but so hard to emulate. We only approach it when we are content to just be the real person we were created to be, instead of laboring hard to be someone admired by others.

So find the real people in your life. Watch them blush as you tell them how much you love and appreciate their humble walk. You don’t even have to mention you got the idea by reading this column.

See? I’m getting more humble already.

My daughter, son-in-law, and their three kids climbed into their minivan and drove off, bound for Disney World. Sharon and I stood waving in the doorway, Sharon holding the eight month old baby boy they were leaving with us. For the first time in thirty-six years, we were going to be the full time caretakers of an infant. This nine day assignment had been planned for months. But just because you know something is coming doesn’t mean you’re prepared for it.

To this point, we had the blessing of enjoying our grandchildren in smaller doses. We spent many days and evenings with them babysitting, taking them to the playground, going to watch their ballgames and dance recitals and such. Occasionally one of them would spend the night. But nine straight days? This was taking it to a whole new level.

Did we remember anything about taking care of a baby full time? Will we get any sleep? Did I still possess the ability to suspend breathing through my nose while changing a diaper?

We were told the little guy would wake up about 4am each morning. Sharon told me the schedule. It called for a feeding and nap at 9am, another feeding and nap at 2pm, and to bed for the night around 7pm. I replied that would work fine for me, but what about the baby? She failed to see the humor.

At least he wasn’t up and running yet. He had worked his way to doing that army crawl, where you pull with your arms and drag the rest of your body behind you. We spread a blanket out on the floor and scattered several of his toys around it, foolishly believing the blanket would contain him. It’s amazing how fast a tyke can slither across a room, especially when there’s a dachshund chewing a rubber bone on the other side of the floor. Poor Oscar had to endure getting his floppy ears yanked and his tail pulled. Being the gentlest dog on the planet, he merely responded by attempting to slurp the baby in the face. (If my daughter reads this, don’t panic. We managed to stop him before any of the slurps landed….. I think.)

Feedings were interesting. We would gently slide the spoon into his mouth, whereupon he would take great delight in motorboating his food back out, spraying us with it. Didn’t take long to realize I was the one needing the bib, not him. We took him for walks on Trussville’s greenway along the Cahaba. The soft spring breeze and gentle vibration of the stroller wheels would lull him to sleep, thereby throwing him off schedule. Oh well, a sleeping baby was a happy baby we figured. I know it makes for happy grandparents. Ultimately we realized trying to establish a schedule was futile. He was on his own schedule. It was quite clearly his world and we were just living in it.

At this point I should pause to emphasize that I have been using the word “we” loosely. Sharon did most of the work, most of the getting up overnight, most of the diaper changing, most of the feedings. Yet, somehow, I felt more exhausted than she did. Where do women get this capacity to care for loved ones 24/7, enduring the fatigue and frustration? The old saying is true. There’s nothing like a mother’s love. Or a grandmother’s love. I frequently offered to jump in and take over. She usually let me off the hook, saying “It’s okay dear. I’ve got this.” Man, I love that woman.

Mainly, I was in charge of play time with this little ball of energy, or rocking him to sleep while we watched sports on TV together, or an occasional feeding, or releasing his clutches from Oscar’s ear. We watched a lot of that satellite channel Baby TV. It’s educational, but a bit ambitious. I’m not sure our eight month old is ready to learn what a trapezoid is.

I was also appointed vice-president in charge of non-baby activities, such as walking dogs (ours and theirs) and making food runs. All in all, it actually was quite fun , and apparently the baby had a blast as well, judging by the glee in his face when he managed to strafe the glasses off my face, or pull my fingers into his mouth and chomp them with both of his teeth. I had always heard there are only two reasons a baby cries. Either he is hungry or dirty. I beg to differ. Sometimes they just feel like being cranky, for no apparent reason. I can relate.

And why is it that, when you’re taking care of a baby, you always seem to see pacifiers lying around all over the place. Until you need one. At which time they have all disappeared into thin air.

The first day or two seemed to last forever, but after we settled into a routine, the time went by quickly. Now that he’s back home, I miss the little guy. Our week together was much more of a joy than I had anticipated. I wouldn’t mind doing that again.

Just don’t tell Oscar. His ears and tail are still recovering.

I bought my first car in 1972. It was a brand new Plymouth Gold Duster. I loved that ride. Treated it with the tender loving care you’d give a newborn baby.

I had just gotten hired to my first full-time job at the exorbitant salary of $400 per month. My biggest concern was that I would not be able to afford the gas to keep the car running. After all, the price at the pump had zoomed up to a ridiculous thirty-six cents per gallon. Just a few years earlier, we were only paying a quarter.

Outrageous as this obvious price gouge was, at least I was still getting full service when I pulled in. I had but to roll down my window (hand cranking it of course), and tell attendant number one whether I wanted to fill ‘er up, or just get my usual five dollars worth. Meanwhile, attendant number two was already at work spraying detergent across my windshield, wiping it clean, and examining my wipers to see if they were getting worn. Simultaneously, my hood would pop up, as attendant #3 was busily checking my oil and wiper fluid levels, while pulling the wire brush out of his tool belt to scrape the corrosion off my battery terminals. Attendant #4 was lurking around the perimeter of my vehicle, taking the inflation reading from all of my tires.

If I got a tad bored while waiting, I could step out of my car while all this was going on and roam into the station, where I could pick up a free state road map, and draw a soft drink out of the dispenser. The drink was supposed to cost a dime, but often the station owner would just give me a wink and tell me it was on the house. Really, the least he could do, considering the bizarre profit he must have been making off my gas purchase. Most of the time, I just sat in my car and watched the service team at work. I was reluctantly willing to pay the increased cost, because these guys always came out and gave me the full service treatment. At least that would never change.

Four years later, I traded in my Gold Duster for a 1976 AMC Gremlin. Oh, I see you laughing. I’ll have you know this weird looking little vehicle was all the rage then. Wide and a little clunky, but it had stereo speakers in the doors and FM radio! And the gear shift was on the floor, as opposed to the steering wheel, giving it a race car feel. It was awesome. But there was trouble brewing.

At the time, I was busy getting married and pursuing my career. I wasn’t paying much attention to the news. I kept hearing snippets of reports about America’s deteriorating relationship with the oil producing countries in the Middle East. Whatever, my young adult mind thought. Not my concern. Until this thing called the great gas shortage struck in the late seventies.

Not only did the price per gallon skyrocket to eighty-nine cents, but, even at that unimaginable price, there wasn’t enough to go around. The country actually had to resort to gas rationing. If your license tag ended in an even number, you were allowed to buy fuel on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. If an odd number, you could gas up on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. Run out on Sunday? Too bad. Pump up the tires on your bicycle.

There were lines at the pump blocks long. There were fist fights as drivers got out of their cars to challenge someone who tried to cut in. I clearly remember my Dad, who was a staunch Republican, complaining that the whole mess was because the Democrats in office had mishandled the whole foreign policy thing, and that things would get better if Ronald Reagan could win the presidential election in 1980. “Mark my words” Dad said. “Gas will never go above the one dollar mark.”

Reagan did indeed take office in 1980. Gas went up to $1.19 per gallon.

In 1989, after buying a house and having children, I graduated to driving a truck. It was a Mazda with an extended cab so the kids could sit in the backseat. I wasn’t getting anywhere near the gas mileage I had with the smaller cars, but that was okay. Things had settled down on the international oil market, and the United States had stepped up its own production. The cost per gallon had actually gone down and was hovering around one dollar.

By this time, I was pumping my own gas, wiping my own windshield, checking my own oil and fluid levels, and inflating my own tires. A lot more work, but I was okay with that. At least the gas crisis was history. We had learned from our mistakes.

I knew I would never have to pay $1.19 for gas again.

Courage for me is keeping a dentist appointment. My idea of bravery is doing battle with the squirrels in my backyard, as they try to shimmy up my birdfeeder pole to steal seed. That’s how comfortable and secure my blessed life has become in this great land that I live in.

But what is going on in Ukraine has reawakened my understanding and appreciation of the true meaning of courage and bravery. Let me make clear this is not some partisan essay. I do not write this as a conservative or a liberal. I am merely a bystander who sees the fearless people of Ukraine risk everything to fight for their country, while the rest of the freedom-loving world watches, willing to contribute money and equipment, but remaining steadfast that Ukrainians must fight this battle alone.

I don’t begin to understand the complexity of the politics involved. And I don’t want to. I only know that watching the newsreel scenes of their struggle makes me feel sad, scared and inspired, all at the same time. The way they continue to find hope in what seems hopeless. How they persevere against the relentless and the inevitable. I wasn’t alive in the early 1940’s. I wonder if this is what it felt like when Adolph Hitler began expanding his power in western Europe. Were these the kind of emotions that were stirring in the hearts of the American colonists some 250 years ago, as they geared up to end the control and domination of English tyranny.

And forgive me for having doubt, but I wonder about us. Faced with a similar oppressor, would we still fight for our freedom? Would we cast aside our political divisions, our racial biases, our financial and geographic differences, and unite in the rediscovery that we are all one, that we are all free under a great and mighty God, and that no other regime or nation should ever be able to take that away from us? Or have we become so comfortable, so secure, so self absorbed, that we have lost perspective of the commitment and sacrifice necessary to make it possible?

Life is so good here. My biggest problem today will be negotiating the potholes on highway eleven. I don’t have to worry about an artillery shell striking and destroying my house. My hardest decision today will be what to eat for lunch. I don’t have to decide between gathering up my family and fleeing the country, or staying to help fight a war that will likely end my life. There won’t be any grandmothers here fashioning small bombs out of empty bottles to throw at enemy tanks as they roll down main street. There won’t be any young mothers having babies in air raid shelters.

As I watch the war in Ukraine unfold, I find myself with a refreshed awareness of the courage and bravery that is displayed and preserved all around me. I drove a little slower past the military memorial in Civitan Park. I thought about all the names inscribed on it, the bold warriors who fought for me. An American flag flies above the entrance to my subdivision. Normally, I am oblivious as I motor past, lost in my selfish thoughts. Not today. I gave it a little salute. I have been profoundly reminded of what it took for that flag to be up there, flapping proudly in the early spring breeze.

To the people of Ukraine: God be with you. And thank you for so heroically showing us once again that freedom and patriotism are worth fighting for. Even dying for.

As a child, I was taught that each of us has an angel that has been assigned to watch over and protect us. But we grow up and become cynical adults, and the concept of a guardian angel becomes merely the stuff of childhood fairy tales.

Until you meet yours.

Back in the good old days, when highway eleven was actually paved, I was an avid bicycle rider. Biking was more fun than jogging. Jogging is a constant grind. On a bike at least there are times you can lean back and coast downhill. When the weather warms up, the best time to go for a ride is early in the morning, around sunrise, before the commuter traffic hits the streets.

My favorite route was to head from Trussville up Highway Eleven northbound toward Argo. About four miles up the road, the landscape breaks into an open field, with a wooded range of hills sprawling behind it. It would take my breath away watching the sun come up over the ridge, it’s beams reflecting off the morning dew in the field, making the horizon appear as though it is actually glowing. All the while the cool morning breeze floats across your face as you pedal up the road. It was like riding into the middle of a beautiful oil painting.

I would turn left on to Advent Circle, cross over Interstate 59, and pass by a horse farm, which leads to a long remote stretch of road, heavily wooded on both sides. So peaceful. Then a right turn on to Liles Lane, which features an extremely steep hill that can propel you to speeds approaching forty miles per hour. That’s not much when you’re in a car, but I can assure you, it is terrifying on a bicycle. I was on the brakes all the way down. Liles Lane reconnects with Highway Eleven, completing the loop back home. It’s a journey of about fifteen miles.

One early Saturday morning, I headed out to do my usual ride. Rain was in the forecast and skies were already starting to cloud up. So I took off around 5am to try to beat the storm. As luck would have it, when I hit the wooded stretch on Advent Circle, the remotest part of the route, I felt the bike vibrating on the road and the pedaling becoming more labored. Any veteran biker knows that feeling. It’s a flat tire. Normally I carry a spare inner tube in my seat pack, but I had recently used my last one. At this point, I was about six miles from home, with storm clouds intensifying overhead. I heaved out a big sigh, resigned to the fact I would have to walk my bike all the way home, and if I got caught in the downpour, so be it.

I had walked about a quarter mile when I saw….could it be? At 5:30 in the morning? On this country road? Sure enough. It was a young man, riding a bike coming toward me. He was wearing the unmistakable uniform of a veteran cyclist. Tight fitting body jersey with the brand name Trek in big letters. Trek was the brand endorsed by Lance Armstrong before his fall from grace. My bike was a Trek.

He immediately recognized and understood my situation. He stopped, pulled out a spare tube and grabbed my bike to install it within my flat rear tire. I told him I could do it myself, that I was just grateful for the the spare. It takes me about half an hour, but I can do it. He laughed and told me he was an expert on flats, and had it done in about five minutes. I thanked him profusely, and he rode off saying “Have a blessed day”. I pedaled home. I beat the rain by about ten minutes.

I continued to bike that same route for years. I never saw him again, nor had I ever seen him prior to that morning. Was he my guardian angel? Some would say it was just a very fortunate coincidence.

Too much of one, if you ask me.

I have a family that I never spend time with, barely talk to, and know nothing about. I call them my greenway family.

Ever since the onset of the Covid scare, I have been a bit gun shy about going to the gym. Nothing against gyms but, you know, close contact, sweaty bodies, sharing common equipment and all that. So, as a replacement for the exercise, my dachshund Oscar and I embark on a daily walk down Trussville’s greenway. It’s a beautiful stroll along the Cahaba.

I rarely miss a day. Sometimes my wife Sharon will go along, but most often it’s just me and Oscar. Funny thing is, it’s turned out to be much more than exercise. You see, if you want to meet Trussville, I mean really catch a cross section of the people who live in and frequent our city, take a walk on the greenway. You will encounter young and old, black and white, male and female, tall and short, some who are badly out of shape, huffing and puffing, others ripped like Hercules, jogging past as though they are ready for the Olympic trials.

Most will unfailingly greet you with a smile and a hello. Young tots always want to stop and pet Oscar. He loves the attention. Some are deeply absorbed in whatever is playing on their earbuds and will be too distracted to make eye contact, but they are in the minority.

Then there are the regulars. You won’t know who the regulars are unless you are one, like Oscar and me. For example, there are the two sweet ladies pushing a small child in a stroller. They might be sisters. They kind of look alike. They always greet me warmly and make a point of saying hi to Oscar. There is the young couple that walks at a terrific pace, grinning and sharing a greeting as they blow past you. They will lap you several times before you finish. Here comes that older gentleman on a bicycle. He rings his little bell as he comes up from behind to let you know he’s there.

Another couple approaches riding bikes. The man is towing a little enclosed wagon with a dog inside of it. It’s also a dachshund. In fact, he will almost always call out “Dachshunds rule!” as he rides past. One young man passes me saying “Go Pack Go.” I yell back “How ’bout them Cowboys”. That’s all we’ve ever said to each other. We know each other’s favorite teams only because of the fan shirts we have worn during our walks. There is the Park & Rec employee who always takes a break from cutting grass when I go by to tell me about the latest disc golf competition he is entering. The lady with the large, beautiful dog (not sure of the breed) who has trained it to step off the sidewalk and sit quietly when another dog walks by. (Oscar would never do that.) The older fellow who is labored and a bit stooped over. He never speaks, but always flashes you a big smile and a point of the finger.

Of course, Oscar has his own set of familiar, furry faces. At one time or another he has buddied up with breeds and mutts of every size, shape and disposition. He knows who his friends are, and who just want to be left alone.

I see these random folks almost every day. Don’t know their names, don’t know anything about them, other than what I observe as they come by. Yet, somehow, they have become a kind of family. My greenway family. I can’t explain it, but they give me a sort of irrational stability, continuity. All is okay in the world. I miss them when I don’t see them. I’d like to think they miss me too on the rare occasions I’m not out.

Maybe some of them will read this and recognize that I am writing about them. Then maybe next time we pass on the path they might stop and chat a bit. I might even learn their name. But I wonder….would that ruin it? Is the charm of just passing and greeting and smiling, without having to put any effort into a conversation, precisely what makes the experience so appealing? Uh. This is getting way too deep. Overthinking is not allowed.

Suffice it to say, some day the Covid threat will be over. It will be time for me to go back to the gym. But I’m pretty sure I will find the time to continue my walks. I will need to know my family is still there.

And Oscar has made it clear he requires the extra attention.

In the movie The Sixth Sense, young actor Haley Joel Osment utters the iconic line “I see dead people.” Well, I think I may have a sixth sense.

I hear buildings talking to me.

Okay, I see you edging a little further away from me on the sofa. I know it’s all in my imagination. But I can’t help feeling there’s something sad about a huge, ornate building that formerly housed a popular, thriving business, now standing empty and abandoned. The Trussville area has its fair share of these.

Take, for example, the edifice on Trussville Crossings Boulevard. The one next to Zaxby’s. It used to be a Costa’s restaurant. We ate there several times. But it has stood empty now for several years, falling apart and getting overgrown with weeds. Every time I drive past it, a melancholy feeling comes over me. I feel like I can hear it calling out to anyone who will listen, saying “Hey, I used to be pretty and popular. I used to be loved. Now I’m forgotten and alone. Nobody cares. Won’t somebody please buy me and fix me up? I want another chance!”

I get the same vibe from the former Moe’s Southwest building across the street. Or the former Wendy’s/gas station structure on Highway Eleven. Or the store that housed The Straw Hat at the corner of Main and Chalkville Road, which has also been a pizza shop and a soda fountain/pharmacy.

Others just seem injured and in waiting for medical care, like the fire-damaged Kemp’s restaurant by the railroad tracks. And don’t kid yourself. They are very jealous of the shiny new structures going up all around them, like the new school administration building, the Rodney Scott barbecue place and the Hero donut shop. “Sure,” I hear them saying. “It’s easy to attract attention when your paint is fresh and your landscaping is manicured, when you’re the hot, new business in town. But will they still love you when you’re old and your novelty has worn off?”

The emanations I get are not always downers. Take the former K-Mart building off Chalkville Road. I clearly remember the early nineties when Trussville was considerably under-retailed. K-Mart was really the first major chain of its kind to come to town. We were all so happy that our sleepy little burg was getting some shopping! But as the flood of other stores poured into the city, K-Mart began to fade, and when it finally shut the doors for good, the huge, vacated building seemed to heave out a sigh that I felt with every passing journey.

Small wonder then that when these buildings do get a second life, they are overjoyed. That Former K-Mart is being revived with not one, but three different tenants. Ollie’s, Tractor Supply and a pet store are bringing life back to the old brick and mortar, and it gives me a good feeling. I can almost see the smile on the walls when I pull up into the parking lot. I can hear the Chinese buffet and Mexican restaurants next door shouting “Welcome to the neighborhood. Thanks for the new foot traffic!”

I felt like I was picking up on joyful sounds from the old Food World, when Fresh Market moved in, and eventually got an exciting new neighbor as Ace Hardware took up residence to rescue the Tuesday Morning space. I swear I hear giggling when I pass the old Zoe’s restaurant, as Five Guys prepares to take over.

Sometimes I think I feel impatience, almost like a foot tapping or fingers twiddling. When Edgar’s Bakery opened, that stately white companion building next door was all dressed up, but with no one to embrace. “C’mon,” it would call to me. “Look how pretty I am. Surely someone wants to dance with me.” And finally, it was “spotted” by Eyes On Main (pun intended).

So the next time you are driving through town, and you pass a building that is empty, or newly occupied, or brand new, don’t be surprised if feelings come over you. Feelings that seem to talk to you. It doesn’t make you weird. It just makes you like me.

Well, I guess that does make you a little weird.