2022-February – Jeffrey Griffin

A Million Miles

Some people are out of touch.

If they don’t know, you can’t tell ‘em.

Other people get it.

You don’t have to explain a thing and they understand exactly what is happening.

The distance between out-of-touch and in touch sits somewhere between the seat next to me and a million miles away.

The decision to end the Broadcasting Program at the Career Center was cemented in place elsewhere. The million miles away neighborhood.

Clearly, it didn’t happen in the room where the learning and teaching happened.

That sermon is best saved for another day. (It’s not really a sermon. It’s more of a comprehensive encyclopedia of how to dismantle a highly effective career-preparation training program.) But, I digress.

Those in charge made the decision to end the program with no regard for anyone or anything else. “Let’s do whatever causes the least amount of paperwork.”

The program was never about test scores. Nor software. Nor data. Nor certifications.

It was about preparing young people to take advantage of the opportunities that are inevitably available to those who make the effort.

The program was always about building better people. Opening doors. Shining lights. Scattering seeds.

Brett was, and is, one my kids. He graduated from Happy Appy. He works for Learfield. He has applied to be part of the broadcast team for the Winston-Salem Dash, the Class-A affiliate of the Chicago White Sox.

Brett texted and asked if I was willing to reach out to the Dash on his behalf and “say something nice.”

Of course. I texted a friend.

“Hey. This is Jeffrey. I’m writing to say something nice. One of my children submitted an application. Good kid. Works hard. He is looking for an opportunity. Maybe y’all can listen to his demo a second time?”

My phone buzzed. Another Brett text.

“Mr. Griffin! I just got done with my interview with the Dash. They said they are seriously considering me for the job! Thank you!!!”

“That had nothing to do with me, Brett. That was all you. You should send a thank you note for the interview. I’m proud of you. Good luck!”

My phone buzzed again. It wasn’t Brett.

It was Jacob.

Jacob graduated a few years ago. He was a pole-vaulter in high school. He arrived in my room with a subtle streak of sarcasm and wild hair, for which I frequently had a comment about his time seemingly spent in a wind tunnel.

We got along exceptionally well.

“Mr. Griffin, this is Jacob. Thought I’d share the good news. The faculty in the Communication Department at Western has selected me to be the general manager of the campus radio station for the 2022-2023 school year.”

Jacob is an undergrad at Western Carolina. I hope he’s still pole vaulting with tall hair, but I don’t know.

“Jacob! Congratulations. That’s fantastic. Well done. I’m very proud of you. Bravo.

Remember – when you lead, some people will invariably complain.

Don’t worry about them. Do the right thing.

Thank you for sharing the good news. Congratulations.”

His response emanated not from a million miles away, but rather from the seat next to me.

“Just had to make sure the one who started me on this journey knew about it.”

Jacob gets it. Brett gets it. Thank you, boys.

The others don’t know and we can’t tell ‘em.

Harper Valley PTA (Part 2 of 2)

The PTA sponsors a yearly, nation-wide arts competition. Our children entered every year. Some projects turned out better than others. Oh well.

Competition is for horses, not artists. Nonetheless, Sophia and Miles entered. Many times. Many years.

They submitted entries in the creative writing category.

They’re our children and I’m biased. Absolutely. Guilty. I am their biggest critic and their loudest cheerleader.

The writing was extraordinary. The judging didn’t matter. I knew they had already won. Different grades meant different divisions meant two awards and two winners.

I told Vikki, “They’ve won. It’s so good, I can hardly stand it. She’ll win for her grade and he’ll win for his grade. I’m quite certain they’ll both win at the state level. We might have two national champions sleeping in this house.”

Was I expecting too much? Was my anticipation overtaking my common sense? I wondered.

I left our bed in the dark of night, retrieved my favorite red pen and printed a copy of their essays. I needed to be sure. I attacked their writing like I was the editor-in-chief of the New York Times.

Nope. I was right. The writing was THAT good. Well done, children. Well, freakin’, done.

Awards were announced and presented.

I damn-near fell out of my chair. No first place. No second place. No third place. No honorable mention. Nothing.

My head was spinning. I looked at Vikki.

“Did I miss something?”

I entertain an occasional conspiracy theory out of curiosity, but it’s hardly a guiding light.

Children with obvious connections to the PTA volunteers responsible for organizing the contest and judging the entries won multiple, first-place awards. Their friends and acquaintances occupied many spots on the list of honorees.

Would people actually do that? It seemed impossible. I couldn’t bring myself to think it, much less say it out loud.

Surely not. How ridiculous. I was left to my thoughts.

A trophy and a certificate don’t mean that much.

The backseat brigade was unusually quiet on the way home.

“Y’all, your writing is fantastic. Nothing changes that. You did great work. We’re proud of you.

Oh, and you don’t have to enter again. I don’t think it’s worth it. We can find another contest. If you want to.”

We went to Dari-O for ice cream. It soothes the soul.

My mama and I went to see HARPER VALLEY PTA in the summer of ‘78.

It was a movie about a single mother who takes on the Harper Valley Junior High School PTA. The heroine is ridiculed, dismissed, harassed and threatened by the PTA leadership because of how she chooses to live her life.

Barbara Eden was the star.

The theme song, performed by Jeannie C. Riley, is spectacular. Take a listen when you can.

Barbara Eden’s character dares to ruffle the feathers of those in charge and there is hell to pay.

It’s a movie with a message, whose time has finally come.

Whether it’s declining an offer of help because all that is really wanted is a signed check and quiet in the gallery…

Or manipulating the judging of an elementary contest so the kid with the most prestigious address can hang the blue ribbon on their bedroom wall…

Or refusing to meet with a fifth-grader who is asking for support to create a new event for classmates…

What’s right, is right. What’s wrong, is wrong.

You can be a Luebchow or a Yarborough or a Woodard.

Or, you can sign the card and join the Harper Valley PTA.

Make your choice.

Harper Valley PTA (Part 1 of 2)

My mama was indifferent when it came to the PTA. That’s Parent Teacher Association, for those playing along at home.

I vaguely recall the existence of an occasional PTA meeting in elementary school, but not much else.

It was a non-entity during junior high.

Julian Gibson, the legendary principal at North Forsyth High School, disbanded the PTA long, long ago because he felt they served no meaningful purpose.

That’s not to say parents didn’t help. The early musicals at North would not have happened without the heroic efforts of the Luebchow, Yarborough and Woodard families, among many.

When Sophia entered kindergarten, Vikki and I joined the PTA. My mother and Vikki’s mother paid the membership fee and joined, too.

We were committed to doing everything we could do to help Sophia, her teachers and the school create the most spectacular environment possible.

Room parents. Special events. Fund raisers. We’ve helped where and when we can.

There is a yearly outreach to enlist volunteers and ideas to prepare for the next school year.

I replied.

“I’m willing to do this or that, either here or there, however and whenever it needs to be done. Have y’all thought about…?”

I’m seldom short of bright ideas. It comes with the territory of being Margaret’s son and growing up with Gretchen, Terry, John and Uncle Larry.

We think big.

We do things.

It’s how life goes.

My enthusiasm was tempered with a less-than-welcoming response on official PTA letterhead.

“Mr. Griffin, why don’t you leave the thinking to the ladies? We suggest you find some other fathers and do some landscaping around the school. Pick up sticks. That kind of thing. We’ll handle the rest.”

To say I was surprised would be an egregious understatement.

“Pick up sticks?”

Vikki doesn’t like it when I utter grownup words. She was not happy with my behavior that day. I had a lot to say.

Needless to say, I wasn’t done.

I wrote the principal and copied the PTA. Among other things, I asked the school administration to reach out to the PTA leadership and clarify the importance of offering fathers and grandfathers and uncles and brothers and coaches the opportunity to work and volunteer within an elementary school setting. The world needs reliable, responsible male role models.

That was a costly move.

We were effectively shunned. Friends stopped answering our phone calls. Text messages were blocked. Invitations to the pool ceased.

My wife lost a good friend. Play dates with Sophia and Miles were few and far between. Invitations to birthday parties rarely appeared in the mailbox.

I remained hard-headed and defiant. Fathers can do more than pick up sticks.

Vikki and I continued to volunteer. Not because we were welcomed and certainly not invited, but rather we believe school is a family commitment. As long as Sophia and Miles are in school, we’ll be there.

Working. Giving. Helping. Hoping. Encouraging. It’s what parents do.

It’s precisely what the Luebchow, Yarborough and Woodard families did, and it mattered.

Being in charge and doing the work do not always go hand in hand. Pick, if you can. Choose, if you must. We choose to do the work.

The Bookmark

We never know how long it will last. Do we? No. Not really. We hope. We pray. We wish.

A painting. A song. A story. A scrap of ribbon.

The United Methodist church wasn’t always the United Methodist Church.

The Methodist Church and the Evangelical United Brethren Church joined hands in 1968 and the modern-day United Methodist Church was born.

Cool.

The United Methodist Hymnal was finally published in 1989.

I’ve spent many hours (more specifically, sermons) exploring the pages of the United Methodist Hymnal.

I am especially fond of “John Wesley’s Rules For Singing,” printed in the front of the hymnal. It should be required reading for all musicians and every member of the congregation. Good stuff.

The hymnals at Maple Springs were dark blue. I thought that was how they came. I didn’t know there were options.

I later learned hymnals can be ordered in almost any color. Hard-back. Soft-back. Leather-bound. Large print. Loose leaf. There is probably a digital version by now. However you want it or need it, you can get it.

Fine. I’m eternally partial to the dark blue, but that is hardly the point.

The Maple Springs congregation used the hymnals a lot. A lot. Readings. Responses. Hymns. Baptisms. Communion. Funerals. Whatever we needed, just like Prego spaghetti sauce, it was in there.

For the prepared or the easily confused or the excessively organized, the increased hymnal usage necessitated the presence of multiple bookmarks. Paper clips. Strips of paper. Sticky notes. At least that’s the way it was in the choir room.

The ever-mounting pile of marks and clips and strips and notes finally got the best of my mother.

We headed to Piece Goods. For those of you that didn’t spend a significant portion of your childhood among bolts of cloth and pattern books, Piece Goods was the local fabric store.

I knew it all too well.

My mama and my Nannie traipsing around Piece Goods looking for “something” that would work.

“Jeffrey, get 25 yards of each one.”

“25 yards? What are we gonna do with 125 yards of ribbon?”

She handed me five gigantic spools of grosgrain ribbon. One each of red, gold, purple, white and green.

I could feel the rest of my Saturday slipping away.

“It’s the liturgical colors. We’re going to make bookmarks for the choir. I’m tired of seeing paperclips.”

I couldn’t help myself.

“Gold isn’t liturgical.”

“Well, it looks good and I like it. Get the ribbon.”

I was less than happy. Another Saturday at church. Yippie.

Nannie found the right thread. Mama got some kind of heavy-duty-to-this-day-I-don’t-know-what-it-is material and we headed down Reynolda Road to our home away from home.

I helped cut the ribbon. They measured and sewed and argued with the sewing machine. It was similar to a lot of Saturdays at the Pumpkin Church.

That was 1990.

This week, I was asked to return to my home church and sing HOW GREAT THOU ART in a celebration of life service for Catherine Collins.

I don’t particularly like singing at funerals. It’s hard. Emotionally, I have to remove myself from the moment. Everything in me wants to politely decline and magically become unavailable.

Terry Hicks taught me an invaluable life lesson.

“You can turn down an invitation to sing at a wedding. That’s fine. It’s probably a year away, anyhow. But, funerals are different. That family is hurting and they need you. You don’t ever get to turn down a funeral. You go and you sing. That’s how it is.”

He’s right, but I don’t like it. Anything but a funeral.

Nonetheless, the Collins family asked and I said, “yes. Of course. I’ll be there.”

Dennis played the organ while I tried to get my thoughts and my breathing under control. Easier said than done.

I didn’t have a hymnal and there were two congregational hymns listed in the bulletin.

I reached to a chair on the second row and grabbed an all-too-familiar-dark-blue United Methodist Hymnal.

I was tempted to stop and read the “Rules For Singing,” but, I had other things to do.

I opened the hymnal and placed it to rest on the seat to my left. Something looked different. It couldn’t be.

A worn, homemade five-ribbon bookmark with frayed edges fell from the pages.

How long will it last? 32 years?

We pray. We hope. We wish.

I guess that Saturday trip to Piece Goods was worth it.