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.
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.
My mama and I had a lot of conversations in the car. A lot. We were always going from here to there, or somewhere.
“Did you know I coached basketball one time?”
“What? When? Where? Were y’all any good? Did you win? Who was your best player? Did you have an assistant?”
“It was my first year teaching. John A. Holmes High School in Edenton. I was told I’d be coaching the girl’s junior varsity basketball team after I took the job.”
I was less than impressed.
“We had a perfect record, too.”
“You were undefeated?”
“The varsity boys got the gym right after school. Then, the JV boys practiced. The varsity girls got it next and we could have the gym about seven or eight at night.”
“Y’all practiced at eight o’clock? What about the other gym? That’s not cool.”
“Son, there was only one gym and they didn’t care if the girls practiced or not.”
“And y’all won every game… that’s incredible.”
“We didn’t win.”
“But, you said…”
“I said our record was perfect. It was. We lost every game.”
“Mama! That’s awful. You didn’t win a game?”
“We never practiced. I wasn’t about to go in a dark school, late at night, with a bunch of ninth-grade girls. We showed up for the games and what happened, happened.”
Oh well. They didn’t ask my mama to coach another season.
Maybe coaching wasn’t her thing, but she could play ball. She was the starting center on the Thomasville High School women’s basketball team.
I inherited my mother’s enthusiasm for the game and her height, but not her ability to shoot the ball.
Sophia’s mama, Vikki, played soccer and field hockey. I had never really thought about it, but we’re an athletic family.
The competitive fire burns deeply in her DNA.
Whatever the reason, the girl was eager to join a team at Meadowlark Middle School.
Her first choice was volleyball. I was surprised.
“Why volleyball?”
“We watched it during the Olympics and I think it would be cool.”
Fair enough. Go for it. This, for a child that had not played a single point of volleyball.
It wasn’t a complete shock when her name did not appear on the roster.
She accepted an offer to be the team manager. She went to practice every day. She worked out with the team. She kept stats. She counted substitutions.
The season ended. No trophy. No championship. She came home with new bruises and a dull pencil.
No matter. She learned lots and she’s got a better chance to make the team next year.
“Basketball tryouts are Tuesday. Can I go?”
Yes. Of course. Go.
I met Sophia in the carpool line after the first day of tryouts.
“How’d it go?”
“Good.”
“Can we move past the mono-syllabic responses, please? How many people were at auditions? Tryouts. Whatever they are.”
“Fifty or sixty.”
“Fifty or sixty?!?!”
I was not expecting that.
“What did you have to do?”
“We warmed up. We ran. We scrimmaged… I think I made one of them mad.”
“One of who? A coach? A player?”
“A player.”
“What happened?”
“Well, we were scrimmaging and she got mad and threw the ball down and started yelling at me. ‘You can’t do all that and keep putting your hands in my face!’”
“Sophia, what were you doing?”
“I was guarding her. I said, ‘you know what? I’m doing my job. It’s called defense. You should look it up.’”
“Yep. She’s probably mad. She’ll get over it. Good for you. You did the right thing.”
Sophia was utterly serious. I struggled to hide my laughter.
You should look it up.
Damn. That’s funny. Make the team or not, that’s pure gold.
Tryouts lasted all week. Another round of cuts every afternoon.
Team rosters were due to be published on the school’s website by 6:30 PM.
There it was. “Sophia Griffin” was the second name listed.
Sophia is practicing layups in the driveway.
Vikki is ordering terrible towels and a Mustang jersey.
Margaret is undoubtedly pleased to know practice begins at 2:00, not 8:00.
I’m relieved. Excited. Proud. Hopeful.
#22. You should look it up. Oh, me. I’ll forever love that. Go, Sophia. Go.
Well… we’re one hour into the first day of school and I’m nowhere close to sleeping.
Something isn’t right. I’ve cried and cried while watching SISTER ACT 2 and JUMANJI (the one with the Rock, not Robin Williams.)
This is the first time in Sophia’s life I won’t be in school. I’m crushed. Broken. Lost in in a seemingly endless darkness. Unneeded. Unnecessary. Bitter and generally not fit to be around.
Whatever. There is nothing to be said. Monday ain’t about Jeffrey.
The wave of first-day pictures and new haircuts is imminent.
Freshly-sharpened Ticonderoga #2’s have been replaced with school-issued Chromebooks and mechanical pencils.
We’ve written on the car windows. Lunch notes are folded and tucked where they will be inevitably discovered.
New outfits are hanging on the bedroom doors and the new shoes are laced.
Vikki and I are PTA members at Vienna and Meadowlark.
Alarms are set and new face masks are beside the door.
What’s left?
God.
G.O.D.
Guard On Duty?
Good Old Dad?
Greatest Of Designers?
I don’t know. I’m honestly not feeling like an “All the way with Yahweh” cheerleader. I feel done with the universe and I don’t like it.
The night before school begins has always been, for me, like the night before Christmas. Full of excitement and wonder with unbridled joy and enthusiasm for the next adventure. Not tonight.
Might as well get to what matters…
God, look after Sophia and Miles. Look after all the children.
The teachers.
The assistants.
The custodians.
The secretaries.
The administrators.
The coaches.
The counselors.
The cafeteria folks.
The maintenance brigade.
The bus drivers.
The crossing guards.
I need-want-hope-ask-pray-and-plead for each of these people to have the best school year of their lives.
It’s selfish. I want them to be at their best so they can give their best effort while teaching and leading Sophia and Miles.
Lord, keep stupid people away from our children.
Remind the world that perfection is impossible.
Send kindness and grace through the school doors.
Prevent our children from chasing friendships that are unhealthy, unfair and unlasting.
Put the worry on me. I’ll carry that cross.
Shut the doors on mean-spirited, inequitable, unforgiving hearts.
Fill their days with patience and wisdom and joy.
Their school schedules are somewhere here on the desk, but I can’t find them. If I could, I’d call each teacher by name. Perhaps later today…
God, fill the fifth grade at Vienna Elementary with unseen angels and keep my boy safe.
Surround the sixth grade at Meadowlark Middle with warriors cloaked in the armour of Heaven and keep my girl safe.
May Sophia and Miles be twice as good as their father and half as good as their mama.
I’m not a baseball person. It’s not terrible, or anything. I simply prefer football and basketball.
Baseball games take too long. Too much wandering around. Too must talking. Too much scratching. I don’t have the patience.
I’m not a statistics person. Batting averages and ERA’s don’t do a thing for me.
On the other hand…
I respect the tradition. I think the World Series is terrific, but I wish they’d play a day game once in a while. West coast late games are too late for me.
I have a bat autographed by Pete Rose. I loved Tommy Lasorda. Willie Stargell and the Pittsburgh Pirates were a lot of fun.
Nannie, my grandmother, said there were two teams in baseball: the Dodgers and the Yankees.
“We’re for the Dodgers and we’re not for the Yankees.”
Got it. Yay Dodgers. Boo Yankees.
My grandmother ran a boarding house in Thomasville. Many players on the Hi-Toms lived with Blanche and Barney during their minor league playing days.
One such boarder was Eddie Matthews. 500 home runs. 12 all-star games. Cooperstown. Before he hit the big leagues, he played in the yard with my mama while my grandmother cooked in the kitchen.
I’m not completely baseball ignorant.
Vikki and I sat on the first base line to watch the Yankees and the Mets.
My mama took me to more than a few games at Ernie Shore Field.
I work for the Chicago White Sox. For me, baseball is work.
I was searching for an adventure to fill out our Louisville expedition.
The Louisville Slugger Factory. Okey dokey. That might be fun.
Was it? Oh boy!
I was immediately pleased when the parking deck elevator deposited us in the lobby of the bat factory. No lines. No waiting. We were in it to win it less than sixty seconds after parking the car.
Sophia and Miles each selected a bat to be engraved with their name. We submitted the order and headed for the factory tour.
The tour is splendid. You are literally in “the” bat factory. Wood chips flying. It smells like a forest. Numerous video screens and an excellent sound system allow every member of the touring party hear the Hillerich & Bradsby story.
One of the neatest facts we learned: the company owns huge tracts of woodland to sustain the supply of trees necessary to manufacture a gabillion Louisville Sluggers each year. The company plants more trees than they harvest. Impressive.
We each took batting practice. For the sake of family harmony, I’ll say nothing more about this, EXCEPT… everybody made contact with the ball. At least once.
The most unexpected and thrilling moment was the opportunity to hold a game-used bat from a legendary player.
Sophia held one of Willie Mays’ bats.
Miles posed with one of Hank Aaron’s thunder sticks.
Willie Mays. Hank Aaron. It was enough to make me cry.
Normally, we let the kids do the stuff. We watch and cheer and take pictures. (If we remember to take the camera.)
I couldn’t help myself. I stepped forward and pointed to a bat in the display case. I was certain the answer would be, “no, not that one.” The attendant smiled and handed me the bat.
One of Babe Ruth’s bats. Good. Gracious. It happened.
We returned to the store and got Sophia’s and Miles’ bats. They are beautiful. It’s the perfect souvenir. Really.
So you know: seating options are practically non-existent. There might be room for ten people to take a seat. Prepare to be on your feet.
No concessions are available, but there is a Subway one block down the street.
The store offerings are limited. It’s 99% shirts and bats with a few hats tossed in for good measure. That’s pretty much it.
All in all, a fun time and well worth the visit. Get tickets online in advance.
I like horses. I do not like beer. The Budweiser Clydesdales are majestic.
I invariably felt a tinge of sympathy for Hoss Cartwright’s horse on BONANZA. Hoss was a big boy. I’m a big boy.
The seersucker suits and outlandish hats at the Kentucky Derby are spectacular.
Thus ends my lesson on Equine History In 20th and 21st Century America.
Questions?
Like many, our family gathers together to watch the Derby. Everybody picks “their” horse based on the name and the design of the jockey’s outfit.
In other words, we don’t know much of anything about horse racing.
As a broadcaster, I’m always impressed with the call of the Derby. “Down the stretch they come!”
My favorite horse name, ever, is Thunder Gulch. He won the 1995 Run For the Roses.
The Triple Crown is cool, but the Derby is the thing.
Kentucky is horse country. I was super-excited to visit our nation’s most famous horse-racing track.
Normally, I commit an unreasonable amount of research to our next adventure, so I can share everything I’ve learned with Sophia and Miles.
I didn’t do anything in preparation for our visit to Churchill Downs.
First of all, don’t be surprised. Churchill Downs doesn’t “do” visitors. It’s a working race track. They don’t do tours. A dress code is in place for some areas.
Don’t despair.
The Kentucky Derby Museum does everything, and more. You don’t have to go anywhere else. The museum and the track share a wall. It’s the same place. The same parking lot. The museum is too the left of the gigantic statue of Barbaro and the track is too the right.
Two different websites, but it’s no big deal.
The Kentucky Derby Museum is everything you could possibly want. They offer scheduled tours of Churchill Downs and the exhibits are top-of-the-heap-no-doubt-about-it-better-than-anything-you-can-imagine-wonderfully-fantastically-outrageously-ridiculously-good.
Really. I promise.
I incorrectly assumed Churchill Downs was perched in the middle of a horse pasture and I was expecting to park in a bluegrass-colored field.
Shame on me.
Churchill Downs and the Kentucky Derby Museum are situated in downtown Louisville. The parking lots are paved. Signage is everywhere.
Look up. The Twin Spires are historical landmarks and the first indication you’ve arrived in a place steeped in tradition. Excellence. Style. Magic.
The staff members are precisely what central casting ordered. Kentucky is not geographically in the deep south, but I felt like I was stepping on the porch at the family homeplace, nestled between moss-cloaked oak trees and magnolia blossoms.
The opening film is breathtaking. The screening room replicates the shape of the track and the images are projected 360 degrees. (It’s not particularly easy to explain. Make it work. It’s spectacular.) I wept. Sometimes, the moment is so good, the only appropriate response is tears of joy.
The exhibits are… well, I’ve used most of the adjectives in my wheelhouse. The exhibits are extraordinary. Interactive. Engaging. Educational. They’re fun!
The tour is brief, but spectacular. We stood on sacred racing ground, in the owner’s box (I don’t know what else to call it) right beside the track. Extended tours are available.
Track renovations are underway, so the view was mildly obstructed by machinery and mud. But, gimme a break. They have to do maintenance and upgrades and all that stuff. It’s part of being a responsible caretaker. Not a big deal.
Fact is, we ran out of time. We spent so much time reading and playing and learning on the first floor, we didn’t get to explore much of the second level. That’s completely on us, not them.
The bottom line: I like museums. I love museums.
I’ve been fortunate to visit many of the world’s great museums. My list of favorites includes the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, the Louvre in Paris and the Smithsonian Museum of American History in Washington.
My mama took me to Washington, D.C. for July 4th in 1976. We visited the National Air and Space Museum on its fourth day of existence.
I’m not easily impressed. I’m rarely dazzled. Vikki and I don’t typically visit the same place twice. The world is so big, we want to explore new places and embark on new adventures.
The Kentucky Derby Museum is easily in my top ten of the world’s museums. Bravo. I loved it. We loved it.
You don’t have to be a horse racing fan to appreciate the offerings. The experience will not be lost on any soul that has yearned for excellence and holds a deep affinity for tradition.
That said, we’ll return to the museum and Churchill Downs for the Derby.
I want to watch my wife in a sundress and a wide-brimmed hat she can’t wear anywhere else. I want to share a mint julep with our daughter. I want to help our son tie his bowtie to match his seersucker suit.
I’ll be there, too. Straw hat. Pocket watch. White shoes. Everything else, I’ll figure out between now and then.
I didn’t do haunted houses as a kid. I’m not especially fond of scary things. Then… I met Vikki. (For those of you playing along at home, I am Vikki’s husband.)
Vikki grew up going to haunted houses. Halloween is one of her favorite seasons.
Obviously, I wanted to impress the girl. I finally convinced myself that going to a haunted house is kinda like going to a show. It’s similar to attending a production of THE SOUND OF MUSIC.
They’re performers. Costumes. Makeup. Props. A blood-splattered clown isn’t really going to chase me with a chainsaw. We’re not really in danger.
Cool. That made sense. We visit haunted houses every October. It’s a fun time. (Plus… I get to hold hands with a ridiculously pretty girl. In the dark. Win-win.)
That said, I believe ghosts are real. Ghosts. Spirits. Entities. Genuine hauntings and haunted houses couldn’t be more diverse. Completely different.
In my research for our Louisville expedition, I discovered the existence of Waverly Hills.
The Waverly Hills Sanatorium opened in 1926 as a facility to treat the burgeoning tuberculosis epidemic in the Louisville area. In 1962, it was converted to a geriatric care center before being closed by the state of Kentucky in 1982.
It is widely recognized as one of the most haunted sites in the world and has been featured on GHOST HUNTERS, GHOST ADVENTURES and PARANORMAL LOCKDOWN, among others.
By all means, let’s go!
Paranormal tours are recommended for folks 13 and older.
Sophia and Miles, our bouncing baby girl and boy, are not yet 13. What to do?
We’ll go anyway. They’ll be with us. It will be fine. (They’ve begged to join us on our Halloween haunted house adventures for years and we’ve repeatedly denied their requests. We think they’re too young and we don’t want to scar them for life.)
Might as well start them out at one of the most famous haunted destinations in the world. (If they can handle a real-life encounter, Spookywoods or Woods Of Terror or wherever ought to be a breeze!)
I kid you not… clouds were closing in, rolls of thunder echoed in the distance and lightning was visible on the horizon.
The perfect night.
Reservations are a must and should be scheduled several months in advance.
There is no handicapped accessibility. The tour incorporates a seemingly endless number of stairs, there is no seating and it’s damn hot, even with an 8:00 PM start time.
(It’s an abandoned hospital. Set aside any notion of air conditioning.)
A paranormal tour lasts two hours. Go to the bathroom before you start. No food or beverages on the tour. No flash photography. No video or audio recording is permitted. You can have a small flashlight to help navigate the pitch-black stairwells.
Most importantly, don’t leave the group.
I think that does it for the rules.
Sophia and Miles were excited. And nervous. Vikki was eager to begin. I was curious.
The tour is cool.
We learned about Audrey & Lois, William & Sadie, Timmy and Sarah. We visited the morgue, the body chute, the operating room, the children’s ward, room 502 and the hyper-active fourth floor.
The big question: Did we see anything?
Sophia will tell you it was a ghost-free night.
Vikki didn’t encounter whatever she was hoping to find.
Miles is utterly convinced he saw faces and shadows.
As for me, well…
I watched a small, blue ball roll across the floor in the children’s ward.
The windows were knocked out long ago. Could it have been the wind? Perhaps, but I didn’t feel a breeze.
I saw two orbs of light on the fourth floor. A reflection? Maybe.
More than anything, I sensed a heaviness in the air. I didn’t like it. There is a darkness on the property.
I’m not necessarily scared of ghosts. They’re like people. Some spirits are good. Some spirits are not-so-good. Sometimes, they’re lost. Lonely. Maybe they enjoy where they are and they feel their work is not finished.
At Waverly Hills, I felt enormous sadness. Some bad things have happened in the crumbling rooms. Whether those incidents took place in a tuberculosis ward or a geriatric center or an abandoned building, I don’t know.
The building is falling apart. Graffiti decorates every wall.
From my understanding, the current owners are trying to raise funds to restore the structure.
To do what needs to be done, the project will require millions of dollars. Generating hundreds, or even thousands, of dollars through ticket sales and asking a group of volunteers to bring ladders and help hang sheetrock in the dining room won’t get it done.
It’s an enormous undertaking. No question.
Waverly Hills presents a gigantic opportunity for the right group. It can happen. I hope the property is restored.
For me, the tour was less than I hoped for. The evening is dictated by the personal experiences of the guide.
If Waverly Hills is one of the most haunted sites in the world, treat it as such.
It should be a world-class experience and it wasn’t. Fewer excuses and more mystery would be a good beginning. Waverly Hills should not be presented as a personal playground for adults searching for a hobby.
The massive thunder and lightning storm was an impressive bonus, but everybody won’t be afforded that luxury.
I’m glad we did it and the stories were terrific, but it’s unlikely I’d go again.
The Family Griffinski (Vikki, Sophia, Miles and Jeffrey) explored the Louisville, Kentucky area. Our familial galivanting was delayed more than a year due to the pandemic, but we finally made it.
Some families use designated vacation time to officially do nothing. That’s cool. Completely understandable.
Our vacations are packed. One adventure after another. They’re not for the weary.
The world is a big, wonderful place. Vikki and I believe part of our parental responsibility is to introduce Sophia and Miles to as much as we can so they can decide for themselves what they like and don’t like.
We do as much as we can in the time we have. Go big or don’t go.
Louisville.
The Ark Encounter wasn’t the only reason to visit Muhammad Ali’s hometown, but it was definitely the biggest.
Wow. I don’t know any other way to describe the structure. It’s huge. Gigantic. Mammoth. One could even reference the boat as “Biblically large.”
Parking was slow. Remember where you leave your vehicle. Signage is limited.
The line to have tickets scanned and receive admission wrist bands moved quickly. Everybody was super-polite. Again, directions and signage are limited. Keep your eyes open and use your common sense.
Transfer buses take everybody from the parking/ticketing area to the welcome center. The wait is minimal. Buses are constantly on the move.
For the most part, you’re on your own once you get to the welcome center. Signage is limited and not anything I’d call intuitive. People of all ages were running wildly about. Trying to figure out where to go and what to see was a proverbial crapshoot. Pick a direction and go.
Admittedly, there’s a lot to do: zoo, play area, zip lines, restaurant, retail store, performance/presentation area. And, of course, the ark.
We ventured outside and headed for a relatively small entrance on the far side on the welcome center marked with a rainbow arch.
Surprise! The rainbow arch is the only entrance to the ark. Fine. Off we go. I mean, you can see the ark. As I may have mentioned earlier, it is enormous. Seriously.
So you know, it’s a long walk. L.O.N.G. A few birds are caged in displays along the path, but little information is provided so it’s not always easy to know what you’re looking at.
The encounter is a confusing blend of Biblical fact and artistic license.
Is it a literal recreation or is this one man’s interpretation of Noah and the flood story? Hard to know…
Some elements of the story are presented as scientific fact. On the other hand… some elements of the flood story are unapologetically fictional. Names are assigned to Noah’s wife and his daughters-in-law. Those individuals are not named in the Bible and these identities are fictional. Just saying.
The lines intermittently move at a sloth’s pace. The first major stoppage is the line to board the vessel, which is delayed by the obligatory Ark Encounter photo opp. We did it. It was neat. We bought the photographs, but they are in desperate need of additional cameras and photographers.
Interior seating is plentiful throughout the encounter. Concessions and restrooms can be found on every level.
The displays.
They’re not bad. That said, it was not what we expected. Dinosaurs? On the ark? Where are the lions and tigers and elephants and giraffes? All the models were displayed behind bars and cages.
I appreciate the artistic freedom in any endeavor, and I’m especially forgiving with museums, but this didn’t work for me.
The Ark Encounter is not a literal recreation. Fine. Not a problem.
Facts are incorporated when they support the less-than-thinly-veiled evangelistic mission of the encounter while other facts are cast aside when they don’t support the vision of the institution.
Truth be told, nobody knows what happened on Noah’s ark.
Were the animals in cages or did God put every critter in hibernation-mode for the duration of the voyage?
Do the Biblical apologists have a monopoly on the truth? I don’t know.
I’ve long believed the heart of the story of Noah and the Ark is this: The Lord will save those who believe. The righteous will be lifted up. God’s grace is greater than His wrath.
But that’s just me and I am hardly an authority.
Exploring the ark is an all-day outing. We didn’t have the time nor the energy to visit the zoo nor any of the supplemental offerings associated with the Ark Encounter. It would take at least two days, if not three, to fully participate in everything.
The interior is dark and generating quality photographs is a challenge. The soundtrack is less-than-informative and leaves a lot to be desired.
We were tired and we finally gave up. We didn’t watch the movies. We missed the gospel music concert. We decided to find lunch on our own. (It’s not a complaint, but the Ark Encounter is so indescribably massive, fatigue is invariably the end result of the day’s activities.)
The retail store (gift shop) is extensive, but many of the shelves were empty. Perhaps it is an issue of supply, due to the lingering effects of the pandemic. We couldn’t purchase gifts for family and friends because so many items were unavailable. That was disappointing.
The line to view and purchase the official Ark Encounter photographs was ridiculously long and slow-moving. Oh, my goodness. That stretched my patience about as far as it could go.
One more thought…
I’m a Christian. I love Jesus. I treasure the story of Noah and the Ark.
Sometimes (too often) Christians carry an unreasonable and inappropriate sense of self-righteousness.
I was deeply troubled by the air of superiority that permeated every breath during our visit.
Christians should not – must not – traipse around the earth pretending to be better than everybody else. Not cool and woefully inaccurate.
I witnessed subtle finger pointing.
I heard whispered snickering.
I sensed the disdain that accompanies self-congratulatory eye rolling.
I wonder how Jesus feels about the modern-day Pharisees and Sadducees that so easily pass judgment upon those with whom they differ?
Life lesson: more compassion and less condemnation.
I’m on the home team and I felt surprisingly uncomfortable simply because I think differently.
I have news for the universe. Christians don’t have every answer and the notion we do is sorely misleading. We have Jesus. That is enough. We don’t have to know all the answers.
It was uncomfortably obvious that a great many on board the ark just outside Louisville, Kentucky wanted to share the moment only with those that believe exactly as they believe. That’s a shame. The world is full of endless variety. God loves the flowers and the weeds. Oh well, to each their own.
The Ark Encounter was not my favorite adventure. It is what it is. I think it is worth the visit, if for no other reason than to get some perspective on the shear size of the vessel God ordained for the survival of mankind.
I hope those who feel led to visit will be understanding and welcoming to every man, woman and child who desire to learn more about the story of Noah and the Ark.
Vikki and I have had a LOT of subsequent conversation about Noah and the Ark with Sophia and Miles.
We learned.
We remembered.
We were introduced to new ideas.
We were also reminded that God is big enough to handle whatever it might be.
I sat by myself in my classroom, completely exasperated with all those folks who refused to wear a mask over the last 15 months. Your refusal to acknowledge the shark in the deep end of the pool prolonged the pandemic and changed our way of living.
We didn’t lose as much as a lot of families. Other kids missed proms and graduations and sports seasons. Weddings rescheduled. Funerals isolated. Anniversaries unobserved. We missed a school assembly. It was not the end of the world.
That said, I couldn’t help but succumb to the darkness and the disappointment.
Sophia and the Vienna tribe celebrated the end of their elementary school journey with the 5th grade recognition assembly. We could not attend. No parents. No families. The kids and their teachers. The administration.
My classroom was dark and the door was locked. I cried and cried and cried. Heartbreak may be too dramatic, but it felt a lot like an achy-breaky heart.
I routinely tell Sophia, “remember who you are.”
Vikki says I have a gift for identifying obscure connections between myself and fictional characters.
Probably true.
Take Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, for example. Dumbledore and I think similarly about a great many things. I appreciate his ability to turn a phrase.
As the man said, “being me, has its privileges.”
To borrow a phrase, “Sophia, being you has its privileges.”
Being Vikki’s daughter has its privileges.
Being Jeffrey’s girl has its privileges.
Being Margaret’s grandchild has its privileges.
Being you also comes with enormous responsibility.
The girl is probably weary of hearing my daily proclamations about acting like a lady and speaking kindly and dressing appropriately and on and on and on.
I can’t help myself. I don’t worry about grades or test scores. Behavior and integrity and responsibility and grace and love are everything.
I know she is tired of the sermons and the stories and the expectations. I would be, if I were her.
I watched the Vienna Elementary 5th grade recognition assembly on YouTube. (Thank you to whomever arranged that.)
I was an emotional wreck from the beginning. I saw her walk through the door and tears were rolling.
First thing I noticed, Sophia is tall. I see her every day, so it hadn’t really hit me. Tall youngin’. Dadgum.
White dress. Black sweater. She is beautiful. (You wouldn’t think it to watch her eat tacos, but that’s a work in progress.) She looked every bit the lady and princess she will be.
Individual awards.
The Positive Role Model award for 2021 goes to Sophia Griffin.
I called Vikki. I think all Vikki heard was a blubbering cacophony of snot and tears.
It’s one thing to talk about doing the right thing. Preaching and teaching will only do so much. Guide the horse to water and hope they drink deeply.
It’s something else when the adults who watch and teach and guide and encourage your child recognize the effort and willingness to be a good person.
Responsibility matters.
Kindness counts.
Words are powerful.
Effort makes all the difference.
It wasn’t Jeffrey and Vikki thundering about the virtues of life.
It was the influence of Catherine Davis, Julie Doub, Meghan Wham, Alan Goldenstein, Melissa Safrit, Kristen Trivitte and Latoya Cockerl.
It was Lee Koch and Lisa Davis and Marie Pierce.
It was Shannon Ivester, Hallie Foster, Whitney Warlick, Shaun Howe, Tammy Hancock, Tyler Foster and Jill Daniels.
And, of course, the ever-present light of Ms. Lisa and Emily Roobull-Rewbewl-Ruuboll-Ruebel.
These people celebrated our daughter.
These people recognized that Sophia Griffin is becoming a lady.
These people.
Thank you.
You are loved.
Thank you for loving our daughter.
Thank you for teaching our girl.
We’re ever grateful.
Sophia, what you do matters. Remember who you are. We are proud of you. Well done. We love you.
Life has been a ginormous-engantic blur since the January 6 Capitol insurrection.
I’ve skipped through days and nights with every notion of putting pen to monitor. “Roads are paved,” or whatever they say about good intentions.
Nothing like treading water in a hurricane.
Valentine’s Day. It happened. I tried. Honestly. It wasn’t spectacular and I felt badly for the poor execution. I pride myself on holidays. Surprises. Adventures. My family deserved better. I was distracted.
It’s been two years. My mama died February 14.
It’s more difficult now than it was then. That’s surprising. Unexpected.
For the most part, I stepped over the sadness and the memories.
Heart-shaped pancakes. Candy. Sparkling grape juice. A visit from our Valentine fairy, Ethel the Love Lady. Heart-shaped pizza. WONDER WOMAN 84 and movie-theatre popcorn. More candy. We rescheduled dinner and settled for the Sunday special at Taco Bell. So much for shrimp cocktails and stuffed chicken breasts with fettuccine.
No flowers. No teddy bears. No jewelry. No balloons. (For the record, I don’t have the battle-tested temperament for the balloon line at Dollar Tree I used to have.)
Vikki and Sophia and Miles didn’t have the day I wanted them to have. Right or wrong, that’s how I felt. Distracted, indeed.
Before Margaret held court in room 150 at North Forsyth or marked handbell music at Maple Springs, she sang.
My mama was a singer. An extraordinary voice.
One night in my youth, I was watching television. A lady was singing. I was kinda-sorta listening in the way only a teenager can fully understand.
“Mama! That lady sounds like you. What’s up with that?”
Sarah
“Why do you say that?”
I was watching the screen.
“Look, look. See? She does that same thing you do. That Elvis lip-snarl thing at the corner of her mouth. That’s exactly what you do.”
My mama smiled.
It was true. Whenever Margaret sang, really sang, she would throw her head back and the corner of her mouth would curl up a bit. Her hand would cross in front and grasp at what I imagined to be an invisible martini glass or menthol cigarette. I don’t know. Maybe it was a lightning bolt. Whatever it was, it worked.
“That’s Sarah Vaughan. I wanted to sound like her. Do you like her?”
Margaret
“That woman can sing! I love it.”
Today, I am playing a recording of Sarah Vaughan singing MISTY for my school children.
Jeffrey Griffin 