You keep talking about how much money you have. And, listen, I’m impressed. I’ve been to Trump Towers, even eaten lunch there – great service, tremendous food, I’ll have to put you in the top percentage of approval for that adventure; tremendous, really above average; and I noticed that only the beautiful people, including me, were there. Wow! A tremendous Trump experience. I’m also impressed with some of the Trump apartment/condo high rise buildings I’ve visited. Again, tremendous, truly impressive. Something like those enterprises could only have been constructed by a person who is really rich, on top of things, and above average. I have to give it to you: When you build something you do it well.
I, on the other hand, have no buildings with my name on them. My daddy wasn’t able to give me that kind of kick-start. But, now keeping in mind that Dizzy Dean said if it was true it wasn’t bragging, I, I’m happy to tell you, like you, am a tremendously successful entrepreneur. Frankly, some of the things I’ve done are nothing short of amazing.
While I don’t have any great buildings bearing my name, nor a plane, or a helicopter, I do participate in a far-flung empire of which I am a major investor. For instance, I have recently invested in the higher education of Karen and Elizabeth in Paraguay. Alfonso and I partner in a grocery store in Honduras. Narciso runs a cattle farm I helped him establish down in Nicaragua. Well, I don’t want to keep listing the accomplishments, but my lack of humility demands I mention the Clothing Store in Honduras and the – wait, let me bow my head humbly a moment lest you think I’m special – well, there’s the medical clinic I helped get running in Nepal. Hold on, I don’t think I mentioned the fabric store run by Mehrikhow in Tajikistan or Corazon’s grocery store in the Philippines. Sorry, sometimes I just can’t help letting people know how wonderful I am.
To tell you the truth, a full day of programming on Fox News wouldn’t be enough time to list my accomplishments in international investments. The endeavors listed above are just a smidgen of the wealth I spread around. I’m sorry, I don’t want to brag, but I’m pretty special. In fact, I’m down right awesome. I’m so awesome my girlfriend is not a 10; she’s a 12.
I’m sure by now you’re wondering how an insignificant, retired, country parson could so completely diminish a man of your billions in the international investment world. It’s simple. I’m a member of a vast financial empire called Kiva. People like me, with no buildings named after us, no helicopters, no planes, no weird hairdos, no – well, I won’t go there because, in truth, I do have a small beer belly - combine our resources to change the world.
You see, Mr. Trump, even though I’m on a fixed income; even though I’m retired with limited resources, I can give a small micro loan to people trying to climb out of poverty. I can lift their esteem by letting them know there’s a tired old American, blessed beyond measure by God, up in the old US of A, who wants them to succeed. And I can give one of them, each month, a small amount of $25 as a micro loan to start a business or go to school. And here, Mr. Trump, is the reason that I, despite your billions, are richer beyond measure than are you:
When I loan Alfonsa that $25 for his grocery store in Honduras, he’ll pay it back. But instead of taking the payback and putting it in my pocket, I’ll loan it to someone else through this vast international financial empire called Kiva. So, if every month I loan someone a new $25 and I re-loan whatever has been repaid to me that month, it compounds. (I’m sure that a man of your wealth understands the concept of compounding.). And if I do that every month for fifteen years …. Well, get your accountant to do the math.
On top of me doing that, there are a lot of my friends doing the same thing. Just recently my friend Teri Petersen, in Chicago, made an investment in Honduras. Another friend, Amy Arrowood Lin, in Raleigh, N. C., made an investment in Jordan. And Mary Beth Butler, another friend out in Texas, made an investment in Pakistan. (Please note that these investors are scattered throughout the entire country. And, I'm fairly sure they vote.) I don’t know how much of an investment they made in the individual projects they selected, but I know they’ve been doing it for a long time and their investments have been compounding and compounding and compounding for the last decade.
And forgive me, but I must make a further comment. I have better hair than do you. That picture of your hair blowing in the wind just will not quit haunting my mind. Terrible. Unacceptable. Inexcusable. How could a person running for public office do that to themselves? On the other hand, I’m bald. Baldness is always neat. Sorry, I just am heights above you in this category.
So, listen up, Mr. Trump. Get real. You’re not as successful as you think you are. You see, you have invested in real estate. There are a lot of us much, much richer than you. We are the ones who, through Kiva, choose not to invest in inanimate objects like buildings and walls, but, instead, we invest in humankind. And that's what makes America great, still.
Please feel free to call me, or one of my investor friends, when you need investment advice.
Hold on! - Okay, just checked in the mirror. I'm right.
In the early 80s my daughter tried out for the boy's high school soccer team. Sh got cut. BUT in a team meeting some of the players said, "Coach, she's better than any others." The coach responded, "I know, but she's a girl."
The next week I met with the assistant superintendent of the school system. I said, pointing to the gentleman sitting next to me, " This is my attorney. I going to tell you what the coach said in front of a couple of dozen witnesses, and then you can tell me who you want to talk to, me or my attorney. I will say that I need you to consider the ramifications of Title Nine."
He listened. Within a year girls's soccer was on par with boy's soccer.
I thought of this as I came across this documentary:
The debate over the Planned Parenthood undercover videos has fascinated me over the last few days. Never mind the issue of whether the videos were edited in a way to embarrass the Planed Parenthood organization. Never mind the issue or whether Planned Parenthood would be donating embryo tissue for research. Here's where it rests with me:
I have lost three grandchildren who did not make it to term. I remember the day I stood in a room at Northside Hospital in Atlanta, Georgia, with my son. He held the unborn fetus of his son, whom he and his wife named Lyndon. It was a small, small, representation of human life, maybe six inches long. The women who formed the society that supported the families of such children had knitted a little shirt and a cap to adorn that unborn child's body. We wept. We wept.
And a few days later we gathered at a cemetery in Sandy Springs, Georgia, in a section called "Baby Land." I presided over the ceremony from the United Methodist Book of Worship titled, "Service of Death and Resurrection for a Stillborn Child." That child was laid to rest in a scared place with all the ceremonies of a Christian burial. It was a sad day. It was a tearful day. It was a joyful day.
The greatest frustration of my ministry, here in the county where I've served as a "retired elder" for going on twelve years, is that I have been unable to get anyone interested in a place for such burials here. I so desperately want to establish a place where stillborn children can be buried with the dignity and sacred blessing that is due all children.
Here's my frustration resulting from my personal experience and the news of the seemingly set-up of the Planned Parenthood doctors. The people who want to discredit those doctors because they are, in their view, not respecting the dignity of the human life, never, in my experience, give support to efforts to provide a place where the stillborn can be buried with dignity, with Christian love, and with acknowledgement of the wonder of life.
I'm still dreaming and working for the establishment of a cemetery called "Baby Land" in the county where I live.
Back when I was a small boy, (actually I don’t remember exactly how old I was but it was pre-school) my mother was sitting on the street curb in front of 1812 McLendon Avenue in Atlanta, Georgia. I know that was the exact address because it was my grandmother’s house and that’s where my mother and I lived.
My mother was sitting on the curb with her best friend, Ruth Pittard. Now my mother was a good looking woman. And that’s not the statement of an adoring son. I can show you pictures. My mother was a good looking woman. And Ruth Pittard? Whew! Strange, even at that age, I was aware that Ruth Pittard was something else. From the perspective of this present time, I’d say Ruth Pittard made male hearts go giddy-up.
So, there’s the picture of things on that particular day back when. Two beautiful women sitting on the street curb in front of my grandmother’s house talking about whatever they were talking about. And behind them, seated on the grass I played with my toy truck.
Playing with a toy truck is fun at the age I was as my mother and Ruth Pittard sat on the street curb talking about whatever they were talking about. But, there are only so many things you can do with a 1940s tin toy truck on the grass in grandmother’s front yard before the boredom stalls the truck. That’s what happened. The tin, toy, truck was stalled by boredom and would not again crank.
I stood. I walked up to my mother and Ruth Pittard. They kept talking. I tried to interrupt. I was dismissed with a suggestion I continue to play with my toy truck. They didn’t seem to understand the concept of the toy truck being stalled.
I went back to the truck. But, hard as I tried, I could not get the truck to restart. Boredom never restarts the energy of stalled effort.
I rose again and walked over to my mother and Ruth Pittard. They were still talking about whatever they were talking about. I interrupted them. That was probably not a good idea. I was told not to interrupt them. I tried to provide a quick crash course on the effects of boredom. The subject was obviously above their comprehension. I was dismissed again. This time I refused.
I informed my mother and Ruth Pittard that if I was not included in whatever they were talking about I would run away from home. Now, my mother, beautiful as she was, could be a bit curt. She turned her head to look over her shoulder at me and suggested that would be okay.
The gauntlet had been thrown. My mother was a stubborn woman. My mother was prone to shoot from the hip. I am my mother’s child. I picked up the gauntlet. I ran away from home.
I ran away from home for about twenty yards. At that point I tripped. I fell. My forehead made contact with the edge of the concrete driveway. The skin on my forehead ruptured. The bone beneath cracked. I screamed.
I don’t remember being picked up and taken into the house. The next thing I remember is standing on the toilet seat as my mother, Ruth Pittard, and my grandmother poured Iodine into the wound. I remember the sting on that liquid. As I write this now I cannot help but wonder if the Iodine was an act of compassion or an act of torture.
To this day, if I wrinkle my brow in just the right way, the scars from the stitches administered at Emory Hospital are visible. When I look in the mirror and see those scars I remember my first attempt to run away from home.
There’s a lesson here: When you run away from your problems you’re going to end up getting hurt.
Back then, when I was growing up, we didn’t have all the many forms of entertainment that are available now. Hard as it is to believe, we didn’t have television. My media entertainment came from my Hopalong Cassidy radio. The only pictures available were those my mind created as the radio drama was broadcast.
We didn’t even have skateboards. We didn’t have in-line skates. We did have roller skates, the kind where you twisted a gear to make them clamp properly onto you shoes. Goodness knows, we didn’t have adequate transportation. We actually had to walk to school if we lived within two miles of the school. (By the way, it was uphill, both ways.)
But we did have bicycles. Every kid in my age group had a bike. I was lucky. I had a Schwinn, a classic. It was red. It had tremendous appeal, what with the space between the bars connecting the seat area to the front steering mechanism being wrapped with an attractive metal plate. The graphics on that coverage were tremendous. My poor brother, seven years younger than I, alas, only had a Huffy Convertible, a children’s bike with rear training wheels and foot steps. Bless his heart.
So, bikes were a status symbol. One washed one’s bike. One checked the tire pressure on one’s bike. When feeling exuberant one purchased plastic streamers that could be fastened to the rubber grips on the steering bar handles that would flutter in the wind.
We went everywhere on those bikes. Back then there was no other way to get to everywhere other than our bikes, unless one wanted to walk, which would be somewhat of a comedown.
So, I had this great bike. I mean, I had a Schwinn. How I got a Schwinn I do not know. Mother and Daddy did not have that much money. But, nevertheless, I had a Schwinn. It looked good.
Back then, humans were very much the same as they are now. Today, if someone is able to purchase a top-of-the-line American made automobile, it won’t be six months until they begin thinking of purchasing a BMW. It was that way with my Schwinn. It was a great bike. It was sleek and red. I loved riding it, but I wanted something more.
My mother didn’t give birth to stupid kids. I knew I was not going to get any bike better than my Schwinn. But, like I say, my mother did not give birth to stupid kids. So …
I sat on the front porch one day looking down at my red, sleek, Schwinn resting on its kick stand in the driveway. Suddenly, I had an idea. If I was never going to get anything better that the Schwinn, I could at least make the Schwinn better.
I headed into the house. The first stop was to the laundry room. I confiscated four of my mother’s clothes pens. Then there was a dash into my parent’s bedroom. I knew my Daddy had a deck of cards in his sock drawer. (Actually, I knew where Mother and Daddy hid everything. But that’s another story.) Quickly, I thumbed through the deck and extracted four aces. Then I dashed outside.
I affixed the four aces, two on each side of the Schwinn's rear wheel. This was accomplished by affixing one end of each card to the fender brace with the closes pens. The other side of the card stuck out in the space between the rear tire spokes. Mounting the bike I headed out the driveway. Sure enough, the spokes stroking the cards produced this sound that, to my young ears, sounded like a powerful machine.
Up and down the street I pedaled, with the roaring sound of activated aces accompanying my journey.
Bobby Garner, my next-door neighbor must have heard the pulsating sound of my card-enhanced Schwinn. He pedaled out of his driveway on his broken down bike. I don’t remember the model of Bobby Garner’s bike. Why would I? It was a piece of trash. It certainly wasn’t a Schwinn. And it certainly wasn't producing a mighty sound as was mine.
He commented on my bike’s addition. I told him "Thanks," and I thought it was neat. And then he said, “Want to race to the end of the street?”
“Want to race to the end of the street?” Bobby Garner was a fool. I was on a Schwinn that was playing card enhanced. “Sure,” I said. And we both took off.
It was an even race for about half the distance to the end of the street. At that point Bobby Garner passed me like I was standing still. I didn’t understand it. I was crushed. I know that at the end of the street, when I got off the bike, it didn’t seem as red as it was at the other end of the street. I bent down and removed the cards and the clothes pens from the bike. It was a lot quieter riding home.
There’s a lesson here: Making a lot of noise is no guarantee you’ll win the race.
It was a hot July day back then. It was a hot July day following the sixth grade. I was cutting the grass. My weekly chore was to cut the grass. Every Saturday I cut the grass, even if it was a hot July day.
Now, dear Reader, understand that on that hot July day following the sixth grade year when I cut the grass, it was much different than cutting the grass in the Twenty-first Century. Back in the last century, when I was cutting the grass on that hot July day following my sixth grade year, the grass was cut with a push mower. It was truly a push mower. I was the motor. I did the pushing. The harder I pushed the faster the blades turned. But, one can only push so fast for so long before one loses one’s breath. Yet, I pushed. I pushed because it was my chore. And when I completed my chore I got thirty-five cents. That was enough money to go to the movies at the Decatur Theater, where for that thirty-five cents I could see a feature movie, a serial movie, where there was a chapter every week, a cartoon, and future attractions promos, plus some candy or popcorn and a soft drink.
On this particular hot July afternoon, my mind was not on the thirty-five cents. My mind was not on how Rocket Man was going to extricate himself from the precarious situation he’d found himself in last week’s chapter of the serial movie. My mind was on more important things. More pressing things. My mind was on love.
Katie Simmons, in my sixth grade class, sat on the row to my left and two seats forward from me. Katie Simmons had blonde curls that cascaded about her head and bounced about with every movement of her body. Katie Simmons was smart. Katie Simmons always made the best grades. Katie Simmons was the most beautiful creature that ever attended Medlock Elementary School. One day, sometime during my sixth grade year, I realized that Katie Simmons was exceptional. And more importantly, though I couldn't articulate it at the time, I was in love with Katie Simmons.
So, on that particular hot day in the middle of July as I cut the grass with that push mower and sweated, I was distracted by visions of bouncing blonde curls, of delicate skin, of flashy smiles that exhibited pearly white teeth, and a laugh that compared only to the laughter of an angel. As my chore ended, I made a big decision.
“Ready to go to the movie?” my Dad asked, as he handed me my thirty-five cents.
“Not today,” I replied. “I think I’m going to go for a bike ride.”
Inside I cleaned up. I brushed my teeth. It was unnecessary as I’d brushed them that morning. But, I’d made up my mind. I took a bath. I pulled out some really sharp clothes, neatly pressed pants with an obvious crease. A shirt, cut in such a way as to accentuate my maleness. Then I left the house.
The first half of the trip to Katie Simmons’ house was easy. It was mostly downhill. I coasted along on my Western Flyer bicycle as I envisioned the many ways I could express my affection, my love, for Katie Simmons.
The second half of the trip to Katie Simmons house was uphill, really uphill. I zig-zagged my bike from one side of the street to the other as I struggled up the hill that led to Katie’s house. I couldn’t fail. I couldn’t afford to get off the bike and push lest Katie see me and find me less than manly. Zig-zagging I struggled along until, finally, I arrived at Katie’s driveway.
I paused, waiting for my panting to subside and the sweat to diminish. One had to appear worthy before Katie Simmons. Finally, ready, I mustered up my courage and approached the front door of the house.
I waited. I tried again.
This time a man came to the door. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m here to see Katie.” I proclaimed with all the confidence a boy in the summer following his sixth grade year could muster.
“Katie?” he asked.
“Katie,” I said, wondering why this man would not know the name of his daughter, the beautiful Katie Simmons.
“Oh, Katie,” he said, “Katie. Yes, she doesn’t live here anymore. We bought their house when they moved to Oklahoma.”
The ride back home seemed much longer than the ride to Katie’s house. And the ride seemed uphill all the way.
When I got home my Dad asked, “Did you have a good ride?”
I didn’t answer. I went to my room. It was a hot day in July following my sixth grade year when Katie Simmons became just a distant memory.
THERE’S A LESSON HERE: It’s never too early to tell someone you love them.
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