Questing Parson

You And I Were Right, Mother

Well, Mother, Sunday is Mother's Day. That will be the twentieth anniversary of the day you, reclined on that bed at Emory Healthcare's Wesley Woods Geriatric Hospital said to me, “You think you're going to put me in a nursing home, but I'll show you.”

I remember being a little put off by that remark. I don't recall what I said in retort, but I do know this. Twenty minutes after I left you died. You know, Mother, it's a bit disconcerting that you always had to have the last word.

But that should not be surprising. Over the years I've discovered that much of what you said proved to be, if not prophetic, infused with an abundance of wisdom.

You once told me that my resentment of your constant interfering in my life would come back to haunt me. You told me that someday I'd be in the position of attempting to give my grown children advice and having that considered advice rejected, cast aside, relegated as out-of-date and of no consequence. You told me that when that happened I'd be remembering all the times I ignored your accumulated wisdom.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that someday I'd be waiting for a postcard, telephone call, some sign of recognition, or any affirmation that I mattered in the life of my children and that on that day I'd remember the infinite number of times I didn't call you, I didn't send you a letter, I didn't drop by your house because I was too occupied with the unimportant, and that on that day I'd be filled with guilt that I did not honor you and the price you paid to make me what I am today.

You were right, Mother.

You pointed out to me, in that delicate voice of yours that conveyed love and admonition in one breath, that the day would come when I would want some private time with my grandchildren, time to educate them to their linage, the contributions of their ancestors, the history of from where they came,and that one that day I'd regret I never brought them to sit at you feet and hear of the one room schoolhouse where their great-great-great-grandfather taught in the first public school in Gwinnett County.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that manners were important. You insisted that I'd do well in life if I learned to be a gentleman. You insisted I should hold the door open for ladies, I should stand when my elders entered the room, and that, no matter what the circumstance, being gracious would bring more rewards than being obnoxious. . (Actually, Mother, you didn't say “obnoxious”; you used another word for donkey, but I'm constrained here by the newspaper standards.)

You were right, Mother.

You were right in so many things I would not admit then. You were right and I was wrong because I had not obtained the advantage of your senior status. Now, hopefully, Mother, I am more wise. Now I see things from your perspective.

This being said, Mother, do you remember when I told you if you continued to coddle my younger brother, to protect him, to treat him like he was so darn special, to forgive him of all his indiscretions, to just smile when he fell from grace, to, frankly, spoil him, he would become an opinionated, obstinate, hard-headed old fart?

I was right, Mother.

You And I Were Right, Mother

Well, Mother, Sunday is Mother's Day. That will be the twentieth anniversary of the day you, reclined on that bed at Emory Healthcare's Wesley Woods Geriatric Hospital said to me, “You think you're going to put me in a nursing home, but I'll show you.”

I remember being a little put off by that remark. I don't recall what I said in retort, but I do know this. Twenty minutes after I left you died. You know, Mother, it's a bit disconcerting that you always had to have the last word.

But that should not be surprising. Over the years I've discovered that much of what you said proved to be, if not prophetic, infused with an abundance of wisdom.

You once told me that my resentment of your constant interfering in my life would come back to haunt me. You told me that someday I'd be in the position of attempting to give my grown children advice and having that considered advice rejected, cast aside, relegated as out-of-date and of no consequence. You told me that when that happened I'd be remembering all the times I ignored your accumulated wisdom.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that someday I'd be waiting for a postcard, telephone call, some sign of recognition, or any affirmation that I mattered in the life of my children and that on that day I'd remember the infinite number of times I didn't call you, I didn't send you a letter, I didn't drop by your house because I was too occupied with the unimportant, and that on that day I'd be filled with guilt that I did not honor you and the price you paid to make me what I am today.

You were right, Mother.

You pointed out to me, in that delicate voice of yours that conveyed love and admonition in one breath, that the day would come when I would want some private time with my grandchildren, time to educate them to their linage, the contributions of their ancestors, the history of from where they came,and that one that day I'd regret I never brought them to sit at you feet and hear of the one room schoolhouse where their great-great-great-grandfather taught in the first public school in Gwinnett County.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that manners were important. You insisted that I'd do well in life if I learned to be a gentleman. You insisted I should hold the door open for ladies, I should stand when my elders entered the room, and that, no matter what the circumstance, being gracious would bring more rewards than being obnoxious. . (Actually, Mother, you didn't say “obnoxious”; you used another word for donkey, but I'm constrained here by the newspaper standards.)

You were right, Mother.

You were right in so many things I would not admit then. You were right and I was wrong because I had not obtained the advantage of your senior status. Now, hopefully, Mother, I am more wise. Now I see things from your perspective.

This being said, Mother, do you remember when I told you if you continued to coddle my younger brother, to protect him, to treat him like he was so darn special, to forgive him of all his indiscretions, to just smile when he fell from grace, to, frankly, spoil him, he would become an opinionated, obstinate, hard-headed old fart?

I was right, Mother.

A Healthcare Promblem

Rick Santorum has given up his quest. That leaves only Mitt Romney and the rolly polly former Speaker from the congressional district to the west in the running. (Now, before you decide to send me an email about my description in the previous sentence of the body shape of Newt go Google a picture of him.) I realize I'm going out on a limb here, but I'm going to predict Governor Romney will get the nomination.

Pretty soon, President Obama and Governor Romney will be in a headlong marathon whose finish line in on a Tuesday in November. One of the big topics of debate, of course, will be health care. But neither will experience the health care frustration that is mine.

Here's the crux of that challenge: I'm entrusted with the responsibility of assisting my uncle to his many medical appointments. The interaction between my uncle and the doctor on these occasions usually go like this.

“Hello, how are things going?” the doctor will greet.

“Pretty good,” my uncle will reply, “for an old man.”

“Okay,” the doctor will respond. “Your blood pressure is good. You've lost a couple of pounds. I'm looking at the last lab tests and everything is progressing beautifully. This is good. Is there anything bothering you?”

“Well,” he'll say quickly, “there's this place on my arm.” He'll pull up his shirt sleeve and display his bicep, whereupon he'll point to what appears to be a large freckle. “Look at this. Do you think you should refer me to a specialist?”

“Let me see,” the doctor will say. And then he'll tell my uncle it's a natural by-product of aging. “We get spots like that as we grow older.” My uncle will state it looks “per-cancerous” to him. The doctor will offer to refer him to a dermatologist. My uncle will say he'd like that. It will be up to me to make the appointment.

I'm thinking back to my younger days. Old Doctor Massee, our family physician, didn't have benefit of the marvelous technological tools of today's medical practitioner. He used a stethoscope and probing fingers and knuckles to diagnosis. He kept us healthy despite his lack of modern equipment.

He had another unusual trait, however. He knew my name without having to glance down at my chart. Not only that, he knew my Little League batting average.

The modern doctor seldom uses his stethoscope; hardly ever probes with his fingers. He relies on his computer as he inputs the answers to his questions, and the lab work he regularly orders. And then he suggests a return visit in six months.

Now let me be clear. I did not attend medical school. I am not qualified to make a judgment upon the medical abilities of modern doctors. I scientifically do not know if this doctor or the one of my childhood is the better qualified.

There is one comparison I'm qualified to make. Back in the old days the waiting room experience, the probing fingers, and the discussion of how it might benefit me to choke up on the bat took about thirty minutes, forty tops.

I brought my uncle to his regularly scheduled appointment this morning. He was weighed and blood pressured at 11:30. It's now 1:10 and I'm still waiting for the doctor to walk in the door and say, “Hello, how are things going?”

Strong Women, God Bless 'Em

I love women. Okay, there it is, right out in the open. I love women. Who can say when this love affair started? I honestly don't know.

Maybe it was Francis. Francis was that drop dead gorgeous babysitter my parents hired for my brother. Somehow they didn't think I was capable of taking care of my brother when I was twelve. He was five then. So, they hired Francis to babysit my brother. And I would watch Francis babysit my brother. And after she put my brother to bed I would watch Francis watching television. Did I mention Francis was drop dead gorgeous?

We moved from the town where Francis babysat my brother. When we moved I'd grown beyond my childish ways. Maybe the reason I love women has something to do with Kay. Kay lived up the street from me in the new town to which we moved. Kay was something else. Kay taught me the joys of swapping spit.

I'm going to detour from this history of my progression through the various stages of learning to appreciate women now. This blog carries a PG-13 rating. I'll just give you a quick snapshot. That snapshot acknowledges the obvious fact that the men and women of my generation are much better lovers than the generations that followed us. We were more practiced, more attentive, never in a hurry. We certainly should be. We spent ten years in foreplay.

It was the Women In the World Summit 2012, just recently ended, that prompted my journey back in time remembering, as Willie, said, “all the girls I've loved before.” Things have really changed since those days when Kay and I were coming of age. Women have truly come a long way.

I was fortunate to grow up in the family I did. In an age when women were perceived as mere appendages of their husbands, the women in my family actually ran the show. I don't think I realized that until I was in my thirties. I'm sure my late realization was a direct result of those women's unique ability to let the men in the family think they were in charge.

Mama, my grandmother, had a fourth grade education. When my grandfather died she carried on for thirty plus years, teaching us lessons we never learned in the universities we attended. My great aunt, Mama's sister, when her husband died kept the auto garage he owned, the largest in Atlanta, running with even more success than he enjoyed. Looking back on it I can't help but wonder how many city blocks of downtown Atlanta my aunt owned.

And then there was my mother. Mother's birthday was last week. I have to admit I didn't realize what day it was until I read the acknowledgment on my brother's Facebook page. (But, then again, Mother always did love him best.) [:-), brother]

My mother was a child of the 1920s, and I have no doubt that she and my Aunt Virginia danced until the dawn at the dance clubs of Atlanta. She was a beauty. She was confident. And she had this view of life, far ahead of her day, that gender should be no impediment to whatever one wanted to accomplish. Mother should have had daughters to offset the troubles my brother and I caused. Mother was to be respected. No, let me rephrase that: Mother demanded respect. My mother had no hesitation of engaging in a wrestling match, a real wrestling match, with any adolescent male ignorant enough to think she wouldn't whip his ass in front of his onlooking peers.

The Women in the World Summit, as I said, got me thinking about those genteel Southern ladies who shaped me. The women who are their children have excelled, one was in the first class of ordained women in the Church of England, and one a successful businesswoman. As for my brother and me, we were feminist long before someone trotted out the word.

It was a joy to see that parade of twenty-first century women speaking and being interviewed at the summit. It gives hope for the world. I can attest from personal experience that we're all better when we're nurtured and inspired by strong, liberated women.

I got a hint that the strong woman will continue in the next generation of our family the other day. I asked my granddaughter if her boyfriend was going to be at a family function. “That won't happen,” she told me. I asked her why. “Look,” she said, “I'm a fourteen year-old woman; harmones are raging in my body; I have enough dealing with my moods. I don't have the energy to deal with some male's moodiness.”

So here's the end of this rambling remembrance of strong women and my affirmation that we'll be better still as humans when women are finally treated as equals in every aspect of life.

Thanks Mother; thanks Mama; thanks Aunt Virginia. And watch out world, my granddaughters are headed your way!

 

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

The Right Choice

The parson and Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, were resting. The parson sat on a rock with his back against a larger one. Charlie Brown was sprawled on the ground beside him working on a chewy while the parson munched on an apple. Wadded up beside the parson was the bag that only a few moments ago had contained a sandwich and some dry dog food.

The parson finished the apple just about the time Charlie Brown looked up as if to say, “Anything else?” He stuffed the crumbled bag and the empty water bottle into the small back pack beside him. He stood at which Charlie Brown also rose with an audible moan. The parson threw the apple core over the edge of the canyon on along which rim the two had been hiking.

The parson hadn't moved fifty yards beyond his lunch site when he saw one of the younger pastors of his area hiking toward him. The parson called out a greeting and the pair stopped, seemingly grateful for the break in their trek.

“Parson, what in the world are you doing here?” asked Robert the young pastor. “Hello, Charlie Brown,” he greeted as he knelt down to pat Charlie and pull his ears. Charlie Brown promptly sat in eager anticipation of attention.

“Just trying to stay in shape,” the parson said. “It takes a bit more effort at my age. How are you doing, Carole?” the parson asked. Carole and Robert had been married a little over two years. She was a talented writer who'd published a few fiction books under a pseudonym. The parson was one of her biggest fans, and probably the biggest in the clergy ranks as Carole didn't reveal her true occupation to many in the ministry.

“Really good, Parson. Really good. It's nice to see you again.”

Before the parson could reply, Robert asked, “Do you come up here often? This is a bit from home.”

“Oh I try to hike in one of the state parks at least once a week, Robert. It keeps the batteries recharged.”

I really wish I could do that, Parson. I don't know how you get the time.”

“I don't get the time, Robert,” the parson replied. “I make the time.”

“Thank you, Parson,” said Carole. “Are you listening to him, Robert?”

The parson picked up on a tone that indicated this hike might have been a grudging concession by Robert.

“I suspect the Parson doesn't have the pressures I have, Carole,” said Robert. “No offense, Parson, but you are serving a smaller church since your retirement.”

“Serving your church takes more time than serving mine?” the parson asked.

“Ah, Parson, I didn't mean anything by that. I know you work hard. But this appointment I have just eats up every hour in the day.”

“How so?” asked the parson.

Carole had now moved away from the parson and Robert taking Charlie Brown with her. Charlie Brown seemed to prefer her scratching and ear pulling abilities much more than Robert.

“Look, Parson, there's not only the sermons to prepare, the sick to visit, other pastoral calls, but I have to make the bulletins every week. I have to prepare all the media for the praise songs. I lead the choir practice. There's just a never ending list.”

“Who did the bulletins before you got there?” the parson asked.

“Well, a woman named Ellen Hanson did. But she seemed really relieved when I took over that for her.”

“Who led the choir before you got there?”

“Okay, Parson, I see where this is going. Look, they found out I knew a little about music and let me do it.”

“Who's going to do the bulletins when you leave?”

“Okay, I get it.”

“Who's going to lead the choir when you leave?”

Robert started to say something. The parson held up his hand. “Listen, Robert, a very, very long time ago on the day I was leaving to go to my first church, my daddy gave me the best advice I've ever received. He said to me, 'Son, you will be a success if, when you leave that church, those people say: Look what we did.'”

The parson looked down at Carole. He made a sucking sound with his lips. Charlie Brown immediately came to his side.

“When's the next novel coming out?” the parson asked.

“June,” she said.

“Same heroine?”

“Same one. Look, Parson, don't buy one this time. Let me give you one with an inscription.”

“I'll treasure that, Carole,” the parson said as the two hugged.

During the hug Carole whispered in his ear, "Thank you."

Carole leaned over to say good-bye to Charlie Brown. As she did the parson grabbed Robert's arm, pulled him a step away and said in a quiet voice, “Listen to me, Robert. Whenever you have a choice of doing the damn bulletin or taking a nap with Carole, you take a nap.”

Only Custom Made Equipment for the Parson's Grandchildren

Ring! Ring!

“Hello.”

“Well, hello, yourself. How in the world are you doing?” I immediately recognized the voice. It belonged to one of the other grandparents, you know the type of grandparent of which I speak. It was the mother of my child’s spouse. She means well but in playing the role of really great grandparent some have it and some have less than it.

“I’m really doing well. How about you?”

“I’m doing good. You know it was such a treat to have the kids come visit from Connecticut. Gracious, I don’t know about you, but I don’t seem to realize how much I miss them until they are ready to go back. And those children, those precious grandkids, aren’t they absolutely wonderful?

“They are that. And that younger one sure got your looks.”

“My, my, aren’t you the complimentary one. And I know you’re being gracious, but thanks for making an old woman feel good.”

“It’s my pleasure,” I said.

At this point I was getting a little anxious as to what this phone call was about. Look, it may not be the best feature of our society, but the truth is the daughter’s mother doesn’t make phone calls to the husband’s father just for the purpose of swapping platitudes. And yet, like my son, I am a Southern gentleman. I let the conversation continue.

“Could you believe the way the younger one has grown?” she asked.

I informed her that I couldn’t believe it either. And then just to trump her I said, “Well, I think the older one is certainly proving himself to be smarter than his parents.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” she responded.

There was a pause in the conversation. I definitely got the impression she was mulling over what to say next. I waited. As I’ve intimated above the conversations between the two of us have been sparse during the ten years of our children’s marriage. They were usually confined to coordination of who would pick up or take to the airport whom.

“The grandchildren really seemed to have had a great time at your house.” she said.

“I thought they did, too,” I responded. “They were nonstop the whole time they were here.”

“I know. It wasn’t ten minutes after you dropped them off at our house than they were sound asleep in the den. They really got worn out. You really keep them active.”

“I enjoy the time with them,” I said, wondering where this conversation was going.

There was a pause. Then she spoke again. “You know, the kids said you have the best slide they’ve ever been on.”

“Did they? That’s nice to know. They did seem to have a good time playing on it.”

“Do you mind my asking where you bought it?” she asked. Then she added, “I’d like to get one for our house.”

Now in this life some secrets need not be shared. “Actually, I can’t,” I said. “It was custom made for them.”

“You had a slide custom made for your grandchildren?”

“I did.”

There was another long pause before she said, “Well, I just wanted to thank you for dropping them off.”

I told her it was no problem. She hung up. I was grateful for the call. It reminded me to go out in the front yard and retrieve the cardboard box the kids had been using to slide down the bank that is my front yard.

Life In A Different Time

As the President of the United States delivered his State of the Union Address, the parson was settled on the sofa with Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion curled up beside him. The parson listened intently but not so intently his mind did not wander.

The parson remembered the time when, as a pre-teen long before the word “re-cycle” was part of the American conversation, his daddy lectured him for not saving the Coke bottle to turn in for the deposit.

The parson remembered the day he got home from school late because he'd been kept in detention at school. His dad listened to his explanation. His dad agreed the teacher was wrong and the parson was right, but his dad punished him anyway because he'd not spoken respectfully in his protest to the teacher.

The parson remembered the night as the family gathered in the den to watch a movie on the black and white television. The movie was about a company of soldiers bogged down in the horrors of war in Italy. At a particular tragic scene in the drama the parson turned to see tears streaming down his dad's cheeks. He couldn't articulate it then but that night he understood the pathos of war and sacrifice.

The times were different then. Perhaps it was the result of being raised by a generation who had learned the hard way what sacrifice meant. Perhaps that generation born in the Great Depression and called upon to engage in the largest war the world has ever known were more determined than any other to make the world different for their children. Perhaps it simply was a period of greater civility, when the President of the United States was never referred to by his last name unless it was proceeded by his title. Perhaps is was a time more akin to that fictional tavern “Cheers” where everybody in the neighborhood knew your name. Most likely, it was all of that. But it was more.

It was a time when everyone was treated respectfully unless they'd proven beyond doubt they did not deserve respect. It was a time when one stood when one's elders walked into the room. It was a time when the neighbors would correct the wayward child whose parent's were unaware without fear of reprisal. It was a time when parents actually attended the PTA meeting, when grandparents lived with their children, when … well, the parson thought to himself, it was a time that when remembered birthed nostalgia.

The parson didn't watch the State of the Union address on the television. He watched it on his laptop. It's the same laptop he uses to write his blog, his sermons, to inform himself of the news of the day, to impersonally keep in touch with others. And it is the mechanism by which the parson isolates himself from interaction with people in the way he interacted in the days of his youth.

Charlie Brown, somehow knowing the speech was over, raised himself from his curled position. He stretched. He hopped off the porch. He went to the door and then looked back at the parson with a look of “Well ….” on his face.

The parson rose, opened the door to allow Charlie Brown to go outside to do what he had to do. The parson waited on the porch. He stared down the hill on which he lived toward the house of the neighbors across the street. Their light was on. The were up. Perhaps, they'd been watching the President's address also.

The parson stared and stared and as he stared he remembered again those days of his youth. And the parson made a vow. Tomorrow, he vowed, he would go down the the neighbor's house, knock on their door, and proclaim, “Hi, I'm the parson. I love across the street. What's your name?”

The Art of Judging

It's a long ride to Memphis, Tennessee. It's 394 miles to be exact, from my front door to the Memphis Convention Center. There are no shortcuts. It's up I-75 to Nashville where you need to hang a left toward Memphis. The trip takes six hours and thirty-three minutes, not counting rest stop breaks, gas station fill-ups, and such.

You might be wondering how I am in possession of this bit of travel trivia. The short answer is a couple of weeks ago I went to Memphis. Now, I don't just hop up every morning and decide to go to Memphis. No, sir. Not me. I have to have a legitimate, clear-cut, purposeful reason to travel five miles from my recliner, much less many hundreds of miles. On this particular weekend I did. In fact, nothing could have kept me away from Memphis that weekend.

You see, I'm a sports fan. Yes, I am. And unlike many who live in my neighborhood, my sporting experience is not limited to Georgia, Alabama, Georgia Tech, or Auburn football. Yes, I am a more sophisticated follower of athletic endeavor. I actually watch volleyball, men's and women's basketball, soccer, and to round out my purveyor of athletic experience, I also am a big fan of gymnastics. It was for this latter sport I pointed my hybrid toward Memphis.

Arriving at the facility early on Saturday morning, I secured a seat which would afford the best view of all the events, the beam, the floor exercise, the vault, the uneven bars. Sitting down in my seat next to the small fence separating the fans from the athletes, I studied the program, marking the sequence of the performances, trying to calculate the abilities of the various teams participating.

The uneven bars sought my attention first. I watched in studied concentration as the athletes began their practice and warm up. I took my camera out, zoomed in on the individual contestants, and concentrated on the event.

“Ah!! Come on,” I exclaimed at the end of the event. “How could the judge score that low?”

“You think it was low?” asked the man in the seat beside me.

“Yes,” I replied, “I'd think it was at least three-tenths of a point too low.

My attention now turned to the balance beam. Once again, as the contestants began their practice and warm ups, I studied my program in anticipation of the competition. The event then began. I watched closely. The zoom lens was not needed. The athletes were competing close enough that I could hear the sound of the friction between their feet and the beam.

After one particular athlete had completed her balance beam competition, I must have let out an audible sigh. “The score was too low?” asked the man beside me.

“I think so,” I informed him. “I'm not sure how much experience that judge in the center has. She's being a little too restrictive.”

The man nodded in approval.

The vault now demanded my attention. Same story. And then came the floor exercise. Same story. There's a reason these judges, I thought, are not going to the Olympics.

“Scores were too low?” asked the man after each.

I nodded.

“Tell me,” he said. “How do you know the scores were too low?”

“Easy,” I said. “They are always too low when my granddaughter is the one being judged.”

Paying Forward

The folks were gathered in the church Fellowship Hall. It was Sunday afternoon and one of those rare moments in the life of a church. There were no committee meetings. There were no discussions of failing financial resources. There were no complaints, as far as the parson knew, of the pastor's latest foible. People were laughing, glad to see each other even though they'd seen each other only three hours before. The finger foods were being devoured with favorable comments about certain member's gastronomic delights.

And then it happened. He stood. He said, “Can I say something to everyone, please.” Everyone stopped what they were doing. Everyone sat down. He wasn't a member of the church. In fact, it was the first time he'd set foot in the parson's church. But, intuitively, everyone knew they wanted to hear what he had to say.

He began the story. The story began two years before when he and his wife and their two teenage girls were living in an abandoned house because they were homeless. There was no electricity in that house. There was no running water. But it offered shelter from the rain. And then the family advocate in the school system had put them in contact with the social worker whose work was financed by the parson's church.

He talked of being accepted into the parson's church's transitional housing program, of moving into the church's parsonage. He told of the struggles to overcome bad habits, to learn how to budget, to make right decisions in anticipation of events not to come in years. He talked of him and his wife obtaining meaningful employment. He talked of the classes at the technical college. He talked of the daughter who was not present at the reception excelling in college. He talked of the daughter who was at the gathering making plans for her college education. He smiled broadly as he related their relationship with the social worker who was, according to him, part angel and part drill instructor. He talked of the new place he and his family were moving to this week, of how they'd been decorating it, furnishing it. When he finished there were no dry eyes in the room.

As the day wound down and the celebration came to a close, the parson walked outside with the younger daughter. “So,” the parson asked, “what are you planning to study when you go to college?”

“I'm going to get a degree in social work,” she said. “Then I'm going to do for some family what this church has done for mine.”

Some days, it's good to have an extra Sunday afternoon meeting.

My Sister's Keeper

The parson headed up the stairs of the apartment complex, a senor citizen village with rent based upon income. He was delivering some meals to two semi-home bound members of his church. They were two sisters living in adjacent apartments.

Knocking on the first apartment door he waited patiently for the older sister to come to the door. Eventually, she got there. The parson knew it wasn't her ninety-four years that slowed her as much as she never allowed herself to be seen without proper makeup and such.

“Hello, Parson,” she said, as she swung the door wide. “Come on in. It's really nice to see you.”

“Thanks,” the parson replied. “How about some chicken and dumplings for dinner.”

“Oh, my goodness, that will be wonderful,” she replied. “Can you stay ah moment?”

“Sure,” the parson said. “But not too long. I've got a few more of these to deliver.”

“I understand,” she said. “But I wanted to talk to you about my sister.”

“Is something wrong?” the parson asked.

“Oh, it's nothing catastrophic,” she smiled. “It's just I'm really concerned about her. She just doesn't get enough exercise. She sits there and watches television all day. I swear, Parson, she acts like an old woman with one foot in the grave. And she won't listen to a word I say.”

After a few more recitations on her sister's lifestyle, the parson excused himself to make his next delivery.

That delivery was next door. It was to her sister. Again the parson knocked on the door and waited a moment. As was usually the case he heard a voice calling out, “Come on in; the door's unlocked.”

The parson entered and saw her sitting in a recliner. As he'd been informed she was watching television. It was a pregame program discussing the Bears vs Lions game. As the parson came closer she picked up her clicker and muted the television.

“I think the Bears will take it tonight,” she said.

“I'll take your word for it,” said the parson. “I learned long ago you're more of an expert than I am on the NFL.”

The parson held out his package. “Could you use some chicken and dumplin?”

“Gracious, yes,” she relied. She sniffed the air. “I can smell it. I bet Alice Ponder cooked it.”

“She did,” said the parson. “I hope you enjoy it.”

“I'm sure I will, Parson.” she said. She leaned her eighty-nine-year-old frame toward the parson. “Can I talk with you a second about my sister.”

“Sure,” said the parson, lowering himself onto a footstool.

“I'm really concerned about her. You know, she's no spring chicken, but she acts like she doesn't need to be concerned about anything. I keep telling her she doesn't need to be so active. She should face the reality of her age and slow down.”

The parson nodded but said nothing.

“Did you know last week she went on some outing into the mountains. I mean they didn't just drive around. They hiked. Can you imagine that at her age. I wish you'd speak to her for me.”

She spoke a while longer. The parson made no commitment. After he'd excused himself he headed back to his car where Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, waited on the backseat.

“Sorry, that took so long,” said the parson to Charlie Brown, “But they are both their sister's keepers.”