The Beginning: Memories Of Fort Pierce

Monday's I plan to feature a guest writer, my husband. He has been painstakingly writing down the stories of his childhood to share them with his 9 year old niece. I wanted her to know what kind of childhood her beloved Uncle was able to enjoy. While enjoying them myself I thought these are so much fun to read, why not share them? So here are the short missives of his memories of growing up in wilds of Florida during the 1950's and 1960's. They're packed with misadventures, romance, and all the confusing things that can happen in our youth. Even though his hometown of Jacksonville is a big city with over a million residents now, during his childhood it was several small communities surrounded by countryside. 

This is his story.

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Memories of Fort Pierce

by Steven R. Hudson

The following stories are a collection of memories that I have been encouraged to put into writing by those who love me despite my many faults. Even though my life has not been one marked by great deeds or accomplishments, perhaps it will be a picture of life as it was many years ago before cell phones and video games. When children ran barefoot and innocent along forest paths and creek banks. 

One of my earliest recollections is staying with my maternal grandmother. She and my mother's stepfather lived on Angle Road in Ft. Pierce, Florida, in an area that was at that time, typical

south Florida pine woods. Grandma "Cootie" as she was known by me and my cousins kept chickens and turkeys for meat and eggs, had a concrete goldfish pond in front of the house and a yard full of Chihuahua dogs. I was 2 to 3 years old at this time and the fish pond was a source of great wonder for me. Perhaps it was the fluid movements of the goldfish that brought out a hunter instinct of a sort. I needed to find a sharp stick and spear one of these golden colored wonders. Stick found, I went after my prey and actually managed to spear one of grandma's prized goldfish. Grandma, however, was not amused by what I had done and I was punished with a good and proper "switching" with my own fish spear. This punishment may seem harsh by today's standards but the "switch" was a common type of discipline in those times and was an effective way to discourage wrongful acts. 

Grandma Cootie was a strict but very loving lady. She adored her grandchildren and would walk through fire to protect her family, displaying a fearlessness that belied her small 4' 10" stature. One day I was helping her gather eggs in the poultry yard and was attacked by a big tom turkey that managed to spur me good before grandma was able to get the bird away from me. After checking to see that I was not badly hurt, she retrieved a hatchet and promptly killed the turkey then dressed it. Later we all had a nice roast turkey dinner, compliments of the old belligerent bird.

Our family has always been a family of fishermen mostly out of necessity back then. Fresh fish was often on the evening menu and was the staple of most people of moderate means. We ate Snapper, Sea Trout, Croaker, Red Fish, Flounder and our favorite, Snook. Fish were abundant then. The river and creek banks were covered with Sea Grapes and Mangroves instead of condos and expensive houses like today. Fishing was as easy as driving down to the river bank and throwing out a baited hook. A fishing license was not needed and there were no size or number limits on the fish you caught. We never caught more fish than we needed, just enough for supper, served up with homemade hush puppies and cheese grits. We ate like royalty and did not even realize we were rich beyond measure. I can still see a picture in my mind of one of the fishing spots we went to then. I remember a beautiful tidal creek and a muddy bank at the water's edge covered with the holes of Fiddler Crabs. Spider-like roots of Mangroves formed a barrier on each side of the creek bank and you could see schools of Mullet cruising the shallow water. It was a splendid place.

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Two Minutes With The Bible ~ Small Change And A Free Gift

Small Change and a Free Gift

by Pastor Cornelius R. Stam

Berean Bible Society
Printer Friendly Version

Has the cashier at the restaurant or the check-out girl at the supermart been asking you: “Do you have the two cents?” or “You don’t have the change, do you?” If so, it’s because there is a coin shortage all over the U.S. and will be for some time.

All kinds of coin-using machines have created a shortage of coins for other purposes. Isn’t it strange: a penny is hardly worth picking up these days, and President Eisenhower called our dollars “dollarettes,” yet people seem to be spending more money in small amounts.

You can make more and more purchases with coins these days. Some people say that you can buy anything with money, but they’re wrong — very wrong.
The things we need most cannot be bought with any amount of money. The air we breathe, the water we drink (we pay only for the service), love of family and friends. These things can’t be bought. And the most precious treasure of all: salvation, eternal life, can’t be bought at any price.

God doesn’t want our money. He calls it “filthy lucre.” He’s not going into business, selling houses and lots in heaven, much less will He pervert justice and pronounce us innocent for a consideration. But He does pity and love us and He can and will give us eternal life if we trust in the merits of the One who died to pay the penalty for our sins.

“The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord” (Rom. 6:23).

“For by grace are ye saved, through faith, and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God” (Eph. 2:8).

Our Lord said to the Samaritan woman:

“If thou knewest the gift of God … thou wouldest have asked …” (John 4:10).

Have you asked?

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To the Reader:
Some of our Two Minutes articles were written many years ago by Pastor C. R. Stam for publication in newspapers. When many of these articles were later compiled in book form, Pastor Stam wrote this word of explanation in the Preface:

"It should be borne in mind that the newspaper column, Two Minutes With the Bible, has now been published for many years, so that local, national and international events are discussed as if they occurred only recently. Rather than rewrite or date such articles, we have left them just as they were when first published. This, we felt, would add to the interest, especially since our readers understand that they first appeared as newspaper articles."

To this we would add that the same is true for the articles written by others that we continue to add, on a regular basis, to the Two Minutes library. We hope that you'll agree that while some of the references in these articles are dated, the spiritual truths taught therein are timeless.

 

Cousins By The Dozens

This is just, I think, an interesting little tidbit. I promised to tie in the journey to find my roots, and how it also involves, albeit in a small way, the quest for a life in the country and how I ended up in Georgia.

Dad was always in a hurry "to make good time" [whatever that is] when we traveled. Being a kid, I desired to linger in the beautiful woods that went whizzing past the car windows. On one trip home from western Pennsylvania (early 1960's and pre-Interstate), I have a vague memory of begging Dad to stop in Georgia. I wanted to touch some of that lovely red clay that lined the roadsides in my hands. Red clay was fascinating to a Central Florida girl who grew up with thickets of flat scrub pines, palmettos and sugar sand. Most of the time, he would just shout he was in a hurry. But this time he stopped at a clay embankment, scooped up the clay putting it into a bag, then slung it at me in the car. "Here!" he mumbled, as he mashed the pedal of the Chevy and it heaved itself down the road. I was so pleased to have that silly clay! I kept it for a long, long time. From the very start, something drew me to the Georgia countryside. Was it the natural beauty or was it something deeper?

Back to the Big Land Hunt: we just couldn’t find anything suitable in Florida in our price range. I suggested to my ever patient, understanding husband about venturing further North into southeast Georgia. The siren call of the red clay was still there, little did I know why.

After finding the maternal side of my birth family, we settled into the time consuming part of getting to know each other. That went over fairly well for

people who are basically strangers. We had so little in common, though. Even with satisfying my curiosity about my birth-mother, I still felt empty, disconnected, and left with a hunger to learn more about my family. I still wanted something that would help me feel like I too belonged on this planet and had a purpose. So, I resolved that I would go further back in the family tree.

In the interim, we had moved to our current location in southeast Georgia, in the Spring of 1993. By that time the Internet for public use was coming into it’s own. For us country mice, it was dial-up and very slow, but it almost always worked. Communications where opened up between history researchers. FamilyTreeMaker software for home use premiered. Many Courthouses and Genealogists now had their public info on-line. All this made researching for the Financially Impaired so much easier. I took up the reins of research with the greatest of ease. To aid in the search I ordered the customary Marriage Licenses, Birth and Death Certificates, visited courthouses for documents with my family‘s name on it. Photographed cemetery tombstones hoping for connections. From one of the documents I had ordered I learn my grandmother, Bessie Moore, first wife of George Baxter McMahan and mother to my birth-mother, Marian Estelle "Mary" McMahan, was born in Axson (Atkinson County), Georgia before her parents moved to Florida during the first Great Depression. “Oh, my goodness”, I thought, “I’ll never find her parents, let alone her grandparents. She might as well have been a Smith!” Oh ye of little faith! I was worried over nothing. Thanks to Folks Huxford and his Pioneers of Wiregrass Georgia books, to whom many of us owe much, and his cursory research of the Moore Family in Clinch and surrounding countries, I made all kinds of connections. It was so exciting to find more of my blood kin. At that point I at least had a basic outline of Who's Who in part of my Family Tree. And the further I dug into the research, I was shocked because I had moved into an area where I must be related to a good three quarters of the population. I belonged here! I had truly moved HOME.

So not only had God “adopted“ me spiritually when I first believed in Him, but in His wisdom He gave me more family than I can shake a stick at. He knew I needed this physical connection. It satisfied the deep seated yearning for an association to something or someone deep in my soul. It has brought me comfort and peace that I never had growing up. My Lord is indeed forevermore loving and kind to even the least of His servants. Thank you Lord!

But even there, the story does not end. All the information I had gleaned up to that point was relatively easy compared to how I later found my birth-father from a woman whom was deceased, that I never met, that didn't tell her sisters nor was his name on any of my adoption documents. (I know because I had the records opened by court order.) That story is a novelette from which I will spare my readers. [smile]

The Lesson? Life can take a lot of twists and turns but when we trust Jesus, He will indeed take care of us "exceedingly and abundantly above all we can ask or think" [Ephesians 3:20-21]. He truly will carry us Home whatever that "home" is that we all need. Just be sure you enjoy curvy roads.

Georgia On My Mind

In the past when people would ask me where I am from, I would temporarily go blank. A fragmented, unhappy childhood had left me like a blank slate. Like an orphan tossed on the seas of life, it seems that I had always yearrned for a place I could call Home. My official Home Town never felt like home, so, where did I come from? Where did I belong? I longed, deeply, to find a place to call my own.

Descendants of German immigrants, my adopted parents where born and raised on farms in western Pennsylvania during The Great Depression. They

married and moved to a small town in Central Florida as a young couple in the early 1950's.  Apparently, Mom could not bare children but I've never learned why. After six years of being on the adoption list, they found an underaged young lady "in trouble" and adopted yours truly. When I was a wee tot, on the rare occasions we traveled to their native Pennsylvania, they would take the time to visit old friends or family still living on farms. I fell in love with the countryside right then and there. I felt a kinship with the trees, the wildlife, the smells, the gentle sounds, the clean air and most of all, the solitude. Even the small town was already beginning to be too much for me. I wanted to enjoy the night stars without the light pollution. I yearned to hear the crickets singing and chase fireflies from a back porch.

Psalms 27:10 "When my father and my mother forsake me, Then the Lord will take me up."

What I share next is not to illicit sympathy but to lay the ground work for this story explaining the reason for my feeling so disconnected. Very rarely do I dwell on this small part of my life. These are only shadows and ghosts of the past. I've given it to God and He has lovingly hidden the hurt away.

I think I was fairly happy as a small child before my mother died in 1966, I don't remember. All I do remember is losing the only mother I'd ever known

that sweltering August day. After the funeral Dad made it abundantly clear he didn’t want me around anymore. It turned my already fragile world upside down. My earliest memory is her funeral with Dad telling me to “Shut up, what do you care?! You’re only adopted anyway.” Yeah, he said that to a grieving 10 year old child. I felt like someone had reached into my chest and stopped my heart from beating. Dad was keen on yelling curse words, snapping belittling remarks (his favorite were I was a bastard, and how stupid I was), open hand slap any body part too close to him, or glare at me for seemingly no reason. I started running away. My grades where failing. I became a bit of a day dreamer. The school psychiatrist was as much help as breasts on a boar hog. Two step-mothers later, things where a little improved. At least the last one was a Christian and wasn't abusive. We had our differences, but still she had a good heart. When I was 14 I gave my heart to Christ in a little non-denominational church. Kneeling at the cross (emotionally) I knew I was a sinner, unworthy of His forgiveness but told Him I believed in Him and to do with me as He will. At least I knew He would never leave me! He gave me the strength to go on. His guidance gave me the fortitude to buckle down, get a good education and get the heck out of Dodge as soon as it was legal. When I turned 18 it was made clear I was no longer welcome in that house. No home there! Frightened and with no confidence in my abilities, I married the first man that asked and in the infamous words of Jimmy Buffett “it cost me much more than a ring“. My first husband wasn’t a bad guy but we where definitely mismatched. He wasn't my 'home' either. Thankfully, we parted on amicable terms without too much damage done.

After all that, my current hubby and I met, then tied the knot. Thankfully, he shared my vision of living in the country. It was going to be a difficult task

since we where living in the Big City, in a State where property was expensive and we are not people of means. Thankfully, by now it was the '80s and times where good. With good jobs and lots of prospects for improvement we worked hard for 18 years. It was exciting to dream and plan. However, even though there can be lots of money to be made in a metropolis, a city setting is emotionally crushing to me. I felt stifled, fought a lot of airborn illnesses, and the stress of living so close to others kept my nerves on edge. I fought the crushing sadness that seemed to follow me like a black cloud. 

In 1981, I was working for a gentleman who was also adopted. He urged me to begin searching for my birth parents. Through his assistance, I managed to learn who my birth-mother was. After many phones calls, letters and false starts I had located her within a few weeks. (Again, God's mercy!) Regrettably, though, I was about 18 months too late to speak to my birth-mother as she had died in a traffic accident not far from where I was then living. But I did manage to make contact with a half sister, two half brothers, several aunts, an uncle and my grandfather. It was a rich and rewarding experience. Trust me, like all things great and small in our lives, this ties in. 

For years we continued the search for land. We wanted that perfect location

where it would be our forever home. On weekends when we weren’t repairing our 1952 Florida home, or out in the woods, we where looking at land. Dreaming about land. Praying for land! I think I exhausted every place in Florida I could think of. Then, I got the notion to start looking in southeast Georgia. One Saturday, after a, what I thought, wasted trip to Reidsville, Georgia, to look at more land for sale, we passed a sign on Highway 121 for a local realtor in Blackshear. It was late so I wrote the number down (this was pre-cell phones, after all) and after driving home, made an appointment for the next weekend to look at property. Short story long [smile], the nice young lady took us city folks all around this postage stamp sized county. It seemed every place I looked at it was “still too close to town”. I guess she couldn't believe that we would want to live so far out. Several available properties later, she finally believed me, and took us out to this place. 

Leviticus 25:23 "The land shall not be sold in perpetuity, for the land is mine. For you are strangers and sojourners with me."

It’s no kidding, as soon as I stepped out of her car, and my foot hit the property, with the towering oaks and pines, the inviting quiet, the simple country road, I knew this was it! My heart sang with joy! Hubby and I prayed for success. God mercifully opened the doors for the loan to go through without a hitch. Then we started down the long, curvy road of making this our permanent residence. It would take almost 8 more years of scrimping and saving but we where finally on the way Home. 

The Pink Cast Away

I didn’t want to get out of bed today. The ongoing cold, damp weather and

concern over our little niece, had me emotionally hamstrung. I didn’t want to move. What happened? Well, Amberlee fell off her Razor Scooter this weekend and, we think, broke her elbow and/or wrist. She was rushed to the Hospital (had a 2 hour wait!!) and all they could do was give her painkillers. Poor dear has been in mind numbing pain all weekend. This afternoon her parents managed to get into to see a Pediatric Orthopedic and he gave her this “cool pink cast”. (Her words) *lol*

This morning, Hubby said, “Let’s get up lazy bones and have a warm breakfast. Then drive on into Blackshear to get a few items.” I didn’t want to go but I did anyway. Now I’m glad I did. At the grocery store I got the notion to take the steel steeds out for a spin. The weather is very pretty today (temp of about 65 degrees), sun is shining, with a light wind. It’s a little hazy but that’s kinda nice on a bike. Less glare that way. But I see where there's more rain approaching.

*sigh*

We did a Turn and Burn to Baxley, stopping for lunch at our favorite Chinese restaurant.

Now I’m in a happy mood!

Here’s a little joke for you I found at Carol B.’s blog (carolsdailylifeandstuff.blogspot.com):

Now that I'm old(er), I've discovered a few things:
ONE- I started out with nothing, and I still have most of it.
TWO- My wild oats have turned into prunes and All Bran.
THREE- I finally got my head together; now my body is falling apart.
FOUR- Funny, I don't remember being absent minded.
FIVE- All reports are in; life is now officially unfair.
SIX- If all is not lost, where is it?
SEVEN- It is easier to get older than it is to get wiser.
EIGHT- Some days you're the dog; some days you're the hydrant.
NINE- I wish the buck stopped here; I sure could use a few...
TEN- Kids in the back seat cause accidents.
ELEVEN- Accidents in the back seat cause ... kids.
TWELVE- It's hard to make a comeback when you haven't been anywhere.
THIRTEEN- Only time the world beats a path to your door is when you're in the bathroom.
FOURTEEN- If God wanted me to touch my toes, he would have put them on my knees.
FIFTEEN- When I'm finally holding all the cards, why does everyone decide to play chess?
SIXTEEN- It's not hard to meet expenses ... they're everywhere.
SEVENTEEN- The only difference between a rut and a grave is the depth.
EIGHTEEN- These days, I spend a lot of time thinking about the hereafter ... I go somewhere to get something and then wonder what I'm here after.

Y'all stay safe and warm out there.

Two Minutes With The Bible ~ The Dispensation of Grace

The Dispensation of Grace

by Pastor Cornelius R. Stam

Berean Bible Society
Printer Friendly Version

Many people have a mistaken notion that a dispensation is a period of time. This is not so, however, for the word “dispense” means simply “to deal out”. The word “dispensation”, then, means “the act of dispensing or dealing out”, or “that which is dispensed or dealt out”.

There are medical dispensaries, for example, where medicines are dispensed to the poor. Sometimes these dispensations are conducted on a particular day of each week. Such a dispensation of medicine may take a full twelve hours each week, but it does not follow from this that a dispensation is a period of twelve hours! It is rather the act of dispensing or that which is dispensed.

The word “dispensation” is used many times in the Bible, although it is not always translated the same way. In Ephesians 3:2, Paul writes of “the dispensation of the grace of God, which is given me to you-ward”. God had committed to him wonderful message of grace to dispense to others. Thus we read in Acts 20:24 his stirring words, spoken in the face of persecution and death:

“But none of these things move me, neither count I my life dear unto myself, so that I might finish my course with joy, AND THE MINISTRY WHICH I HAVE RECEIVED OF THE LORD JESUS, TO TESTIFY THE GOSPEL OF THE GRACE OF GOD.”

The “gospel” or “good news” of the grace of God: This was the dispensation committed to Paul for us by the risen, ascended Lord. This is always Paul’s message.

“Where sin abounded GRACE did much more abound…the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of His GRACE… justified freely by His GRACE, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus…by GRACE are ye saved, through faith” (Rom.5:20; Eph.1:7; Rom.3:24; Eph. 2:8,9).

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To the Reader:
Some of our Two Minutes articles were written many years ago by Pastor C. R. Stam for publication in newspapers. When many of these articles were later compiled in book form, Pastor Stam wrote this word of explanation in the Preface:

"It should be borne in mind that the newspaper column, Two Minutes With the Bible, has now been published for many years, so that local, national and international events are discussed as if they occurred only recently. Rather than rewrite or date such articles, we have left them just as they were when first published. This, we felt, would add to the interest, especially since our readers understand that they first appeared as newspaper articles."

To this we would add that the same is true for the articles written by others that we continue to add, on a regular basis, to the Two Minutes library. We hope that you'll agree that while some of the references in these articles are dated, the spiritual truths taught therein are timeless.

 

A Conversation Between My Fingers And My Brain

 

A few posts back, I really poured my heart out in a letter to the world in general, and to my readers specifically, on how I feel about the newly sainted homosexual movement. The only thing about writing a profundity that seemed to have touched so many is I have now put undue pressure on myself to always be clever or pithy in these humble missives. I worry that my readers will expect such top notch writing every time. I let it cripple me creatively unnecessarily. I know it's my own doing as I am my own worse critic. How does one get past that? I feel that my writing is similar to the broken clock scenario of being right at least twice a day. Or, as I am so fond of quoting, even a blind hog finds an acorn now and then. I think I'm more apt with quips, one-liners, and "drive by" comments than actual heartfelt articles.

Most of the time I have the attention span of a five year old. Something sparkly comes along, and off I go on a different tangent. I know my scattered brain must confuse my orderly fingers. The two are definitely an Odd Couple. My once speedy fingers have slowed with arthritis and age. They will be all set to spell out what I feel is a profundity in verse that the brain has cooked up, but before it can congeal into something coherent and printable, my thoughts have wandered elsewhere, leaving my frustrated fingers in mid-stride to figure out what in the world it was trying to say.

The conversation in my head:

Fingers: Was that an epiphany that just skirted by? Sounded good. Let's get this down on paper for the blog.

Brain: Huh? That was so 5 seconds ago. Keep up would ya?

Fingers: Well, you had a good thought there. Let's share it.

Brain: Oh, look, a squirrel ...

This is what I have to deal with every day.

I wonder how my readers share their thoughts. Do you have the same problem or am I just hopelessly weird? Do you put pen to paper and draw out an outline? I am so envious of those who can sit in front of the computer with a general thought and it all pours out and is still coherent. Whatever the choice it sure seems to work for the people I follow. I'm envious of your thoughts that are always so entertaining. Thank you for sharing yours.

~ Ride Safe ~

Sparky