A PERSONAL NOTE on changes & what you need to know from two years ago in what was known as Volume 1, Chronicle 14. CHANGES: 1)The day count is now 4,463, the years are at 13 & counting, & the grandaughter I wrote for in 2021 now has a sister. 2) The test turned out to be science, not history but either way, not where one expects to be dinged for a misspelled word. 3) I am privileged & honored to now share staff meetings & lunch tables with a wonderful group of educators.
WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW: If you’ve seen the whiteboard in my office, there are hieroglyphics that pass for my handwriting. There are people that are part of the cryptex that solves the multicolored letters & numbers as I attempt to lead an athletic program in a way, that though it’s the smallest in the conference, it doesn’t have to act like it. These are two of the people.

EDUCATORS & ANGELS, A HALF CENTURY LATE APPRECIATION POST: Both the personal & the social media memory machines are working overtime today. First, the personal. I’ve been privileged this last year to spend time with a group of dedicated educators, all with a passion for their profession & the requisite toughness of good teachers that takes me back to days like today April 4th. On this day in 1974, a sports crazed young man who thought the trinity of Street & Smith’s baseball annual, The Sporting News, & Topps bubble gum cards as important as the one revolving around the Father, Son, & Holy Ghost, well, that young man & his mates begged, I mean begged, their 6th grade teacher, Mrs Farrow, to watch the Atlanta Braves season opener. The local NBC affiliate was part of the “Braves Television Network”, which meant we got to see Opening Day & Friday night & Sunday afternoon roadies. April 4, 1974 was a biggie. Hank Aaron, the Hammer, would be trying to tie Babe Ruth’s career home runs record of 714. First pitch was around 1:30 or 2:00, school ended at 3 & we were desperate. After a last round of rock, scissors, paper (I don’t remember if I won or lost), I made my way to Mrs. Farrow’s desk to make my final argument in our defense & was turned down, cold. I made my way back to my seat, dejectedly looking out a window with a view I got revisiting that room in 2022 almost like 1974. Staring out at another important trinity, the corner of a gymnasium blocking a view of a baseball diamond save right field & deep center & in the shadow of deep center, a gridiron, hoping that the magic homer wouldn’t be hit until we could see it. While I stared & my buddies fumed, Mrs. Farrow left the room. On returning, she pushed a cart with a black & white TV & accompanying antenna strapped to its top & we watched as Hank Aaron’s first hit of the season was his 714th home run. She made her way to the TV, turned it off, & it was back to our studies because educators are gonna educate & she was as tough, as demanding, as uncompromising as any teacher I ever had. So tough that I got a 99 on a history test because I misspelled a word. Spellcheck’s 1974 model had no compassion mode. I thought about her often contemplating the math of building plans & I think of her on Opening Day & most every time I think of The Hammer. I don’t recall thanking her 50 years ago, I hope this will do. Now, to the social media portion & a post from Easter Sunday, April 4, 2021 & a letter to my then only granddaughter. As I write this, at almost the same time of day my legal career met its demise in 1974, I’m reminded & as you read this, consider this day in 1968 & consider that Mrs. Farrow & Mr. Chapman in what follows, were black & on that dark April 4th in ‘68, a black man of dignity & toughness was gunned down because of his race by a coward. Mr. Chapman & Mrs. Farrow proved that dignity & toughness know no color & the only race that matters is the human marathon we’re all running. With that, I invite you to Easter Sunday 2021. The only things that have changed are I had an opportunity on my 2022 return trip to visit the steps Mr. Chapman sat on & give him a private thank you, there’s a new granddaughter to share this with, & the day count now stands at 4,092, the years at 11. Now…

AN EMPTY GYM & AN ANGEL WITH A DUST MOP, let me tell you an Easter story: Some time back, on a damp, gray Friday afternoon, my coach walked me out of this gym & down a long hallway. Coach was telling me I wouldn’t be a starter on the basketball team any longer. He had enough respect for his players to tell us things privately. On this cold, rainy December day, there was a third person in the hall. As we walked toward the large picture window that lit the staircase at the end of the hall, I heard the rattle of a dust mop. Our school custodian, Mr. Chapman, was tidying up Mr. Haskins’ science room on our left. We passed as he was exiting, & he must have sensed what was happening. He stopped, dropping his head as men did in those days when a funeral procession went by, & retreated back into the classroom. He stayed until we made our return trip toward the locker room. After two days away, Monday brought a new week, & my first time in the gym since my “firing “. By a quirk of scheduling, I had 5th period English, the class period after lunch, every year. By this time, I must have built up enough good citizen points that I could take a special route to class. That old gym had yet to become my  muse but was already a sanctuary. My path would take me up a back stairwell from the cafeteria through the far end of the gym & out its big double doors to a 45 degree turn into Mrs. Pitts English room. My trip was normally solo but on occasion, Mr. Chapman, armed with his dust mop, would be sweeping after a gym class or an elementary rainy day recess, prepping the floor for hoop practice. He, I would find out on this Monday, knew my route too. As I hit the top landing of that back stairwell, seated at the junction where steps descended from the bleachers, was Mr. Chapman. The business end of his dust mop on the floor, the handle propped against his shoulder, his deep mahogany hands & face popping out of the collar & cuffs of the green shirt of his janitor’s uniform like the neon “hot doughnuts” Krispy Kreme  sign pops in the night. My feet striking the landing brought these words from his mouth,  “…young man, keep your chin up, keep walking, & good things will happen.” In the collision of ignorance & arrogance that is the standard issue train wreck for adolescent boys, I can’t remember my response or if any was offered. I did, fortunately & unwittingly, bank the fire of these words.  A little over 8 years ago, well, no use kidding you, 2,997 days ago, these words were uncovered. As I have gotten older, I’ve come to realize Mr. Chapman spoke from having walked a road of hurt. Being a black man in the south, I’m sure he had experienced more hurt in a week than I have in my lifetime. He recognized my hurt & wanted to lighten my load. As my days speed by, & on this day in particular, I think of another man whose skin is darker than mine, that kept walking on a road of hurt so good things would happen. A road trekked to lighten not just my load but the load of us all, because like Mr.. Chapman, he knew & knows our routes, knows when there are days of distress, knows the days when there is a change of plans, knows there are days, walks, & words that hurt. Days that begin like the one 3 women & 11 disciples had at an empty tomb, like I had in a schoolhouse hallway, a day when victory’s forest couldn’t be seen through the saplings of defeat. As I stood in ashes & rubble nearly 3,000 days ago, stood on what used to be a ceiling, & made numerous trips carrying charred remains to a dumpster, the words “keep walking ” from a cherub dressed in olive drab, returned. The words of an angel long ago were, “…He’s not here…”, that’s just a heavenly riff on the bars & measures of keep walking.  Either version, from an angel at an empty tomb or an angel with a dust mop in an empty gym, for those days when plans fall apart, their words have the same effect, their words turn a prison into a gateway. I hope you have an encounter at an empty tomb, I hope you meet a dust mop wielding angel in an empty gym, just so you’ll always remember to, “Keep your chin up, keep walking, and good things will happen.”…