I had some hearing loss for a number of years, but the deafness happened in a heartbeat.  I was at lunch with my wife and youngest daughter.  The waitress stopped by our table and asked, “What would you like to drink?”  And in typical fashion within a couple of minutes she dropped off the drinks and raised a notepad and pen. The unexpected was when she then mouthed the words “What would you like to eat?” My first thought was that it was a joke.  I looked at my wife who was mouthing the words, “I’d like a club sandwich, please.”

Oh, that was a surprise…

Being deaf has been quite the experience.  Before becoming deaf, I did not know anyone who was profoundly deaf, so I did not know anything about how to deal with the situation. 

Step one of course, is a default option: lip reading.  Everyone with vision reads lips to some extent.  The question becomes, “How dependent are you on lip reading?”  Well, if the waitress suddenly starts mouthing words, lip reading is essential immediately.  The bad news is that very good lip readers only comprehend around 30% of the spoken word.  I tell people all the time that I can likely read their lips if I know the subject.  But if you suddenly opt to recite the ingredients of an Italian recipe, I’ll likely lose comprehension quickly.  Parmesan, anchovies, balsamic vinegar…I don’t think so.

Recently, we have all gotten a dose of reality.  The mask mandate has opened the eyes while covering the mouths of many people that have told me, “I never realized how much I read lips until I couldn’t do it anymore.”

I am blessed to have a loving family.  My daughter immediately went into research mode when I became deaf and helped me acquire a captioned phone. 

Captions are a hoot! 

Sometimes captions are provided by people typing what they hear.  Other times captions might be computer generated from word recognition software.  To be fair, imagine typing words that might not come naturally to you, that are not spoken clearly, or might be slang.

My audiologist is headquartered at UT Southwestern Medical Center.  The department that covers my condition is Otolaryngology.  Like many businesses, UT Southwestern has a computer-generated answering system.  When you call, (if you are able) you will hear, “Welcome to UT Southwestern’s Otolaryngology Center.”

I dialed their number from a captioned phone recently and read this message:

“Welcome to UT Southwestern’s Urinal Apology Clinic.”

I took a picture of that one…

I can relate to those that have not previously considered what it might be like to be deaf. 

Last week I encountered two people in one day who were experiencing deaf for (apparently) the first time.  One instance was while I was speeding through my neighborhood streets at 20-25 mph.   I came up behind a twenty-something looking Mom pushing a dual baby stroller down the middle of the street.  My first thought was that she must have turned the corner and simply lingered in the center if the street.  My next thought was that this poor woman might actually be deaf.  But after slowing to a crawl and staying a respectable distance behind her for half a block or so, she finally realized that I was there and quickly adapted that OMG (aka triple naught) look on her face as she realized that she had been strolling down the middle of the street pushing not one, but two toddlers.  I waved a ‘no problem’ wave as I passed but did notice that she was utilizing earbuds for a cell phone.  Earbuds…inadvertently simulating the deaf experience.

Later that day on my way home, I turned onto my street.  I had thankfully toned down my speed from 20-25 mph to 15-20 mph.  One of my neighbors had a yardman working in the yard and he was attempting to blow leaves from one spot to the next.  His leaf blower was approximately the size of a jet engine and was mounted on his back.  A large hose extended to his right hand which was guiding said leaves into some breezy form of compliance.  As I approached, he backed into the street without ever looking up.  It was obvious from the vibration I felt that the sound produced by his jetpack prevented him from hearing oncoming traffic.  Leaf blowers…more simulated deafness.

In both these cases, I received the triple naught expression from these first-time deaf folks. That is: both eyes open wide with eyebrows arched to the maximum (double naught), and the ‘O’ lip formation (single naught) as though they were about to say “Oh, my goodness” or perhaps some other form of ‘Oh’ which when combined, effectively completes the rare triple naught. 

More sympathetic I could not be, but…“Oh, please be careful.”

Thanks for listening!

Your friend,

KBM

Kevin Medlin
kevin@mysilentpew.com

I woke up yesterday morning with a song playing on my mental jukebox.  Willie Nelson’s Heaven or Hell.  That is a strange thing because I believe that the only recording of this song I ever owned was a vinyl album and since my stylus broke in the early eighties, it has been  awhile…

Willie sings:

Heaven ain’t walking
On a street paved with gold
And hell ain’t a mountain of fire

I was humming along with the jukebox most of the morning, so when my friend told me this story at lunch yesterday I thought it more than a coincidence and thought I might share it with you.

Janice was well prepared for a Texas sized freeze.  She bought plenty of provisions in advance just in case the roads were impassable for an extended period.  She filled her car with gas and wrapped her outdoor water faucets.  Hanging baskets were brought inside.  Extra water jugs were filled in the event that pipes froze.

Janice’s neighbor Allen, lives with his daughter across the street.  When the news broke that there was an extended ‘deep freeze’ headed to Texas, Allen went to the garage and dusted off his portable generator in case of an emergency.  Two five-gallon gas cans were filled in advance of the storm.  Firewood was brought to the hearth.  Allen, too, was well prepared for the storm.

The weather forecasts were basically correct.  After six inches of snow had fallen, the temperatures dropped to near zero at nighttime and stayed under thirty degrees for nearly a week.  These events had been foretold by grim faced TV weather persons for several days preceding the storm.  What came as an unexpected surprise was the failure of the power grid in Texas.  Janice and Allen, and all the neighbors lost electricity and unfortunately most homes in the neighborhood were equipped with electric heat.

The power went out at noon on the third day.  Allen and his daughter stoked a fire and closed doors to preserve heat in the den.  In time, Allen retrieved the generator, set it up safely on the back patio and rigged an extension cord into the den to power a lone lamp and a small space heater.  The temperature inside the den hovered near fifty that night.  It was cold but Allen and his daughter bundled up and made the best of a bad situation.

At lunchtime on day four, Allen’s thoughts went out to the neighbors.  He ventured out to the living room window.  At several houses Allen could see snowmen and sled tracks in yards and an occasional snow angel imprint, but across the street at Janice’s home the snow was untouched.  No tracks in or out…a covering of pristine white powder.  The quiet stillness enveloping her home was a little disturbing. 

Allen mentioned it to his daughter who called Janice’s cell phone.  No answer…

Various scenarios were put forth, but none seemed too plausible.  The pristine snow-covered yard was a giveaway that Janice had not ventured out.  Perhaps her cell phone battery had died, and she had no way to recharge it? After some further discussion and much concern over slipping on the frozen ground, Allen made the decision to cross the street and check on Janice.  After all, Janice was a few years older than Allen who had just celebrated a 75^th birthday.

Allen safely made it to Janice’s front door and rang the bell (which did not ring because the power was out).  Realizing this, Allen opened the screen door and knocked loudly.  Still no answer… now Allen was cold and concerned.  Common sense told him that she must be inside.  Allen remembered that Janice kept a spare key under a flowerpot on the porch.  He retrieved the key, unlocked the door and after knocking loudly again and calling out in his best ‘announcer’ voice, Allen entered Janice’s home.  It was cold.  He could see each breath as he moved from room to room.  Still no Janice.  On the second pass. the heap of blankets on the sofa caught his eye.  He stopped and began peeling back layers.  There, under what appeared to be every blanket in the house, was Janice.  She did not respond to Allen’s touch or verbal requests.

Call it panic or intuition or bad judgement if you will, but Allen immediately decided to get Janice to the nearest warm spot he could provide. Never mind that the ground was slick with snow and ice or that Allen himself was 75 years of age, Janice needed to be across the street by the fireplace immediately. So ever so slowly and gently, Allen carried his friend Janice across the street to his daughter’s home and placed her on the easy chair nearest the fireplace. Blankets were provided, tucked and re-tucked, but still Janice did not respond. Her skin was almost icy to the touch. As his daughter spoke softly to Janice, rubbing her hands and arms to provide heat, Allen finally caught his breath. Call it panic or intuition or bad judgement if you will, but Allen decided something more needed to be done. He quickly retrieved the lighter fluid typically reserved for the grill and began liberally spraying said lighter fluid directly onto the open flames in the fireplace.

Allen justifies this exceptional move by declaring that Janice needed additional warmth and the quickest way to provide warmth was to add fuel to the fire.  Allen’s daughter says she believed that the ensuing burst of flames and smoke was likely going to burn the house down around them.

And Janice states that she had already come to terms with her own passing.  The incredible cold had taken her will to live.  In her mind, she had moved to another dimension. Suddenly she was moving through space without walking and soon the warmth of a fire and soothing voices surrounding her convinced her that she must be in heaven. 

And then boom!  A flash of light, incredible heat, smoke, and shouting…followed by the overwhelming dread that she must actually be in hell. 

Janice awoke in Allen’s daughter’s den.  Allen looked slightly different without eyebrows, but she was still glad to see him.  Sometimes angels appear under the strangest of circumstances. 

And every now and then that mental jukebox comes on without a quarter being deposited so you can hear the refrain as Willie sings…

And sometimes, it’s heaven
And sometimes, it’s hell
And sometimes, I don’t even know.

Thanks for listening!

Your friend,

KBM

Kevin Medlin
kevin@mysilentpew.com

Note: It’s been a rough couple of weeks.  When last I posted, my friend Sheila was in the hospital with chest pains and my friend, Greg, who was suffering from ALS just needed some good vibes.  I shared a story about a 60^th birthday celebration and asked for volunteers to send good thoughts to both…

The update is a good news/bad news edition.  Sheila was quickly released from the hospital, then quickly readmitted for a few days, given a reasonable diagnosis, and released again.  Sweet!

Unfortunately, my friend Greg, passed away shortly after the last post due to complications of ALS.  While we all knew the dire consequences of ALS, I suspect that I can speak for most of my friends when I state that we just were not quite ready for the inevitable outcome to become reality.

My heart aches, but my heart is full of wonderful memories of forty-seven years spent laughing and cavorting with my friend.  The following tribute ‘Etched in Stone’ was shared with friends and classmates at ‘A Toast to Greg’ held last weekend.  Even if you didn’t know my friend, Greg, perhaps this reflection will inspire you to contact a long-time friend and remind them of how important they are to you…

Etched in Stone

Recently I wrote a post that indicated that as I age, my memories tend to become more etched in stone. 

Forty-seven years ago.  September 1974 

It was our first month of high school.  Soon after school began Greg and another classmate transferred into my World Geography class.

The three of us struck up quick friendships.  I have been contemplating how this happened and I have concluded that Greg would laugh at my jokes and stories and this, of course, played well with my freshman ego.  He continued laughing at my jokes and stories through his final days and that played well with my adult ego.  Greg was kind and encouraging, he was a good friend.

We were an interesting pair.  As you can see, I have semi-transparent skin.  Greg on the other hand, typically had a deep tan…in February.  And Greg was known to simply ‘look good’.  A natty dresser.  Every sun-bleached blond hair in place.

When we were juniors at Paschal, we were both planning to attend a formal dance.   Greg’s date lived near me.  When the subject of the dance came up, Greg asked me if I had chosen a tuxedo for the dance.

“Sure”, I responded, “a basic black with a white shirt” (You might insert here: ‘cheapest available’).  I can still see the look of horror on his face.

What I recall about the night of the dance is that as I was driving home, I remembered that Greg mentioned something about a group getting together after the dance.  I drove by his dates’ house and indeed several friends were gathered in the side yard.

I stopped.  I got out.  The kind term that memory allows would be ‘disheveled’.  My shirt tail partially out, tie loosened, hair askew from something self-described as dancing but…

I took a look at Greg.  He was still wearing his baby blue tux and ruffled shirt, the matching bow tie still in place. He looked like he had just come from the cleaners, perfectly pressed in every way.  Each blonde hair in complete unison.   

Just this past October, after a golf outing, Cindy sent me a text reporting that she and Greg were about to arrive here for the post golf celebration.  I went to the parking lot to greet them.  Greg pushed the throttle of his chair and began heading toward the entrance.  Halfway across the lot he stopped.  Cindy went around to the front and leaned close.  She listened and then nodded.  She turned, handed me her purse and supply bag and then squared herself in front of Greg.  Then she gently straightened his clothing so that he would look ‘just right’.

There is no doubt, our friendship mirrored the odd couple, but it was true.

One of the hallmarks of the class of ‘78 is the ability to separate for stretches of time and come back together as though we were never apart.  For many years, Greg and I would play in an annual golf outing.  Some years, when one or both of us was traveling for work, we might rarely see each other between outings.  In other years, we might see each other regularly.   On two occasions we worked together for a period of time and on another occasion, he helped facilitate a real estate transaction that our company was seeking to close. 

But I was not the only classmate who Greg positively impacted.  When we organized Tuesday dinners…there was always a full schedule.  When we came together to build a ramp at his home, a four-man project quickly became a group project, well-funded by friends and well fed by classmates.  Greg had a way of making everyone feel special.

I am blessed by recent memories of Greg during visits at his home. While our handicaps made communicating difficult, visits with Greg became the highlight of my week.  Often, I would offer to read him a story that I had written.  He would always smile and nod and offer a wink.

Last night I had a vision of Greg lingering near the Pearly Gates.  An angel approaches Saint Peter and says, “SP, what’s up with the new guy?” Saint Peter glances at Greg and says “Him?  He’s waiting to greet his classmates…whenever they arrive.”  And the angel replies to Saint Peter, “Sure, I get that, but why is he so dressed up?”

Now I don’t know about the accuracy of my vision, but after forty-seven years, I know this much is etched in stone.  Greg was kind and encouraging, he laughed at my stories and made me feel special.  I am blessed to have been able to call him my friend.

Thanks for listening!

KBM

Kevin Medlin
kevin@mysilentpew.com
3-18-21

Just a year ago, I was celebrating a 60th birthday festival with my high school classmates.  We chose February 29th to have a 60th birthday party for everyone in our class since the odds were slim that February 29th would actually be one of our 60th birthdays.  

That night, I was drawn to a panoramic picture that had been printed on an eight foot long banner.  There I found our classmates assembled on risers in all our 17-18 year old glory.  The ‘official class of 1978 portrait’ was on display to rekindle memories of days gone by.   I watched as classmates crowded around and searched for their younger selves smiling back from the banner.  

One classmate was clearly having more fun finding others in the panorama than reviewing her own visage.  ‘’Oh Kevin, look at you!  All that hair!’’  I looked at where she was pointing and indeed, a thin, red-headed guy was smiling back at me. Next to me on the risers stood my friend Greg and I thought to myself, ‘’I should have contacted Greg to be sure that he was going to be here tonight.‘’  I made a mental note to call him later in the week and check in.

A little later in the evening, I was preparing to step up to the microphone at the DJ booth to deliver a quick tribute to our friend Sheila who had done so much to bring our class together for the birthday celebration.  As I reviewed my notes, our classmate Brooks asked me to look at a post on his cellphone.  It was from Greg.   The post referenced his disappointment at not being able to attend the birthday party and then the reason…ALS. 
     
I looked at Brooks blankly. ‘’Is that Lou Gehrig’s Disease?’’ I asked.   

It was time to do the tribute.  All went well.  I spoke of Sheila being in one of my first high school classes, about her dark eyes, dark hair, and ‘somewhat exotic’ looks.   I told how she was kind to me but made it clear that one  particular ‘exotic’ girl had no time for a short, red headed, smart aleck.  High school can be a humbling experience…

And then I told how Sheila has become a wonderful friend during these past forty years.  Kind, generous to a fault, and an inspiration to many.  

So here we are today, one year, one pandemic later.   

I visited my friend Greg yesterday.  While the ALS has progressed and the isolation from friends has been an added burden, Greg has been an inspiration to us all with his positive attitude and outlook.  He does not talk much and I do not hear…we are quite the handicapped pair.  But I enjoy going by for a visit and receiving a trademark smile, some arching eyebrows that indicate when he approves, and a wink to say ‘thanks for coming by.’  I am blessed to have Greg for a friend.

And as for that ‘exotic’ friend Sheila…I received a text this morning that said, ‘I am in the ER with chest pains’’. 

To anyone reading these words, it has been one heck of a turn around the sun.  Please offer some words of hope and blessing for two special people that enrich the lives of others everyday.  

To Greg and Sheila:

I love you both!

Thanks for listening.

Your friend,
KBM

Kevin Medlin
kevin@mysilentpew.com

My friend Becka is Kind.  

Please notice that we are talking kind with a capital K.  Recently,  Kathy, one of our high school classmates, let several of us know via a group text that she and her husband were both being admitted to the hospital for COVID treatments. The miracle of modern medicine prevailed and in just a few days they were both being released.  Congratulatory texts were flying.  Becka was a member of the text group and before the rest of us had even processed the information, Becka had already offered to deliver a meal to our friend’s front porch that afternoon.  I was amazed at Becka’s quick reaction to the situation, her kindness, and that I would not have predicted that she would make this arrangement.  

This is why…

Outside of your spouse and your parents, who has prepared the most home cooked meals for you?  For me, the answer is arguably my friend Becka.  I could be wrong but in the last forty years Becka has hosted so many meals in her home that I have an honorary place at her table.

Way back before the pandemic, Becka was hosting a reunion meeting in her home and she invited 6-8 of us to attend.  Dinner was (of course) included.  In a rare moment of attempting to be nice, I offered and then insisted that I would provide dessert.  Becka finally agreed.

That afternoon, I stopped in the local grocery store to peruse the sweets in their bakery.  Cakes of all different colors and flavors were on display but no available bakery staff to question.  I chose a couple of cakes that I was interested in and read the first label.  It simply read Fresh Baked Binch Cake.  Since I was not sure about the flavors, I read the label of my next choice.  It also read: Fresh Baked Binch Cake.  No help.  So, I fell back to my standard when lost in the grocery store.  I simply waited until a pleasant looking Mom came by and asked if she could help me. Generally, people are nice to a deaf guy and this lady offered that one cake was lemon flavor and the other was likely some type of chocolate.  “Thanks,” I replied, “and one more thing…do you know what a binch cake might be? ” 

“Never heard of it” she replied, “Good luck! ”  And she was gone.

I chose the lemon cake, took it to the checkout line and made my purchase. As I lifted the cake to leave, I looked at the twenty-something cashier and said, “Hey, can you tell me what type of cake this is?  It is labeled binch cake.“

The poor cashier cocked her head to the right much like a dog might when it is not quite sure what it is seeing.  She smiled a smile that I immediately read as ‘well bless your heart’ and spoke very slowly as she said these words…

“Eight… Inch… Cake.“

Great, I thought, blind and deaf!

The meeting was a success.  The food as always, was delicious.  And my friend Becka assured herself a place in the Home-Cooking Hall of Fame.  I know these things because when you lose one of your senses the others ratchet up to help you overcome.  I believe that my sense of taste might be unmatched at this point.

Thank you Becka for leading by example, for your unwavering generosity, and for always sharing Kindness with your classmates!

As for me, I have this one bit of advice to offer which is the same advice that I gave that twenty-something cashier:  

“Take care of your hearing and your eyesight because getting old is a BINCH!”

Thanks for listening!

Your friend,

KBM

Kevin Medlin
kevin@mysilentpew.com

I read today that the COVID related death toll has lowered the average American lifespan by at least a year.  Reading this reminded me of my great grandmother.  She was born in the 1880’s and the average lifespan for persons born in that decade was less than fifty years.  Dude was my maternal great grandmother.  She had told a story in which her father called her a dude when she was just a toddler playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.  From that point on, my great grandmother became Dude.  She pretended not to care for the nickname, but a twinkle in her eye gave her away.  

I loved her company…and I believe that she loved mine.

Visiting Dude was one of my favorite activities as a child.  Her home, her block, her tiny little town was an adventure in ‘the simple life’.  No need to consult the TV Guide when visiting her home, the three available channels were dependent on the placement of the rabbit ear antennas attached to her black and white TV.  On a good night you could pick up a grainy image of the Red Skelton show or perhaps an episode of Bonanza, but the reason you were at Dude’s was not to watch television.  It was to enjoy the fellowship that a simple life can provide.  Evenings might be spent playing I Spy or a game of Old Maids that always made Dude happy.

Fall days there might be spent picking up pecans from the vacant lot ‘catty-corner’ to her home.  I am not certain if that might still be possible because I don’t recall anyone using the term catty-corner in the past thirty years or so. It might be that we would never find our way to the pecan tree without the term catty-corner.  Or we might not be able to carry pecans because none of us would be wearing the half apron that was a staple in Dude’s wardrobe.  Her half apron doubled as a pecan carryall when held up by the lower corners.  

In the summer, we might be busy in the garden picking fresh vegetables for dinner.  Dude would hand me a colander and point out which vegetables looked ripe.  I would pick the vegetables, put them in the colander, and carry them inside for preparation.  Dude would begin preparing dinner as soon as we got the vegetables washed.  She would have been ready to cook because she was already wearing her half apron.  

I am not sure if Dude always wore an apron because she was used to working semi non-stop after raising eleven kids or perhaps, she was just protecting the dress that she was wearing.  I say that with some confidence because I never picture Dude wearing anything but dresses.  It was the nineteen-sixties and women wearing pants was a relatively new concept.  It might be that she was protecting her dress from the inevitable mess that would be made when I ran to give her a hug.  Picture ‘Pigpen’ from the Peanuts cartoon giving you a hug.

But whatever the reason, Dude looked natural wearing a dress with a half apron tied around her waist. Add in some surprisingly long hair twirled into a bun, some 1960’s matronly shoes, and an ever-present grin that somehow reminded you that you were loved.  Mix it all together and you had Dude.  

I wonder what Dude would have thought about the COVID situation?  My guess is that she would have taken it in stride because she had lived through the Spanish Flu Pandemic as a young woman.  But more than that, Dude would have handled the isolation with ease.  She would have hand sewn a mask from quilt scraps stored out by the smokehouse. She would not likely be too concerned about being exposed to the virus because her life was not dependent on trips to the mall or restaurants. Exposure to the virus while picking fresh vegetables in your garden or picking up pecans catty-corner to your house has to be a relatively slim proposition. 

I would have liked to have spent some time with Dude during the pandemic.  The slow pace of life, the simple pleasures held over from a simpler time.  I can picture us playing Old Maids in her sitting room with masks in place.  She would have loved it.  I know she would have that ever present grin underneath her homemade mask although I would not be able to see it…but the twinkle in her eyes would give her away.

Thanks for listening!

Your friend,

KBM

Kevin Medlin
kevin@mysilentpew.com

Addison greeted me at the chapel doors with two basic ASL signs and raised eyebrows.  How…you?  ASL skips the connecting words and adds question marks with eyebrows.   I have always thought of it as Tarzan talk.  Johnny Weissmuller would be so proud.  (If Addison is reading this, she just googled ‘Johnny Weissmuller’)

How are you?

I thought of signing the truth.  “Well, my lower back hurts on the left side, and my right foot hurts, and I really haven’t felt that great since having COVID.”  

But there are a few issues there: 

One, my ASL is not too wonderful although I have mastered the sign for COVID.

Two: Addison, who went out of her way to make me feel welcome by learning these two simple signs would not have the first clue what I was signing if I started into that litany of complaints.

And three, I am fairly certain that this is a rhetorical ASL question so truly my response is likely the correct one.  

“Good”, I respond in ASL and say the word aloud so that she will understand my response.  She beams…I smile back, and sign (and say) “Thank you! “ Mission accomplished on both fronts.  She has made me feel welcome by going above and beyond to learn a few signs. I have set the stage for expanding the acceptance of deaf people in society by taking some of the terror out of communicating with a deaf guy.  Maybe someday this nice lady will teach her kids or grandkids some basic ASL signs.  Breaking the barrier comes in many different forms.

When I first became deaf just a few years ago, some of my high school classmates got together and hired an ASL instructor to teach them some conversational signs.  They said that they wanted me to be able to follow along in reunion meetings and gossip talk.

My friend Sheila took charge halfway through the first lesson and asked the instructor to teach them how to curse in ASL.  Conversational became PG-14 in a heartbeat.  Soon anatomical signs were being demonstrated and various forms of physical activity were being expressed.  Sheila explained to me that she had a sixteen-year-old at home and she felt it necessary to learn signs for WTF?, as that was a phrase that was commonly crossing her mind during the sophomore/junior summer with her little darling.  Having lived those days with my children as a hearing person, I could certainly understand the benefit of signing the phrase as opposed to blurting out WTF?

I do not remember accomplishing anything at the next reunion meeting other than my high school classmates making me laugh by teaching me all the new signs that they had learned.  I guess those words were not included in the curriculum at the local junior college where I attempted to learn a few signs of my own.  But that night the barriers came down with the expressions of laughter.

So…to Sheila, Barbie, Mark, Becka, Cindy, Adelaide, and David, thank you for helping me discover that we can teach each other a form of acceptance through laughter.

And to Addison, who one day soon will be standing at the chapel doors and will sign those two simple signs again…

How…you?

Just be ready.  My response will be: “Handsome, thanks for asking” because that’s always good for a laugh.

Thanks for listening!

Your friend,

KBM
Kevin Medlin
kevin@mysilentpew.com

Are you missing your Sweethearts?

I am not referring to that elementary school classmate who stole your heart before lunch and threatened to not give it back until after recess.  I am referring to those chalky, pastel colored, mini hearts with the tame love phrases imprinted on the front. 

Recently I was aimlessly pushing a cart through our local grocery store when I spotted a friend perusing the Valentine candy aisle. I stopped and chatted for a moment and was nearing a clean getaway when they caught my eye.  Hidden there between seventy-two varieties of Reese’s Peanut Butter Hearts (is Chunky really a description you want included on your Valentine candy?) was the display from my childhood.   Sweethearts.  Based on pleasant memories of a childhood filled with sugar highs, I quickly bought a few boxes.

Back in the day, just prior to the Valentines celebration, my elementary school teacher would supply each student with a white paper lunch sack, a supply of red and pink construction paper, one pair of extremely dull scissors, and a tub of wipe-on paste to attach the heart shaped creations to the sack.  On the nearest school day to Valentine’s Day, students would share a Valentine card with each of the other students in our class by dropping a card in those elaborately decorated sacks.  Very often, the cards would be attached to a small box of Sweethearts.  Be Mine and True Love were boldly printed on the hearts. 

But I digress…back to the current day, I took my purchase, hopped in my truck and immediately opened a box of Sweethearts.   Much to my dismay I noticed that the print size on Sweethearts had apparently been diminished in the last fifty years due to my inability to make out the phrases at all on the first three mini hearts out of the box.   Heart number four was legible, but I had to look twice…Text Me was printed there.  Goodness, times have changed. 

It reminded me that today’s kids probably don’t get white paper sacks and construction paper from educators.  I am fairly certain that wipe-on paste met its demise sometime before 1970 and sharing candy at school seems an unlikely occurrence.  I suppose that digitally creating a Valentine for classmates and electronically sharing said creation is more likely and thus the imprinted candy message…Text Me.  

Call me old fashioned, but there is something special about chalky, pastel-colored mini hearts filling your white paper lunch sack, the unforgettable smell of wipe-on paste, and the ever-hopeful feeling that True Love would last through recess.  It was a simpler time and I hope that today’s children can create and hold onto fond memories as well.

As for me, I will hold onto these memories and pull them out for review each February as I sample some Sweethearts.  After all, those memories will always Be Mine. 

Happy Valentine’s Day.  Thanks for listening!

Your friend,

KBM

Kevin Medlin
kevin@mysilentpew.com

Travel with me if you will…

To the year 1965.

We are going to visit my great grandmother.  Prepare yourself, I am five years old, and visiting my great grandmother is one of my favorite things.  Although we have not communicated by email, text, or cell phone (none of these have been invented yet), she will be aware that we will be arriving.  No need to stop on her doorstep and ring the bell (it is an actual bell attached to the doorframe), my great grandmother never locks her door.

We will simply proceed into her living room and call out as we enter to announce our arrival.  We will be met not only with heartfelt hugs, but also the aroma of comfort food. Perhaps, chicken and dumplings, or baked ham, or sometimes simply fresh vegetables picked that day from the garden.  But always, homemade bread.  As we pass through the living room, you will notice that the centerpiece of the room is a well worn piano where my Aunt Esther often plays hymns for a sing along.   If my Uncle Lambert is present, he will always request ‘I’ll Fly Away’.

If you are five years old like me…

You are also likely to notice an open candy dish filled today with red and green and yellow sugar coated gum drops.  On my last visit, it was filled with ‘Circus Peanuts’, those light orange, foamy treats that my great grandmother loves.

Not too long ago, my family took a short road trip.  On the return leg of the trip, we stopped at a Cracker Barrel for dinner.  I was amazed at the marketing genius at the Cracker Barrel. Their comfort food menu takes you back to a simpler time, fresh baked bread, pot roast, chicken and dumplings.  And as you await your opportunity to be seated, you are surrounded by candy options from days gone by…

SLO Pokes
Milk Duds
Gum Drops
and even Circus Peanuts.

Wonderful reminders of sweet memories.

After dinner, I found myself killing a few minutes while my wife scoured the gift shop for paralyzed bargains.   A display rack near the exit caught my eye.  It was filled with ‘greatest hit’ CD’s from musicians from my childhood.  I picked one up and smiled at the familiar tunes included on the CD.   Gospel favorites including “I’ll Fly Away“. I knew the words to most every song by heart.

As I picked up the third CD,  I laughed out loud. It had finally dawned on me that the deaf guy, was ‘shopping’ at the CD rack. It’s funny how having been a part of the hearing world for most of my life and a part of the deaf world only recently, I was still drawn to the CD rack.  All those familiar tunes…all those comforting reminders.

I was reminded of those comforting feelings a few weeks later at University Christian Church, I was attending the 9:00 service.  I had arrived early, and was reading the sermon notes that Dr. Peterman had emailed me.  I was sitting in My Silent Pew, head down when I felt a vibration.  The procession had begun, and the choir filled the main aisle.  

I put my iPad aside and watched the choir process.   As the last of the choir members passed, I noticed Dr. Peterman and Rev. Cyndy Twedell following side by side and the thought that went through my mind was:  

This feels right…

And then the reality followed…’but only for two more weeks.’  Rev. Twedell was about to retire.

And that feeling of dread, a somewhat empty feeling rushed over me… but it only lasted for a moment.  I watched as Cyndy took her place in the lectern area.  The liturgist was there with no hymnal.    As the music began, Cyndy stepped over near the liturgist and turned to the processional hymn.  The two of them sang together, sharing her hymnal.  And that empty feeling receded…

This feels right…

The service went on and as the liturgist began his reading,  I noticed Cyndy looking at the congregants.  When her eyes met mine, I received a warm smile that has warmed my heart for the last 28 years.  After the sermon, Cyndy took her place at the Lord’s Table.  I moved down a few spots and read her lips as she led us all through the words of institution.  I couldn’t hear them, but I know every word.  

“On the night He was betrayed…”

These words have been repeated through the ages.  The comforting words recited at the Lord’s Table as we prepare to share the ultimate comfort food.   

This too feels right…

Well it is not 1965 any longer, it is the year 2021. I miss seeing my friend the Rev. Cyndy Twedell since her retirement. A pandemic has limited the opportunity to visit My Silent Pew in the UCC sanctuary for nearly a year.   But each week we meet virtually and share the bread and the cup.  It has been so different, but so reassuringly the same.  If my Uncle Lambert were here, he would smile a knowing smile and remind us that,

Some glad morning when this life is o’er
I’ll fly away,
To a home on God’s celestial shore
I’ll fly away!

And this too feels right…

Thanks for listening!

Your friend,

KBM
Kevin Medlin
kevin@mysilentpew.com