RUSTY STROUPE

TOP TEN WAYS TO BE A MAN'S MAN IN GOD'S EYES now available for purchase

2011-07-27T16:43:00.015-04:00

Baltimore, MD: Publish America has announced the release of Top Ten Ways To Be a Man's Man in God's Eyes, by Rusty Stroupe. This is Rusty's second book and is now available online at http://www.publishamerica.net/product38697.html.----------------- "Top Ten Ways to Be a Man's Man in God's Eyes" is an excellent resource for a ten-week men's group Bible study or for individuals whose desire is to grow in their relationships with God while discovering how God wants them to conduct themselves as men. While modern culture has established its own determination of what constitutes a Man's Man, God's definition is radically different. This book explores what it means to be a Man's Man on God's terms, providing a scriptural framework through which men can grow as fathers, husbands, and leaders in their churches and communities."------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- If you live in the vicinity of Shelby, N.C., Rusty Stroupe may be available to speak to your Men's Group to explain how to use the book as a ten week Men's Study at your church. Contact Rusty at rstroupe002@carolina.rr.com if interested. The online publisher price is normally $17 plus $4 shipping. To purchase directly from Rusty and have the book signed and personalized, send a $15 check(this includes shipping and handling) made out to him to 1908 Burke Road, Shelby, NC 28152. ">If you would like a free copy of the study guide sent to you by email, please send a request to rstroupe002@carolina.rr.com.

Loyalty to Hero and Team Unconditional

2011-04-21T17:33:00.001-04:00

You may have noticed that from time to time in these columns, I refer to a favorite major league baseball team of mine as “my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates”. Since 1971, the Pirates have reigned supreme as my favorite team in any sport. We did have a brief separation in 1997 when they parted with my favorite manager, but I eventually returned after a few months of pouting. Unfortunately, I returned to futility. Recently my Pittsburgh Pirates were tabbed by one publication as the worst franchise in all of professional sports. Ugggh. They haven't had a winning season since 1992, when they blew a two-run 9th inning lead that would have sent them to the World Series. My advance-purchase World Series tickets went unused. So why do I still give my heart to this hapless band of cellar dwellers? Simple. I am loyal. I fell in love with the Pirates when I was seven. And jumping off the bandwagon isn't my style. Though I loved them all, my favorite two Pirates were Roberto Clemente and Willie Stargell. Clemente led the team to the World Series title in '71 and died tragically a little over a year later. A child's heart was broken. But I still had Willie. “Pops”, as he later became known, was my absolute hero. He was a huge, left- handed power hitting first baseman and I was an undersized, righty-hitting shortstop but it mattered not. Willie was my hero and because of him, I worked hard not only at baseball, but also at school and at life. I played on a little club team (they called it the minor leagues) when I was seven called the Pirates. During a real Pirates game on the Saturday Game of the Week on one occasion, the announcer referred to prospects in the minor leagues. Due to my extreme naivete, I assumed that since I played minor league, my team was somehow connected to the big league Pirates and they were monitoring our progress closely. No one could have convinced me different. Some thirty years later, I asked a Pirates scout friend of mine how Willie was doing. My friend informed me that Pops was extremely ill due to a kidney disease and his days were numbered. Heartbroken, I went home and typed a letter on my computer. The contents of that letter will remain private but basically I poured out my heart about how an African-American slugger in Pittsburgh inspired a small town white kid from North Carolina to dare to dream. And I was a better person because of him. Through a previous connection with the Pirates general manager at that time, I was able to get my letter to the Pirates organization. A few weeks later my scout friend assured me Willie had received my letter while in the hospital. A week or two after that on April 9, 2001- ten years ago this month- a voice on my truck radio informed me that my hero had fallen. A thirty-seven-year-old college baseball coach choked back a tear as the memories flowed. Unlike many money-chasing stars of today, Willie Stargell played for one team his entire career. And as long as I'm around- no matter what their record is- Willie's team will always be my team, too.

The Value of Trophies

2011-04-21T17:24:00.000-04:00

The national championship trophy was presented at a basketball game recently. After a championship victory, everybody wants to hold the trophy. Sometimes they kiss it. One time a pro bowler dropped his championship trophy and it shattered into various pieces about ten seconds after he received it. Tragic, yet quite humorous. Sometimes people refer to animals they have hunted and conquered as trophies. Trophies in different sports can be shaped into cups, mugs, belts, animals, or posing athletes. And in the most outlandish usage of the term, men sometimes inexplicably refer to their spouses as trophy wives. (I'm not a female so I don't know how I would feel being referred to as a trophy.) When I was growing up, trophies were synonymous with championships. Usually only first place finishers got a trophy. I was excited to get my first trophy as an eight-year-old. However, I was curious and felt slightly guilty that the team members and I each received trophies despite finishing in second place. Don't misunderstand me here. I'm not against every kid getting a trophy just for being on a team and making it through the season. That's fine. But the reality is at some point, only those at the top will get the trophies. To the victor go the spoils, they say. Three years ago I watched as the winner of the tournament my baseball team was playing in hoisted the championship trophy up in the air near home plate. We battled for five days and lasted fifteen innings in the championship game before they finally beat us. But when all was said and done, they got a huge trophy and we didn't get so much as a certificate. All we could do was watch. Second place was first loser in that instance. But I'm not so sure in the long run trophies mean all that much anyway. I think the memories of the achievement far outlast the hardware received. I still cherish the memories of the 2008 tournament run and I don't need a trophy to remind me how special that team and those moments were. Take, for example, the number of trophies you see with dust all over them at thrift stores. Somebody gave their heart and soul for that trophy and yet, there it sits on the shelf with a $2 price tag on it. Eventually someone will buy it and change the nameplate so they can cherish their own particular accomplishment and thus the trophy can be recycled over and over again. I have a box full of trophies from my younger days but to be honest, I'm not exactly sure where they are now. My parents begged me a long time ago to remove the box from their cluttered attic. I took a look in the box a few years back. Some of the trophies brought a smile to my face as I remembered the pride with which I had accepted them- including the second place one and to be honest, a few third placers. I realized then that the treasure was not in the trophy but in the experience. Earthly objects don't mean that much in the ultimate scheme of things. And you can't buy memories in the thrift shop. But if you're desperate enough to try, for $2 you can change the nameplate.

Heroes in the Midst of the Madness

2011-04-21T17:22:00.000-04:00

Despite a busy spring baseball season as a coach, I've caught a few minutes here and there of what they refer to in college basketball as March Madness. This year's tournament has produced more than its share of incredible performances. I've heard announcers and commentators refer to outstanding players as heroes during the madness. They speak of their courage, perseverance, and faith in themselves and their teammates. And I wouldn't disagree with that assessment. I'm not here to say that they're not heroes in some sense. When you can bring a group of people together and unify them- as in a team, a university, a community, etc.- then your efforts are heroic. When you can inspire others to chase their dreams and believe in themselves, kudos to you as an athlete. Well done. But not everyone is an athlete and few folks are afforded the opportunity to compete in high profile sports competitions. Thus common heroism is often overlooked. I recently had the privilege of watching several military veterans be honored at one of the baseball games I was coaching. One of those honorees was a former player of mine named Brett. He didn't get to play much when I coached him but I knew he was destined to be a winner in life. The few times he got to play in games way back when, I would ask him, “Are you ready?” His answer was always the same. “I was born ready, Coach.” Brett served two dangerous tours in Fallujah, Iraq during his time in the Marines. On the day he was publicly recognized and threw out the first pitch, I asked again if he was ready to perform and got the standard reply. A few weeks back our church conducted an exercise known as Cardboard Testimonies, where ordinary folks stand before their church family and present a brief written synopsis of their personal story on the front and back of a piece of cardboard. It takes courage to stand before others and reveal your deepest struggles. It takes perseverance to have endured those struggles and faith not to have buckled under their weight. Don, one of our members, had within the past several months suffered a stroke that nearly took his life and eventually left him incapable of many of the normal functions he had once easily accomplished. On the morning of Cardboard Testimonies, Don- who had been told at one point that he would probably never walk again- slowly but triumphantly made his way toward the pulpit, climbed the stairs, and presented his cardboard sign for the world to see. It really didn't matter what it said on the board. When he conquered those stairs, I knew I was in the presence of a real-life hero. Many moist eyes in the congregation would certainly have agreed. I've seen my share of incredible sports highlights in my life, but Don's performance that day was among the most courageous and inspirational feats I have ever witnessed. I don't know if heroes are born or made. I only know that within the daily madness of life, I have been privileged to encounter my share of inspirational people. And I'm a better man for having had the honor of witnessing Brett ascend the ranks and Don ascend the stairs. Heroes indeed.

Foul Ball Redemption

2011-03-27T19:37:00.000-04:00

I have attended many baseball games in my life. Though I could speak of winning pitchers, dramatic homeruns, and dazzling catches- I have decided instead to use valuable column space to share with you some experiences I have had with foul balls. And if you're still reading at the end, there will be a point to this column. My first foul ball encounter occurred when I was eleven and my parents took me to see my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates play. At one point during pre-game batting practice, Manny Sanguillen- one of my favorite players- lifted a foul ball near the left field foul line that magically guided itself directly toward my personal space on planet Earth. Every child's dream. The fact I wasn't wearing my glove was irrelevant. I was about to catch my first foul ball. At about the same time my eyes recognized the distinctive red seams of a baseball, the self-preservation area of my brain secreted a message to the rest of my body, causing that body to bail out and duck for cover. A split second later the ball struck the seat behind me and bounced back onto the playing field. I was crushed and embarrassed. Some twenty years later I was attending a jam packed high school state playoff baseball game and decided to place my folding chair on a hill far down the right field line so I could be alone and peacefully evaluate some players I was recruiting. About midway through the game, a player stroked a line drive foul ball in my direction. I calculated the odds of a ball striking a person sitting all by himself to be extremely low and concluded that the best thing to do was not move and play it cool. A millisecond before would-be impact, my brain again secreted survival waves and I moved my head slightly to the right just in time to avoid a natural disaster. Most of the crowd laughed while a few hissed at the “cowardly moron” sitting by himself who didn't have the sense to get up and move when a line drive was headed his way. And so the saga continued. Until a recent high school JV game in which my son was playing. While I was sitting in the bleachers, a foul ball was launched high into the air and appeared to be descending in my vicinity. Again, knowing the odds were against it landing on me, I kept my seat as usual. But the ball, my right hand, and destiny would all meet in one dramatic instant. I reached up at the last moment and the ball stuck like glue in the palm of my hand. I tossed it back onto the field as an impressed crowd observed. A friend a few rows away yelled, “Hey, you can mark that off your list just like catching a (miniature) football from a cheerleader!” Maybe she has a point, I thought. So as soon as possible I checked the “To Do Before I Die (Bucket List)” on my laptop and there it was, bigger than life: “Catch a foul ball in the air at a baseball game.” As I crossed it off the list, I couldn't help but think that Manny Sanguillen would be proud, even if it was almost forty years late.

Sticking close vs. Letting Go

2011-03-27T19:33:00.000-04:00

I have a love/hate relationship with super glue. I'm not questioning its effectiveness. I have used it in the past to hold together oodles of items, including the soles of shoes at times. Most recently I used it to repair a pair of broken sunglasses. The sunglasses were cheapies, but I'm attached to them. And smack dab in the middle of a baseball winning streak, I stepped on them and broke them into two pieces. "Gotta find some super glue," I told my assistant coach, "we can't mess with a win streak." The line came from a movie but everybody knows you don't change things during a win streak, underwear nothwithstanding. I've had those same sunglasses for about three years as best I can remember. If my memory serves me correctly, I paid three dollars for them. And they held up well until I stepped on them. "Coach, where are the sunglasses?" one of my players asked at practice that day. "No fear," I said, "I will find some super glue." Later that night I found some at home and set to work on my treasured shades. When I finished, they were a little whoppy-jawed and some of the super glue ran onto the lens, but they were intact and re-ready for action. I showed up the next day with my sunglasses and the win streak both intact. I have a perfectly good pair of replacment shades primed and ready for action, but they will wait in the wings as the first runner-up until the winner can no longer perform its duties. So why am I not a huge fan of super glue if it continually pulls me out of binds? Simple: I can't handle the stuff without getting it stuck on my fingers. And yes, I've accidentally glued my fingers together before, like many of you have, though few are willing to admit it. There are few sensations more irritating or distracting than super glue stuck to your personal self in some manner, especially your fingers. No amount of scrubbing with soap, water, and/or alcohol can rid me of the nuisance. Sometimes you gotta wait it out. Eventually the dead skin is replaced by a new layer and the super glue nemesis fades into oblivion. You wake up one day and the sensation is gone, but the new layer of skin is tougher than the last. I'm no theologian but I think there may be some sort of lesson in all this sunglasses and super glue mumbo jumbo. Sometimes we have to let go of things we are attached to. And other times we have to use everything at our disposal to repair the damage. The trick is knowing whether or not to open the super glue and risk becoming sticky and messy. Letting go can be painful but liberating. Conversely, enduring sticky situations can leave us tougher and stronger and more bonded than we were before. Life can't be fixed. Sometimes the best thing we can do is weather the storm and let it take its course. But there's also something to be said for resisting with all your might and all your resources when the storm's effects can be minimized. So where does that leave my sunglasses? For now, they're still on my head, stuck to my eyebrow.

Retiring From Beauty Pageants

2011-03-15T19:02:00.000-04:00

Perhaps I opened a can of worms in last week’s column that I wasn’t quite ready to fish with. Lest your imaginations run wild, I now feel I must use valuable column space this week to clarify my participation in two separate womanless beauty pageants. It is indeed true that I participated and received the first place prize in a womanless beauty pageant at my church in South Carolina ten years ago. First let me note that no man wants to win a womanless beauty pageant, at least not this man. So the fact that I achieved that feat is not a source of pride or accomplishment to me. But win I did. Probably because I bucked the system and, emerging as the last contestant, rebelled against common dignity and appeared with a couch cushion stuffed in my “dress” to indicate my pregnantness. And to add to the effect, I grabbed a jar of pickles at the last minute and pretended to throw up a few times while walking down the “runway”. Mind you, I did all this to raise money for a good cause. Churches dress men up in women clothes so we can raise money to send mission teams to foreign places to teach people how to properly conduct themselves as godly men and women. Go figure. Of course it’s all in fun and the cause truly was a good one. So when I heard my current church would be conducting a similar pageant a few weeks back, I debated whether or not to risk losing my title. In the end, the event coordinators forced me to enter and in doing so, I saw an opportunity to relinquish my crown once and for all. I decided to rebel again and go with the whole pregnant theme and coming out last routine. This time, with my wife’s help and blessing, I sported a bathrobe, slippers, and sponge curlers in my wig. All was going well beforehand until me and some of the guys backstage got a little carried away. Unfortunately for everyone in attendance, I discovered a small baby doll in the church nursery where I was dressing before the performance. Why in the world I decided to stuff the hapless child up into my bathrobe next to my pillow I don’t rightly know. But I did. And at the proper moment, in front of several hundred fine Christian onlookers, I birthed a baby on stage. Caught up in the moment was I. Devoid of good sense was I. Inconceivably out of my gourd was I. Fortunately for me and everyone in attendance, I did not place in the top three. A guy in my Sunday school class who dressed like Cleopatra took home the crown. Thus my reign ended. Thankfully. And I decided then to hang up the wig and bathrobe for good. But the reverberations reverberated the next day at church. The pastor publicly mentioned something about a “churching,” which I think is similar to excommunication. I don’t know if I imagined it, but there were whispers about my continuing as a deacon. However, it seems everyone is okay now that I have announced my retirement. Hopefully I won’t pull a Brett Favre and come back seven or eight more times. (Unless it’s for a good cause.)

Parking dilemmas

2011-03-15T18:24:00.000-04:00

I've never been good at parking, parallel or otherwise. When choosing the DMV where I would get my license when I was 16, I was careful to avoid a location anywhere near a parallel parking situation. Thus I remained unprepared and intimidated by the whole parking gig. The town where I live, Boiling Springs, is inundated with parallel parking spots near the one stoplight in the center of town. I avoid those spots like the plague. The few times I tried to parallel park in one of those spots in the past led to personal embarrassment and public humiliation. On more that one occasion I gave it a try, but eventually gave up, pulled out, and moved on while the waiting traffic and pedestrians observed. "Check out the moron who stopped traffic for five minutes for nothing," I think I heard them say. I tell you all this to set up the recent scene which occurred at the local Dollar General. There are no parallel parking spots there but the spaces are nonetheless cramped and challenging to negotiate. As I pulled into the parking lot that fateful afternoon, I noticed one available spot on the back row nearest to the road. I also observed two young men sitting on the tailgate of a truck directly across from the parking spot. Surmising that it would be extremely difficult to back out of the spot when I returned from inside, I made a courageous decision. I took a deep breath, mentally crossed my fingers, and decided to back into the spot with the goal of facing outward so I could easily pull out later. I could feel the eyes of the young men bearing down on me as I pulled forward, came to a stop, then turned the wheel hard to the right as I slowly began backing. "Don't panic," I told myself. "Use your mirrors and your common sense. Bad idea, forget your common sense. Just use your mirrors and whip it in there." With every bit of humility and modesty I can muster, I must say that I absolutely nailed it. On the first try. When I got out of my truck, my eyes witnessed a masterpiece of epic proportions. My truck rested precisely in the center of the parking spot, proudly facing outward for the world to see. The front end of my truck was smiling broadly at me in amazement and appreciation. So impressive was my feat that one of the young men on back of the truck commented, "Great parking job, Dude." I have played on state championship baseball teams and coached a world series team. I have received member of the year awards at two colleges where I've worked. And ten years ago I won first place in a womanless beauty pageant. Yet I can say that at that moment, when an impressed teenager paid homage to me for a parking job well done, I beamed with indescribable pride. "You are an absolute stud," I said to myself as I tipped my cap to the bewildered teens. And I strutted as if I had been doing it all my life. Franklin Roosevelt once said, "All we have to fear is fear itself." From this day forward, I will no longer fear parking spot dilemmas. (Unless they are of the parallel sort.)

The curse and blessing of technology

2011-03-15T18:23:00.000-04:00

Technology has been driving me up a wall lately. I started counting up the things that were causing me stress recently, and the vast majority of my anxiety involved breakdowns of devices invented to supposedly make my life easier. There's a computer module thing-a-ma-jig that hides out of sight somewhere near the dashboard of my son's truck. Apparently it controls a lot of stuff I never knew about because when it decided to become unruly, various sorts of craziness ensued. The horn didn't work, the oil light stuck in the on position, and both headlights went out despite being supplied with perfectly good bulbs. The new cell phone I got in December when my old one conked out has begun misbehaving. It- not me- decides when, where, and if it wants to turn on and off. And I've made at least ten "pocket calls"- you know, the kind where your phone calls somebody when you didn't intend to. I'm quite certain it has a mind of its own. But the biggest pain in my technological life has been that wretched laptop of mine. I can't begin to explain to you the complicated tenuous love/hate relationship that dominates our mutual existence. I appreciate the fact my laptop partners with me in the production of these columns each week. I have three completed books and portions of two others stored on my laptop. And she keeps me connected to the world through the web. But I've got to admit, the laptop is a constant source of disdain for me. She won't turn on and off correctly. She freezes all the time. She taunts me by flashing error messages virtually every time I try to do anything. And recently, she decided she would no longer connect to the internet. My wife swore off the laptop weeks ago. I kept telling her that instead of hollering at it, she should just get up, walk away, and go upstairs to the PC in the bonus room. My wife took my advice and has been a better person ever since. When the strain of our relationship reached its peak, I made a drastic decision. As a result, we (my laptop and me) are currently going through a separation. We tried going to a computer specialist for therapy burt he said he needed to keep her for 10 days or so. I told him to take his time. We need our space. Not to be deterred, I produced this column on the upstairs PC. But technology would make a dramatic comeback on the day the baseball team I coach played its first home game in the new stadium. As the sun began to set, the brand new stadium lights gradually brightened and illuminated the field. And they came on automatically because I had called a guy in Iowa the day before and told him to set the lights to come on. He tapped a key on his computer and Poof! Let there be light. It was a beautiful sight to behold. As frustrated as I was with all my techno gadgets, those lights made me appreciate living in the advanced age we enjoy. I felt like stopping the game and calling the folks in Iowa to thank them for flipping the switch. And maybe I would have, but my cellphone wasn't working.

Feeling like a hero

2011-03-15T18:20:00.000-04:00

It started for me when I was in high school. Because my mom was a fifth grade teacher, I spent as much time as possible hanging out with the kids in her class. I had a blast with the kids and for whatever reason, they treated me like a hero or something. One of the fifth grade girls even handed me a Coke outside the locker room after I played in a high school football game one Friday night. In a scene similar to the one with Mean Joe Green in the famous commercial, I gave her one of my jerseys when she gave me the drink. As I grew older, I made sure not to grow up. I’ve tried over the years to hang out with the elementary kids as a lunch buddy and as an occasional speaker at their assemblies and on other special days. Recently I was asked to speak to the first graders at a local elementary school on Hero Day. The teacher informed me that due to my being the college baseball coach in town as well as the author of this weekly column, I was somewhat of a hero (she used the term celebrity) to the kids. It was an honor to go speak but it’s comical to me to be considered a hero or a celebrity. I was even more intimidated when I showed up and the poster behind me said something about heroes and there were pictures of George Washington, Abe Lincoln, and Martin Luther King, Jr. plastered all over it. Then all of a sudden it hit me. None of those guys were available to speak so they went for the first person who was willing to take the gig. And this person was proud to accept. The script is similar every time I do one of these things. I talk a little bit about working hard in school and not giving up. I tell them how bad I was at baseball when I first started. Then I read them the little children’s book I wrote (as yet unpublished) about a paper clip who overcame multiple obstacles to eventually succeed in holding some important papers together. Yes, it’s cheesy but it’s mine. Then it’s question time. Most want to tell me about their coach pitch and little league teams and how they toss with their brother in the back yard. That’s cool and I’m always glad to hear about that sorta thing. But I really like it when they ask me questions about writing. It’s a nice aside from the usual sports stuff. One of the little boys in the most recent class I visited raised his hand and asked simply, “Where do the words come from?” It was quite possibly the most profound question I’ve ever been asked. One that I couldn’t fully answer other than to say the words only form when I turn off the television, the video games, and either sit quietly or stick my nose in a book. No matter how wise I become as the years roll on, I can always learn something from a child. And I may not be a real hero, but when the kids step out of line to give me a high five while walking down the hall with their class, I sure feel like one.

Introducing the Flash Report

2011-02-14T21:42:00.001-05:00

It has become apparent to me that you, the reading public, are in need of a “Flash” fix. Of all the subjects I have written about, the Stroupe family dog Flash has gotten the most response. And though I am not one to cave in to the whims of a fickle public, I have decided in this case to quench your thirst for more by incorporating an occasional update which will furthermore be known as the Flash Report. Flash is quite the icon these days. Neighbors ride by and wave at her in the front yard all the time. She just sits there, not realizing why human types raise their arms above their heads and wave their hands back and forth when they see her. Unable to understand or respond, she simply stares. Even the UPS delivery woman is familiar with our dog. She told my wife recently, “I felt safe to leave it on the porch because I didn’t see Flash outside.” Apparently she knows Flash from the newspaper. The relationship between Flash and deliveries to our home is the main topic of this week’s Flash Report. Flash, like the Grinch, nearly stole Christmas. As you may remember, Flash has the unpleasant habit of chewing and destroying most anything she can sink her teeth into. Examples include plastic water bottles, Penny (her stuffed tiger), six bags of mulch, the stuffing of her bed, and three of those spigot covers we use for winterizing our pipes. She also chewed up the first 38 chapters of Genesis from one of our Bibles. That’s what I call digging into the Word. Even so, it did not deliver her from further temptation. Christmas was particularly challenging. She intercepted a front porch shipment of those free trial fluorescent light bulbs Duke Power has been sending out. She got a hold of a box containing two pair of shoes. When we opened the tattered box, it held three shoes. The fourth was discovered in the side yard, salvageable but traumatized. When one important shipment was way overdue, a search revealed an expensive hat in a bush next to a couple thousand pieces of cardboard that had previously served as a box. We’ve held our breath on several occasions, hoping that the recipient of a particular gift would not notice the teeth marks in the item. We were advised to put a cooler on our front porch near the front door with a sign attached that reminded delivery folks to place items in the cooler. Not to be defeated, Flash ripped up the sign and went straight back to her pillaging. That was the breaking point. I decided something drastic had to be done. I took immediate and deliberate action- I made a new sign and taped it high enough on the front door where a dog couldn’t get to it. Now that the holiday season is over, the sign and the cooler have both been removed- but the menace remains. After hearing the doorbell ring recently, I opened the front door and observed the delivery lady and the dog playing together in the front yard. “Don’t trust her,” I said. But it was too late. Like the neighbors and the reading public, the delivery lady was charmed by Flash’s magic. While the Stroupes are left to clean up the messes.

Teaching the Kid the Rules of the Road

2011-01-31T10:29:00.002-05:00

It happened one afternoon when I was a teenager a few months away from receiving my coveted driver’s license. On that particular day, I was perched in the front seat next to one of my friends in a truck driven by his father. We came to a stop sign and my friend’s dad never slowed down but kept on truckin’ right past the sign. The stunned look on my face begged an answer, so my friend quickly explained, “He doesn’t think that stop sign should be there.” Thus began one of my first informal training sessions in Driver’s Ed. It’s a wonder I ever survived to see high school graduation. Over the years I have developed my own philosophy of driving, which I am more than willing to share with my sons. My middle son recently completed Driver’s Education and for now, he’s my responsibility on the road as I ride along in the passenger’s seat. He’s extremely cautious, which is a positive, but also leads me to admonish him to “give it a little juice” from time to time- which does not go over well with Mom. But I feel like I’m doing a fine job instructing the chap. I have trained him to complete the following phrases: Dad: Know all the rules and assume everyone else . . . Son: Has forgotten them. Dad: Never text and drive but assume . . . Son: Everyone else is dumb enough to be texting and driving, especially teenagers like me. Dad: Never be an idiot behind the wheel, but assume . . . Son: Everyone else I meet on the road is an idiot. Dad: Never drink and drive, but assume . . . Son: Everyone else I meet on the road is drunk. Dad: If you ever drink and drive . . . Son: First you will take my license and then you will castrate me. (The first time I said that he ran to the dictionary to see what it meant.) I think kids these days have it a little easier than we did in my day when it comes to driving and such. We had to use either maps or some vague sense of direction to find our way. They have GPS. We had to turn the radio station with a knob while we were driving (not a good idea) and they can press one button and it goes straight to their favorite tunes. They have cruise control and we had a sore right foot. They have automatic transmissions where we had to learn to operate a clutch and grind the gears. (But they can’t catch second gear like we did.) They have cellphones if their car breaks down. I had to walk two miles in the rain to a friend’s house to call home when the truck I was driving broke down. (Long story, one I still don’t like to mention to my dad.) Regardless, I’m proud of my middle son’s driving. He comes to a complete halt at stop signs (even if he doesn’t think they should be there) and obeys the speed limit obsessively. So forgive us if we’re a little tardy now and then. The kid is just being safe and assuming everyone else on the road is an idiot. Just like his old man taught him.

Time to Tune Out the Rhetoric

2011-01-23T21:09:00.001-05:00

I don’t do politics in this column. And I certainly don’t endorse candidates in my 550- word-space each week. Not to say people won’t encourage me from time to time to speak on the issues. Take a stand and stick to it, they might say. I’m not afraid to take a stand on issues. But in case you haven’t noticed, my little column is best described as a humor/insight column that is sometimes lacking in both in the opinions of some. Even so, I admire people who take a stand and aren’t afraid to put their views out there for the inevitable criticism. People can talk all they want to about how our politicians in this country are crooked. Unfortunately, some deserve the label. But in general, I admire their bravery to stand up. If they stand up against their party occasionally, I respect them. If they go against popular opinion in the name of what is right, I applaud them. But if they spew rhetoric, debasing and personally vilifying everyone that disagrees with them, I am turned off. Speaking of turned off, that’s what I want to do to my television when the pundits all start talking at the same time and hurl insults and dirty names at each other. Seems many are incapable of carrying on a rational discussion. Turn on the tube and scan for ten minutes and you’ll see what I’m talking about. Take, for example, the Democrat Congresswoman who was shot in Arizona recently. Despite an outpouring of love and support from across the country, there are those who want to get their faces on TV and talk about how it’s her opponent’s party’s fault that she got shot because of the “atmosphere they have created” in this country. Here’s my opinion, for what it’s worth. The atmosphere created exists mainly in our government, not among the vast majority of Americans- who simply want positive and effective representation. Most of us red, white, and blue Americans admire people for their character, not for their political affiliation. But some of the pundits have created a situation where even politicians themselves are scared to compliment members of opposing parties for fear that it will give their opponent credibility as a human being. I don’t care whether Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords is a Democrat, Republican, Independent, or whatever. She’s an American. And she was doing her job representing and interacting with her constituents when she was shot. Unfortunately innocent others were hurt and several died. There are some out there who want to blame Republicans for the shooting as much as the lunatic who did it. And others would be irritated that by humanizing her and offering my deep respect for her- and by opining that the President gave a fine speech after the incident- that I am somehow advancing liberalism and harming conservative causes. If you adhere to either of these two opinions, I’m going to step out on a limb here and say that you are in the vast minority in this country. Most of us red-blooded Americans care about people more than we do parties. And we want all the rhetoric to cease so our representatives can get something done that will benefit all of us. That’s my stand and I’m sticking to it.

Some Things About Winter Weather are Predictable

2011-01-16T23:39:00.003-05:00

The weather’s been misbehaving lately. I’m not complaining, mind you, because I enjoy me some winter wonderland weather as much as the next guy, as long as it’s gone by college baseball season. Some thoughts: Observation #1: The more snow, the more snow cream. I am currently enjoying my fourth batch of the stuff even at the moment. And better yet, the kids do the collecting so I have remained warm and toasty inside while they gather. I don’t know how fattening snow cream is, but at this particular moment, I don’t give a rip. Observation #2: Snow cream collecting requires more talent than it did before we got a dog. Flash’s “movements” are clearly visible in the snow (it seems I’m the only one grossed out by this) so the kids have to be reminded that the snow cream should be entirely vanilla with no lemon or chocolate flavor from outside mixed in. Observation #3: Video gaming systems are some of the absolute best things ever invented. Okay, I know we’re supposed to lament how the younger generation is going to the pits what with all the Playstation, Wii, and computer game junk these days. And snow days provide the perfect opportunity for the family to gather by the fireplace and read classic novels, discuss politics, and talk about our dreams for the future. But the reality is different for most of us. And the games can keep stuck-at-home school kids busy for hours at a time. I know this observation doesn’t get me Father of the Year, but would it help your opinion of me to know that I grab a control stick and play along sometimes? Observation #4: The older you get, the more you enjoy watching the snow more than playing in it. I can’t hurl snowballs with near as much accuracy and velocity as I used to so I stay inside. And in my younger days, I slid around in my truck in empty parking lots for a cheap thrill. I still give it a try now, but I’m way too careful for it to be any fun. Observation #5: The reporters and commentators on TV say the same stuff over and over every time there’s a winter weather outbreak. Example: Bob: Let’s check in with Jane out on I-99. Hey Jane. Jane: Hey, Bob, they’re gearing up out here. The city has 763 trucks rolling and officials say they’ve poured 43 billion tons of salt on the highways and byways in preparation for this storm. Bob: Thanks, Jane, and remember folks, the D.O.T. says not to get out on the road unless you absolutely have to. Here’s some footage of somebody who didn’t take that advice. Now, let’s check in with Bill. Bill: I’m here outside the supermarket, Bob, where the manager says it’s been a mad rush throughout the day as shoppers flock to the milk and bread sections. And I just left the hardware store where they now say they’ve run out of snow shovels, tire chains, sleds, and generators. Bob: Wow! That’s amazing, Bill. (No, what is amazing is that the same exact conversation as above has occurred sixty thousand times on TV since 1956.) Gotta go. Gotta finish my snow cream before it melts. (Vanilla only, no chocolate, please

Extended Football Season Bowling Me Over

2011-01-09T18:35:00.002-05:00

As you may already know, my profession is that of a coach. This writing thing is a hobby of mine, therefore I have vowed not to turn this space in the paper into another sports column. But sometimes sports and life intersect, which is the case this time of year as it pertains to the college football bowl phenomenon. First let me say that I am a fan of college sports, football being right at the top of my list. And I’ve been to a bowl game before and loved it, so don’t say I’m sour about the whole deal. My purpose is not to criticize, but simply to make observations. Let’s take it from the top. TOO MANY MEN ON THE FIELD- My senior year of high school (1981-82), there were 15 bowl games (30 teams). Nowadays there are 35 bowl games, meaning 70 teams will play in a bowl and only 50 Division I teams will stay home for the holidays. You don’t even have to have a winning season to go bowling. Some teams finish 6-7 after losing a bowl game. DELAY OF GAME- Most teams finish in November but they don’t play a bowl game until several weeks later. The two teams in the championship game haven’t played since December 4 (37 days). Coaches like it because it gives them over five weeks of extra practice, but I bet the coach’s families don’t appreciate it so much. ILLEGAL SPREAD- The first of the 35 bowl games starts on December 18 and the last doesn’t end until January 10. That’s 24 days of bowl games. They used to all take place on New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day. Now 29 bowl games are played on days other than January 1. Sports junkies love it, but it drives common housewives batty. And there may be a shortage of sports junkies because I noticed a lot of empty seats in the background at some of the bowl games. PERSONNEL FOUL- Coaches who are asked to depart at the end of the regular season are rarely invited to stick around the extra 4-5 weeks to coach in the bowl games, which leads to an interesting dilemma for some schools: Who coaches in the big game?- an irritated lame-duck coach, an auditioning assistant, or an incoming new coach whose name the players can’t even pronounce yet. MEDIA TIMEOUT- When I was growing up, the bowls had simple names, often involving a fruit such as the Peach Bowl or the Orange Bowl. Other plants like the Rose, Cotton, and Sugar were represented, too. Some of them are still around today, but you have to look pretty hard to find their names in the title due to all the sponsors. Did you see the Franklin American Mortgage Music City Bowl? It was a great game but try fitting all that on a t-shirt. OVERTIME- Even with the new BCS system (I’m nowhere near smart enough to figure it out), the national championship could still be decided the next day in the newspaper like it was in 2004 when the coaches selected one team to be champions and the writers selected another. Can anyone besides Jim Mora say playoffs? Playoffs? PLAYOFFS? Gotta run. The BBVA (Banco Bilbao Vizcaya Argentaria) Compass Bowl is about to start.

I Promise Not to Get a Mohawk in 2011

2011-01-02T19:21:00.001-05:00

The beginning of a new year. Yet another opportunity to present to you my annual list of resolutions. First, let’s take a look at last year’s list and see how I fared. I was not invited to a White House Beer Summit so I wasn’t afforded the opportunity to order a Caffeine Free Diet Sun Drop at said event. So that resolve is neither a success nor a failure. But I guess not being invited to a Beer Summit indicates that I haven’t been in trouble. For now at least. As promised, I didn’t grab a black snake in the grass like a friend of mine did and I didn’t donate one of my kidneys to someone, only to ask for it back a few months later. (Someone actually did that in 2009). And I didn’t complain about the mispronunciation and misspelling of my last name last year. So I did pretty well in 2010. That brings us to 2011, the Year of the Rabbit or the Year of the Forests, depending on whom you ask. I, Rusty Stroupe, (pronounced Strap), hereby commit to the following resolutions in the Year of the Rabbit: I will not, under any circumstances, attend the Cricket World Cup in India in February, the Rugby World Cup in New Zealand in September, or the Royal Wedding of Prince William and What’s Her Name in April. Royal weddings have traditionally led to royally complicated divorces, though I hope this one will be an exception. And I will not, if at all possible, utter from my mouth or type on my keyboard (other than now) the phrase, “I’m just sayin.” And I won’t end any of my sentences by saying, “and stuff like that,” or “and junk”. That’s so 2009. And unlike the so-called cool macho guys of the younger generation, I will not get a Mohawk haircut in 2011. I’m not sure my hairline is capable of such an arrangement anyway. I saw a small kid with a green Mohawk recently and I all could think was, “Why?” I will not run for sheriff nor will I spill oil into the Gulf. And I will not feel sorry for either the players or the owners in any strike conducted by Major League Baseball, the NFL, or the NHL. Come on guys, most of us would play for meal money. Okay, I wouldn’t play hockey without a good dental plan but you get the picture. And to honor rabbits, I will not hunt them this year. I haven’t bagged one since I cheated and shot one in our family garden when I was 14. Come to think of it, I haven’t hunted them since then so that will be an easy resolution to keep. So much for the “will nots”. Time for the “I wills”. I will experience a white Christmas, just like the one I knew in 2010, which was the first of my lifetime. I will publish a book and I will, despite whatever low-fat diet I am on, indulge myself with homemade ice cream at every game of the locally hosted American Legion World Series this coming summer. (I’m hoping for homemade banana.) So there you have it. Blessings in 2011. Be on the lookout for Mohawks at the Royal Wedding. I’m just sayin’. (Ooops) Rusty Stroupe

Even an Octopus Deserves Some Recognition in 2010

2010-12-26T19:51:00.002-05:00

I do it every year around this time. I put together a list of those who have inspired me in some way during the past year and call it something silly like, “Thumbs Up Award for Regular Folks Who Don’t Get Recognized But Probably Should.” Sounds good so I’m going with that for 2010. You won’t see any of television’s Real Housewives on my list this year. The very few times I have wasted a few moments of my life by tuning in, all I could hear were beeps. Maybe they get bonuses based on who can curse the most. Cursing is bad enough, but is particularly unattractive among females. Enough for the negativity. I am an optimist and I’ve had plenty of reasons to smile this year. NOSTRADAMUS OF THE SEA- Paul the Octopus was a stud when it came to picking the winners in last summer’s World Cup soccer matches, correctly predicting the outcome of the last eight matches in a row by lowering himself onto a box with the country’s flag located at the bottom of his tank. Poor Paul didn’t enjoy his fame for long as he left us in October due to “natural causes.” (If only he had picked Team USA to win) CLASS ACT- Major League Baseball umpire Jack Joyce blew the call that would have given Detroit pitcher Armando Gallaraga a perfect game. But Joyce, Gallaraga, and the normally harsh fans of Detroit all handled it with grace and dignity, giving me hope for the game I have loved since my youth. CLASS ACT #2- Also involving baseball but a little closer to home, I witnessed an act of true sportsmanship this past summer at a youth league baseball game. One of the kids was playing with a cast on his arm, forcing him to bunt each time he came up to bat. When he came up with two outs in the last inning, the opposing coach- who could have easily seized the opportunity to win the game at that point- chose instead to intentionally walk the kid so that the game wouldn’t end on a fluke out. He saved the kid embarrassment and chose class over the “win at all cost” mentality. Kudos. MISSION POSSIBLE- Seems like I mention my mission trips every year. Get used to it. The team of college kids I led on a trip to the Dominican Republic made quite an impression on me. But also my friends there in the Dominican remain close to my heart, and are in my thoughts and prayers daily. MISSION SERVE- I also had the opportunity to serve as worship leader for a week of Mission Serve this past summer, where teens serve less fortunate others through short-term construction projects. On the last night, during a song where we were all kind of letting loose together, one boy looked at me and said something I’ll never forget. Jeremy was someone I would probably have never hung out with in school. He was uncoordinated and socially awkward. But he looked up at me during the last verse of the song and said simply, “Coach Rusty, you’re my favorite person.” It was one of the greatest compliments I have ever received and I’ll cherish its sincerity forever. Thanks for a great 2010. Blessings to all.

Hope Springs Eternal This Christmas

2010-12-19T17:10:00.001-05:00

A few thoughts, if I may, about Christmases past, present, and future. Christmases past and present have been and are filled with clichés. Folks say, “You ready for Christmas?” and others reply, “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.” And you hear people ask, “Did ya’ll have a big Christmas?” to which the standard reply is, “Yeah, too big.” People complained back then and still worry now that Christ is being taken out of Christmas. And even though we now know X is a Greek symbol representing Christ, it’s still not kosher to put up a sign with “Xmas” written anywhere on it. And you can’t say “gay apparel” anymore as freely as you used to could. The most memorable Christmas decoration I can remember from my youth was a Santa propped on a toilet next to a defunct truck tire with flowers in it, proudly displayed in somebody’s front yard. I made my parents ride by that house over and over again. Christmas past meant that one of my uncles would tell his “Randolph the Brown-nosed reindeer” joke on Christmas Eve. It was something about how Randolph could fly just as fast as Rudolph but couldn’t stop as quick. Us kids always got a kick out of that one. (At least he didn’t do the “pull my finger” trick.) But Christmas Eve also meant a candlelight service at my home church, where a choir member, usually Martel, would sing “Oh Holy Night.” I still visit my home church every Night Before Christmas and eagerly anticipate getting my “Oh Holy Night” fix, which never disappoints me. No Christmas is complete for me unless I’ve seen the Grinch and Charlie Brown specials. The other night, while watching Charlie, my fifteen-year-old said, “Dad, you know the reason I know all the words to this show? Because you make us watch it every year.” Dang straight I do. (Everyone should hear Linus’ oration every year- the part where he tells about the birth of Jesus.) And every year in the past and now in the present, we sing about winter wonderlands and sleigh rides with bells jingling. Yet I’ve never seen white on Christmas Day and I’ve certainly never dashed through the snow on a giant horse-drawn sled headed for Grandma’s house or anywhere else. But we sing it anyway because hope springs eternal. In Christmases past, present, and future- based on my nut allergy- I have been and will remain on the alert for goodies laced with nuts. Beware of fudge, banana bread, fruitcake (Ugh!), cookies, and everything else Christmasey you can think of. Concerning Christmases future, you may be expecting to hear gloom and doom but fear not, I bring you good news. Christmases future will witness an end to shoppers getting trampled with their treasures (more online shopping) and protests over the words people greet each other with during the season will cease. You’ll be able to say “Merry Christmas,” “Happy Hanukah,” or “Happy Holidays” because people will finally realize that a greeting is simply one’s way of expressing peace, love, and joy to the world- as opposed to trying to force a religion on you. And Linus, the Grinch, Randolph, and “Oh Holy Night” will still be around, even when I’m long gone. And Christ will still remain in Christmas. Because hope springs eternal.

Debunking the Global Warming Theory

2010-12-16T00:23:00.002-05:00

Pundits argue, fuss, and call each other dirty names when the subject of global warming is introduced. Some say human beings have caused Mother Earth to overheat due to our numerous emissions and atmospheric indiscretions. Others say we are indeed warming up, but humans have minimal influence as it pertains to weather patterns. Still others say it’s just a rebellious phase the universe is going through and she will return to normal once her wild oats are sowed. I am not educated enough on such matters to produce a relevant scientific opinion. But my own observations in recent years have led me to believe we are actually entering an ice age. I have evidence to back up my theory. I went to college in the mountains of North Carolina and played the outdoor sport of baseball at Appalachian State. The coldest game I remember playing occurred in March of 1985 in Boone. On that day it flurried snow and I wore a pair of long johns and one long sleeve undershirt under my uniform. It was chilly but I survived. And now, twenty plus years later I’m coaching that same sport, but I won’t step onto a field before spring break without ten layers of clothing and a portable heater in the dugout. Two years ago, I coached a home game where the temperature was 35 and the wind was howling. The opposing third baseman from Canisius (Buffalo, NY) told me it felt like a heat wave. Last year, good sense evading us, we played a night game in mid-February where the wind chill temperature never made it above freezing. I counted 14 layers of clothing on myself that night as I questioned the sanity of my chosen profession. 43 fans (I counted) braved the cold in the stands and though I admired their loyalty, I felt certain they had misplaced their marbles. I remember looking over at one my assistant coaches at one point and saying, “Whoever made up that junk about global warming should be here tonight.” Further evidence is the torture I have endured in recent years on hunting excursions with my sons. A few years ago, on one particular freezie pop morning, one of my sons and I shared a tree stand and ended up putting away our guns and cuddling with each other to survive. I suspect the deer were humored. So don’t bother producing scientific evidence to convince me that the polar caps are all but melted and the ocean will overtake the North Carolina Mountains within a few years. My body knows different. And now here we are only a few days after Thanksgiving, and the temps are already in the teens at night. Global warming? But alas, there is another factor. This body of mine is twenty-five years older than it was when it was wearing long johns during college baseball games and short sleeves when it snowed. I am forced to consider the possibility that the weather is no colder than it used to be, but rather I’m just a whole lot wimpier now. Either way, I prefer complaining about it being colder. I’m too macho to admit I can’t take it anymore and I’m too delusional to admit I’m not the spring chicken I used to be. And it’s not even winter yet.

No Thanks

2010-12-09T21:37:00.000-05:00

In this season of gratitude, I have much to be thankful for. Faith, family, friends, a job, health, church, and a home come to mind. Also I count my freedom and those who protect it among my many blessings. There’s more but I have chosen to take a different angle this week. After much introspection, I have come up with a list of things I am not thankful for. Or better stated, the “thankful I am not” list. ALL THAT JUNK ABOUT TOUCHING- I’m thankful I’m not traveling by air during the holiday season. I consider myself an affectionate guy, but I won’t be getting patted down, body scanned, or molested in any form or fashion at the airport. As appealing as all that may sound to some, I’m happily married, thank you. NO STAR ON THE SIDEWALK- I’m relieved not to be a Hollywood star. Most, not all, of them have skyrocketing divorce rates and plastic surgery bills. And their mug shots when they get in trouble are beyond hilarious. Plus they’ve got that whole paparazzi deal crowding around them all the time. The closest I’ve ever come to that was when I gave out cheese crackers and crayons to some children in the Dominican Republic. DANCING FOOL- I am thankful not to be a finalist on “Dancing with the Stars” despite the fact I produced unforgettable performances at a recent football game (recall column about dancin’ and textin’) and a few weeks later with the father of the bride at a Haitian wedding. I don’t watch the show but it seems to me everybody who gets voted off is 1) embarrassed 2) grouchy and 3) bitter. ROYAL PAIN- I’m extremely thankful that I wasn’t born into royalty. I hear the wedding of the future King of England and his bride will cost their families $40 million. Of course they can afford it but I prefer thrift shops, flea markets, and blue light specials. Plus they have to remember which fork to use to eat their salad and I like to just dig in face first. EFFORTS IN FUTILITY- I am a sports fan but not a fanatic. Thus I don’t live and die by the performances of my favorite pro teams. I am thankful for that because my football Panthers are the worst in the NFL right now. The Bobcats are second to last in their division in the NBA (yawn . . . who really cares) and my beloved baseball Pirates were recently voted the worst professional sports franchise in the history of mankind. Despite my ridiculous loyalty, I’m thankful I don’t lose sleep over their haplessness. MINER SIXTY NINER- I am thankful that my professional duties do not include underground mining. Thirty-three Chilean miners recently “enjoyed” sixty-nine days and nights trapped below the earth’s surface before being rescued. I would have never made it. I attempted to hide in the trunk of a car to sneak in the drive-in during high school but started screaming bloody murder five seconds after my friends tucked me in and closed me up. I’ve gladly paid the admission fee ever since. That’s about it. So don’t forget during this season of thanks to not only count your blessings, but also your not-blessings. And give someone a hug. (But don’t pat them down.)

Heroes Come in All Shapes and Sizes

2010-11-25T20:41:00.002-05:00

I was ten years old in 1974 when NC State University won the national championship in basketball. I clearly remember the entire family gathering in the den to watch the nail-biting victory over powerhouse UCLA in the historic semi-final game. Everybody’s favorite was the local hero, David Thompson. And the giant in the middle of the lane, Tommy Burleson, was also a North Carolina boy. I loved those guys, but my favorite player was from Indiana. Monte Towe was five feet, six inches tall on his best day and ran the team from his point guard position. Being a little undersized myself at the time, and one who enjoyed playing some hoops, I could relate. Towe had heart, and there’s no doubt the National Championship banner than hangs in the basketball arena at NCSU today wouldn’t be there had Monte Towe never been born. Recently, I took my oldest son to visit State, and on the Friday night of our visit, attended a State basketball game and viewed the aforementioned banner in person. I also noticed on the bench an undersized assistant coach who I immediately recognized as one of my childhood heroes. My mind drifted back to that Saturday in the family den many years before. When State sealed the victory in overtime, I jumped high enough to touch the ceiling for the first time in my life, even putting a small dent in it. Monte would have been proud of me. On the second day of my State visit, I was able to procure football tickets for my son and his friend, but had some trouble getting one for myself. A last minute call from the NCSU baseball coach saved me. “Meet me at Gate 6 in about twenty minutes. I found another coach who has an extra ticket and we’re coming to give it to you,” claimed my friend. A few minutes later, the crowd of about 100 people waiting in line parted like the Red Sea (pun intended since they were all wearing red) as my ticket carrier arrived. We were ushered to the front of the line by security and it was there I received my ticket. Monte Towe was the coach with the extra ticket. In the moments before I shook his hand, I thought of a million things I could say to him. Something he didn’t hear a thousand times a week. Something about he inspired me as a child to be the best I could be- not only in sports, but in life. Maybe I could mention how I jumped high enough to touch the ceiling for the first time that day so many years ago and went on to become a point guard for my high school basketball team. Maybe I could tell him that he’s inspired thousands and thousands of people around the globe and given them reason to hope. Or I could keep it simple and tell him what a class guy I think he is. All these thoughts raced through my mind as my big moment finally arrived. After being introduced by the baseball coach, I looked Monte Towe right in the eye and uttered these immortal words- “Good game last night.” Sometimes you gotta keep it simple. Thanks for the ticket, Monte. But most of all, thanks for the memories.

A Flash in the Pan (Or rather, the Truck)

2010-11-17T22:32:00.002-05:00

Flash has been at it again. As you may remember from a previous column, Flash is the Stroupe family dog. Fully grown I suppose, but still a puppy. Previously I relayed to you the tale of Flash getting a fish hook stuck in her nose. The story ended happily but not before Flash relieved herself (number 2) in our driveway during the fish hook removal procedure. I’ve always been more of a dog guy than a cat person. Cats make my eyes itch and my throat scratch. And I get freaked out when cats purr their little feline motors. I realize they make good pets, but I don’t trust them. Those little motors are tools of manipulation. So when I tell you that Flash is driving me a little batty lately, please understand I’m not down on the canine kingdom. I’ve always liked the image of me driving down the road in my pickup truck with my dog propped up in the back cab biting at air and such. But when my wife encouraged me to take Flash on a little ride recently, I was hesitant because I knew I had to make a few stops. In the end I relented and Flash jumped in the back bed. We did fairly well until the trip home from the grocery store. About a mile from our house, I noticed that an impatient Flash had crawled atop my tool box in the back, a precarious perch from which to operate. Soon afterwards, the image in my rear view mirror revealed only two legs and a wagging tail, indicating that Flash’s front legs were on top of my truck and she was seeing open road ahead of her. At this point I slowed down and called home so everyone could witness the scene when I drove up. Upon hanging up, I discovered that the scene in my rear view mirror no longer revealed any animal body parts- eerily similar to the sled scene in “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.” The scratching on top of my truck above my head filled in the blanks for me. I slowed to a near crawl as my house appeared in the distance. To my left I saw on the ground a dog shadow postured proudly and majestically just over my head. When I pulled into the driveway, a completely cracked up family laughed as Flash slid down my windshield, darted across the hood, then leapt to the pavement below. A minute or two later, as things were calming down, an 11-year-old Stroupe hollered, “Hey Daddy, why is there shoo-shoo (number two) in the back of your truck?” That was it. I pretended to come unglued as everyone else laughed hysterically. “You just took your last ride in my truck,” I scolded an unashamed puppy. My wife tried to make excuses about how Flash was nervous and excited. I replied by reminding her that Flash turns every scene into a bathroom incident. And my poor truck has now been victimized three times by number two. Twice in the bed and once in the backseat. Expect to hear more about Flash in the future, though the stories will unlikely be about her riding in the back (or on top) of my truck anytime soon.

Maybe it's Time to Get With it

2010-11-11T22:41:00.000-05:00

Get with it. That was the main gist of a column I produced a few weeks ago. In it I reminded you that time flies these days. And if you’re not careful, you’ll drift through life and your dreams will drown in a sea of “what ifs.” For the record, I’m not encouraging folks to quit their jobs and try out for the NFL. I’m not condoning a mid-life crisis where you forsake your family responsibilities to go cliff diving in Mexico. None of that. I’m simply reminding my fellow human beings that fear shouldn’t hold us back from accomplishing those things we have dreamed of all our lives. I’m reminding others (and myself) not to put things off until later or later may never show up. Take for example, something on my “To Do Before I Die” (Bucket List) that I have now done three times. One of my goals was to speak in a foreign country, in a foreign church, in a foreign language. I did it in 2009 on my second mission trip to the Dominican Republic. Three nights in a row in a small church. And I did it again on my most recent trip to the Dominican. But this time was different. It was in front of a much larger crowd. And due to human error (mine), the task was made even more difficult when I discovered that my neatly prepared, properly translated into Spanish sermon was not on my person when I boarded the airplane toward my destiny. Upon discovering that I had left my notes in the USA, I attempted unsuccessfully to kick myself in the rear end. Instead I whispered “Stupid” over and over until the person next to me on the airplane started staring at me. It was obvious I would have to explain to my friends in the Dominican that I couldn’t preach because I had left all my notes at home. Then, for no particular reason, I started jotting down, in Spanish, some of the phrases I remembered from my message. Within minutes I had two full pages of notes (all in Spanish) and with it a whole new perspective. I can only say it was divine intervention, because to refer to my Spanish as shaky is too high of a compliment. I delivered the message in two different churches on the mission trip. And no one threw tomatoes. And just like in 2009, I think I heard an “Amen” or two from the congregation. I tell you all this so you can learn from my experience. First, make sure you have your notes with you before you speak. Second, it is physically impossible to kick yourself in the rear end. Third, anything worth accomplishing will have its share of setbacks. And fourth, God is good. So my question is this: Have you responded to the challenge? What have you done to “get with it” recently or in the past? I’d like to hear about it. I promise to keep you anonymous if I write about it. But I want to know. I crave inspiration. Email me at rstroupe002@carolina.rr.com and tell me about it. Yes, I’m taking a risk by throwing out my personal email address for possible junk mail and anonymous criticism. But in this case, I think it’s worth it. Inspire me.

Dancing at a Haitian Wedding

2010-11-07T23:16:00.001-05:00

I’ve never been accused of being a good dancer. During my junior high and high school days, my moves at the school dances were limited. Typically if it was a rock n’ roll song, my “Too cool for school” friends and I would conservatively move to the beat and raise our hands in the air and pretend to be playing the drums. It was the only real move I knew until a buddy of mine taught me how to “break dance” in college. As a counselor at summer camp during my college years, in addition to the break dancing, I briefly mastered all the steps to “New York, New York,”- achieving a modest amount of respect among the kids at the camp. But my glory quickly faded when I returned to college that fall and forgot the steps almost immediately. I was reminded of my dancing deficiencies on my recent mission trip to the Dominican Republic. It’s a long story but basically, my group was invited to a Haitian wedding in the pastor’s backyard and I got a little bit out of hand. The fact that it was obviously a shotgun wedding is relevant only to provide context. That being said, most of the patrons were not in the dancing mood when the evening began. But the father of the bride was. And I noticed that for quite some time after the music started, he was dancing by himself near the cake. Across the way some children eventually got cranked up but the adults didn’t seem to want to participate. Feeling sorry for Dad, I started filming him with my video camera and eventually grooved back and forth a little to provide a measure of support for his efforts. Not long afterward, the spirit of the evening and the beat of the music drowned out the section of my brain that secretes discretion and restraint. Figuring that being in a foreign country would significantly lessen the likelihood of me being embarrassed or humiliated, I went for it. I joined the children at first but Dad soon took notice of my gyrations and began emulating my movements. Before long he motioned for me to join him and the next thing I knew I was right beside the about-to-be-cut wedding cake, dancing with the bride’s father unashamedly. To clarify the image in your mind, we danced side by side, not face to face. At that point, I believe they would have let me cut the cake if I so desired. One of the girls in our group told me later that I looked extremely “white” during my performance. I don’t think it was intended as a compliment but I didn’t care. I had a blast. And I would do it again. But there’s one thing I might do different. In a moment of weakness, I handed my video camera to another team member. And when I checked the tape later, there I was, movin’ to the groovin’ for the whole world to see. But I still have no regrets. When I returned home, I simply clicked on my “Things to Do Before I Die” (bucket list) on my computer and added, “Dance with the father of the bride at a Haitian wedding.” It wasn’t originally on the list, but it shall reside there forever.

Oh the Things You Can See in the Dominican Republic

2010-10-24T22:46:00.005-04:00

Hola. It means “hello” in Spanish. I said it many times recently on my mission trip to the Dominican Republic. And fortunately or unfortunately for you, I will be sharing some of the highlights of my journey with you in the coming weeks. I’ll start this week by letting you know that I saw many sights in the D.R. I feel compelled to share them with you, in no particular order. RUB A DUB DUB- I witnessed three little children sitting in one small tub of water, nekkid as jaybirds. The tub was not much bigger than a family spaghetti bowl but somehow there they all sat, just hanging out, not bothering a soul. LIVING ON A PRAYER- A young man on a motorcycle in Vicente Noble successfully performed a “wheelie” which lasted approximately the length of two city blocks. At one point he was looking straight up in the air for several seconds. Though I think he did it to show off to the girls in our group, I was the person he impressed most. BORN TO BE WILD- While riding in our bus, I made note of every stop sign and speed limit sign we passed, all of which our driver completely ignored. I got the feeling the signs were intended merely as suggestions. By the way, none of the buses we rode in had working speedometers. And double yellow lines exist only as road decorations. TAKE THIS JOB AND SHOVE IT- In the capital city of Santo Domingo, brave souls weave in and out of the traffic on foot attempting to entice car riders to purchase items. Typically it was stuff like bottled drinks, sunglasses, and bananas, but my favorite was a guy whose hands were full of “rabbit ears”- the ones like we used to have on our televisions in the 70s. IT’S FIVE O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE- I came upon a group of men one afternoon who were playing dominoes and downing a local moonshine of some sort. When I asked one “amigo” if I could take a picture, he politely declined. The interpreter then explained that the man didn’t want his wife, who was working in the USA and sending him money, to see him on Facebook (or anywhere else online) drinking alcohol. So he handed the bottle to his buddy, who was more than willing to pose for a photo. HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT- I saw a man and his teen daughter fighting over a stand-up oscillating fan in the middle of the street one day. He wanted to take it the local pawn shop and sell it for beer money but she wanted relief from the 90 degree heat. After a few minutes of pushing and shoving, she ended up cool and he stayed sober. For one day at least. A LITTLE BIT OF SOAP- At a restaurant called Pollo Rey- the Dominican equivalent of KFC- my D.R. pastor friend pulled a small bottle of shampoo out of his back pocket in the bathroom and proceeded to wash his hair in the sink. Of the ten or so men in the bathroom, I was the only one who seemed to think this was unusual. And thus, I was alone in my hysterical laughter, which my friend didn’t seem to mind. That’s all. For now at least. Adios.

Time Moving Faster These Days so "Get With It"

2010-10-24T22:45:00.000-04:00

I’ve always heard that as you get older, time moves faster. In the past I have scoffed at such silliness. But recently I collided head on with that very reality. I was standing at my bathroom sink placing my vitamins for the week into the seven separate compartments designed to organize my daily allowances, which seem to increase annually. As I began placing the pills into their slots, my mind emitted signals indicating that I had completed this very task two days before. And at first, I believed it. Then I realized it couldn’t be true, mainly because all the slots were previously empty, a sure-fire indication that it had been a full week since I had filled them. For the first time in my life, I realized the old saying was true. Time does move quicker as we get older. A week feels like two days. The full moon seems to be out every 10 days or so. And a new year loudly bursts on the scene while your ears are still recovering from “ringing in” the previous one. Take, for example, this whole column writing thing I do. As of this week, I have been at it for eight years now. That’s over 400 columns. Yet I’m certain I wrote my first one a few short weeks ago. But as I look back over some of my previous columns, I realize my oldest son- who is now a senior in high school- was the subject of many of my columns when he was in elementary school. I tell you all this not to complain, but rather to remind you (and me) that life truly is short. In 2001, a year before I moved back to North Carolina, while lying in bed one night, I realized I was another year older and I still hadn’t given my writing a chance. I had a secret desire to write columns and such, but for years had lacked the guts to throw it out there and see what would happen. The time had come for me to “get with it.” The next day I met up with an editor friend of mine and handed him a manila envelope with some of my writing inside. The rest, as they say, is history. So what is it that you’ve been putting off? Have you, like the unfaithful servant, taken some desire God has placed in your heart and buried it in the ground? Are you scared someone will make fun of you or that you’ll be told you’re a dreamer? Or that you will fail? Personally I think it’s worth the risk. Pick up that guitar and strum it. Dust off that piano keyboard and let the melodies flow. Pull out that old paint brush and stroke with it. Update the virus protection on your computer and fill your hard drive with stories and ideas. Thread the eye of the needle and sew something beautiful to wear. Put on your hiking boots and scale that mountain you’ve always dreamed of conquering. Dig up your tools and tinker with that old engine you’ve been wanting to fix. Leave the comfort of your pew and give your testimony before the church. Don’t let another day pass. Days can quickly add up to a lifetime of what ifs. Get with it.

Class Reunion

2010-10-22T23:58:00.002-04:00

My boys laughed at the picture on the refrigerator just as I knew they would. It had served as my nametag at my class reunion the night before and the picture on it was of me during my senior year in high school. I traveled to my hometown of Cherryville to attend the reunion of the classes of ‘80-‘83 recently. My cousin and I spared our non-native wives the unpleasant experience of attending our reunion and went as a couple. It worked out well though the folks taking up money at the front desk refused to give us the price break we felt we were entitled. Let me make it clear first off that I love my classmates and I will always feel a special bond with them. But reunions remind us of stuff that happened that we would rather not remember. Like my experience at the Fair in the sixth grade. There was a whole group of us and the expectation was that the boys would kiss their girlfriends while in the little cart inside the haunted house ride. Due to mass confusion at the entrance, I ended up in a cart with a boy I barely knew who had not at that point in his life showed any interest in girls. Luckily there was no kissing in the Spooky House that night but I saw him at the class reunion and it’s possible he’s still not interested in girls. Reunions also remind us of how the aging process affects humans. Most of us guys have less hair on our heads now and more protruding from our ears. And I suspect some of the girls get their hair dyed to cover up some gray, but I could be wrong. You can tell right away at a small town reunion which girls married guys from home and which ones married out of town. Those who married outside instead of within have funny last names that can be difficult to pronounce. Reunions remind us about the affects of alcohol. As the night wore on, some of the folks who had been hanging out in the bar area started bear-hugging folks and saying “I love you” to most anyone they encountered. One guy (not the one from the Fair) even kissed me on the cheek, despite the fact I’m not sure we’ve ever had a meaningful conversation. For the record, he is married. To a woman. But reunions, I think, remind us most of all about the choices we have made in life. What professions we pursued. Who we chose to marry. What things we consider significant in life. My choices have been far from perfect but as I drove home from the class reunion, I whispered a prayer of thanks to God. Thankful that I’ve grown in so many ways since 1982. Thankful that I wouldn’t trade my wife or kids for anybody else’s wife or kids in the whole world. Thankful that the boy on the Spooky House ride stayed on his side of the cart at the Fair thirty-four years ago. The young man on the refrigerator will always be a part of who I am. But even though he had much more hair than me, I wouldn’t trade places with him. I certainly treasure the past, but to be honest, I love the now.

Remembering Katrina and Sam

2010-10-06T21:49:00.002-04:00

Prime time TV was dominated recently by shows honoring the fifth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath. Thoughts of that time in my life five years ago flood my mind now as I recall where I was and what I was doing then. A few days after Katrina struck, I hitched a ride on a bus from a neighboring church and ended up in Laurel, Mississippi. In return for my service there, I received a healthy dose of love, friendship, and Christian hope. I spent most of my time there with a local named Sam. He was an 86-year-old black man and I was 41 at the time. Sam grew up as a farmer. I grew up as a shortstop. Yet we got along quite well together. In his red and gray half ton Dodge Ram truck, Sam escorted me to his neighborhood, one of the poorest in Laurel, explaining how tough it was for folks there. We visited and checked on folks in several houses, each seemingly in a more desperate situation than the previous one. As we pulled away from one particular house, Sam reached his breaking point. He stopped his truck in the middle of the road, put his face in his hands and sobbed like a baby. For a few awkward moments, I simply watched and listened as an 86-year-old man cried. 86-year-old men aren’t supposed to cry. They deserve to be enjoying every precious moment they have left. I reached over and comforted Sam with a hand on his shoulder and a few words of reassurance. I sensed at that instant I was living in a holy moment. Two men from different backgrounds, of different ages, and whose skin color didn’t match, were bound by the same Holy Spirit. For a moment, I felt as if God was physically present in our midst in a way I have rarely experienced in my lifetime. I returned to Laurel a week or so later to help distribute more supplies for folks in Sam’s neighborhood. Sam wiped a tear from his eye at one point and assured me that God had sent me there and had brought us together for a reason. Sam and I spoke by phone only once after my last visit to Laurel but I thought of him constantly. Spending time with him and soaking up his wisdom had permanently enriched my life. Four months after Katrina I got a card in the mail from Sam’s wife. My friend’s journey on this earth had ended and he was at home with his Father in Heaven. Yet my eyes did not fill with tears and my heart didn’t sink. Instead a smile crossed my face as I remembered Sam and his desire to see and experience Heaven. He lived 86 tough but wonderful years and until his dying breath, he was serving others and was as joyful and peace-filled as any human on earth. What else could one ask for? Katrina is now a bad word and hardly anybody names a daughter after her. Understandable. But when I hear of Katrina, I choose to remember Sam and my other friends in Mississippi who thought I was touching them, but who in actuality touched me in a way I will remember for the rest of my life.

Picking on Pigs Has Gone Far Enough

2010-09-29T21:53:00.002-04:00

If you ask me, pigs get picked on too much. “Let’s have a Pig Pickin’,” people say when they’re hungry and want to congregate with other people in a social setting. After a pig is picked out, he is laid out for everyone to pick through and pick over. And somebody stuffs an apple in his mouth to humiliate and pick on the poor fella even more. When it’s done he’s been picked to pieces. Other people sell Boston Butts when they want to raise money. And the poor pig is usually the victim in that instance as well. Despite the Butt, the meat doesn’t come from his hind quarters. Says the pig, “If I’m sacrificing my future in this deal, at least get your facts straight.” No respect. We pick on pigs when we utter ridiculous statements like, “You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.” True enough, but why not substitute a donkey’s ear or some other barnyard animal. Nope, it’s almost always the pig bearing the brunt of the insults. Humans get mad at other humans sometimes when they think they’re being lied to and they holler out, “Hogwash!” or “Baloney!” Poor pig. It’s bad enough he’s sacrificed for bacon, sausage, ham, etc.- now he’s a replacement curse word as well. Insensitive humans describe other humans they deem as obese or lazy using words that involve hogs while other moronic types refer to our fine officers of the law as pigs, and it’s not a compliment. Pork is a bad word in politics that keeps representatives from getting reelected (or at least it should) and people who take up too much of the street when driving are called Road Hogs. The poor pig has a dreaded disease named after him. Swine flu made a comeback a few years ago and everybody had to get shots again like they did in the 70s. Kids who don’t keep their rooms picked up hear things from their mother like, “You’re worse than a pig” or the dreaded, “This place is a pig sty.” I never knew growing up what a sty was but I suspected it was untidy. I encountered a pig recently at a local high school football game. While heading to my parked car after the game, I glanced to my left and a few feet from a containment fence, amongst several goats, lay an enormous pig. “She’s pregnant,” said one of the teens in our group who attends the school. I stopped and stared at the Mom-to-be and for a few brief moments, our eyes met. And for the first time in my life, I truly felt sorry for a pig. It was bad enough that a pregnant pig mom had to endure the loud and obnoxious sounds of the crowd cheering, the band playing, and the lights glaring- but now most every human exiting the premises would be passing by and hurling an insult or two her direction. “It could be worse,” said one of the baby goats as I stared, “She could be one of us.” Knowing the chap had a valid point considering what we call people who end up on the opposite end of the heroes in games, I whispered to the goat, “Hang in there, kid.”

Dancing and Texting in the Rain

2010-09-23T22:22:00.001-04:00

Fortunately for him, my coach friend who was sitting with me at the football game had vacated his seat for a few moments when I broke bad that night. Had he been there at the time, I suspect I would be attending sports contests by my lonesome self in the future. I still feel my behavior during his absence was justified- considering the moment. And as you may know by now, I enjoy living in the moment. The team I was rootin’ for had just scored the game-clinching touchdown and the band had fired up a rendition of Cheeseburger in Paradise- or was it We Didn’t Start the Fire. Either way, my side of the stadium was pumping. I didn’t personally know the lady next to me but I assumed some of my female church friends sitting in front of me did. Turns out they didn’t know her either but I would have never known based on the way they all laughed and carried on together during the game. At one point when it started to drizzle, I poked my head under my neighbor’s umbrella and told her I was coming in. “Either that,” I said, “or I keep letting it drip off the side right onto my head.” She obliged. Just after the clinching touchdown, my neighbor frantically began texting on her cellphone. And when the band cranked up, she continued texting and started dancing. Both things at once. In rhythm. Despite an excellent game, it was the most impressive feat I witnessed that night. Caught up in the moment, I joined in. The fact that my neighbor was black and I am white was irrelevant except that I risked my performance dulling in comparison to hers based on the whole “white men can’t dance” assumption. To increase my odds, I cheated by faking the texting thing with my blackberry and just pushed a bunch of random buttons while I danced. Being the local college baseball coach, the father of three boys, and a deacon in my church, you might think I would have considered my actions carefully and carried myself with more dignity. Not on that night. The moment was too powerful. And I felt I held my own pretty well. My neighbor and her companions seemed to enjoy the company and my church friends were laughing, though it may have been AT me instead of WITH me. I think people ought to dance more, anyway, even if they’re bad at it. Life is to be celebrated, not calculated. And I think people ought to speak to strangers sitting next to them more often, too. Even if their skin colors don’t match. But most of all, I think people deserve to laugh, either at me or with me. When my coach friend returned to his seat a few minutes later, I played off the whole dancing incident and quickly began discussing the game. Relieved to realize he hadn’t witnessed my escapades, I made some remark about us catching the next game if he wasn’t busy. So I’m hoping between now and the next game, nobody fills him in on just how much “in the moment” I became that night. Some people might be embarrassed to have danced while texting in the rain. But this coach/father/deacon is proud. (And would do it again).

Cancer Victim Wasn't Resentful of Her Plight

2010-09-14T22:33:00.001-04:00

It’s not fair. I’ve heard that said over and over during my lifetime. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to figure out fair and unfair. Why and why not. Such is the case with the recent passing of my dear little friend Carey Heavner. She was eleven and spent the last year or so of her life fighting the cancer that ultimately robbed us of her presence. I visited Carey at her home last fall with some of my baseball players from Gardner-Webb. We played Wii bowling and Wii Golf. Carey was shy due to all the older boy attention but eventually she giggled a few times and agreed to some pictures during our visit. Carey and I texted each other occasionally. She asked me about the team and I asked her how she was doing. She always had the rosiest attitude. I mustered the courage to tell her I loved her in one text and she replied with the same sentiment. Carey said to her mom recently, “I guess God is taking me to be with him because he needs another angel.” I’m jealous. Jealous because the citizens of Heaven are enjoying their newest addition and we here on earth are not. Jealous because a small child walked and talked with Jesus in her dreams the last few nights she was alive and my dreams dull in comparison. I read Carey’s update on the Caring Bridge website almost every day. It seemed she was handling this whole thing a lot better than I was. She was eager to see her Jesus. She wasn’t bitter or resentful. She didn’t care about fair or unfair, why or why not. She was at peace. And so I decided that I would be, too. This child’s courage in the face of death vaulted her to the top of my list of heroes in my life. God critics say it’s not fair that God gets the glory when good things happen and when bad things happen. He wins either way. Triumph or disaster, praise God. Success or failure, praise God. Life or death, praise God. No matter what happens, praise God. It’s a win-win for God and it defies human logic. In the same way, it defies human logic that I have messed up too many times to count in my life and I’ve been allowed to hang around for forty-six years and this precious little angel suffered the pain of cancer and died at age eleven. I don’t have all the answers but I know this much. You can’t count on logic or human views on fairness or justice when it comes to God. He’s much bigger than that. And faith is illogical because it trusts God to provide ultimate justice that only He can understand. So that’s the point I’m at now. I trust that God knew exactly what He was doing when He called Carey home. And though I don’t understand it, that’s good enough for me. I’ve chosen not to let my heart be broken because Carey’s heart wasn’t broken. She hosted a blessed and joyous heart that inspired us for a short time then moved on to its eternal reward. I can imagine the scene now. Carey has met up with her Jesus and they are enjoying carnival rides together. And He’s reminding her to stop pinching herself because she’s not dreaming anymore. It’s for real and her joy ride will never end.

Not Giving in to My Phobias

2010-09-06T22:37:00.002-04:00

I am a 46-year-old male and, in my mind at least, as macho as the next guy. But I’ll admit there are things I fear. Thanatophobia- the fear of death- is not among them. Okay, maybe I’m a little antsy about kicking the bucket and buying the farm but I’m not petrified because my intentions are to be transported due north wearing a white robe of some sort if things go as planned. I am, however, not immune to fear. I’ll be up front and let you know right away that I’m gonna leave you hanging at the end of this column. But I will address one of my fears this week and trust that you’ll respect my transparency. I’m afraid of throwing up. Some people stick their fingers down their throat and let ‘er rip every time they get a little queasy and immediately they feel better. No big deal. For me, I’d rather be miserable for 52 straight hours than vomit. I can’t explain it but a quick search on the internet let me know I wasn’t alone. Apparently I suffer from an extremely mild case of emetophobia. Yes, it’s a real phobia and I’m not ashamed of it. I have brethren and sistren out there whose cases are a lot worse. I date it all back to an ugly incident in high school when I threw up in the courtyard outside the cafeteria in front of the entire junior class and a few seniors. I had won the milk drinking contest a few minutes earlier but had to forfeit the victory when the blowing of chow incident occurred, which was prohibited under the previously determined masculine rules of said contest. Everybody looked and everybody laughed. And to make it worse, I had chosen to drink chocolate milk. Uggggh. Flash forward thirty years to this summer and I’m taking two of my sons to Carowinds theme park for the day. We decided to get season tickets so it was supposed to be the first of many trips. On the morning of our first visit, I ate a piece of toast and drank water. I took 1.5 Dramamine pills and carried along Ibuprofen and Tums as backup. I was fine on the first few rides but the one where they insist on flipping and twisting my body got to me. Especially when halfway through, the coaster stopped and did it again backwards, banging my delicate head against the headrest in the process. I did not toss my cookies, but I felt like a cat who had gone through the tumble cycle in the dryer. And due to my emetophobia and the throbbing between my ears, I sat out the rest of the day as the boys rode the Intimidator thirteen straight times. And to add insult to injury, I hadn’t taken the less drowsy formula Dramamine so I plopped on a park bench next to somebody’s grandmother and fought sleep, nausea, and embarrassment for three hours. Undeterred, I would later return to Carowinds. Six more times to be exact. How’s that for conquering your fears. Eventually I would conquer a fear of mine even greater than upchucking. And in doing so, I would cross off another item on my personal “To do before I die” (Bucket List). Fear not, I’ll fill you in next week. (Skip to next week)--------------------------------------------------------------- When I left you last week, I was about to conquer one of my greatest fears. If you remember, I had somehow avoided throwing up after getting light-headed on some of the flipping and twisting rides at Carowinds. But emetophobia (the fear of vomiting) is not the greatest fear I face at an amusement park. I am particularly unfond of heights. (I realize unfond is not a word but I was due for a made up word so that’s what I’m going with). Acrophobia, it’s called. But other than the throwing up thing, I tend to seek out ways to conquer my fears instead of running from them. Therefore, on each of my seven trips to Carowinds this summer, the first ride the boys and I ran to every single time was the Drop Tower. Strapped into a seat, transported upward to a height of 160 feet, and dropped at 56 miles per hour. The boys and I must have ridden the Drop Tower at least fifty times this summer. And it scared me less and less every time. At one point, on a particularly uncrowded day, I snuck over to the Drop Tower while the boys rode the Hurler over and over. (Recall that I avoid rides that make you throw up so I wasn’t about to ride one named the Hurler). I rode the Drop Tower three times in a row by myself. Literally. There was nobody else on the entire ride and nobody in line. So the three high school-aged attendants watched as a 46-year-old man ascended and descended over and over just for the heck of it. At the highest point of the Drop Tower, one is afforded a full view of the granddaddy of all thrill rides. And I shuddered each time I viewed its majesty. The granddaddy of which I speak is something called the Xtreme Flyer, the closest thing to bungee jumping you can do without diving off a bridge. I balked on the first six trips when it came to the Flyer. “Too expensive,” I told my boys. “Mom would get mad if she knew we risked life and limb,” I opined. “You’re just making excuses, Dad,” they said. “You’re chicken.” Fighting words. We promised Mom just before leaving on our seventh trip to Carowinds that we would stay clear of the Xtreme Flyer. I think she knew we were lying. A few hours later, as the cable attached to my boys and me lifted us to what seemed like the height of the Sears Tower, I openly questioned the functionality of those brain cells within me whose sole responsibility is to secrete good judgment. And just before we plummeted, the finer parts of my life flashed through my mind. We yelled, we laughed, we flew. It was the most fantabulous ride of my life. I’m still not a fan of heights, but they don’t scare me anymore. It wasn’t a bungee jump, but I’m crossing it off my “To Do Before I Die List” because it’s my bucket list and I get to make the rules. If you’re skeptical, go to Youtube and type in “Stroupe Boys Fly at Carowinds.” Though she would never admit it, I think Mrs. Stroupe was impressed. At least until I told her what it cost. (45 bucks plus $10 for the video.)

Don't Prejudge a Look Alike

2010-08-25T22:05:00.004-04:00

I wish I had a fifty-cent piece for every time in my life when someone told me I reminded them of someone else. Sometimes they say it’s the way I act. Sometimes it’s the way I talk. But mostly they say it’s the way I look. I guess that means I’m fairly generic when it comes to my personal appearance. And I’m okay with that. My best friend growing up was the one all the girls looked at and gawked over. Nobody ever accused him of looking like somebody else. He was his own man and was proud of it. Meanwhile, I was his tag along companion who reminded everybody of their third cousin. So quite often, I became the token “thrown-in friend” when a male was needed to complete the foursome necessary to constitute a double date. It beat staying at home. In 1980, the movie “Popeye” starring Robin Williams became popular during my sophomore year of high school and people told me I looked like him. Minus the muscles. During my early college years, the television show “Cheers” arrived on the scene. People told me I looked like Woody Harrelson. At first I was okay with that but when he later starred in “Natural Born Killers” (a truly disgusting movie), I decided I didn’t like being associated with Woody. And he’s done little since to change that perspective. Whatever the case, I still hear people tell me quite often that I remind them of such and such or so and so. Not that it should matter, but I usually ask whether or not they like that person. It’s a fair question. I think sometimes I see people that remind me of somebody else and almost immediately I make my first judgment about them based on the person they remind me of. Of course that’s not fair, but I must admit I’ve been guilty of that before. I think that’s why nobody wears a Hitler moustache this day and age. Yet people often make inaccurate judgments about our personalities based on who we look like. Which is why I’m glad no one has ever mentioned me resembling Richard Nixon, Ozzy Osbourne, that Blagojevich guy, the Unabomber, O.J. Simpson, or Rosie O’Donnell. Recently I attended a town hall meeting where a member of the U.S. House of Representatives spoke. I waited to meet him afterwards and upon shaking his hand he remarked that he seemed to remember us meeting before. I was pretty sure we hadn’t but I didn’t want to embarrass him so I kinda nodded and speculated that maybe we had. Then I mentioned that maybe he had seen my picture in the paper due to the little columns I write each week that appear in a few local newspapers. The look on his face told me that this was not the case. Embarrassed by my own presumptuousness, I then decided it was probably déjà vu all over again and I mumbled something about people saying quite often that I remind them of someone else. I should have known the vast majority of the local citizenry is oblivious to my columns- especially a Congressman. And even if he did stumble upon my column, he certainly wouldn’t bother looking at the picture. Oh, well, at least he didn’t think I was Woody Harrelson.

Inspired by the Kids Once Again

2010-08-16T23:20:00.007-04:00

Close to Perfection

2010-08-01T19:43:00.001-04:00

Recently a baseball scout relative of mine and I were discussing what the perfectly pitched baseball game would be. A pitcher gets credit for pitching a perfect game if nobody on the opposing team reaches base. But we took it a step further. We agreed that it would be 27 pitches where every batter hit the first pitch and as a result, an out was recorded. He wanted 27 flyballs, but as a former infielder, I preferred 27 groundballs. Either way, the goal of a perfect 27 pitch game is unattainable. At some point, batters will begin to let pitches go by and not swing. Yet twenty pitchers in Major League history have been credited with hurling perfect games. The word “perfect” in this case is a statistic, not an adjective. An absolute perfect game is unattainable, and a perfect pitcher or person does not exist on this planet. I’m curious to know how many people remember the name Armando Gallaraga. He’s the young big league pitcher who, on June 2, barely missed becoming the twenty-first pitcher in history to toss a perfect game. And it would have been a “perfect” game if veteran umpire Jim Joyce had made the proper out call at first base on what would have been the last out of the game. But Joyce blew it. And after watching the replay after the game, he knew it. Instead of running for cover by claiming he’s human or saying something about how he did the best he could, the man admitted his mistake. He was devastated and apologetic. He didn’t blame his seventh grade gym teacher. He didn’t blame the liberal media or the military industrial complex. He didn’t blame sugar-sweetened cereals or fast food. He took it like a man. An imperfect man. And Gallaraga was just as impressive. He grinned when the call was made. He brought the pre-game lineup card out to Joyce at home plate the next day to demonstrate his respect. Umpires and referees- imperfect human beings- miss calls and make mistakes. And I gotta believe most of the time they don’t blow calls on purpose. Yet people throw stuff at them, call their mothers bad names, and make jokes about how there won’t be any baseball games in Heaven because no umpires will be there to officiate. But alas there is hope. The aforementioned near-perfect game incident occurred in Detroit, the same city that inexplicably nearly burned itself to the ground while “celebrating” after its baseball team won the World Series in 1984. Perhaps these thoughts were going through Jim Joyce’s mind as he walked out to home plate to umpire the day after his infamous blown call. With trembling hands and tears in his eyes, Joyce accepted the lineup card from Gallaraga. And when Joyce’s name was announced, the crowd cheered. Yes, cheered, not jeered. They cheered because a man was humble enough to admit his mistake. They cheered because they respected his heartfelt apology. And they cheered because their young pitching star provided them a positive example of how people should treat others who confess their mistakes and sincerely ask for forgiveness. Two men shaking hands and making their peace with each other. An entire city willing to forgive. A sport rooted in tradition and respect. For those few moments at least, perfection.

Family Dog "Relieved" to Have Incident Behind Her

2010-07-21T19:56:00.002-04:00

“I don’t have to go looking for stuff to write about,” I told my neighbors one recent afternoon while standing in my driveway. “All I have to do is keep my eyes open.” Having just witnessed what happened a few moments earlier, they laughed and agreed. It all started with a phone call from my ten-year-old son. “Dad,” he calmly said, “Mom wants you to come home as soon as possible because Flash (our dog) has a fish hook stuck in his nose.” Upon arriving home, I noticed the dog was in good spirits, but she indeed did have a large fish hook stuck through one of her nostrils. The tip of the hook was visible on the outside of her nose, thus letting me know the thing was stuck good (or bad depending on your perspective). When I tell you that we decided to take some pictures of Flash, please understand that my family meant no disrespect or harm to the creature and that she was not in pain at the time. I texted a few pics to my oldest two sons who were out of town and some other folks who I thought would be interested. But the scene became less than humorous when my neighbor and I attempted surgery to remove the offensive hook. Let me next say that we have no idea how the fish hook worked its way into the dog’s snout, though my neighbor’s wife did discover a fishing bobber in the yard that looked like it had been chewed up by dog teeth. My wife’s job was to help my neighbor and I contain the poor canine while I performed surgery with wire cutters and needle nose pliers. My neighbor tried to cover Flash’s eyes with a bandana but this proved unsuccessful. At one point during the operation, a subdued Flash did what any red-blooded American dog would do. She relieved herself. At first it was number one. But it soon evolved into number two. And we were too far into the surgery to bail out due to the smell. We forged onward despite my neighbors’ wife and my youngest son bailing out and relocating to parts unknown. I’ll spare you further details of the “relieving” incident but I will tell you there was clear evidence to indicate that Flash had recently eaten a screw. Anyway, I was able to slice the hook into two pieces but I wasn’t able to push it all the way out. Of course we knew better than to try to pull it out, knowing that the hook’s barb would do even more damage on the way out. Eventually my neighbor, who had an angle better than me, pushed the hook the rest of the way out of the poor dog’s nose via the pliers. Hooray! After thirty seconds of subdued pouting, Flash jumped up and ran into the neighbor’s yard to play with her doggy friend. I gained a whole new respect for Flash that day. She’s tougher than I thought. And in her defense, I think under the circumstances I probably would have soiled the driveway, too. Of course, I am appreciative to Flash for providing material for yet another semi-entertaining column. And I will continue to keep my eyes open and my driveway hosed off.

Message from Flash

2010-07-14T23:18:00.004-04:00

Hi, my name is Flash. My master insisted on placing this humiliating picture of me on his stupid blog, even after I requested that he not abase and degrade me by doing so. Yes, the item stuck in my nose is a fish hook. And yes, you can see the tip of it sticking out if you look hard enough. And yes, I did it on my own with no help. You can read all about my nightmarish experience if you read his silly little column in the paper on Sunday. If you don't get the paper, check back on this blog in a week or so, and I'm sure he'll post the whole stupid story. He can be a real jerk at times. Love to all, Flash

Display the Stars and Stripes With Pride

2010-07-09T17:32:00.002-04:00

You may recall a few years ago when I penned a column about Rick Monday. He’s the big league baseball player who sprinted across the outfield and saved an American flag just before two protestors were about to burn it in centerfield. Monday will forever be known for saving the flag that day in 1976, a badge of honor he wears proudly. And many would call him a hero, though he prefers to reserve that title for those who have risked their lives in defense of the country. Though not to be confused with a religious symbol, many veterans will tell you that the flag they served under is as close to a sacred symbol as it gets. So much so that when I was in grade school, we were taught to never let the flag touch the ground. We were also taught that the United States of America has always stood for freedom, democracy, and the rights of the individual- though I will concede that our country at times has been imperfect in our implementation of policies consistent with those values. But my point is not to argue policies here. There are plenty of arguments and controversy enough to go around. But I don’t think the flag should be blamed for any of the shortcomings of its leaders and citizens. I submit to you that in the course of writing these columns, I have been labeled as overly patriotic by some. Regardless, I unashamedly love the Stars and Stripes. Never before in my life have I witnessed what I did while watching the news recently. Five California high school students were sent home because their t-shirts had pictures of a flag on them. The American flag. In California, which is one of the United States. There are too many details to discuss in this column and certainly there are two sides of this argument but the basic fact is this: the same flag that soldiers fought and died beneath to protect and defend democracy has been deemed as offensive by some legitimate authority figures within our country. In many respects, I understand the logic of the administrators who were trying to prevent altercations but I can’t say I agree with it. I agree more with one of the parents of the kids who stated, “It’s a sad, sad day in America.” I have friends in foreign countries that I love and appreciate. And I have a couple of flags from some of those countries that I treat with respect. In no way do I feel superior to my foreign friends when I gaze upon my country’s flag and sing the national anthem. And I hope my friends will always be free to display their flags proudly. And I hope for the same freedom to display our flag in my country as well. Our own court system has protected American citizens’ rights to burning the American flag in public. The most recent “flag on the t-shirt” controversy likely won’t make it to the Supreme Court, but if it did, I’d be curious to see where they would stand. Regardless of how it all shakes out, it is a sad state of affairs when Old Glory is offensive within our own country. Perhaps Rick Monday would agree.

Beward of Orange Hair This Summer

2010-07-07T18:01:00.001-04:00

Once upon a time many years ago in my hometown, a teenage boy showed up at the local summer swimming pool sporting orange hair. When we accused him of putting lightener in his hair, he denied it vehemently. We knew better. Back then, many moons ago, all the teenagers wanted blonde hair during the summer. Because I was what one might call “dirty blonde” in those days, I didn’t have to put stuff in my hair to make it lighten up. It kinda happened naturally when I swam in the pool and dried off in the baking sun. But my friend with dark brown hair desperately craved the attention us blondies were receiving from the girls during the summer. So he bought a bottle of something called “Sun-In” and gave it his best shot. If you search for Sun-In on the internet, even today you will discover that your hair may turn orange if you have dark hair to begin with. But we didn’t have the internet back then and my friend’s hair was destined to resemble an orangutang’s. Of course he was forced to deny the experiment to cover himself. Even so it provided us a few laughs. The whole “blonde is better” phenomenon existed in both males and females alike. Some tried peroxide while others diluted lemon juice with water and squirted it in their hair every fifteen minutes or so while lying out on their towels. Looking back I realize it was mostly a colossal waste of time. Most experiments either failed or were noticeably unnaturally fake. And even when a success story emerged, it didn’t last more than a couple weeks. All that being said, I’m not much concerned about my hair color these days. I’m just thankful to still have enough up there to run my fingers through. And I don’t care what color it is, though I would describe it as closer to brown these days instead of dirty blonde. Instead of exposing their hair to the sun, women who get their hair dyed try to protect their topsides from it. Apparently solar rays aren’t agreeable to dye jobs. Just goes to show you how our bodies and our priorities change over the years as we grow older. Things that seemed monumental thirty years ago are largely irrelevant today. Instead of applying suntan lotion like I did in my youth, I am a huge fan of sunscreen these days. Back then we lathered ourselves in lotion, baby oil, and even butter at times to invite the sun to burn us quicker. But still we never resembled the Coppertone girl with the shiny hiney. Morons we were. No offense intended to my generation. And alas we paid the price. I’ve already been pretty much forced to have one of those facial chemo-cream treatments to wipe away damaged layers of my fair skin. The butter of many years ago was the likely culprit. Yet the more things change, the more they stay the same. Recently one of the Stroupe boys requested the purchase of suntan lotion for the summer. We quickly denied the request though I was tempted to tell him to grab some butter when his mom wasn’t looking. Nah, that wouldn’t be prudent, though I would consider letting him dye his hair orange. Just for laughs.

Beware of Foul Balls This Time of Year

2010-06-30T00:56:00.001-04:00

Recently college basketball analyst Dick Vitale was struck in the abdomen by a foul ball at a Tampa Bay Rays baseball game. Fortunately Vitale was fine and had a sense of humor about the situation when interviewed on camera a few minutes later. It seems there’s been an unusual amount of foul ball incidents lately in baseball games. It started during spring training when Hideki Matsui, a member of the Los Angeles Angels, stroked a foul ball that sailed into the parking lot and struck the team owner’s car, smashing the windshield. What are the odds? I’ve always been fascinated with foul balls. When I was eleven years old, I had the opportunity to experience the thrill of a foul ball headed right toward me at a Pirates-Braves game in Atlanta. The ball was hit by one of my favorite players, Manny Sanguillen, and I would have given my entire baseball card collection at the time to have that ball. I would love to tell you that someone jumped in front of me and caught it, but that would be a major embellishment. The truth is that I bailed out and ducked for cover, thus wasting a perfectly magnificent opportunity to achieve sports immortality- in my own mind at least. I’ve seen fans catch line drives bare handed while overpaid players on the field miss line drives often, and they’re wearing gloves. I saw at man at the College World Series in Omaha in 2004 catch a line drive with his jacket. I’ve witnessed fans clapping and cheering wildly at high school games when they heard a foul ball smash a car outside of the stadium. For the life of me I can’t figure out why that deserves an ovation but it happens all the time. And not to be outdone, the sound effects people in the press box even press buttons when foul balls leave the park to make it sound like the ball is smashing a windshield. People even clap for that, too. I’m not the first person to ask this question, but why do folks holler “Heads up!” when a foul ball is headed in someone’s direction. It would seem more appropriate to duck instead of raising up, thus exposing the dome within which your brain resides. My youngest son is not a huge baseball fan but he loves to go to his older brother’s games lately. He has caught the fever for catching- or more appropriately retrieving- foul balls. At major league games you keep the ball. At youth league games there’s an even better deal- take it to the concession stand and trade it for a drink or candy. My son hauls in five balls a game on a good night, adequate to supply him with enough Coke and Sour Patch Kids candy to keep him awake until 3 a.m. I’ve retrieved plenty of foul balls at various sorts of games before but I’ve never caught one in the air to the best of my recollection. It has now become a goal of mine. And since I don’t carry a glove around on my person, I will be forced to accomplish the feat barehanded. I am looking forward to hearing the crowd cheer when I make a highlight reel catch. I just hope I don’t bail out again.

Interesting Conversations at the Front Door

2010-06-16T23:08:00.002-04:00

Lately it seems that more and more folks are showing up at my front door wanting to talk religion. Most of the time I am in agreement with the door-to-door witnesses and I thank them for being bold in their faith. But regardless of the circumstance, I try to be respectful, cordial, and brief. Recently a gentleman confronted me with an interesting question. He simply asked, “Are you a Christian?” I answered in the affirmative then proceeded to share with him about my church and my position as a deacon. He reminded me that being a deacon doesn’t make one a Christian- a statement I quickly expressed my agreement with. His observation got me to thinking. If you could be a deacon and not be a Christian, perhaps you could be a lot of other things without being a Christian. So I have compiled a list of things people say and do that make them look and feel like Christians, but don’t by themselves guarantee a spot on a page in the Book of Life. Being nice to old dogs, stray cats, and pet hamsters doesn’t make one a Christian. Neither does treating the elderly with respect or being courteous to telemarketers when they call you at suppertime. If I keep my yard mowed, my truck clean, and my room picked up, that doesn’t make me a Christian even though there is some merit to the saying “Cleanliness is next to Godliness.” (If that’s the case I stand on shaky ground.) Reading Billy Graham’s column in the paper and forwarding all those inspirational emails without deleting them doesn’t make one a Christian anymore than gluing wings on a frog makes him a bird. Just because I don’t covet my neighbor’s wife, his lawn mower, his fishing boat, and his power tools- doesn’t mean I’m a Christian- though it might be evidence that I’m a fairly decent neighbor. Even though it’s a real good thing to do, giving money to the Red Cross, the Salvation Army bell ringers, the church, and the homeless person on the street doesn’t guarantee anything. Neither does knowing all the words to the National Anthem, the Battle Hymn of the Republic, most Christmas carols, and the latest song by Steven Curtis Chapman. (He’s got some great stuff, by the way.) Maybe we’ve come to believe that obeying the speed limit, tipping waitresses, and crying at sad movies, religious songs, and high school graduations makes us Christians. Sorry, no dice. But what if I’m honest on my tax returns and tell the truth about my kid’s ages when I’m in line at McDonalds or the movie theatre. Doesn’t that count for something? Yes, but it still doesn’t mean I’m a Christian. These thoughts were racing through my mind as my witness friend continued to ask me how I knew I was a Christian. When it came my time to speak, all the Christmas carols, telemarketers, tax returns, and the deacon stuff all vanished from my mind and simplicity reigned. “It’s all about the cross,” I said, “And the amazing grace that I’ve been blessed with because of it.” There was more- but having heard what he wanted to hear- my traveling friend smiled and said, “Blessings to you Brother, I’ll be moving on now.”

Phantom Injuries and Vibrations

2010-06-09T20:13:00.003-04:00

Recently a major league manager was accused of instructing his starting pitcher to fake an injury to give his relief pitcher more time to get properly warmed up in the bullpen. What makes it interesting is that the manager didn’t deny it. Anybody who has coached baseball for very long has employed the “phantom injury” strategy to stall. Act like you’re injured to buy some time. Develop a cramp, pretend like you got a crick in your neck, or get a bug in your eye. Football players develop phantom injuries to stop the clock or give a worn out defense a few seconds rest. Boxers fake phantom injuries when they’re getting the mess whooped out of them so someone will stop the fight without them having to quit. Humans have been known to smell phantom odors, coexist in phantom marriages, sleep through phantom dreams, and drive phantom cars. My phantom brain can neither understand nor comprehend any of these but nonetheless, they exist. A few months back, the bus transporting my college baseball team was involved in a sideswipe with a car. So minor was the impact that most of us, including the bus driver, had no idea anything had occurred. Long story short, the police came and made everyone on the bus provide their names and contact information. Within days all of us were getting letters from lawyers willing to represent us in our effort to turn our pain into financial gain. One player called them ambulance chasers. Others joked about suddenly developing whiplash or something- i.e. a phantom injury. It made me wonder how many people have been talked into developing phantom injuries that make all our insurance rates go up. I’ve always considered myself above all these phantoms. The “fake an injury” stall method is my least favorite as a coach. I prefer to send the catcher out to talk to the pitcher or go myself to talk to the umpire about his wife and family to buy some time. But alas, I have recently been stricken with a phantom. It involves a cellphone. For a while I thought I was going crazy. Then I surmised that it was because I was getting old and my aging body parts twitch when I don’t want them to at times. During the past few months, on several occasions, I have felt my cellphone vibrating in my pocket and reached to answer it only to discover that it was either A) not ringing or B) not in my pocket. A quick internet search revealed that I am not crazy, though it didn’t say anything about me not getting older. There’s even a support group for Phantom Vibrations on Facebook, which I will not join because I am in denial. One website claimed that I am experiencing “ringxiety” and that I need professional help to prevent me from obsessing on receiving a call I am secretly dreading. But I don’t think that’s quite it. Instead of getting professional help for my condition, I will continue to write phantom columns and pretend that I have a huge international following of weekly readers. And since I invent words from time to time, I shall henceforth refer to my condition as “Delusionary Phantomic Ramblings”. Weak yes, but it beats getting a bug in my eye.

I LIke the Kid Who Doesn't Like the Cussin'

2010-06-02T23:42:00.002-04:00

Recently a colleague of mine spent nine innings in the dugout of the team I coach during a college baseball game. He confessed to me later that his friends had properly warned him that he needed to be prepared for some rough language along the way. He also admitted afterwards that the coaching staff and team members didn’t live up to those expectations. (Thank goodness he didn’t stay for the second game of the doubleheader.) Come to think of it, the opposing team’s players and coaches accounted for the vast majority of the improprieties during that second game, evidenced by the fact that we had no one ejected and they did. I hear bad words occasionally and I’m not a fan of them during a baseball game or anywhere else. I’m convinced a person can make their point or express their frustration without “dropping bombs”. One of my fellow coaching brethren rattled off the most entertaining replacement curse I’ve ever heard during a game a year or two ago while arguing an umpire’s call. His utterance could best be described as “Jimineeeeeeeeeee Cricket!” He masterfully rolled the last syllable of “Jiminy” and placed strong emphasis on the word “Cricket”. It was the cleanest and most artistic expression of frustration I have ever heard. A middle school boy from California is now one of my heroes. His name is McKay Hatch and he started a website called nocussing.com. Sick of hearing curses from his classmates, he has challenged them to use words like barnacles, (borrowed from Spongebob Squarepants) and other words like flip and pickles when they fail a test or strike out with the bases loaded. McKay has been featured on FOX News, Jay Leno, and Dr. Phil among others. But here’s the part that blows my mind. McKay has been the recipient of over 60,000 threatening emails, many claiming intent to kill the teen. You may recall from a previous column that a replacement favorite in the Stroupe household is Crud! We even to try to avoid Crud when possible but every once in a while a pinky toe stumped by a table leg deserves some extra emotion. Our current Vice President forgot to use a replacement word before a recent press conference. In his partial defense, Mr. Biden didn’t realize the microphone would pick up the “F” word he spoke into the President’s ear just after he introduced him. Even so, America’s ears bled and McKay and I were disappointed. Not because we’re perfect but rather because we are looking for leaders to stand up and be good role models. The Vice President should put a dollar in McKay’s “No Cussing Jar”. Some people claim that replacement curse words are just as bad as the originals because people are actually implying the originals when they say the replacements. Okay, I get the point. But by that reasoning, a person could shout out a bad one and then claim they were implying the replacement. Either way, I’m proud of McKay Hatch and I’m proud my baseball players behaved the day my friend joined us in the dugout. But for the life of me, I still can’t understand why the Jiminy Cricket anyone would send death threats to a kid who’s tired of hearing people curse. Hang in there, McKay. You rock.

Too Many Chiefs and Not Enough Indians

2010-05-26T22:38:00.001-04:00

As you know from some of my previous columns, I have reconnected with a number of friends from my past thanks to the internet. And with each passing day, those folks become more special to me. I spent two summers as a church camp counselor during my college years. I’ve lost touch with most of my fellow counselors from those summers, but I’ve been back in touch with a few of them lately. George was one of my bestest buddies and favorite sidekicks one of those summers. We spent most of our time trying to show off to the girls- each trying to outdo the other in athleticism, wittiness, outdoorsmanship, and other feats of manliness that college guys do to try to impress people. But there was never any resentment or competitiveness between us. We were tight. In fact, one of George’s utterances is a constant in my life even now. I’ll always remember the day and the context in which he made the statement now etched in my memory. When you’re in charge of a group of small kids at a summer camp, you are an eye blink away from utter chaos at any given point in time. George and I both knew this and worked hard to maintain control of the wild things whose entertainment, safety, and general well-being were our responsibility. I observed George in action one day when he was unaware anyone was watching. His kids had obviously drank too much Bug Juice (kool-aid) because they were all jumping around like they had ants in their pants. A couple of them were hanging on his arm begging him to go swimming. Others were screaming something about creekwalks or what not. At one point, an exasperated George, speaking to no one in particular, looked heavenward and exclaimed, “Too many chiefs and not enough Indians.” It was one of the most appropriate and funniest proclamations I had ever heard in my life. I pull out George’s quote for my own personal use quite often. Being a coach, you have to remind folks every once in a while who’s in charge. Ditto for being a father and the head of the household. I was reminded of that fact on a recent bus trip with our baseball team. As we neared our destination, there was some discrepancy as to which route would get us to the stadium the quickest. The bus driver, an assistant coach, three players, and my cellphone GPS each possessed opposing opinions on the matter. At one point, the bus driver heard three people say to go right as another advised we should go left. Since the one who said “Left” spoke last and loudest, we went left. Later on, when we pulled up to the stadium 30 minutes behind schedule, I had to say it- “Too many chiefs and not enough Indians.” These words of wisdom seem appropriate in a number of modern venues if you ask me. Perhaps if the right people would accept responsibility and lead properly, the followers wouldn’t complain so much and feel the need to set out on their own. George probably didn’t invent the phrase but I’m giving him credit for it because I like the quote and I like George- mainly because he showed me how to be a good chief.

Believe Me or Not, It's True

2010-05-26T22:30:00.001-04:00

There has been some concern over the years as to the integrity of the columns I write each week. “Surely that didn’t happen,” I’ve been told by loyal readers, “You made that up, didn’t you?” Fair question. First let me point out that writers are prone to the use of “colorful” expressions to describe events and I am no exception. And sometimes quotes and comments are contextual instead of verbatim. Guilty I am. But the events of which I write are non-fiction, unusual though they may be. So I have decided to take a look back at some columns of the past and verify their authenticity so as to squash any rumors of fictional fantasies on my part. In no particular order, I verify the following stories from previous columns as true. A man in my church really did think I was near death due to a misunderstanding about a fellow church member’s dog named Rusty. He walked up and heard the part about Rusty lying in the front yard “listless and unresponsive” and immediately he assumed it was me they were talking about. We all got a good laugh out of it later. I really did ride the Vortex at Carowinds in a driving rainstorm with my kids and it truly was one of the most thrilling things I’ve ever experienced in my life. My favorite pair of winter shoes were indeed purchased at a yard sale for 25 cents and my current favorite pair of jeans came from a thrift shop. Many of my least believable stories involve my 17-year-old but trust me, I do have a pair of underwear in my drawer that he handed down to me and yes, I like them. And I did chase him around the yard after he cut my hair too short last summer. (The part about me being faster than him was true at the time, but is probably not factual anymore.) When this same son’s cellphone was stolen at school, I texted his phone asking the culprit to return it. And the verbatim reply I got was, “Sorry, not happening, dude.” (minus the commas). My youngest son and I actually did have one of our most meaningful conversations while we sat on top of the roof one afternoon. It is a memory I will cherish forever. The Stroupe family’s recent defective microwave really did make a firecracker popping noise each time we pressed the Surface Light button. And it did produce a sizeable spark each time as well. If you don’t believe us, ask our neighbors. We demonstrated for them one time. While on vacation at the beach, I did get pulled over by a policeman while transporting my wife and youngest son in a golf cart. And I really was wearing a paper Krispy Kreme hat at the time. And yes, it’s true I got whacked in the head by a chairlift on our winter ski trip in January. There’s more but that pretty much covers it for now. The thing most people have the hardest time believing is that my family doesn’t know what I’m writing about until they read it in the paper. That’s true 95% of the time. And the kids have never read or cared much about Dad’s column anyway. True story.

Tunes From My Era Rock the Park

2010-05-21T18:07:00.001-04:00

Consider for a moment some song titles and the artists who produced them. That’s Amore, by Dean Martin. I’ve Got the World on a String, sung by Frank Sinatra. Crazy Man Crazy, performed by Bill Haley and the Comets. Should I continue? Okay, I will. Don’t Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes, by Perry Como. Pretend, shared by Nat King Cole. And Going to the River, from Fats Domino. What do they all have in common? They were top hits in the year 1953, ten years before I was born. But they also have this in common- I’ve never heard them played at a baseball game, at least not since I started coaching twenty-three years ago. I point this out simply to remind anyone who will listen that the music of my generation is the bestest of all time. It’s not that other eras weren’t good, it’s just that the music I went to high school and college with reigns supreme. As a coach, I arrive for pre-game batting practice two hours before a baseball game begins. And normally the music is blaring over the loudspeakers from the moment my team arrives. And guess what they’re playing? That’s right- the songs from my teen and college years. It’s so obvious sometimes it’s distracting. The players have long since grown tired of me quickly naming the title, artist, and year of the song’s release. Classics such as Jump (Van Halen), Freeze Frame (J. Giels Band), Two Tickets to Paradise (Eddie Money), Don’t Stop Believing (Journey), Photograph (Def Leopard), Crazy Train (Ozzy Osbourne), More Than a Feeling (Boston), Come Sail Away (Styx), and Summer of 69 (Bryan Adams) are merely a few that I’ve heard even in the last month. The pre-game music often takes me back to a time and place I can remember as though it were yesterday. And then it hits me, the memories elicited by the song happened thirty years ago or more in some cases. And suddenly I don’t feel so young anymore while I’m throwing batting practice, especially when my arm wiggles more loosely in my shoulder socket with every pitch. The players like to take jabs at me about my age sometimes. When I tell them that a particular song was from the summer of 1980 when I was in high school, they will remind me that 1980 was ten years before they were born. Of course, I’m rarely one to be at a loss for words, so I remind them that 1953 was ten years before I was born. And none of the songs from 1953 ever get hummed or sung by cool kids and ballpark patrons. Proof that the songs of my day are more popular than ever. And I believe they will stand the test of time. My players seem to like my songs better than those of their own era, which is a source of pride for me. Recently one of my players and I sat on the bench during pre-game and sang the words to Hold on Loosely while watching the other team finish batting practice. “.38 Special, 1981,” chirped a proud old coach. And as we sang together- even though 1981 was 29 years ago- for a moment me and my holding on loosely sore arm didn’t feel so old anymore.

A Fashion Guru I Am Not

2010-05-12T23:23:00.002-04:00

My parents will attest that I had very few fashion requirements growing up. Most of the time I simply wore what they bought me or fished hand-me-downs out of my older brother’s drawers. I wore his old faded blue Grand Funk Railroad t-shirt more times than I can count. I’ve never been one to follow fashion rules much but I do remember a few instances from my childhood worthy of note. In kindergarten, I refused to wear any jeans that didn’t have a cowboy on the snap thingamajig above the zipper. And he had to be riding a horse. Of course it was so small nobody every noticed but I certainly knew. And in third grade I demanded Mom buy me a t-shirt all the other kids were wearing. It had a picture of JJ from the TV show “Good Times” and the word Dyn-o-mite! written above his picture. And if I remember correctly, in my hometown, you could only get it at Belks. In junior high I had a couple of those collar shirts with the alligator on the left chest. I guess everybody had to have at least one (Izod-Lacoste I think) but I never really got hooked on them. Eventually I caved in and wore one of those with the polo player on the left chest (Polo brand) but again, I wasn’t picky about having one in my closet. When I went off to college, I wore a Members Only jacket only because somebody gave it to me as a gift. Ended up being too preppy for me but I had to wear it some because everybody except a first semester freshman knows you get laughed at if you wear your precious high school letter jacket on a college campus. During my college days in the 80s, girls got away with wearing all kinds of outlandish stuff like leg warmers, jelly shoes, and shoulder pads. For no legitimate reason, when I set out to choose a future wife during my college years, I avoided girls who wore the aforementioned items. Guys weren’t much better. We wore both our long shirt sleeves and our blue jean bottoms rolled up and I still have no idea why. For a short time, we even wore our shorts on the outside of our sweat pants. Ugggh! I wish we could have worn Camo stuff back then like you can now but if you did, people either thought you were military or a terrorist. I share all this with you because kids today have their own set of requirements. My boys request items made by people with names like Abercrombie- who I think hangs around with two buddies named Fitch and Hollister. There’s also an Aeropostale guy who everybody seems to appreciate. Add to that American Eagle clothing and Oakley sunglasses that cost over $100 a pair and it gets pretty confusing to me. And hardly anyone wears Croakies to hold their sunglasses on their head anymore, a trend that ended ten minutes after I bought one. So onward I trudge. A fashion guru I will never be. Maybe that’s why my college girlfiend agreed to marry me. And so far it’s worked out well, mainly because we’re both perfectly content to buy our sunglasses at the dollar store and our jeans at the thrift shop.

Old Enough to Remember Baseball Players Wearing Stirrups

2010-05-08T23:30:00.001-04:00

Recently one of the players on my college baseball team entered my office with an interesting request. I could tell right away some of his teammates offered him up to be the sacrificial lamb who, after being rejected, would then return to his brethren humiliated and properly put in his place. He explained that some of the guys wanted to wear a particular style of socks as part of our game day outfit. After a nervous rambling about how the players would pay for them, he shoved the catalogue in front of me and anxiously awaited the verdict. The socks looked like something Dr. Suess would wear and I immediately made note of that fact by making some smart aleck comment about they would be perfectly suited for the next time we scheduled a game in a circus tent. But upon further review, I noticed something. At the bottom of these socks was something known in baseball as a stirrup. And my mind raced back to 1972 and my first year of Little League, when I was allowed to wear the beloved red and white striped stirrup socks donned by all the members of my Club Carolina team. “Okay,” I finally said after lecturing him about not wanting to embarrass the program, “Ya’ll pay for them, ya’ll can wear them.” He tried to hide his surprise. What he forgot was the fact that I am now considered old when it comes to sports. I distinctly remember wearing stirrup socks and having to use medicine tape to keep them up around my knees. I also remember using a wooden bat in Little League and the only pitches you had to worry about hitting were a fastball and a curveball. One finger for fastball, two for curve. Nowadays a catcher has to use every digit he’s got and then some to tell a pitcher what to throw. Cut fastball, Running fastball, Two-seamer, Four-seamer, Slider, Change-up, Splitter, etc. They’ve got them all now. When I was a kid, Big League pitchers wore jackets whenever they got on base. And when relievers came in from the bullpen, there was a guy whose only job was to transport them in a golf cart and drop them off at the mound. In the old days the starting pitcher in a game often pitched all nine innings. Relief pitchers were simply known as relievers. Nowadays starting pitchers are expected to throw six innings and turn it over to the “holder”, whose job it is to hold the lead until the “closer”- who stereotypically tends to have an eccentric personality and odd quirks- can arrive and pitch the ninth and final inning. Speaking of holders, baseball isn’t the only sport that’s changed. In ancient times, football field goal kickers moved straight to the ball held by the holder instead of attacking it from the side- “soccer style.” Nowadays they call those old-timers- for lack of a better term- “straight on kickers” and they’re obsolete. At any rate, I have no idea if the Dr. Suess retro-socks will arrive in time for the guys to wear them before the end of the season. But if they don’t go over well, don’t point the finger at me. Blame it all on the kid with the catalog, the eccentric closer.

Revealing Too Much Online Can Make Things Complicated

2010-05-03T22:34:00.002-04:00

I heard former President Bill Clinton say something recently that piqued my curiosity. He pointed out that when he first took office in 1992, there were only 50 websites on the internet. My, how times have changed. Now there are 200 million sites and tons of people of all ages have their own Facebook account. You can learn most anything you want to know about people on the internet. Think I’m kidding? Google yourself sometime. But as one of my comedian buddies says, don’t do it in public. Case in point: the dating lines are very blurry these days. Recall me telling you about one of the college girls on a recent mission trip telling me about her “almost boyfriend.” Another girl on the trip claimed she wasn’t sure where she stood with her significant other until he introduced her as his girlfriend at a function of some sort. Facebook provides a remedy to all that. It is now plain for the world to see. If a friendship develops into something deeper, a person’s Facebook status will reflect this by claiming that they are now “in a relationship.” If the relationship is strained, the status will change to “It’s complicated.” My mom entered the Facebook world a few months back. Recently she upgraded her status to “In a relationship” with my dad, her husband of nearly 52 years. This has created quite a stir among her friends and has led to questions about the circumstances of my birth. She has been advised to change her status to “Married” but I think she’s enjoying the hullabaloo too much to change it right away. Obviously my occupation is not that of a professional writer. As you may know, I am the coach of a college baseball team. And in the past few years, especially this season, I have noticed that opposing fans know more about my players than ever before. Recently a group of exuberant college students from an opposing school did their internet homework quite thoroughly before we showed up. One of my pitchers had made the mistake of calling his girlfriend “Baby Doll” on his Facebook page. And one of our outfielders had admitted to doing some male modeling along the way. These college student hecklers were all over my guys. From the outside looking in, it may appear that these antics are a distraction, but to be honest, our players sorta enjoy the attention and, if you ask me, even play better when they’re being taunted. As a coach, fortunately I have developed selective hearing when it comes to taunts and insults, hearing pretty much what I want to hear. At the end of the weekend, I was poking a little fun at some of my guys for revealing too much online. Then our trainer reminded me that I had little room to talk. I had no clue what she was talking about. “Didn’t you hear them when you went out on a mound visit (to talk to the pitcher) on Saturday? One of them kept hollering, ‘Hey Coach, are you Embracing the Chaos yet?’” Darn that website (www.rustystroupe.blogspot.com) and that little book. At least they didn’t read anything about my mom and dad being “in a relationship.” That would have made things even more “complicated.”

Holidays Dominated by Candy These Days

2010-04-21T08:15:00.003-04:00

With Easter having just come and gone, there’s something about holidays I don’t really understand. Why do most of them involve candy? Christmas, Easter, Valentine’s Day and Halloween are prime examples. For whatever reason people feel led to give each other a bunch of candy on those occasions. Candy canes for Christmas, crème filled eggs for Easter, chocolate on Valentine’s Day, and every imaginable sugar sweet known to mankind on Halloween. It’s like we can’t figure out what we should give each other so we always fall back into the candy safety net. Misunderstand me not. I’m not anti-candy. I enjoy a good Reese’s every once in a while myself, but I just can’t figure out why candy dominates most holidays. And it’s getting worse. Nowadays my kids think they are owed a dessert after every meal. Like clockwork each night they ask Mom the same thing- “What’s for dessert?” And they won’t even count yogurt as a treat. Too healthy to be a dessert, they claim. And the one Stroupe kid who Mom still packs a lunch for requests a sweet snack every day. And he gets it. (He’s a good kid and doesn’t ask for a whole lot). This has led to an interesting development in our home. All about being a fine mother, Mom has a stash of candy she keeps for the youngest Stroupe’s daily lunchbox. The challenge is keeping the other Stroupes from invading the secret supply. Specifically there is one raider in our home who reigns supreme. He’s responsible for approximately 90% of all candy swiping incidents. No, it is not me. I won’t mention names but he is the oldest child and he’s the tallest human being in our house so you can’t hide things above eye level like we used to when he was in elementary school. This child of mine can sniff out sweets with the best of them. I think he could be the dog in a K-9 unit someday if sugar ever becomes illegal. Mom has attempted to hide her stash in cabinets with the blender, the toaster, the ice cream maker, the cooking pots, and the dinner plates. She’s tried the bedroom closet shelves and the bathroom linen closet without success. All she finds later is empty wrappers. (Yes, he leaves the wrappers as evidence, like he’s proud of it or something.) She recently shoved an empty box of former Cadbury eggs in front of me and announced, “He’s done it again.” I have an idea we haven’t tried yet but we may consider. Stick a couple of bags of M and M’s in the pouches of his English notebook and see how long they last. I’d give them a fighting chance in there. At any rate, sweets never remotely approach their expiration dates in our house. So when my youngest two boys returned home from a trip with their grandparents recently, I was pleased but anxious when they presented me with a box of creamy delicious Cow Tales to enjoy at my leisure. I decided on a new strategy. I left them in plain view on the desk where my laptop rests. Then I posted a little sign on the box that reads, “Touch these and I’ll write about you in the paper.” So far, so good.

Youngest Son Duped Long Enough

2010-04-14T23:58:00.001-04:00

Don’t read this column if you are ten years or younger. You have been fairly warned. This column contains confidential information you may not want to be exposed to. So stop reading if you’re hung up on the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and/or Santa Claus. My three boys have each at different times in their lives come to terms with the reality or unreality of the aforementioned characters. The youngest Stroupe, now ten years old, still doesn’t want to fully admit that he’s reached some obvious conclusions. The Stroupes just finished celebrating the Easter holiday season as usual. We have consistently celebrated the “secular” aspects of it over the years while attempting to emphasize the importance of the spiritual aspects. This typically meant that I had to get up around six in the morning on Easter before Sunrise service and hide colored eggs in nooks and crannies throughout our yard. I know you’re supposed to enjoy and soak in all these aspects of this stage of parenthood, but I never really liked the whole hide the eggs deal. It’s hard to come up with new hiding places each year. And invariably there’s one rebel egg nobody can find and I can’t remember where I hid it. I usually find it with the lawn mower later. Fortunately for me, this year my middle son decided he wanted to get up and do the hiding. “Have at it,” said his parents. And he did. His little brother was well aware he’d been duped but didn’t seem to mind. A few months back (sometime last fall) my youngest chap made a confession to me while we were riding along in my truck. His exact words were, “Dad, I know the Easter Bunny is fake, and I know the Tooth Fairy is fake, but I’m still 50/50 on Santa. The problem is, I’ve puzzled it all out and it just doesn’t add up.” Then Christmas came along and all of a sudden he was a die-hard believer again. But deep down he knew I knew he knew. The end was near. Riding along in our family car on Easter Sunday, it all came crashing down. With the whole family present, the older brothers finally got the youngest to admit he was wise to the whole Santa, Bunny, and Tooth Fairy deal. The oldest son claimed he realized the Tooth Fairy was a sham when he only got one dollar under his pillow and the rich kid at school got a five dollar bill. How that trade teeth for money bit got started I don’t know but I’ve never quite understood it. One of our neighbor kids won’t sleep in the room with his brother when the brother loses a tooth. He says he doesn’t want somebody sneaking in and out of his room at night while he’s asleep. I’m with the kid on that one. My oldest son remembers me telling him about the Bunny by holding up one of his little brothers’ folded up dirty diapers around Easter time and saying, “Here’s your cottontail and the present’s inside.” (I don’t remember that incident but everyone else seems to.) Anyway, the point is that the jig’s up now. All good things must come to an end. It was fun while it lasted. Sort of.

Normally I'm Not a Litterbug But . . .

2010-03-31T20:01:00.002-04:00

Part of the issue that recent day was the wind. I’m not a big fan of the cold but I’m an even bigger non-fan of the wind. It was huffing and puffing and blowing cold air swirls all around me. I stepped out of my truck and glanced at my To Do list on a yellow Post-it note as I walked down the sidewalk. Suddenly and without warning, a blustery puff of whirling dervish viciously snatched the Post-it note from my grasp and forced it to dance aimlessly through the morning sky. To paraphrase, basically my note became litter. And I’m less of a fan of litter than I am ice cold wind gusts. Therefore, at that moment, I was faced with a dilemma. Would I chase this soda cracker sized scrap of paper or simply wave it goodbye and grant it liberty and freedom. My mind raced back to those embarrassing occasions when I’ve driven along in my truck and trash flies out of the back and into the road ahead of oncoming traffic. When that happens I want to stop my truck in the middle of the road, block all the traffic, grab a megaphone and announce to everyone, “Hey, can I help it if inconsiderate people take it upon themselves to toss pieces of trash in the back of my truck all the time without me knowing? I wash my hands of this.” And then there’s that Indian in the commercial. I guess I should say Native American now. Us old-timers remember the whole deal where the noble chief is looking out over the land he settled and is forced to bear witness to all the trash that’s been scattered to and fro. I can still see that tear rolling down his cheek and to this day the thought of it bothers me. So on that blustery, cold day, I had a choice. Pursue and detain or abstain and liberate. Quickly I counted the costs. The note had long since darted to the opposite side of a road busily supported by zooming traffic. Was one little scrap worth my personal safety and potential well-being? I wasn’t completely sure of its exact whereabouts. I gave chase for a moment or two but in the end decided that my Native American friend would surely understand in this instance. Besides, other than me, who would know anyway? It was like a lot of things we hope nobody else will ever notice. Like when you forget to wear a belt or your socks don’t match. Or when you’ve got something peeking out of the corner of one of your nostrils. Or when you get tongue-tied and accidentally say a bad word. That sorta thing. Just as my guilt was subsiding I turned and saw a car slowing and the passenger’s side window being lowered. A woman from my church hollered, “Hey, go pick up that piece of trash you Litterbug!” She then broke out in laughter as my already red face evolved into a shade of purple. So much for nobody noticing. I knew, Church Lady knew, and somewhere in the distance, I think the chief knew. But I refuse to lose any sleep over a sticky note. I’ve decided it was the wind’s fault. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Playing Second Fiddle on the Third Page is Fine With Me

2010-03-20T11:03:00.002-04:00

Joey the Clown circa 1970 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- If you’re reading this in the newspaper, there’s a good chance this column is not on the front page of this section. Sometimes it is, sometimes it’s not. I’m certainly not complaining- simply making an observation. So if indeed you’re reading this column in the newspaper, flip to the front page now and check out Pam Stone’s column. Funny stuff. Welcome back. On those occasions when Pam Stone has something to say, she gets the front page and I end up somewhere between the engagements and the church announcements. I have noticed that Mrs. Stone’s picture is larger than mine (and much more attractive) and I’m guessing she has more space to write if she wants it. And I’m cool with that. She’s a professional. I’m a self-proclaimed hopeless amateur. She has name recognition. Hardly anybody can even pronounce my last name. She appeared on the television show “Coach” from 1989 to 1997. I appeared for 1.7 seconds in a taping of “Joey the Clown” when my kindergarten class visited the set back in 1970. Pam’s show raced to the top of the prime time ratings for eight years. Joey came on at 7 a.m. on Saturday mornings and got cancelled within days of my appearance. Okay, you may recall that I also appeared on “Midnight Special” in 1980 when Olivia Newton-John sang to me for a few seconds. True, but I’m guessing most everybody was looking at Olivia instead of me so I’m not counting it. Mrs. Stone has also been the Female Stand Up Comedian of the year a while back and now hosts a radio talk show. Me? I can’t even get my own kids to laugh at my jokes and the local cable sports show I co-hosted a few years back was lined up against the wall and summarily executed after one forgettable season. Resentful I am not. I have no problem existing (writing) in Pam Stone’s shadow. We share a commonality. She appeared on “Coach” as a women’s basketball coach and I am a baseball coach in real life. We both have existed in realms where everything revolved around competition. But writing is not about competition. True writers don’t try to outwit or outlast each other. There’s no scoreboard, rankings, or ratings to contend with. A writer’s victory is the clear expression of an idea. We don’t really care for comparisons and pecking orders among our fellow writing brethren and sistren. (I realize “sistren” is not a word, but I’m proud to be known for butchering proper English and making up my own words.) Recently I took the bold step of sending a friend request to Pam Stone on Facebook. Should she accept, I shall send her a link to this column. If I’m lucky she will invite my family and me to the next “Coach” reunion show and I will invite her to accompany us on the Joey the Clown victory tour. In the meantime, I will concede the front page to Pam. I’m content in the engagement announcement section. And I will continue to laugh out loud when I read her stuff. And someday, just maybe Mrs. Stone will consider me worthy of being called one of her writing brethren. And I will be proud to include her among my sistren.

Responsibility not Ownership

2010-03-10T23:18:00.002-05:00

I’ve been waiting for a while to write this column. Like the gradual arrival of dawn that allows shapes and figures to come into clear focus, the passing of time tends to give us perspective. And I think I’ve had enough time to now to be clear headed in delivering my thoughts concerning the firing of a particular coach at the end of the most recent college football season. I was absolutely amazed by the comments delivered by this coach when it became apparent that his head was on the proverbial chopping block. His case was curious because he had won oodles of games during his tenure and was concluding another successful season when the uproar began. Most of the hullabaloo started when he blamed a loss on his players’ “fat little girlfriends”. Soon afterwards, he was accused of abusing a player, which led to further accusations. Maybe they were exaggerated, maybe not. But in watching an interview with the coach, it appeared to me that he was claiming he should be able to keep his job simply because his teams exhibited a history of winning. Citing insubordination, his superiors terminated his contract and moved on. This coach is a whole lot smarter than I’ll ever be but I think I know something he doesn’t. A college athletic program doesn’t belong to the coach. No matter how much you win, the program belongs to the university. The coach isn’t the owner- he/she is simply a steward entrusted with the responsibility of the program. That’s where I think success can blind folks to reality at times. And this goes way beyond sports and coaches. It can cause one to overestimate his stature and relative importance in the grand scheme of things. Certainly a leader can make a tremendous difference, but he is never bigger than the entity he represents. If we don’t humble ourselves, life has a way of accomplishing it for us. No matter what status we attain, there is always a greater authority. Golf doesn’t belong to Tiger and basketball doesn’t belong to Michael, despite their legendary dominance. The country doesn’t belong to a president and the church doesn’t belong to the pastor. The country belongs to the people and the church belongs to God. Even a child doesn’t belong to its parents. I have been entrusted with a tremendous responsibility when it comes to my children. But as much as I would like to believe differently at times, my boys are not mine. If I were to abuse them, the state could legally take them away from me. When they turn 18, my country could institute a law that could take them away from me to go and fight and possibly die for their country. But more importantly, my kids belong to God. They are not here to serve my purposes, they are here to serve His. Responsibility, not ownership. The best leaders I have encountered in my life were ones who were humble. They understood their responsibilities while accepting their relative importance in the grand scheme of things. The aforementioned football coach lost sight of where he fit into the big picture. He was the revered leader, but he was not the owner. A lesson anyone in authority should take close notice of.

Just Answer the Question Please

2010-03-02T22:34:00.001-05:00

I am under the illusion that I am relatively intelligent. But I will admit to you that I have questioned my brain power numerous times through the years. There are certain things I just don’t get. Things that seem obvious to most humans around me. Take, for example, analogous sayings intended to provide information to the listener without directly answering the question at hand. An example would be when I ask someone if it’s cold outside and they reply, “Does a cat have a climbing gear?” My roommate in college used to say that one (the cat climbing gear thing) all the time. I was too embarrassed to admit I didn’t know the answer. Yes, I realize cats can climb trees quite effectively. But do they really have climbing gears or is their ability related to their claws and hind legs? Perplexed, I simply walked outside and checked the weather for myself during my college days. Here’s another one I’ve never figured out. When someone says “I could care less” or “I couldn’t care less”. To me these statements are polar opposites but every time I hear either of them, they are intended to mean the same thing- the speaker doesn’t care. So I’ve accepted the fact both statements mean the same thing even though my brain can’t comprehend why. Ditto for “regardless” and “irregardless”. Somehow they are interchangeable. My English teachers taught me that irregardless is not a word but nowadays it’s appearing in a lot of dictionaries. I agree with my teachers. But I digress. Back to the “answering a question with a question” phenomenon. There’s even a set of commercials on television now with these types of “answering a question with a question” scenarios. “Does Elmer Fudd have trouble with the letter “R”? “Does a 10 pound bag of flour make a big biscuit”? And so on. These types of questions are a crude form of something one might call Socratic Rhetoricals or dialectic syllogism as best as I can tell. This means a person is answering a question with another question whose answer is obvious. There’s probably other names for it but I’m sticking with Socratic Rhetoricals. My seventh grade algebra teacher’s favorite Socratic Rhetorical was, “Does a shark pee in the ocean?” This one was a no-brainer and caused me no confusion. Other ones I heard over the years included “Does a bear go to the bathroom in the woods?” and “Does a fat baby burp?” (I cleaned up both of those to keep them rated PG). I’m not done yet. I’ve also heard people say things like “Does a one-legged duck swim in a circle?” and “Is the Pope Catholic?” I think I can figure those out though I remain mildly skeptical about the duck. It doesn’t exactly fit here but I heard a coach say something interesting when his team kept losing and people wondered why he couldn’t do something to help them win more. His reply: “You can coach an ant to death but he’ll never kick a rat’s butt.” He might have also added- “You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.” Irregardless, Socratic Rhetoricals are here to stay even if they don’t make a whole lot of sense. And to be honest, I could care less.

Some Advantages to Misspelling

2010-02-23T20:28:00.001-05:00

Some say it all started when then Vice President Dan Quayle misspelled “potato”. He didn’t actually misspell the word, he incorrectly corrected an elementary chap by suggesting that an “e” should be added on the end. That incident may have brought our lack of spelling efficiency to the forefront of the public eye, but it certainly wasn’t the beginning of the story. Our family took off on many travel adventures during my childhood. Mile upon country mile in our brown Ford LTD station wagon forced me to concoct methods of entertaining myself. Car Bingo got old quick so one of my favorite pastimes was to read the billboards and ad signs along the road with the goal of recognizing misspellings. There were plenty enough to keep me occupied. For example, I pointed out a sign once that said something about cheap “gasolene”. I suspect my parents sometimes grew weary of answering all my questions. Understandably so. Most were trivial and senseless. But in this case, my dad came up with a great answer. Said the wise one, “They do that on purpose so you will notice their sign.” Made sense to me. After all, I do notice a lot of purposeful misspellings even today. Take “Krispy Kreme” for example, where both the words are spelled wrong. Not to be outdone, their rival “Dunkin Donuts” got in on the misspell act long ago. Throw in the chocolate drink “Quik” and food munchies that call themselves “Snaks.” One local restaurant combines both these misspelled words to get my attention. It must work because I go there about once a week. I’m not a spokesperson (can’t say spokesman anymore) for any product but worthy of mention in this column are Ultra Brite and Gleem toothpaste, Infiniti automobiles, Liquid Plumr drain unclogger, Cheez Doodles, and various sorts of Lite diet items. Add those to the “texting by sound” phenomenon and it’s a wonder the younger generation can spell at all anymore. But alas all that misspelling is starting to take its toil. Just ask people who misspell stuff when they’re trying to sell it on Ebay, a modern development that’s here to stay. If you misspell, people don’t see your item when they do a search. Ouch. Some industrious folks go so far as to purposefully misspell an item when they do a search in hopes of finding a bargain. One guy claims he bought for two dollars a box of pocket watch “geers” no one seemed interested in. He spelled “gears” right and reposted it on Ebay and quickly sold them for $200. I never won a spelling bee in elementary school. You could probably tell that by reading this and any other of my columns. What may surprise you is that I finished second quite often. I don’t know for sure but I think maybe “gasoline” got me a couple times. But I’m not too worried about it these days. Spell check is alive and well on my computer and when I butcher the spellings in these columns it is largely on purpose. All this spelling and misspelling has made me hungry. So sometime soon I will head over to the Quik Snak and git me sum taters. Oh, excuse me, Mr. Quayle, I meant to say tatoes.

Hitting the Jackpot on Snow Day

2010-02-17T22:38:00.003-05:00

January was one of the coldest, snowiest, wintryest months I can ever remember. I’m sure somebody somewhere can remember it being worse. And some historical archive will probably back them up on it. But it would have been hard to convince me of the reality of global warming the last few weeks. I’ve been dodging ice, eating snow cream, and freezing my buns off ever since 2010 rang itself in on January 1. One reason I think it seems so much colder is because I am so much older. I used to be able to walk outside in a t-shirt and shorts and play in the snow. Nowadays if the temperature is anything less than the highway speed limit, I am bundled up in 10 layers of clothing with insulated socks, reinforced gloves, and seven different kinds of head coverings. Despite this, an accumulation of snow significant enough to prevent the kids from attending school is enjoyable. At least for the first 30 minutes of the first morning they’re stuck at home. By lunchtime I am frantically searching for a phone number to call that will hook me up with the place that accepts volunteer drivers to man those snowplow trucks that clear the roads. To my horror, no such phone numbers exist. On a recent snow day, I decided to give the wife a break and haul my youngest two boys to a local pizza buffet. To honor their wishes, we dined at a joint with an arcade attached. You know the deal. You slap your money into their machines and they spit out little tickets at you. My first indication of trouble occurred as we arrived in the pizza place parking lot and my middle son announced that he hoped no one was there he knew. “Why, you ashamed to be seen with me?” I asked. “Exactly,” he answered. Despite the insult, I proceeded inside and paid for the three of us to eat pizza. Proud of myself that we got out for less than $13 (kid discount and water to drink)- I settled in with my chicken barbeque pizza while the boys quickly ate and headed to the game room. On several occasions I heard shouts of delight from my sons, at one point followed by a scream of “Jackpot!” Before long they ran over to me draped in tickets, closely resembling that animal guru Jack Hanna who enjoys wrapping snakes around his neck. So excited were these juveniles that they hardly touched their dessert pizza. The poor guy at counter patiently waited as they anguished over how to spend their credits. For 661 tickets they got: Silly Goo, a dominos game, two suckers, two water guns, two Tootsie Rolls, and a miniature plastic Slinky. Based on my unscientific calculations, the total value of the above listed items hovers around $2.50 to $3. Because they had brought their own money, I wasn’t too concerned about how much they spent but curiosity led me to ask. “Ten dollars,” one of them answered. “Each,” added the other. Twenty dollars! I wondered out loud if it was worth it. But after arriving home, I decided it probably was. Mom got a break, the kids had a blast, and I got to spend some snow-day time with my boys. Jackpot.

Wii Bowling Score a Hit on Facebook

2010-02-09T20:11:00.003-05:00

As you may remember from a recent column, I am now on Facebook. I’ve actually been on it for a while, but just have been hesitant to admit it. But my shame has long since subsided. Several fellow deacons from my church and the pastor’s wife Facebook now. Even Billy Graham is on there and I am one of his 56,268 fans. Because of Facebook, I can claim to be friends with a high profile professional golfer, a cast member from the Survivor television series, a Nashville recording artist, a major league pitching coach, and Miss California. (And for the record, each responds when I send him/her messages.) But I digress. The true purpose of this column is not to impress you with my list of friends. Okay, the pro golfer is John Daly, but that’s the last time I’m going to drop names. The subject at hand involves something I posted on my Facebook site recently. Unlike many of my “friends,” I don’t change my profile picture every week or so. It’s been the same one pretty much the whole time. Also unlike most of my friends, when I download pictures to share, they are usually ones with some relative substance to them like family gatherings and mission trips. That kinda stuff. I broke that pattern and joined the silliness by posting a cellphone picture of me in front of a television a few weeks ago. In that picture, I was pointing at something on the television. It all started when I accompanied my kids on a visit to their grandparents and the Wii game was allowed to tag along. Before I knew it, hotly contested games of Wii bowling erupted. And to be honest, I stunk. (Or is it stank? I can’t remember). Upon our return home, the kid’s enjoyment of Dad’s humiliation led us to the playroom to continue our rivalry. Suddenly the tables turned. Ole’ Dad got in a zone and all of sudden, I couldn’t miss. Eight strikes in a row at one point. When the game ended, I had bowled a Stroupe family high of 279. Unheard of. Out of sight. All that jazz. I needed permanent evidence. So there I am in the picture, pointing at my score on the television. So proud was I that I displayed it for the world to see on Facebook. Within minutes I had received eight friend comments congratulating me on my accomplishment. One of them said something like “this just blows me away,” which I’m counting as a positive. On top of the gaming world was I. At least until I showed up to work at Gardner-Webb the following Monday. One of my colleagues informed me that he had seen my picture on Facebook. “Impressive,” he said, “but not as impressive as the 300 I bowled.” Despite the pin my colleague inserted into my balloon, I have decided to leave my Wii picture on Facebook. Although the score has been surpassed by a so-called friend, my picture remains- primarily as a taunt to my children. Plus, John Daly is impressed.

I'm Having Ibuprofen for Lunch

2010-02-03T21:54:00.002-05:00

I will confess to you that as I write this, I am wearing glasses. Not prescription glasses but rather those magnifying glass kind you get at the dollar store. Quite simply, the English alphabet letters on the computer screen are blurry these days. I see fine if the object of my interest is off in the distant yonder somewhere. But close up stuff gives me fits. I have come to realize something. I am aging. Granted I am not complaining. I’m at peace with the process. But it hurts a man’s pride to realize there are certain things he can no longer do. Like jump and touch the rim of a regulation basketball goal. I could do it now, but only with the aid of a trampoline. I read recently that a man’s ears and nose continue to grow throughout his entire lifespan. Splendid. At least you would think the positive of such a reality would be that one would gain the ability to hear and smell better. Not so much. There are times people are talking and I can only make out about two thirds of what they’re saying. I am then forced to use my imagination to attempt to logically fill in the rest. This gets me in trouble at times, especially at home. On a recent Sunday, a watch alarm rudely started beeping during the sermon. It was high noon and the watch was ready to eat, even though everyone knows that Baptists are not constrained by time limits. Anyway, I noticed that the alarm was creating a minor disturbance in the surrounding rows. Finally, my middle son punched me in the arm and whispered to his oblivious father, “Dad, cut your alarm off!” And to make it worse, I’m a deacon who is expected to be a role model of some sort. Backs don’t like aging. My 46-year-old back loudly complains every morning about having to get up. I now sleep with a pillow between my knees to relieve the strain. And since I can’t touch the rim anymore, I don’t play much basketball these days. I took up tennis a while back. Immediately I developed tennis elbow and something on the bottom of my feet called plantar fasciitis that hurts like the dickens. So I’ve moved on to racquetball. My younger buds get a kick out of seeing me arrive armored up in non-matching elbow pads, hunter safety glasses, my son’s wrestling knee pads, and a velcro forearm brace for my tennis elbow. Recently I was asked what I would be having for lunch after the racquetball match. “Ibuprofen,” I answered. Which reminds me of my daily pill routine. I start the morning with a reflux pill and sometimes a vitamin C pill for good measure. Before slipping into bed at night (where my pillow awaits its opportunity to be placed between my aching knees), I gulp down a cholesterol pill, a Centrum Cardio for good heart health, an aspirin for circulation, and a fish oil pill for the heck of it. So there you have it. I have bared all for the world to see. But don’t be surprised if you see this column appear again sometime in the near future. The aging process may cause me to forget that I’ve already written it.

Kent Alexander Gone But Not Forgotten

2010-01-24T16:06:00.003-05:00

Only God knows for sure what happened on the night of December 7, 2007. A husband and his wife of twelve years argued and left for separate rooms. The next day the husband’s lifeless body was discovered in the kitchen, a stab wound to the abdomen. Investigators arrived and immediately suspected his wife of the murder. A small southern town buried their hero a few days later, the same day the wife- who claimed no memory of the incident- was arrested and formally charged. The hometown folks were shocked and saddened to bid their native son farewell. During his glory days, he was the star quarterback, leading scorer in basketball, and the ace pitcher on the baseball team. He was the guy all the guys wanted to be, and the guy all the girls wanted to be with. And suddenly he was gone. To make matters worse, he had apparently fallen at the hands of an outsider. Someone nobody except his family in the small town had ever met. He had moved away and most folks had lost touch. But they hadn’t forgotten their hero. His legacy and legend were historic. His best childhood friend spoke at the funeral, being careful to accentuate the positive and cherish the priceless memories instead of lamenting the strange circumstances of his death. Two years passed. The heroes’ former wife remained in jail until the trial. By all accounts, a conviction would be a slam dunk. But on January 18, 2010, the heroes’ former wife was acquitted. And a small southern town was left to endure the pain all over again. Some of them gathered at his graveside on the afternoon of the verdict and chose again to remember the positives. Like most red-blooded Americans, the citizens of that small town love their country and respect its judicial system. But they were confused. The judicial jargon and the complex wording of technical technicalities evaded them. All they knew was that their hometown hero was gone and nobody would be held accountable. The story had apparently ended. But they noticed something miraculous had occurred along the way. They had come together. They had united in a cause. They had reached out and reconnected with each other. Suddenly folks who hadn’t seen or heard from each other in years were embracing and expressing their love for each other. The second baseman and the shortstop on the old high school baseball team hugged. The former mayor shared a heartwarming remembrance of his fallen friend. Another friend reminded everyone that beneath the macho exterior- existed a warm, sensitive human being who respected his elders and treasured his friends. The story hadn’t ended after all. A chapter in the book had concluded but pages to be filled remained. Memories to be remembered. Connections to be reconnected. Friends to be befriended. The hometown hero had done it again, bringing his former community together again. Only God knows what happened on that fateful night in 2007. But I- the shortstop and recipient of the quarterback’s pinpoint passes- know this much. My North Carolina hometown of Cherryville lost one of its heroes, and I lost my best childhood friend, Kent Alexander. And though our hearts have now been broken twice, the memory of the one who enriched our lives will endure forever.

A Giant Secret We Kept From Mom

2010-01-20T19:38:00.003-05:00

----------- Every member of the Stroupe family is aware of the contents of this week’s column except for Mom. She will read this column in the paper much like you and turn to me and say something like, “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” And I won’t have a good answer. I don’t keep things from my partner unless it’s for her own protection. And in this case, I felt justified in keeping a tight lip until now. The incident in question took place on a recent hunting trip with a dad and his two oldest boys. That dad was me and mom stayed home with our youngest son. On the second night of our trip, I witnessed something I’ve never seen before and never hope to see again. The boys and I stayed in a hunting cabin in the middle of the woods with four other people on our venture. It was awesome, even though the cabin was unheated and we had to get up at 4:15 every morning. Propane heaters kept us relatively warm most of the time and I slept in sweatpants and a sweatshirt to survive the harsh winter nights. On the evening in question, I was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room area, minding my own business. Suddenly and without warning, I saw movement to my left in the kitchen and observed an animal of some sort quickly dart from the area under the stove and disappear into a hole in the wall located beneath the sink. My first thought was that the unwelcome visitor was a large squirrel. Then to my horror, I realized from its features that the alien was a ginormous rat. The tail was a dead giveaway. (I know “ginormous”, prounounced j-eye-nor-mus is not a word. But it’s the most accurate description in this case.) I didn’t scream. I didn’t shriek. I didn’t holler out. I did the manliest thing I could do at that moment. I simply proclaimed to the crowd in the living room, “I just saw the biggest rat I’ve ever seen in my life.” And they all laughed. I don’t know if they were laughing at me or with me. I was too shocked to care. One of them asked if it could have been a mouse. I informed him that a mouse wouldn’t even be an adequate appetizer for the rodent I had just seen. I was traumatized. Mainly because I would be sleeping only a few feet from the hole he disappeared into. Before you call me a wimp, understand that even elephants are terrified of rats. And I’m not even scared of rats in general. I’m just scared of that one in the cabin. My sons and I couldn’t stop thinking about that wretched rat for the next couple days. I dreamed about him all night long that first night. I was never so glad for a four o’clock alarm to go off in all my life. Finally, morning. If you call 4:15 morning. We decided not to tell Mom when we called home the next few nights. Based on her fear of infectious giant rodents, she may have shrieked and ordered her gang of boys back to North Carolina. So we kept our secret to ourselves. Until now.

Lessons Learned on Skiing Adventure

2010-01-11T19:19:00.001-05:00

Recently the Stroupe family journeyed to Northern Virginia for a weekend ski trip. Mom had sense enough to camp in the warmth of the ski lodge and observe as the rest of us plucked icicles from our nose hairs outside. Once you get used to frozen eyelids and Star Wars-looking snow boots, the ride on the chairlift is peaceful and stress-free. On that first trip up the mountain, I sucked in the oxygen, gazed at the gorgeous view, and allowed myself to soak up the moment. Suddenly and without warning, my journey came to an abrupt halt and I tumbled head over heels down a ramp- the one designed for skiers to glide off when they exit the chairlift. Humiliation had ensued and wouldn’t disappear anytime soon. Both Stroupe boys whistled down the side of the mountain as their dad rolled, snowplowed, and crashed his way through traffic to the bottom. I improved greatly as the day proceeded but my primary nemesis remained. That nemesis was the chairlift. Fellow skiers began to line up at the top of the intermediate hill just to watch me exit. More often than not, I did not disappoint. Several times the operators had to halt the entire lift so they could scrape me off the ground and get me out of the way. Ski lift chairlifts aren’t designed to stop. They just keep going round and round and round. They only halt when buffoons like me wipe out attempting to depart from them. I experienced this no-stop phenomenon late in the afternoon on that fateful trip. My boys and I were able to enjoy a ride on a four-man lift to the top of the highest hill- the expert slope. As we exited the lift, I noticed my youngest son struggling to keep his balance so I reached over to try and help. Big mistake. Immediately I lost my own balance and ended up propped on my knees with my knit cap down over my face. It all happened kinda fast but the next thing I felt was an enormous punch to the back of my head. Within moments three ski patrol dudes surrounded me, expressing their deep concern for my personal health. When I asked what had happened, one of them informed me that the ski lift had whacked me on its way around the semi-circle. He asked if I was okay and I replied, “No, but I’m doing my best to play it off.” Proud that my hard head had survived such a vicious attack, I rose to my feet, nodded to the onlooking crowd, and proceeded to belly flop all the way down the expert mountain- a slope I had no business attempting to negotiate in the first place. The skiers riding the lift laughed and were visibly entertained by my flailing. When I ski, I’m entertaining the lift riders. And when I ride the lift, I’m entertaining the skiers. Ironic. There’s more- like the time I exited the chairlift and a man with a protruding ski pole nearly poked out my left eye- but I’ll spare you the details. In actuality, we had a great time and may hit the slopes again at some point in the future. And if we do, it will probably be in Northern Virginia again- where nobody knows me.

Maybe I'll Get Invited to the White House This Year

2010-01-04T19:27:00.001-05:00

The beginning of a new year. An opportunity to share with you my annual list of resolutions. I checked back to last year’s list of resolves and I fared well. As promised, I did not view a solar eclipse with my naked eyes. Yes, I did say naked. There has been some concern lately that terms in some of my columns have been a bit risqué and on the edge during the past year. Maybe, but I’m sticking with the word naked in this column, like it or not. I followed through on my vow not to style my hair in a manner resembling the type sported by impeached Illinois governor Rod Blagojevich and I did not shave my head or chest in a lame attempt to inspire the college baseball team I coach to play harder. And I went on two mission trips in the past year, fulfilling my promise to go on at least one. But I did fail to follow through with one resolution. I did not repair the flat tire on my bicycle when gas prices rose earlier this year. Thus I was unable to “stick it to the man” by pedaling past the pump when times got tough. Sorry. All that being said, here’s my list for 2010. Feel free to hold me accountable for these promises: 1. If invited to the White House for a Beer Summit the likes of which occurred this past year, I will request that I be served something none of the original Beer Summit attendees asked for. If you remember, Sergeant Crowley ordered Blue Moon; Professor Gates asked for Samuel Adams Light; V.P. Biden went with a Buckler non-alcoholic brew; and the President downed a Bud Light. If asked to attend, I will break up the whole beer theme and see if they’ll allow a good ole’ North Carolina Caffeine Free Diet Sun Drop at a meeting of the minds. 2. Unlike a friend of mine from my church, I will not grab a black snake that has just run past me after I have stirred it from its rest. And also unlike my friend, I will not allow its head to get close enough to bite me on the finger, like it did to him. But if I am bitten, I will try my best to be like him and laugh it off and go about my business- which he did in manly and impressive fashion. 3. If I donate a kidney to someone, I won’t ask for it back. A Long Island, NY man- claiming his wife cheated on him after he gave up one of his kidneys for her- now wants his former bean-shaped organ back in a divorce settlement, though he would settle for $1.5 million if she’s grown attached to it. 4. And for the umpteenth year in a row, I will not become irritated, agitated, or bitter when my last name is misspelled, mispronounced or otherwise butchered. (If you’re reading this in the paper, check to the left and see if they spelled it right underneath my picture: S-t-r-o-u-p-e. Sometimes they leave the “e” off.) So there you have it. Now go and make your own list. And if anyone asks for an explanation, tell them Mr. Strap put you up to it.

Unsung Heroes Dominate Awards Yet Again

2009-12-29T22:00:00.002-05:00

As 2009 draws to a close, it’s time once again to reflect back on good deeds, kind people, and the heroes among us. This year I’m calling it my “Thumbs Up for People Who Deserve a Slap on the Back, Not on the Face- Award.” Or whatever. Anyway, I used to give “Wedgie Awards” for those who deserve wedgies more than praise, but I cut that one out because I like to keep things positive. But rest assured Balloon boy’s parents and the White House party crashers won’t be forcing my thumbs to protrude northward. Actually, I was partially impressed with the White House party crashers until I discovered they snuck in as a publicity stunt to try and get their own reality television show. Ditto for Balloon boy’s family. And while I’m at it, what do Ann Arbor (MI), Sherwood (AK), Novato (CA), Maumeo (OH), Charlotte (NC), Columbus (GA), and Staten Island (NY) all have in common? Give up? They all had someone in their towns who stole one of the Salvation Army’s donation buckets during the Christmas season this year. It’s not the city’s fault- (there’s a rumor one was stolen locally)- but it does remind us there are Scrooges everywhere. Here’s a tidbit: the robber of a Wal-Mart store in Nacogdoches, Texas actually dropped a dollar bill into the Salvation Army bucket as he ran to his getaway car. Not enough for a thumbs up award but interesting. Let’s get to the winners. You’ve heard all about Captain Phillips and Captain Sullenberger. The former bravely offered himself as ransom to save his shipmates from terrorists and the latter safely landed a giant airplane in the Hudson River. Kudos. But you’ve probably never heard of Barbara Batton of Red Springs, N.C. I met her on a mission trip this fall. She cooks, cleans, does the laundry, and cares for the family she loves like no Mom I’ve ever seen. She adores her husband and reads to her two adopted kids whom she saved from an abusive situation. She prays and prays and prays. She loves life and her Lord and is one of the most inspirational people I’ve ever met. Also, she’s been blind for over 40 years. Unfortunately for the world, my beloved fifth grade teacher passed away in 2009. I’ll admit I was the teacher’s pet in Mrs. Anderson’s class. She loved us all but made me feel extremely special. And like some of my other teachers, she reminded me often that I was a gifted writer even though all I could think about was sports. And she talked about God in class. I like that. The Thumbs Up first place winner this year is also a teacher, but not in the traditional sense. She’s a 10-year-old girl who is battling cancer. Carey Heavner has become my buddy in the past few months. We text each other often and I’m always amazed at her positive attitude. She has taught me to live each day with appreciation and determination. I can’t wait to see what she becomes when she grows up. And I bet she’s wondering what I’ll become if I ever grow up. So there you have it. My thumbs need rest now. But they’ll be on the lookout for more heroes in 2010.

Questions abound this Christmas

2009-12-29T21:59:00.002-05:00

Each Christmas season seems to have a unique theme of some sort. Some years it’s a blockbuster Christmas movie in the theatres. Other years it’s a hot gift item like Playstation 3, Tickle Me Elmo, or a Cabbage Patch Doll. This year’s Christmas theme, in my opinion, is a question mark- representative of the trend toward numerous unanswered questions as we approach December 25. For example, the question wafting through the Stroupe household this season is whether or not our Christmas tree will fall over yet again this year? A legitimate concern, despite the fact we became so frustrated trying to get it to stand upright that we poured grout in the bottom of the tree stand and let it harden. No guarantees but if it tips over this year, it will be because some elf knocked it over on purpose. The tree stand is ruined but it’s worth it if the star on top stays off the floor. Another question, this one floating around on the internet: Are Chia Pets edible? I saw a commercial the other day advertising a Chia Pet a cat can eat. Just what I always wanted. The debate on the internet concerns whether or not humans could benefit from Chia Pet consumption. There are mixed reviews but I’m playing it safe and abstaining. Will Tiger have enough money left to buys presents for all the “friends” (at least 12) in his life after his sponsors drop him? Okay, that was a cheap shot but the greater question is whether he will ever recover and make a triumphant return to golf. Was the image of Jesus on the bottom of a Massachusetts woman’s iron a legitimate miracle? I’ve seen the picture and it looks like a man with long hair and a beard but I have no idea if it’s Jesus. It’s kinda like the Shroud of Turin to me. If it’s real, great. If not, that’s fine, too. Why? (Another question)- Because faith doesn’t require proof. The issues of miracle authenticity may be scientifically relevant but they’re spiritually unimportant. Jesus himself once said that those who believe without seeing are blessed. It’s nice when we are privileged to experience tangible revelations but they are not necessary to sustain a faith that is based on the rock solid belief that God sent His one and only Son to save us. And to me, that is the ultimate question of this and every Christmas season: whether or not we allow the Child to leave the manger and live in our hearts. For the Stroupes this year, there is another question. Will our friends and family still love us when they don’t get a Christmas card from us this year? Humbuggishly, we didn’t send them out this season. Blame it on extreme busy-ness, lack of cooperation from our boys for the family picture, or whatever else you wish. So by the authority rendered unto me by the rest of my family, in place of a Christmas card, I am offering this simple phrase- to kids from 1 to 96. (I want to include my grandmother). It’s been said many times, many ways but from the heart I say, “Merry Christmas” to all of you. No question about it.

You can say Butt in public these days

2009-12-18T13:45:00.001-05:00

There were certain words that were frowned upon in our house growing up. I previously wrote a column dedicated to the words we were allowed to use as replacements for less acceptable expressions of frustration. Terms like “Ah, foot”, “For Pete’s sake,” and “Dad-gum-it,” to name a few. Some words weren’t necessarily “wash your mouth out with soap” words, but could- if they slipped out- cause you to get stared down by a parent. In our home today, we call these “cold” bad words. An utterance like “stupid” qualifies as an example. The word “butt” was a cold bad word in our house growing up. As my brother and I grew up, it’s lack of social acceptance faded- partially because we were older but mainly because society in general forced it into the cultural mainstream vocabulary. I have grown accustomed to the use of this term nowadays. People openly brag about their favorite sports teams kicking butt. And of course there is the butt of a gun or a cigarette and the always unfortunate butt of a joke. But even Forrest Gump in his movie a few years back had the decency to refer to it as his “buttocks” as in- “ I got shot in the buttocks.” The way he pronounced it made it sound more like Botox. These days folks openly say it without reservation. Someone announced in church recently- “We’re selling butts to try and raise money.” And I saw a sign somewhere that read, “Get your butts here,” and another that simply stated, “Butts for sale.” And I heard one mother tell another recently- “I’m thinking about cooking a butt tonight.” Of course we’re talking about Boston Butts here. I looked them up on the internet and learned that a Boston Butt actually comes from the front shoulder of a pig. Go figure. And the only place around where they don’t call it Boston Butt is- you guessed it- Boston. The reason it’s called Boston Butt is because they were originally shipped from Boston and the containers they were shipped in were called “butts.” And I think the reason Bostonians don’t call it by that name is because they reserve all butt references for the New York Yankees. So why not call it the much more socially acceptable “Rump roast?” Because it’s not the same thing. It’s usually a cow, and Rump roast truly does come from the backside of the animal. Comforting. Hardly anybody sells Rump roast as a fundraiser. But they’ll cook up Boston Butt and sell it in a heartbeat. I think it’s a sign of the times. We couldn’t even say “Butts” thirty years ago- now they’re shouting it in the streets and selling it to us in neatly packaged bundles. Not that I’m complaining. A good Boston Butt is one of the most mouth-watering items that can travel down your esophagus. And the fund raiser people who sell Butts all seem to be associated with good causes. So it’s a win-win these days- except for the poor pig- who wishes Rump roast would become the top choice for fund raisers. And he won’t like it when I tell you to get out there and support a good cause by buying yourself a butt today.

Everyone Should be Entitled to Their Aha! Moments

2009-12-09T22:59:00.001-05:00

I could get sued for writing this column. But I feel it would be irresponsible of me to shy away simply due to the possibility of something as minor as a lawsuit. So here goes. What do Oprah, Mutual of Omaha, and my psychology professor in graduate school all have in common? I haven’t watched much of Oprah through the years. She’s always appeared on my television at a time of day when I am busy and inaccessible to her form of media. But I did hear recently that she’s moving on to another venture. All I know about Mutual of Omaha is that they sponsored one of the coolest and bestest television shows ever when I was a kid. Every Sunday night our family would gather around the tube to watch Marlin Perkins stalk animals for an hour on his hit show “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.” Especially entertaining was how Marlin calmly watched while his assistant Jim was nearly eaten on several occasions by boa constrictors and such. I can’t remember my psychology prof’s name but I remember that she said “Aha” quite often. Which leads me to the current issue at hand. When the light bulb flips on in someone’s head and they finally realize something, it is referred to in psychology as an “Aha moment.” My wise prof taught me this twenty years ago. Recently however, both Oprah and Mutual of Omaha were of the belief that they invented the phrase. And get this, they wanted to own it as well. Mutual used it in an ad campaign but Harpo (Oprah backwards) claimed they had exclusive rights to it. I say give the rights to my psychology professor. She was dropping the phrase long before Oprah or Mutual of Omaha. If not her, then award all the lawsuit money to the American Heart Association (AHA, for short.) At great legal risk, I have decided to share some Aha! moments in my life: 1. A brand new (and expensive) car becomes a used automobile five minutes after you drive away from the dealership parking lot. Aha! You can save some money going the used route in the first place. 2. The more you speak, the greater chance you could say something stupid, offensive, or incriminating. Aha! Sometimes it may be best to fold your tongue and staple it to itself before it lands you in a heap of trouble. 3. This giant snake I am wrestling here in the water could, in fact, kill me. Marlin sends me to do the dangerous stuff while he gets all the glory, the TV ratings, and the heftier contract. Aha! I’m getting the shaft. (Okay, that was assistant Jim, but it fits nicely.) 4. (Me again- 9 years ago) I always enjoyed English class. I couldn’t wait for writing assignments. People sometimes laughed or cried when they read my stuff. I’m 37 and I’ve kept my ramblings hidden in a blue notebook in a closet for twenty years. Aha! Maybe God wants me to “come out of the closet” and share my writing with others. For the record, I am 46 now and still wish my writing Aha! moment would have occurred sooner. But either way, I intend to keep writing. If Oprah doesn’t like it, she can sue me.

They Say It Comes in Threes

2009-11-30T23:03:00.002-05:00

They say it comes in threes. First of all, let me say for the record that I have had a lifelong obsession with trying to figure out who “they” are. And why does what “they” say matter so much. I know this isn’t an original idea, as many people have asked over the years who “they” are, but I feel the need to join in on the fray. Anyway, if they are correct, and it comes in threes, then my next curiosity is to determine exactly what “it” is. Recently I did a google search of “They say it comes in threes” and discovered much. One of the things that comes in threes is death- especially celebrity deaths. What did everyone say this past summer when Farrah, MJ, and Ed all left us within a day or two? “It comes in threes,” said many. My search also informed me that bad luck comes in threes as well. Such as when three appliances in your house decide to break down at the same instant. They never malfunction one at a time in a timely spaced out fashion. They misbehave in threes. And one “It comes in threes” complainer on the internet pointed out that to be safe, you have to get three flu shots this season- one for the regular flu and two other rounds for the pig-related type. I’ve never believed in that sorta superstition- until two weeks ago. First let me say that none of my trio of rambunctious boys had ever been to the emergency room for an injury. A streak that was destined to end. The first incident involved the oldest and occurred when a small piece of metal found its way into his eye while he was doing something or other without his safety glasses on. Sounds more painful than it was but it certainly wasn’t pleasant. Within a couple days, the middle son called from wrestling practice claiming his finger might be broken. A trip to the doctor confirmed a strained ligament but the kid had to wear a splint for a week and had to stay off the mat for a while. But the most dramatic injury occurred a day or two later when the youngest Stroupe, fully conscious, fell off his parent’s bed onto a glass frame around 10 p.m. on a school night. At first we didn’t notice or think much of it because he didn’t cry but just moaned a little. Suddenly Mom screamed out when she saw the gaping gash on his right foot. I flew into first aid respondent mode and started barking orders to everyone. My main goal was to keep the kid calm and pretend like it wasn’t that bad. When we arrived at the emergency room a little later, the oldest son carried his little brother to the reception desk while I held the door. Again, I reminded everyone to stay cool. As he entered the ER, the oldest son loudly announced, “Hey, we need help! We have a deep laceration here!” So much for minimizing the severity of the situation. Eight stitches later, all was well and we were home around midnight. And the last thing I told my wife before we finally fell asleep was- you guessed it- “Maybe they’re right- it does come in threes.”

2009-11-21T12:22:00.001-05:00

I never really understood why it was there in the first place. It was an ugly eyesore. It was twenty-eight years old when it met its demise. Ten per cent of the population where it existed wishes it were still there. I’m all for the underdog, but in this case, I’m going with the 90% majority. John F. Kennedy once stood before it and referred to it as a disgrace to humanity. Later Ronald Reagan, while standing near it, boldly declared it should be destroyed. They tried at times to dress it up and make it look pretty by painting flowers and such on it. But it reeked of repulsiveness, if that’s a word. No need to keep you in suspense. You’ve probably figured out by now that it’s the Berlin Wall. And I grew up with it. Even though it was 4533 miles away, it was real. Teachers talked about it in class and politicians referred to it in speeches. Some speculated it would be there forever, separating East Germany from West Germany. It was the most visible symbol of the Cold War between the Soviet Union and the United States. Dictatorship versus Democracy. And the youth of my generation existed with the threat that someone important on one side or the other would drink a bad cup of coffee one morning and we would all be annihilated by the loaded weapons our countries were pointing at each other. Oh, it’s not like we obsessed on it or it interfered with our lunch breaks, sporting events, or Saturday night dates. But the threat was ever present. And so was that stupid wall. A few years ago, on a visit to California, I saw a piece of that wall at the Ronald Reagan Library. Nearby, a taped recording of the President’s voice kept shouting over and over, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” A request Mr. G. politely obliged a couple years afterward. Kinda funny how it all went down. After years of oppression, an East German spokesman stepped up to the microphone at a press conference and read a little speech. At the end of the speech- almost as an afterthought and with no fanfare- he declared that citizens could travel back and forth between the borders despite the wall. When a reporter asked when this would be allowed, he stammered a little, shrugged his shoulders and said something to the effect of, “I’m not sure but I guess it can start now.” Oh happy day! To Germans it meant freedom and eventual unification. To me it meant the Cold War was over and the good guys had won. It took a few more years to confirm that fact, but I think we all knew it that night as we watched our televisions. Most folks in the younger generation have no clue what a Berlin Wall is. And they think a Cold War is something you declare on germs during flu season. But I remember well. And I know I don’t want the wall or the war to rear their ugly heads ever again. Twenty years ago this past week, that ugly wall came tumblin’ down. I shall never forget the night I watched on TV as the world celebrated its extinction. And 90% of us have been happy ever since.

Old Man and the Son

2009-11-12T23:38:00.002-05:00

I can never get my oldest son, who is now 17, to admit that I am in fact, cool. Supposedly I’m out of touch, old-fashioned, over the hill, and worthy of being referred to as “old man.” He texted me recently to let me know he was in for the night at his friend’s house. After my reply text reminded him that I loved him, he signed off that night with- “Love you, too, old man.” (At least he’ll still admit he loves me, especially when he needs money.) A few months back I made a decision to allow him to cut my hair. He got a little carried away and even became worried at one point that I was going to assault him once I was able to see myself in the mirror. “I trust you, boy,” I assured him, “And I did ask you to cut it short.” When I was afforded a look in the mirror a few minutes later, I became aware of two things: 1) My son is not a barber and 2) I am officially old. The grown child reminded me of my thinning topside a few moments later as I chased him around the yard. By the way, I can still outrun him. Not long ago this same kid of mine completely put me in my place in front of a group of folks I highly respect and who, up until that point, respected me. The boy looked handsome in his getup that night so I publicly commented to him that he should appreciate coming from such good genes. Without hesitation, he snapped, “Yeah, thanks for the genes. I’m really looking forward to being short and bald someday.” Ouch. And so it continues. He’s constantly trying to remind me how old I am and I’m attempting just as fervently to convince him I am still cool (assuming I ever was in the first place) and that I have more hair on my head than most men my age. Yes, my back is stiff in the mornings when I wake up. And I have to take six different kinds of pills each day for cholesterol, reflux, and healthy heart maintenance. But by golly, I’m still young in my own eyes and this kid was due a hands-on lesson to demonstrate that fact. Quite by accident, a hands-on lesson indeed occurred recently. The son and I were riding along in my truck and he asked if he could pop in a Jimmy Buffett CD. “Of course,” I replied, hardly able to contain myself. Before you start sending me mean emails, the Buffett song we listened to was mellow and thought-provoking, not raunchy and disrespectful like a small portion of his older stuff. The boy was amazed when I knew every word to the song. And I flaunted that fact by singing at the top of my lungs while he listened in stunned amazement. Eventually he joined in and a chorus of manly howling ensued. I care not if it was ear pleasing because it was certainly generationally uniting. When the song ended, I asked if he would be willing to hit the replay button and do it all over again. Obviously impressed, the kid reached for the controls and said, “Sure thing, old man.”

Close Call Reminds Me There Are Many Ways To Go

2009-11-04T21:52:00.002-05:00

The event described in this column took place on one of the mission trips I went on this past summer but it has taken me until now to be able to write about it. The truck carrying the roof shingles I was unloading that day had to park at the bottom of an uphill driveway. Though the truck was partially protruding into the street, it was a relatively quiet stretch of road with only a few cars passing by each hour. The routine required me to step up into the enclosed U-Haul type truck, hoist a rather heavy bundled pack of shingles over my shoulder, blindly step off the back of the truck into the road, and trudge my way up the hill to the stacked pile near the house. I did this 15-20 times without incident. On my final trip, I followed the normal procedure and hopped down onto the street as usual without the benefit of being able to view oncoming traffic. The moment my feet hit the pavement, a car zoomed past me, missing me by inches. They never saw me. The only thing I can remember seeing was the flash of a front bumper barely missing my leg. The speeding car had swerved over to my side of the street to avoid something or other and was actually on the wrong side of the road- the side occupied by my 45-year-old body. The impact of what happened didn’t hit me for about thirty seconds. But as I walked up the hill with my load, I noticed my legs turned to Jello and my knees began to wobble. My spine tingled, my ears rang, and my stomach twisted itself into knots. I stopped dead in my tracks and realized I had narrowly escaped what would have been certain death. I whispered mean things to myself like, “You’re an absolute idiot” and “Way to go, moron.” Then anger gave way to relief and I thanked God that I was alive. No one else had witnessed the incident- so after a minute or two of trying to convince my bladder not to moisturize my underwear, I continued my journey as if nothing had happened. But something had happened. I had gained a deeper appreciation for life. I now realize I can go at any moment. I could get bitten by one of those brown recluse spiders or a poisonous snake, both of which have at one time or another taken up residence in the crawl space under my house. I could accidentally eat a Brazil nut, which would quickly do me in if I didn’t have some Benadryl on hand. The Drop Tower ride at Carowinds could malfunction with me strapped inside it. I could explode after eating an entire loaf of liver mush in one sitting. A meteorite could crash into my house. Or I could be an accidental stowaway on a runaway helium balloon contraption one of my family members created as a publicity stunt to get on reality television. Or I could die of shock if my beloved and pathetic Pittsburgh Pirates made the baseball playoffs anytime in the foreseeable future. So many ways to go. Makes me want to stop and appreciate every precious moment I’ve been given. I think that’s what I’ll do. And I’ll also start looking both ways before crossing.

Latest teenage lingo confuses my generation

2009-10-28T18:05:00.002-04:00

I’ve been on a mission trip again. This time it was to Red Springs, NC- the same place I went last year with a group of college students from Gardner-Webb. Supposedly in this arrangement, I am the chaperone. Even though I was the only “adult”, I was far from lonesome. I learned much during my time driving the van, especially all the new terms the kids are using in conversation these days. For example, the word “beast” is now an acceptable verb as in, “Coach, beast up and pass that slow truck in the road ahead of us.” Even my ten-year-old got in on the act recently. He came home one day last week and bragged, “I beasted in football during recess at school today.” Back in my day, both the words “cool” and “hot” could mean something was popular. That’s still true but today, you can also say something is “nasty, filthy, or sick” and it still serve as a raging compliment. I overheard one young lady having a rather heated conversation on her cellphone with a friend of hers. Let me assure you I wasn’t eavesdropping because kids don’t mind if you hear their conversations these days. In fact, sometimes they put it on speakerphone so everyone can hear. Anyway, at one point she said, “It’s not acceptable for us to agree to disagree on this.” In the old days you could agree to disagree and the conversation was over and the friendship was preserved. But apparently for some kids, times have changed. They’ve got to hash it out and find some middle ground before they can move forward. The most fascinating revelations I was privy to involved male/female relationships. In primitive times, two people who were dedicated solely to each other referred to themselves as courting. From that, the whole “going steady” phenomenon emerged. “Leave her alone,” a boy would say, “she and I are steady.” That got a little old in my day so we referred to it as “going together”, though we weren’t exactly sure where it was we were going. And in most cases we didn’t go anywhere before we got our driver’s licenses. But at least it served as a workable definition of courtship, unlike the confusion that exists among today’s kids. Case in point: On the last day of our trip, we passed a man riding a motor scooter and a girl in the van announced, “My almost boyfriend rides a scooter sometimes.” I just had to ask, “What in the name of all that is good is an almost boyfriend?” It’s when you’re talking, which is now the last step before dating, I was told. So, what is talking? Talking is when you are texting, facebooking, or making eyes at each other in the cafeteria. And if by chance you should ever go out on your first date, your almost boyfriend immediately transitions into a full-fledged boyfriend, even if he hasn’t asked you to go steady. I’m glad I’m semi-old and don’t have to keep up with all the newfangled rules. But just to stay hip, I beasted up the other day and asked my former almost girlfriend- now wife- if she would “go” with me. “Sure,” she said, “as long as we end up at the grocery store. We’re out of milk.” Filthy sick.

Thanks for Supporting my Monday Night Habit

2009-10-21T21:35:00.002-04:00

It’s that time of year again. The annual Fair has left town and I am reminded of an important anniversary. I penned my first column six years ago as the last bolt in the giant ferris wheel was being packed away into the moving truck. That’s around 312 columns or so. When I started, I honestly believed I had enough material in me for maybe ten to twelve weeks worth of columns. Yet somehow, I have continued to tap letters on the keyboard one night per week, usually Monday night while most men are watching the big football game. I made a commitment to myself a number of years ago during what some might refer to as an early mid-life crisis. I vowed to take whatever humble gifts God had given me and put them to use. I decided not to waft through life, merely passing the hours in a day instead of filling them. And so I write columns each week. Oh, I realize they’re largely amateurish. But I do know they’re from the heart. And I’m certain you’ve noticed I butcher proper English grammar regularly. All I can tell you is that my 9th grade English teacher tells me she likes to read my stuff. That’s good enough for me. Someone recently told me I was completely different than what they expected me to be. This person was referring to the fact that I am a college baseball coach by profession. I wasn’t sure he meant it as a compliment until he explained that he had expected me to be a jerk. Thanks, (I think). Fitting the mold as a coach, writer, and person has never been a goal of mine. And so, every once in a while in these columns, I make it my habit to bask in the sunshine that glows outside the darkness of the dreary “box” that attempts to confine me. Perhaps I am too politically correct because my columns rarely rock the boat or address controversies. Why don’t you take a stand on the major issues of the day, you may rightfully ask. Quite simply, that’s not my calling. Those belong on the Op-Ed page. I’ve come to believe my calling on this page is to bring an occasional smile to the face, laugh to the belly, lump to the throat, or moisture to the eye. I can’t claim to do it successfully, but my intent is to inspire, encourage, and challenge those who dare to read my ramblings. And every once in a while, someone somewhere will say something I need to hear at that very moment to keep me going. Like the woman who said she reads my column second thing on Sunday, just after Billy Graham’s column- one I will gladly play second fiddle to. Or the elementary school boy who shouted, “Hey, JT’s Dad, I saw you in the paper the other day!” When I asked if he liked my column, he said, “Oh, I didn’t read what you wrote, I just checked out your picture.” So onward I go. Maybe I have 312 more columns in me- maybe I’m down to my last ten or twelve. Only God knows. But in the meantime, thank you for allowing me to spend a small portion of your Sunday with you. God bless.

I'm Retiring from using empty cliches

2009-10-14T21:55:00.002-04:00

Everybody seems to be saying it these days. Especially athletes and their coaches. It is simple yet profoundly confusing. Brett Favre of quarterback retirement and un-retirement fame, said it the first time he retired. Then he said it again when he un-retired. Then he said it again recently when his new un-retired team was about to square off against his old retired team. Incidentally and unrelated to this column, Favre’s retirements and un-retirements have moved him past Michael Jordan for most retirement switch-a-roos. But they both trail the late and highly esteemed sports columnist Ronald “Scoop” Kiser of the Cherryville Eagle, who retired and un-retired approximately twice a month over a twenty year period or so. (For the record, I’m glad he always came back- his legendary status is well deserved.) Anyway, Favre has company when it comes to uttering the phrase in question. Nicole Kidman said it when she and Tom Cruise split up. Britney Spears let if fly when photographers snapped shots of her driving with her infant child in her lap instead of the safety of a car seat. Brad Pitt spoke it when one of his movies flopped, and someone close to David Letterman called upon the phrase when it was recently revealed Letterman had been “misbehaving” with some of his staff workers at CBS. So what is this newest catch phrase? Plain and simple the newest favorite quote is: “It is what it is.” Simple. Unimaginative. Jibberish words that mean absolutely nothing. It’s the modern day equivalent of “No comment.” And people say it all the time. Precedent was set in the past when Plato of ancient Athens once said, “The city is what it is because our citizens are what they are.” Huh? And then Popeye came along spouting off all that “I yam what I yam” stuff. It’s been downhill ever since. One irate NFL coach told a group of reporters after a tough loss, “They were who we thought they were.” This is as close to “It is what it is” as you can get without actually saying it. Taking the whole thing a ludicrous step further, some coaches advise their players to “stay within themselves.” Other relatives of “It is what it is” include: “We do what we do”, “He is who he is”, “What you see is what you get”, and “Be yourself”- which is what humans advise other humans to do when they’re about to go for a job interview. Of course modern day politicians have chimed in. “It is what it is” is a shifty way to avoid a tough question. It basically says, “Make of it what you wish, print what you want to print, but don’t quote me because I didn’t say anything.” On a personal note, I’m making a commitment not to say “It is what it is.” I choose to aspire to higher communicative gestures. I will rise above petty, insignificant sentences comprised of dead words and despicable clichés. As I write this column, one of my offspring has entered the room and expressed concern that I share sensitive information about him in the paper without him first being aware or giving his approval. I look the child straight in the eye and utter the only words that come to mind- “It is what it is.”

Service at the Gas Pump

2009-10-07T22:54:00.002-04:00

Believe me when I tell you that, for the most part, I am intent on minding my own business. I don’t purposely seek out opportunities to interject my opinion, especially when it involves strangers. But on a particular day in the recent past, I spoke up. It all started innocently enough when I pulled into the service station to feed the starving gas tank of my Nissan truck. As I was pumping lifeblood into its body, my truck and I became privy to a rather loud conversation between a mother and her daughter at a neighboring island. “Guys can’t stand mouthy girls!” said the mom to her teenaged daughter, who I later discovered was seventeen. “What do you know, you’re too old to understand,” taunted the teen. The conversation was not contentious. It was light hearted and they were actually giggling at each other’s comments as the daughter pumped the gas. At one point, I think Mom realized it would have been impossible for me not to hear what was going on. So she turned to me and said, “You’re a man, tell her!” There are times in a person’s life where they wish they could just shrivel up into an invisible ball-shaped mass and slither away unnoticed. But not being one to shy away from interesting social interaction, I bit. I looked at the daughter and asked, “Well, first of all, young lady, how old are you?” When she informed me that she was seventeen, I looked at her mom and cried, “Aha! I have one of those at home, too. Isn’t it amazing how they become experts all of a sudden?” I had Mom at “Aha.” I turned toward the young lady and started my speech. “First of all, your mom is right. I am a man. Second, she’s right again. We don’t mind girls who talk a lot, but we get nervous around females who are mouthy and confrontational, if that’s what your mom is talking about. I overheard your mom say earlier that you were terrible at picking out guys. All I can tell you is to pick a guy because of his heart. Don’t be fooled by his looks, his smooth lines, or his car tires. Make sure he has a good heart.” Throughout my little sermon, I heard Mom popping off a couple “Amens” here and there. Emboldened by her support, I concluded by gently explaining to the young teen that she was lucky to have a mother who cared about her. I also told her that her mother was probably much wiser than she gave her credit for. The young girl didn’t seem to be irritated but I could tell she was ready to get out of Dodge. I wasn’t ready for them to pull off just yet because I was relatively certain Mom was going to hand me a twenty dollar bill and some change for my trouble. But monetary compensation evaded me. As they pulled away I noticed they were both smiling and laughing. I have no idea if they were laughing at each other, something on the radio, or that crazy Dr. Phil wannabe man in the truck at the gas pump. I really didn’t care which. As long as they’re laughing together and talking to each other, there’s hope. And that’s plenty of compensation for me.

Old Man Reclaims Title of Forever Young

2009-10-01T22:53:00.001-04:00

I’m no chicken. At least not as it pertains to thrill rides. I certainly pass on those twirling rides that could potentially incite an unpleasant regurgitation incident. But that avoidance is not motivated by a fear of the ride- it is predicated by my fear of vomiting. I visited Carowinds theme park recently in celebration of my youngest son’s 10th birthday. My wife and I took the birthday boy, one of his friends, and our middle son. Things have changed over the years. What was formerly known as Carowinds became Paramount Carowinds, but now is just plain old Carowinds again. But some things never change like Thunder Road and the Carolina Cyclone- two roller coasters my boys and I have successfully conquered on numerous occasions over the years. This year’s adventure began at a coaster called Afterburn, formerly known as Top Gun. After some cajoling, we convinced my son’s friend and my wife to ride. It would be my lovely wife’s first and last ride of the day. Not amused afterwards, she didn’t even glance at the photo they take of you during the ride when you’re about to flip over. So the He-Man Thrill Seekers carried on without her. We conquered the Southern Star, formerly known as Frenzoid, a pirate ship contraption that suspends you up in the air then flips you over while the coins in your pocket plummet to the earth. Due to my obsessive fear of public regurgitation, I skipped out on the Hurler, appropriately named due to its propensity to induce vomiting among riders born during or previous to the Kennedy administration. Ditto for the Kaleidoscope, formerly known as the Scrambler. We survived the Drop Tower, formerly known as the Drop Zone, despite my phobic distaste for heights exceeding 10 feet. But the ultimate highlight occurred on our last ride as night fell after a two hour rain delay. Soaked to the bone, we waited first in line at a ride called Vortex, a stand up roller coaster that flips, drops, and turns you in various sorts of gyrations that are likely illegal in most of the contiguous forty-eight states. Just as the rain delay was proclaimed ended, the four He-Men strapped ourselves into the front row of the Vortex. At that very moment, the heavens let loose again and a downpour greeted us smack dab in the face as our contraption climbed the hill toward our destiny. Note: The Vortex travels fifty miles per hour. The sensation of being tossed, turned, and flipped while rain pelts you in the face at high speed is indescribable but the closest analogy is that of pins sticking you in the face while bees sting you. It reminded me of that scene in the old Mad Max movie where the bad guys strapped prisoners upright on the front of their vehicles to deter enemy attacks during battles. Except we were getting pelted with rain bullets. While some may have considered the experience miserable, we later declared it the most thrilling ride any of us had ever survived. A 45-year-old dad and his fellow He-Men laughed so hard during the adventure that we all nearly drowned. And in doing so, Dad- formerly known as the “Old Man”, was elevated to the proud status of “Forever Young” in the eyes of his kids. Certainly a thrill.

Sharing Sweet Memories with a Child

2009-09-21T19:47:00.002-04:00

When I left you last week, my youngest son and I were in the midst of a conversation about the good ole’ days. You may remember that just after we flagged down the traveling ice cream man, the child made some wisecrack about my age. But he then begged me to tell him more stories from when I was a little boy a hundred years ago. So I agreed. The ice cream had me thinking a lot about the treats we were afforded during my formative years. Specifically, the treats inhabited primarily by sugar. (Very little sugar free stuff in my day.) They don’t have little family candy stores these days like our old neighborhood did. And our little sandlot gang invaded Randall’s Store often. It stood on a lot by itself between the Dora Mill and West Elementary School, neither of which exist today. Mrs. Randall was a sweet lady and a perfect match for a kid with a sweet tooth. If your parents had given you a quarter, you were excited. If they had been gracious enough to entrust you with a whole dollar, you had died and departed toward the heavenly realm. My friends and I made our candy decisions in Mrs. Randall’s store as meticulously as a bride picking out her wedding dress. My personal favorites were Mallo Cups, Mary Janes, BB Bats, and, forgive me please, candy cigarettes. A special treat was a stick of Bazooka bubble gum with a couple baseball cards included in the pack. Other kids preferred licorice (yuck!), Atomic fireballs, Pixy Stix, Wax Lips, Goo Goo Clusters, Almond Joys and Mounds bars. (Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t.) But in every case, you left Mrs. Randall’s store having received a small brown paper bag full of goodies and a heartwarming smile. Mrs. Randall’s store isn’t there anymore. I don’t know when it disappeared, but one day I glanced over on my way to visit my parent’s house and the lot was empty. No more Lik-M-Aid or black licorice. Modern kids are exposed to candies with obnoxious and unflattering sounding names like Skittles, Airheads, Dum Dums, Goobers, and Lemonheads. And few Mrs. Randalls. Don’t get me wrong, there are still candy stores with nice people. But Randall’s Store had a Mayberry feel to it that I think is tough to duplicate these days. As I traveled down memory lane that day, a nine-year-old JT could tell that my gaze was fixed on a distant time and place, never to be physically revisited. “It’s okay, Dad,” he said, “I love those Mallo Cups you told me about.” He truly does. I could hardly believe my eyes in a convenience store recently, but they’re still around. My son gets excited the same way I used to about the little point values on the piece of cardboard that come inside the plastic brown and yellow wrappings of a Mallo Cup. And on a recent trip to the convenience store, the kid’s little sugar treats and their drinks, which included a nostalgic Yoo-Hoo, were all carefully placed in a little brown bag by the smiling girl behind the counter. Like the Candy Man and Mrs. Randall, she mixes it with love and makes the world taste good. Alas, hope for a sweet future.

Business a little slow for the travelin' ice cream man

2009-09-10T20:47:00.002-04:00

“Do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro, can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow” and so on and so on. I recognized the tune right away even though the words were absent. My youngest son and I were minding our own business and pulling out of the grocery store parking lot when we heard him. A few moments later we were following him, desperately trying to get his attention. It was the ice cream man driving the ice cream truck. He only comes out during warm weather months, you know. And you have to live on a crowded street in at least a partial semblance of a neighborhood for him to visit you frequently. On top of that, you have to be at home when he happens by. And finally, you have to obtain access to some cash flow. We chased the ice cream man a few blocks and eventually followed him when he hung a left down a country road. With JT’s encouragement, I frantically waved my hand out of the truck window to get his attention. When the ice cream man pulled over to the right side of the road, JT and I let out a triumphant cheer. Armed with my wallet, we approached the right side of the ice cream man’s truck where we knew the sales window would be. We were greeted with a smile and a “What can I do for ya today?” Fortunately, the ice cream man’s prices were reasonable. JT picked out some sort of chocolate ice cream bar with crunchies- all resting on a wooden tongue depressor-looking stick. I chose not to partake due to a previous sugar binge earlier in the day. We asked the ice cream man how business was going. “It’s a little slow,” he admitted. We expressed our hope that business would pick up, thanked him for pulling over, and bade him farewell. Back in the truck a conversation ensued that involved speculation as to why the ice cream man’s sales were off the normal pace. I remarked that maybe it wasn’t hot enough and a heat wave might be good for business. Nine-year-old JT agreed that the weather might be partially to blame, but pointed out it was more likely due to “the tough economical times we’re living in now.” . . . From the mouths of babes. “In my day you could sit on the curb with a quarter and wait for the ice cream man,” I informed my son. “And sometimes when he left you would have a full belly and change leftover.” The child then made an offensive remark about how old I was but then requested that I tell him more stories from the old days. We had some time to kill before heading home. JT couldn’t show up holding a tongue depressor with a half eaten chocolate thing-a-ma-jiggy or his brothers would be driven insane with jealousy. And of course, I would be the villain. So we rode around for a bit while he enjoyed his treasure. And I shared with him a number of memories about the good ole’ days of my youth. And per his request, I intend to share some of those recollections with you, though it will have to wait until next week.

I'm Keeping My Facebook Account

2009-09-01T22:03:00.002-04:00

I told you all about Facebook in my column last week. In case you missed it, I provided all the warnings and dangers of engaging in this wildly popular online community. I acknowledged that despite the potential negatives, I was going to stick with Facebook. And I promised to tell you why- so here goes. Since joining Facebook, I have intentionally and accidentally connected with hundreds of people, many from my younger days in school, and others from recent ventures. Had I no Facebook account, I would have had no idea where they were and what was going on in their lives. Thanks to Facebook, I have seen numerous pictures of my former high school and college classmates and their children. What a pleasure to see how we have all matured and become responsible adults- for the most part. I even connected with my former speech teacher in college. She had told me way back then that I was destined to be a public speaker and encouraged me in countless ways. Now we are Facebook friends. And when I told her my team was coming to Boone to play a baseball game, Mrs. Mohler met me at the field with smiles and hugs. Remember me writing about Jessica? She’s the little girl I met at the children’s home in South Carolina when she was nine and who asked me to help her get adopted each time I visited her there. Thanks to Facebook, we have reconnected. She’s got a wonderful family and is headed off to college now and we talk via Facebook often. And Tripp. He was the catcher on the first high school team I ever coached back in 1988. Great player, excellent student, and an even better person. Had it not been for Facebook, I may have never known that he was aboard US Airways Flight 1549 when Captain Sullenberger safely landed it into the Hudson Bay back in January. Tripp and I have reconnected now and I am proud of the man he has become. I can also spy a little bit on some of my current players and GWU students that I chaperoned on a mission trip last fall. One of them called me a Facebook Stalker the other day. Partially accurate assessment. Accurate because I am now able to keep an electronic eye on my high school son and his friends. I can also stay in touch with my foreign missionary friends. I can see their pictures ten minutes after their photos are snapped. My wife, who initially raised an eyebrow when I joined “that Facebook thing,” now checks my site almost as much as I do- though I’ve yet to get her to join herself. I’ve discovered long lost relatives and reconnected with folks I had nearly forgotten. So why do I need to know what is going on with those who I have known in the past? Quite simply, because their lives matter to me. Of course there are predators and identity thieves patrolling Facebook. But there are also ministers, parents, and coaches who want to stay in touch with their former players. When folks are connected, they can support, encourage, and pray for each other. Herewith, I will keep my Facebook account active. So feel free to send me a friend request- at your own risk.

Proceed with caution when joining Facebook

2009-08-26T22:30:00.002-04:00

I’ve been on it for over a year now. At some point I knew I’d have to write a column about it, acknowledging its presence in my life. I assumed it wouldn’t be a proud moment, but it turns out I’m no longer ashamed to admit it. I’m on Facebook. Me and 34 million other people worldwide. It all started when I went on a mission trip with a youth group last summer. Our local group met and worked and bonded with youth from other churches. Upon returning home, my high school son informed me that several of the youth we met were asking for me on a thing called Facebook. “I’ll set up the account for you, Dad. It’s easy.” And so my journey began, despite some misgivings. I had heard all the horror stories. People who get on that Facebook stuff become addicted, they say. Predators hang out in Facebook chat rooms and have access to personal info. People talk dirty and send inappropriate stuff to each other in such venues. People who don’t have lives (as in “Get a life”) spend hours a day on Facebook because they’re insecure and need attention. Add to this list the possibility of identity theft and the fact that many consider the whole Facebook thing a serious waste of time. And some research suggests, though disputed, that students who have Facebook make lower grades in school. Which hasn’t been a problem for me since my degrees are all complete and up to date at this point. Even so, the more I’ve researched about Facebook, the more potential issues I have discovered. Some minor, some serious. And I didn’t write this column to recommend it to others and extol its virtues. Anyone considering signing up should check out all the facts. And MySpace is a whole other story. I’ll tell you straight up that I don’t have an account there. And it’s highly unlikely I ever will. Do the research, count the costs, and decide for yourself. Twitter. Quite simply, I don’t have time for it. And I don’t know much about it except that the NFL has banned its players from twittering on the sidelines during regular season games. What? Are you kidding me? A linebacker wants to Twitter from his cellphone beside the water cooler while the offense is chewing up the clock and giving him a breather? Apparently so. Back to Facebook. Of course it is abused by folks at times. And some inappropriate stuff rears its ugly head on there, I suspect. Does that mean the medium itself is bad? Some claim that by being involved in such a venture, those who participate are contributing to and, in effect, are condoning the abuses which occur and could potentially occur on Facebook. This column started out as one I wanted to have a little fun with, but as I did the research, I realized it would be improper to minimize the necessary caution that should be taken when jumping on the bandwagon of a seemingly innocent technological phenom. Thus I have provided quite a laundry list of reasons to never sign up for Facebook. But sign up I did. And I’m staying on. And I’ll need another column next week to tell you all the reasons why.

Stroupe vacation (mis)adventures

2009-08-22T00:13:00.001-04:00

I may not be on speaking terms with my family after our recent beach vacation. I can only hope they came to view our short stay at the ocean not just as a vacation, but an adventure. Or perhaps a misadventure. First I waited way too late to make reservations. I finally secured a little beach house for us to stay in less than forty-eight hours before we departed. Appropriately, it was called Little Beach House #1. I talked the realty people into giving us a great deal. I think they felt sorry for us. The house was close enough to the beach that we didn’t really need a golf cart. But I got one anyway since I had promised the youngest child we could rent one with the money we saved by getting a great deal. I named it “Little Golf Cart #1” in keeping with the spirit of the vacation/adventure. We left the family car in park and instead took LGC-1 everywhere we went, bein’s how they’re allowed on secondary roads at the beach. Minus an embarrassed teenager, I drove the family to an Early Bird special at a seafood restaurant up on the main strip at North Myrtle Beach. I had to off-road a few times and even ventured on the sidewalk for a few feet one time, but I got us there on back roads and parked on the front row directly in front of the entrance. We took LGC-1 to play putt-putt one day. This time I had to cross the busy highway to get to Hawaiian Rumble. You can cross the highway at a stoplight. As you can tell, I’m somewhat of an expert when it comes to golf cart rules at the beach. But apparently not expert enough. One night we left the two teenagers on the beach to hunt crabs while the rest of us ventured to grab some doughnuts a few miles away, an idea initiated by my lovely wife. “Let’s go on another adventure!” I remember her saying. So enthused and full of myself was I that I grabbed a Krispy Kreme paper hat on the way out of the store and stuck it on my head for the return trip. Just as my arm was extended to the left to indicate that I was turning to pick up my kids, a flashing blue light invaded the peaceful evening bliss. I quickly stuck my Krispy Kreme cap in the dash to appear mature and responsible. My officer friend informed me that golf carts weren’t allowed after dusk, which had occurred about an hour and a half previous. He than asked my youngest son if he should lock me up. When J.T. didn’t answer, I coached him to tell the nice officer to give Dad a break. Fortunately I remained ticket-free that night and was even allowed to keep all my doughnuts as well as the hat. But I received a well-deserved lecture from a sixteen-year-old when I recounted the events later that night. I don’t know if my family will trust me the next time I tell them we’re going on vacation. But with the possible exception of the oldest son, they’ll jump in when I crank up to go. As much as they hate to admit it, they love adventure as much as I do.

Prosperity Guilt

2009-08-17T18:20:00.002-04:00

I’m trying to think of a way to describe the feeling. Perhaps I have concocted a new phrase when I refer to it as “prosperity guilt.” It’s that emotion you feel when you return home from a mission trip to a foreign country and you open the refrigerator for the first time. I experienced prosperity guilt upon my return from a recent mission trip to the Dominican Republic. I’m reminded of the people I met there every time I open the fridge, drink water from the tap, take a warm shower, flush a toilet, adjust the air conditioner, flip the light switch, or eat a meal from a full plate. Many of my friends in the Dominican are not afforded these privileges. Our team stopped at an indoor/outdoor fast food restaurant of some sort on our bus trip from the capital to Vicente Noble. A gentleman who was not an employee there offered to clean our tables when we were finished but did not ask for money. As we departed, we noticed he was eating our scraps, carefully nibbling every chicken morsel from the bone before moving to the next plate. Folks in the Dominican Republic don’t seem to get upset when the power goes out, as it does several times a day. But they let out a huge cheer when the power comes back on. We were told by the full-time missionary there that instead of being irritated when the electricity is off, they are thankful when it’s on. All a matter of perspective. We bought ice cream one day for some small children who were hanging out by the church where we were working. One little girl dropped her cone straight into the drainage area of the half-paved street within seconds of receiving the prized gift. Without hesitation she scooped it up and kept on licking. We would have bought her another one but she wasn’t taking any chances. We had little problem getting the local kids to come to Bible school at the church. The challenge was getting them to leave. One day we had the bright idea to take snacks out the front door and hope they would follow. Not only did they follow, but they created a mob scene. Pushing, shoving, and even hitting occurred as they fought for the prize- a single cracker each. For the first time in my life, I truly understood the value of a cheese cracker that day. Late one night a boy on the street who looked to be about nine years old came up and asked me for money. My local friend said I should not give him anything because it would contribute to him being a beggar. I inquired of my friend where the boy’s parents might be and where he would stay that night. I was told that he- like many kids in the town- likely had no parents. Then he pointed to a bench in the local park and indicated that he would spend the night there if he was lucky. I don’t think God wants me or anybody else to experience prosperity guilt. But I do think He wants us to appreciate daily every gift He provides from above. And I don’t think He has too much sympathy for us when we complain. It’s all a matter of perspective.

Practical considerations rule in the Dominican Republic

2009-08-15T12:57:00.002-04:00

I’m back from the Dominican Republic. As you may remember, a group of twelve of us from my church journeyed to visit my friend/brother Alex and his church. And let me tell you, my little green notebook is full, so be prepared to read about our trip for a few weeks. I’ve chosen to revisit the lighter side of my trip experience with this week’s edition. And let me first say, especially to my friends in the Dominican who read my column, that I love the D.R. and nothing I poke fun at in this column is meant to be derogatory or disrespectful. The people are awesome and the country is fascinating. That being said, I learned a few things while I was there: A clothes hanger can serve as a makeshift plunger. This revelation evolved from necessity the first night we were there. There is very little water pressure in the Dominican. You can guess the rest. Two water bottles meant for drinking will cause a toilet to partially flush. Again, I’ll leave the majority of this to the imagination, but a scene eerily similar to the “inability to flush incident” from the movie Dumb and Dumber occurred after an outdoor toilet visit where there was no water pressure and a line of patrons outside at the door. The team member in question used the two full water bottles in his possession to coax a partial flush. (One guess as to which team member it was.) I was never as high during a church service as I was in the Dominican. The Holy Spirit was alive that night at our service, but what with the necessity of keeping the windows open due to the lack of air conditioning, we were exposed to everything around us- in addition to the various species of insects inside the church and the sound of the generator which provided us power after the town electricity failed. In the city where we were, the happenings outside included partying, loud music, motorcycles buzzing around, and yes, the intense odor of marijuana wafting through the sanctuary one night. (Fortunately the Spirit was stronger.) Obey a higher calling at all times. Believe it or not, the pastor’s cellphone rang while he was speaking at one of the church services. Believe it or not part two- he answered it. Believe it or not part three- it was for me. We walked outside and both talked to the voice on the other end for a few minutes while the ladies of the church sang a hymn to fill the void. Some things are funny in any language. Our host pastor kept calling my wife- and some of the other ladies in our group- jefa, which means “boss” in Spanish. However, it sounded a lot like “heifer” in English, which led to numerous humorous references to our wives apparently being, in actuality, cows. Blowing your horn is socially acceptable and expected. Nobody honks out of anger. They do it because there are hundreds of intersections and no stop lights. The few stop signs and road markings that exist are mere suggestions and are rarely noticed, much less obeyed. There you have it. Now you are ready to survive in the Dominican Republic. Just remember, for various reasons, to take along some bottled waters.

Hope for the next generation

2009-07-19T18:08:00.003-04:00

I will explore a common theme this week. The younger generation. You remember them- they are the ones we constantly bash- calling them lazy, irresponsible, spoiled, and unappreciative. And I always remind you that you don’t have to look too far to find young folks who fit those descriptions. But to brand the entire youthful generation as incompetent and the potential ruination of civilized society is an accentuation of the negative, says me. I take up for the kids because I’m still one of them at heart. And also because I enjoy hanging around them. Yes, they can be silly, immature, and socially unacceptable. Most of them think nothing of breaking wind not only in front of each other, but also in public settings where thirty years ago, one who committed such a faux pas would have wilted from embarrassment. It’s mostly the boys but in these trying times, even the girls have gotten in on the act. And it astounds me. The “pull my finger” trick notwithstanding, I’m still unwilling to jump on the “Bash the Kids” bandwagon. That’s because I’ve seen them in action. Recently I spent a week with over 200 “lazy, incompetent, irresponsible, dispassionate, and inconsiderate” kids who gave up a week of their summer vacations to serve on a mission trip. On that mission trip- which they paid to go on- they worked five days in the scorching Georgia sun repairing houses for those who couldn’t afford to help themselves. They scraped, painted, roofed, repaired, hammered, and nailed. Up by 6 a.m. each morning, they spent their days working and their nights praising and worshipping. And for the third straight year, I was impressed. And blessed. My squad was comprised of two adults and five youth. By the end of the week we were a family. Katie Beth, Autumn, Haylee, Cameron, Jeremy, Rev Kev, and I spent the last evening of the trip handing out kudos to each other. These kids worked and worked without complaint, despite temperatures in the 90s. Haylee told everybody she came in contact with that Jesus loved them. Katie Beth was first in line when we visited folks in the hospital. Cameron prayed some of the most beautiful prayers a teen could utter and Jeremy said the blessing for the group lunch despite his obvious discomfort with praying out loud. Autumn took our leftover bag lunches to the folks in the neighborhood where we were working and distributed the food to people who probably hadn’t had lunch in a while. Rev Kev and I watched in amazement. And I wish you could have seen how the kids treated Ms. Edna, the lady whose house we were working on. They insisted we buy her some hanging plants from Wal-Mart. The kids told her they loved her and offered her their time and their prayers. When Ms. Edna told them she loved them the last day, I knew she meant it. And when I told them the same thing a few hours later, they knew I meant it. This generation is not doomed. The future, should we choose to be patient with the younger generation, does hold promises of hope. God bless you, younger generation. Maybe you deserve much of the criticism people toss your direction. Just don’t expect to catch any of it from me.

Off to the Dominican

2009-07-19T17:58:00.005-04:00

(Alex and me in 2005)-------- By the time you read this, I’ll be on my way to the Dominican Republic, God willing. I’ll be there on a mission trip for a week, so expect a column in a few weeks about my experiences there. If it’s anything like my trip in 2005, it will take more than one column to describe it all. In case you’ve forgotten, I met up with a young man named Alex when I visited last time. He drove our team around in a truck. I usually sat up front with him due to my fear of falling off the back of trucks, which I did when I was 16 years old. Ouch. Anyway, Alex and I developed a brotherly relationship of sorts. We sang, we hummed, we laughed. He saved my rear end at a military checkpoint when I had forgotten my passport. The one thing Alex and I didn’t share was a conversation. They speak Spanish in the Dominican. I took French in high school. Yet Alex and I communicated. I can only tell you that this connection we experienced was a direct result of the Holy Spirit, which God is in charge of, not me. Alex dreamed of becoming a pastor. That dream has come true. Earlier this year I got an email from Alex (someone translated for me) asking for help. The little church he pastors is in need of Sunday school classes and they need financial help and workers to make it happen. Three Stroupes along with nine members of my church are on our way to help as best we can. My construction knowledge is limited, considering that I struggle even with Legos. But that’s not the main point. We will arrive with open hearts and willing hands and we’ll let the locals show us what to do. I have tried to learn some Spanish in the past few months. On those long bus rides during baseball season, I have cornered trainers, players, and assistant coaches- or anyone else who would listen to my pronunciations- and forced them to carry on conversations with me. With as much objectivity as I can manage, I will tell you that I stink at Spanish. First of all, my French keeps getting in the way. Add to that a Southern dialect and you can see why I am concerned, despite the fact we will have interpreters there. My number one goal is to carry on a conversation with Alex, which I will attempt to do in person. It didn’t go so well on the phone when we finally connected recently. We both ended up laughing as we realized our attempts to communicate were largely fruitless. But at least we tried. I’ve listened to the tapes, read the little picture books, and even watched the Spanish Network on local cable Channel 63 a few times. There’s a Jerry Springer-type show on there that I’ve grown attached to even though they talk too fast when they’re hollering at each other. Alex has asked that I speak in his church four different times throughout the week. That should be interesting. Maybe God will lend his Holy Spirit again to help with the translation. I’m counting on it. And so is mi hermano (my brother) Alex. Hasta la vista.

Celebrities Gone But Not Soon Forgotten

2009-07-06T22:18:00.001-04:00

The world bade several celebrities goodbye last week. Ed McMahon of “The Tonight Show” fame died. Two days later Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson left us. And three days afterwards Billy Mays of infomercial and OxyClean fame passed on. Of course I didn’t know any of these folks personally, but when someone achieves celebrity status, they sorta become part of your life- and you feel a certain kinship with them. Except for Mays, the aforementioned accompanied me through childhood, puberty, adolescence, and early adulthood. McMahon introduced me to “Johnny” on those nights when I snuck and stayed up too late. He was a loyal guy who played second fiddle without objection or resentment. I kinda liked that quality in him. And Farrah’s performances on “Charlie’s Angels” on Wednesday nights assured that the boys around our 7th grade lunch table had lively conversation every Thursday. Said Farrah on one occasion, “When the show was number three, I figured it was our acting. When it got to be number one, I decided it could only be because none of us wears a bra.” This was a topic of much debate at lunch. You wouldn’t dare show up at school on Thursday without having watched the Angels the night before. It was a social must. Thus I never missed an episode that year, including reruns. And Farrah’s famous bathing suit poster hung proudly above my bed, temporarily replacing Willie Stargell and Roberto Clemente of my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates. And then there was Michael. Despite the fact that he was five years older than me, we grew up together. I remember watching Michael Jackson and his brothers on a Saturday morning cartoon show where they sang and danced their way in and out of every conceivable cartoon situation. And one fine Saturday afternoon, my parents dropped me off at the old Lester Theatre in my hometown of Cherryville and I choked back tears as Michael developed a curiously heartwarming relationship with some sort of rodent (either a mouse or a rat) named Ben. As we grew up, MJ broke loose from his brothers and began to sing and dance more by himself. He showed up at our high school dances after football games singing “I Wanna Rock With You” and “Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough.” Michael went with me off to college singing “Pretty Young Thing” and “Beat It” and eventually the whole “Thriller” thing dominated our radios and music television stations. About the time I got married, MJ started acting a little strange. His music remained inspiring with songs such as “Man in the Mirror” and “Heal the World,” but people were starting to question his bizarreness, even calling him Wacko Jacko when they discovered his best friend was a monkey with whom he shared a toilet. Michael’s legal troubles and unusual physical appearance undermined his public image for the rest of his life. Despite arguably being a bit misguided, I think the guy meant well. I don’t know what all happened in those legal cases- he has to answer for that. But his music seemed to cry out for peace and understanding among all people. I will miss Ed, Billy, Farrah, and Michael. Each for different reasons. No doubt they

School's Out for the Summer

2009-07-06T22:11:00.001-04:00

Scan the radio long enough and you’ll hear it this time of year. A song written and sung by someone named Alice Cooper, who for the record, is a guy. I heard “School’s Out For the Summer” on the radio the other day and later saw Alice performing it on television. The song debuted in 1972 and I remember it well. Having successfully conquered second grade, it was time to cut loose. Don’t get me wrong. I liked school and didn’t complain about going. But there’s something about that last day. Ah, free at last. Every year of my youth it was the same story on that exhilarating first day of summer. Incidentally, every kid knows the first day of summer is not June 21. It’s the first weekday that there is no school. On that day- after sleeping late- my brother and I were transported to the local hangout in my hometown of Cherryville and told we would be picked up sometime in mid-August. (Only a slight exaggeration.) That hangout was called Club Carolina and it had everything. Baseball field, playground, putt-putt, shuffleboard, basketball, tetherball, ping-pong, horseshoes, snack machines, and a huge swimming pool with a high dive. There were very few adults around. Most of the lifeguards were teenagers and the majority of kids were dropped off by their parents. Couldn’t get away with that today, but things went remarkably smooth now that I think about it. The few adults in charge did an incredible job running and managing the place. The first day of summer vacation was the best. We exited the car, bade Mom farewell and sprinted to the main attraction. No, not the swimming pool with the high dive. The coveted object of our affection on that first day was the jukebox. And the day’s star was Alice Cooper. It would cost you a Snickers bar later in the day, but for a dime, you could press the magic buttons that allowed Alice to remind everyone present that there were “no more pencils, no more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks. School’s out forever!” Exaggerated and over the top, but sentimental nonetheless. And glorious. Alice himself claims that the most exciting three minutes in a child’s year are the three minutes before he goes to the tree on Christmas morning and the last three minutes of the last day of school. Euphoric. . . but temporal. Within a week or two, the lyrics of “School’s Out” became less and less prevalent on the jukebox as kids began saving their dimes for chocolate. By July 4, Alice and his song were obsolete. By the beginning of August, we realized Alice had lied to us. School was not out forever. It was about to crank up again. And though we would never admit it to our friends, we were actually relieved. Like the song, sleeping late and doing the same flips off the high dive over and over had become monotonous. And if you popped a dime in the jukebox and punched Alice’s number in early August, you were bombarded by the crowd and given an atomic wedgie. Lesson learned. Nothing lasts forever. Except for Alice Cooper’s song, which once every year, has its three minutes of distinction and then is placed back in the vault. Until next June.

Enjoying the Father Dance as long as I can

2009-06-28T20:17:00.001-04:00

Father’s Day. Lots of thoughts and emotions. I am a father of three. I am blessed to have a father that I am close with. We live nearby and we hang out often. It makes me appreciate my own boys. Not a day passes that I don’t say a prayer of thanks for being a father. One of my boys insists on hugging me all the time. (He just came into my room and hugged me while I was writing this column.) Another one likes to tag along when I go places and watches war movies with me. And the other shares most all his secrets with me and confides in me more than I could ever have expected. Recently I listened to a song on the radio that reminded me of how deep the bond is between father and child. “Cinderella” is a beautiful melody written and sung by Christian recording artist Steven Curtis Chapman to honor his relationship with his daughters. My heart was heavy as I listened and recalled Chapman’s recent pain. You may remember that Chapman experienced one of the deepest hurts a father could imagine when his young adopted daughter was killed in a tragic car accident in his driveway in May of 2008. It took awhile before he was able to perform the song again, but he sings it regularly at his concerts nowadays in honor of his daughter. Chapman and his family appeared on Larry King Live a few months after the accident and I was absolutely amazed at their faith. They have used Maria Sue’s death as an opportunity to witness for the God they still love and trust completely despite their intense pain. By sharing their faith that night, Steven Curtis Chapman and his family preached a thousand sermons in one interview. Steven reminded viewers several times to appreciate every day with their children. Hug them every chance you get. Dance with your little Cinderella all you can before the clock strikes midnight, while realizing we don’t have watches to know when midnight will arrive. I don’t have Cinderellas in my house. Mine are all boys. Instead of dresses we have dirty ball uniforms. Instead of crowns we have soiled caps. Instead of glittery shoes we wear huntin’ boots. Yet we dance. We dance when we toss ball out in the yard. We dance when we wrestle on the living room floor. We dance when we shoot baskets out on the driveway. We dance when go hunting together and huddle close in a tree-stand when it’s too cold to feel your fingers and toes. We dance when we sing songs off key while listening to the radio in my truck. We dance when we sneak out and enjoy livermush, eggs, and pancakes for breakfast at the local restaurant. Every day I am allowed to dance as a father is a gift I never take for granted. Hearing Steven Curtis Chapman’s “Cinderella” song reminded me of this even more. Despite its many challenges, fatherhood is a privilege, not a burden. A labor of love, not a chore. Ironically, at this very moment, my column writing has been interrupted yet again by two boys who have challenged me to a basketball game in our driveway. And so now I will head outside. . . to dance.

Dreams and Nerves Collide at the Old Ballpark

2009-06-11T18:53:00.003-04:00

Tis the season for ballgames. School ball playoffs overlapping summer league season openers. All three Stroupe boys playing summer baseball. Lots of field hopping. Add to that Church league softball where the only reason a 45-year-old dad plays is so he can spend time with his sixteen-year-old son. Though not the main point of this column, it is worth noting that my son and I had a goal at the beginning of the softball season. Simply put, we wanted to hit homeruns in the same game. Ken Griffey, Sr. and Ken Griffey, Jr. did it in a major league baseball game years ago, and we wanted to implant our names in the annals of church softball lore by accomplishing the same feat. Then one magical night, it happened- sorta. A mystical star alignment and a cooperative breeze produced a rare fence-clearing flyball from Old Man Dad early in a game. A few innings later, the teenager hit a deep gapper that looked to be a stand up triple. But the kid never slowed down at third and was declared safe at home after the execution of one of the most daring and acrobatic hook slides I have ever witnessed. Not exactly the way we planned it, but on the way home in the truck, we decided it counted. Anyway, please believe me when I say that living vicariously through these sons of mine I am not. Enjoying their rapidly passing youthful moments I am. I pull for them and root for their teams. But the wins and losses their teams experience neither make nor break my world. Admittedly, things change slightly when playoff time rolls around. Little League All-Stars. High school playoffs. That sorta thing. Parents’ stomachs churn. Fingernails are chewed to the nub. Umpires are burdened with extra scrutiny. Even so, perspective is important. I enjoy watching parents at games. Some are laid back and seldom react. Others are holding their collective breaths every pitch or play. I’m not being critical here nor am I accusing anybody of losing perspective and burdening their children with undue pressure. I am simply making note of the fact that some parents handle their children’s athletic exploits differently than others. Take, for instance, a mother I observed recently during a playoff game. Her folding chair was next to the fence well before the game began. She appeared supportive yet calm. Her occasional cheering seemed encouraging and positive. As the game progressed, so did her anxiety. Eventually I noticed that her chair was empty. A glance to the right answered my question as to her whereabouts. She had placed herself behind the dugout, out of view of the action. An informant filled her in after each nerve-wracking pitch. Despite her agony, I couldn’t help but smile. Her ticker couldn’t take what her eyes were processing. So she resorted to her standard operating procedure- hide and find out from someone else what happened. After the game, which ended in a loss for her side, I asked Mrs. Mom about the hiding routine. “I do it all the time. I can only take so much,” she explained. Despite hanging on every pitch, Mom was a good sport. I like that. Plenty of nerves but no bitterness. Massive anxiety but no criticism or finger pointing. A mom being a mom. Entertaining, but more importantly, refreshing.

Enjoying the View from the Roof

2009-06-03T22:05:00.002-04:00

Until recently, I didn’t care much for roofs. In fact, I’ve had a hard time over the years even pronouncing the word correctly. My pronunciation is sometimes the correct “say it like it’s spelled” version where the “oo” sounds the same as it does in the word “tooth.” But at other times it comes out sounding like “ruhf” which roughly rhymes with the word “hoof.” To me it makes sense, but recently this pronunciation has caused me to become the object of ridicule. Which doesn’t bother me much since ridicule often accompanies me anyway. While you practice saying the word “roof” several times, debating which version is correct, I will move on. Gutters are attached to roofs and gutters like to clog. It’s a green, slimy, oozy clog if left undisturbed for an entire Spring. So when I visited the roof of our house recently, the green oozy clog welcomed me. I disposed of it but my work wasn’t done. Being the child at heart that I am, I informed my wife that I intended to hide behind one of the dormers on our roof when our youngest child got off the bus. My purpose was to scare him, a plan with which my fun-loving wife did not disagree. Just as the youngest child approached the front porch, I let out a yell which nearly caused me to lose my balance. Not a good idea when you are precariously perched on a roof. The unphased child laughed and asked if he could join me. A few minutes later, as we sat on the apex of the roof, the youngest Stroupe began telling me about his day at school. We could see for miles and eventually, he went silent and we both stared into the distance. “Here comes your oldest brother,” I whispered. “Let’s scare him when he gets out of his truck.” Before we could say anything, the oldest popped the door of his truck open and shouted, “What are you nuts doing up there?” So much for scaring him. He joined us a minute or two later. When Mom arrived home with the middle son in tow, we decided to give it one last try. He was pointing at us before the car ever came to a stop. “I could see you half a mile away,” he laughed. I’m not as good at this “pulling pranks on my kids” stuff as I used to be. But here’s what I now know about roofs. Yes, they cause gutters to clog occasionally. Yes, you can see water towers and other neat stuff from up there. Yes, they are very uncomfortable and flaming hot on your rear end. And of course, the pronunciation of “roof” is debatable, depending upon which state you were raised in. However, a nine-year-old taught me something about roofs I didn’t know until the day we sat on top of one and explored various topics of conversation. Said the child at one point- “Daddy, a roof is a great place to come and sit and talk about school and stuff. Let’s me and you come back up here again sometime.” Sure thing buddy, it’s a date. I’ll clean the slime out of the gutters if you’ll promise to stay nine-years-old for another decade or so.

Haggling for a good cause

2009-05-27T22:10:00.001-04:00

I roused myself at 5:30 a.m. on a recent Saturday morning. A few minutes later, my wife, two of my boys and I were headed toward our church. Before the sun had even awaken, we were on our way to work at the church yard sale. Twelve of us from my church will venture to the Dominican Republic this summer for a week-long mission trip. The yard sale was a fund raiser to aid us in that effort. The whole thing sorta reminded me of the three times my wife and I sold our unwanted stuff at flea market booths back before we had children. A true flea market is rocking way before sunrise as the veteran dealers sniff out the newcomer amateurs and snatch up the valuable stuff before you can even set up. On one occasion, we watched in amazement as people picked through our collection while my truck was still moving. Had I kept it in reverse I would have run over two or three folks. Eventually we just gave up and got out and observed as the veterans held out dollar bills and unpacked our stuff for us. By 10 a.m. that morning, the feeding frenzy had subsided and we were bored stiff. A half-interested couple happened by and I offered them an unusual deal. “Back your truck up to my booth,” I said, “And we’ll give you everything that’s left- no charge.” The deal was sealed with a handshake. Our church yard sale was a little different but I gotta tell you, most of the good stuff was gone in the first thirty minutes. The cliché “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure” applied in our case. We sold a giant stuffed Spongebob Squarepants, the 80s version of Trivial Pursuit, and a rocker nobody would even look at until two of my fellow church members shined it up with Old English polish and replaced a screw in the left armrest. I once had an economics professor in college say that the flea market/yard sale venue was the purest form of a true market. People give what they are willing to give and not a cent more. Sellers accept the minimum they are willing to accept and not a cent less. (Until 10 a.m.- then the deals get better and better.) I learned some things last Saturday from a few of my salesmen church brethren. First, don’t put prices on everything. Then you know they’re interested if they ask. Sneaky but effective. Next, if they look at it for more than thirty seconds, they’re going to buy it so hold out for a decent price. True 90% of the time. And finally, if you put items on display outside, it will most certainly rain. But I also discovered the rules change a little when people find out you’re raising money for a mission trip. Somebody bought a canned drink from my son for $5 when the sign said 50 cents. Most people don’t haggle you as much and everybody walks away feeling good because all benefit in some way. Later that afternoon, an umpire caught a glimpse of me yawning during the game I was coaching. When I explained, he laughed a little and lamented the fact that he couldn’t have been there to haggle us for the stuffed Spongebob. (After 10 a.m.)

Blackberries harder to pick these days

2009-05-20T09:06:00.002-04:00

Times have changed since the days of my youth many moons ago. Sometimes I long for its simplicity. Yet I must admit, I also love the now. Take for instance, a thing as simple as a blackberry. I used to pick them behind my grandmother’s house. Within thirty minutes, my bucket was overflowing, 70% of my face was purple, and my belly ached. Ah, the good ole’ days. But to the current generation, a blackberry means something radically different. A vital lifeline of communication- linking them to email, the internet, driving directions, calculators, voicemail, baseball scores, and schedule calendars just to name a few. Oh, and yes, it allows you to text. In my day, the word text was a noun and was something you dreaded studying the night before a test. I am privileged enough to currently have in my possession a blackberry. Though I remain largely intimidated by this wallet-sized computer, I have quickly grown dependent upon its features. I appreciate its advantages compared to the technologically impotent days of my youth. As a kid, I stayed up every night during the summer to watch the Sports on Channel 3 at 11:22 p.m. to see if my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates had won or lost. Most of the time Jim Thacker would zip through the scores, often informing me that at last check the Pirates were tied 3-3 with the Cubs in the 4th inning. And when I checked the paper the next morning, it would say the score was too late to be reported. Absolute bummer. Nowadays the blackberry can tell me within seconds of the ball soaring into the upper deck that my lowly Pirates have surrendered yet another grand slam. Herein lies the problem. For many years I lived without cable television, microwave ovens, remote control channel switchers, and cellphones. Yet now it is a traumatic life or death experience when any of the above is misplaced or lost. I think it has to do with dependence. Even our current president has gotten into the act. He wanted to keep his blackberry when he became president. Secret Service and intelligence officials forbade him to do so, claiming that hackers could steal sensitive secret information from his blackberry. Things like- “Hey, Michelle, have the girls decided what breed of dog they want yet?” Top secret stuff. Anyway, he’s one of the most powerful people in the world. Couldn’t he just say something like- “Excuse me, guys, I won the election, not you. Last time I checked I was in charge. The blackberry stays.” Just in time to avert an international crisis, a compromise was reached and the President of the United States has been issued a highly secure blackberry for his viewing and texting pleasure. Problem solved. If only the economy could be fixed so easily. So for old times’ sake, one hot summer night in the near future, I will walk over to the television and turn it on (no remote) to the local news station and munch blackberries while watching the sports. And once they tell me the Pirates have lost yet again, I will send a letter (not a text or email) to the front office demanding they spend more money to buy better players. Then I will check my blackberry for messages and go to bed.

Mom Finally Receives Her Award

2009-05-13T21:46:00.001-04:00

Portions of this column appeared four years ago when I first wrote it for Mother’s Day. I thought it appropriate to write about my mom again. She’s worth it. I’ve told this to anybody who would listen since childhood. There existed when I was a young boy an annual contest on the local radio station whereby citizens were encouraged to compose eloquent pieces of non-fiction concerning the impact and sainthood of their mothers. The entries deemed as winners were read on the air throughout Mother’s Day weekend. One year I drew a crayon picture. I recall writing a poem another year. Each year, the same result: no airtime for Mom. I suppose when we’re young, our underdeveloped and juvenile minds conjure up ideas that are largely irrational. My unenlightened mind convinced me that somehow I had failed the woman I loved because my inability to win the contest made my mother appear inferior to the “on-air-mothers” in some way. Now that I am older and possess the power of the pen via this column, I thought it appropriate today to set the record straight in regards to the debate as to who might be crowned best mother ever. I’m pretty sure it’s my mom. I must start by saying I am not biased. I am the first to admit that Mom once fed the family Vienna sausages for supper and didn’t even scrape the jelly fat off them before plopping them down in the middle of the table. And I clearly recall a Thanksgiving meal one year when I was young where we gathered together and blessed Swanson’s chicken pot pie before enjoying it for lunch. But what our house lacked in proper nutrition or cuisine, it made up for it with love. Mom was mostly responsible for that. She always made me feel loved. She disciplined me occasionally but I can’t ever remember her criticizing me. She constantly told me how smart I was, how wonderful I was, how athletic I was, and how handsome I was. And for whatever ridiculous reason, I believed her. Mom tossed baseball with me in the yard when I was six. Mom took me to the newspaper office when I was nine when I told her I wanted to write a weekly column. Mom escorted the police to a bully’s house when he picked on me when I was ten. Mom gave me advice about girls when I became permanently confused about the opposite sex at twelve. Mom slipped me extra money when my allowance didn’t cover the cost of my exploits in high school. Mom was always waiting at the door when I came home on weekends from college. Mom opened her arms and welcomed my wife as a daughter when I got married. She’s always believed in me, always trusted me, always loved me unconditionally. Too many times human types wait until someone is gone and it’s too late to tell them all the things they wanted them to know. Not me. Mom is alive and well and reading this like you are. So here’s to you, Mom. I’m sorry my letters and poems weren’t good enough to win prizes and be read over the airwaves when I was a kid. I hope this column will suffice.

Reaching a new low with hand me downs

2009-05-04T17:09:00.002-04:00

I was the youngest member of my family growing up. The baby of the family. My only sibling was an older brother. You learn a lot being the youngest. And your life experience can be radically different compared to the other members of your family in many aspects. Take for instance, hand-me-downs. As the youngest, you get used to them. Admittedly, I actually got excited about them at times. Many a day I would enter the hallway of my junior high wearing a Grand Funk Railroad t-shirt- passed down to me long after anybody could ever remember doing the “Loco-Motion.” I wore my brother’s tennis shoes, faded blue jeans, and the T-shirts of his latest cast-off rock and roll band of that era. Dad passed along his Sunday suits and dress shoes he no longer needed. And I wore my brother and dad’s clothes proudly. To her credit, Mom would ask me if she could take me to buy some new stuff but most of the time I politely declined. Old habits die hard. Still today I can’t stand to see a good pair of pants, sneakers, or a shirt go to waste. My current favorite pair of winter shoes came from a yard sale and cost all of twenty-five cents. One quarter. And I’ve had them for over three years now and I wouldn’t trade them for a hundred quarters. (Twenty-five dollars.) I also have a pair of tennis shoes that I’ve owned for seven years now. Because they were old and worn, I took them with me to the Dominican Republic on my first mission trip there in 2005. And when I return to the Dominican in the summer of 2009, they will accompany me again. But the true purpose of this column is to admit to you, the reading public, that I have reached a new low. Recently I walked into my sixteen-year-old son’s bedroom and he asked, “Why are you wearing my shirt?” His assessment was accurate. I have resorted to wearing the hand-me-downs of my own son. To the outside world it may seem ludicrous, but to me it makes perfect “baby of the family” sense. The oldest son is growing so fast that he outgrows his stuff before it’s worn out. The middle son hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet so I fill in the gap by wearing the outgrown clothing until the youngest two Stroupes are physically mature enough to fill the void. But alas, this hand-me-down phenomenon has reached depths previously deemed unfathomable even by me. Recently I opened my underwear drawer and immediately noticed a strange pair of black boxer/briefs looking at me. We stared at each other for what seemed like several minutes, neither willing to blink. “What is this?” I asked a wife in the huskiest, roughest voice I could muster. Answered she, “It’s your son’s underwear. He says they don’t do it for him. I thought you might like them.” You kiddin’ me? A man’s gotta draw the line somewhere. But instead of drawing a line I made a bee-line for the bathroom and tried on the rebel pair of undies. And I’ll be honest with you, I like them. And now I wouldn’t trade them for 100 quarters. (Twenty-five dollars.)

Space underneath house crawling with unwanted pets

2009-04-26T22:16:00.002-04:00

I’ve had some interesting responses to some of my columns pertaining to animals over the years. Not all of them were warm and supportive. A few called me out for my insensitivity and lack of consideration for our family’s deceased pets in the past. Rest assured that losing a pet is a traumatic experience for any family and the Stroupes share sensitivities with those who believe we have been placed here to protect those innocent creatures in our midst. However, this column may get me in trouble again. By sharing the Stroupes’ most recent experiences in the crawl space of our home, I risk irritating some who feel that even the smallest of creatures have basic rights. To provide context, you must first understand that the master bedroom where my wife and I reside is located directly above the opening to the crawl space under our house. Recently my wife began to complain about some interesting odors she detected in our midst. Her nasal sensitivities are well advanced compared to mine so I hadn’t noticed anything unusual. When you live in a house with four other males, a wife should expect odiferous occurrences to be rather commonplace, especially since our bedroom connects to the main bathroom in our home. Slightly offended that our personal hygiene practices had come into question, I defended my three boys and myself by informing my wife that her nose was hypersensitive and often possessed an imagination of its own. I stuck with this theory until three days later, when a strange and unpleasant odor nearly thrust me from my bed one evening. “Okay, I’m ready to listen,” I told the wife. “What could it be?” After much investigation, we surmised that the unpleasantries originated from the crawl space directly beneath us. Sure enough, an empty box of rat poison smiled at us when we opened the crawl space entrance door. A wafting stench also greeted us. As we pulled out strips of insulation one by one, it became obvious that the poison had done its job entirely too efficiently. Decomposed remains and other rodent remnants too horrible to describe lined several strips of insulation. “At least now the honor of my personal hygiene has been redeemed,” I said to lighten the moment. I received no response, not even a glance in my direction. It was decided that next time we would use those insensitive disposable snap traps under the house. And we would check them often. And we would make a stronger effort to train the family how to close the crawl space door when accessing items underneath, all of which survived the onslaught relatively undisturbed. A day or so later, a strong wind carried the strips of insulation up, up, and away, offering them as a gift to the field behind us and the empty lot beside us. It would make for a better column if I told you that this solved our disposal problem, but in reality, the insulation was retrieved and properly disposed of. I received permission to write this column only after its completion. Fortunately I had already added the part where I tell you that everything smells lovely now- as far as crawl spaces are concerned- and our bedroom has returned to its springtime freshness. The bathroom remains an issue.

Dominican Republic Mission Trip

2009-04-26T21:46:00.007-04:00

These pictures came from a friend of mine who is the pastor of a small church in Vicente Noble, Dominican Republic. I met Alex Bido on my first mission trip to the Dominican in 2005. We became instant friends despite the language barrier and now we consider ourselves to be brothers. He has requested help in building Sunday school rooms for his little church. Members of my church, Pleasant Ridge Baptist Church in Boiling Springs, NC have answered the call and will travel there July 12-18 to minister to Alex and his local community as much as possible. Please pray for us. We are currently seeking financial assistance and prayer warriors. If you are interested in helping, contact me at rstroupe002@carolina.rr.com.

Column leads to contact with former teacher

2009-04-23T09:28:00.001-04:00

I didn’t intend for last week’s column to be a two-parter. But events since its debut have led me to broach the subject of my first grade teacher yet again. Let me start by saying that sometimes my propensity to remember minute details of the past embarrasses me. Often I remember aspects of seemingly insignificant events in massive detail- more than I would ever let on. I worry “ordinary” people will think I’m weird. But fear not if you’ve had encounters with me in the past. I forget a whole lot of stuff, too. Some claim that we remember what’s important to us and choose to forget things we deem irrelevant. I couldn’t disagree more. If that were the case, I would have long since forgotten tons of trivial junk that rolls around inside that dome of mine. However, I’ve recently come to view my memory for past details as a blessing, not a curse. Especially after last week when the memories of my first grade teacher flooded my consciousness while tapping out a column about hope. I had not intended to mention my teacher, but the memory was there and it just kinda took over. (I know kinda is not a word- my first grade teacher taught me better- but she also taught me to be creative.) So when my column appeared and I was contacted by several folks the following day, I was pleased to have produced it. Turns out my referring to my first grade teacher as “Mrs. A” didn’t fool those who know her. She is Mrs. Avery, and based on the details I provided, she was easily recognizable to several of her friends and family members. “You should call her,” one of my callers advised. “She would love to hear from you.” I was told Mrs. Avery is 91 years young now- (sorry if I’m out of line by revealing that)- and is as sharp and lively as ever. I felt like a schoolboy calling the homecoming queen to ask her for a date as my jittery fingers punched the buttons that would make Mrs. Avery’s phone ring. I hadn’t seen her or talked to her in thirty-nine years. “Of course I remember you,” she said with a smile. (I could tell she was smiling). We chatted for a while and she remembered as much about our time together in 1970 as I did, even more. Turns out my class was the last one she ever taught so we remain special to her. She went into the full-time farming business and still maintains a garden even now. “Gardens grow better when you plant them on Good Friday,” she informed me. Always the teacher. When it came time to hang up, I didn’t know exactly how to say goodbye. I thought it would be weird to tell her I loved her after thirty-nine years, so I paused and simply wished her a good evening. But with that elephant memory of mine, I remember this much: I loved her then. And for the seeds my teacher/gardener planted in me, I love her now. And though I choked on the phone, I’m not ashamed to say it now- I love you, Mrs. Avery. And I’ll be calling you back soon so you can hear it straight from the horse’s (or elephant’s) mouth.

Teacher's Hope Inspires Students

2009-04-13T19:06:00.004-04:00

I loved my first grade teacher. Even today I can recall lots about her. She smiled all the time and hugged us a lot. She was constantly encouraging us and I can’t remember “Mrs. A” ever showing any irritation, except for the time a girl named Tina wet herself and the wooden chair where she sat instead of going to the bathroom. Even today, I can picture her smile and recall what her hugs felt like. But I also remember the days at our lunch table when I witnessed Mrs. A prop her elbows on the table, place her face in her hands, and sob quietly for what seemed like an eternity. Normally the teacher assistant or a substitute would take over for the rest of the day and we were told Mrs. A had to go home because she wasn’t feeling well. It happened on several occasions, and though we were too young to understand, our fragile little hearts hurt on the inside because we could tell the teacher we loved was sad. Mrs. A had a legitimate reason to be emotional. Looking back, I’m amazed she held up as well as she did under the circumstances. A month or so before Mrs. A began having trouble making it through lunch, the principal had come into our class one morning and explained that our teacher would be taking some time off due to a tragedy in her life. But she promised Mrs. A would return as soon as possible. That tragedy was heartbreaking. Mrs. A lived on a farm and her family worked hard to maintain it. I don’t remember all the details, but one day something awful happened in the silo on the farm when her son had gotten trapped and was in danger for his life. Attempting to save his son, Mr. A immediately risked his own life by going down into the silo. Tragically, the accident claimed both their lives. When you are six years old, you mainly think about how events affect you. It’s hard at that age to understand the pain Mrs. A suffered. Our main concern was when we were going to get our beloved teacher back. When she returned, we assumed all was well and life would return to normal for all of us. But for some reason, lunchtime was the roughest part of the day for Mrs. A. When her head fell into her hands, we automatically lowered our voices to a whisper out of respect. Some of us just sat and stared at our leader, our small minds unable to comprehend the depth of her pain. But alas, there is hope in this story. Mrs. A was hurt, but she wasn’t defeated. Following her lunchtime departures, she would invariably return the next morning wearing her smiles and offering her hugs. She bounced around the room teaching us how to read, write, and go to the rest room instead of peeing in our wooden chairs. Where did that enthusiasm come from? How could she smile and hug in the midst of her heartbreak? The answer is HOPE. The same kind experienced at Easter, where hope triumphs over tragedy. God placed that hope within her and she shared it with us. And in doing so, her influence remains steadfast in my heart nearly forty years later.

Control Issue in my House

2009-04-10T00:25:00.002-04:00

I distinctly remember a pastor telling my fiancé and me long ago that there would be control issues in our marriage. He advised, “These issues will define how compatible you become with each other and will, in many ways, define your relationship and eventually your family’s functionality.” (Or something like that.) Anyway, that fiancé is now my wife and with three boys showing up along the way to complete our family unit, the pastor’s words certainly ring prophetic. There is a definite control issue in our home. A remote control issue. A remote control issue was nonexistent in my house growing up. If you wanted to change the channel, you got up and walked over to the TV and flipped the knobs. Not so much anymore. He (or she) who holds within his (or her) hand the remote control, temporarily ascends to the throne of power within our home. It’s not like we watch television all the time. We like to read, play on computers, write columns (okay, that’s just me), and play outside. But to deny the presence of the remote control issue would be naïve. Issues in the past usually involved the misplacement of the remote control units. They mainly prefer to hide under couch cushions. Sometimes they telepathically transport themselves to other rooms. Or they simply vanish from existence like those mobsters in witness protection programs who testify then move to small towns somewhere in the Midwest. We thought we fixed that problem a while back in our house. We purchased one of those remotes that will make a noise if you whistle. It turned out to be ineffective once we figured out it wouldn’t respond if it was underneath another object- like a couch cushion. And we lost the little whistle they included. Plus we were forced to endure the annoying sound it made every time there was any noise in our house higher than a middle C. It had to go. We replaced it with our most recent purchase, which has worked well. It is a giant universal remote roughly equal to a size 11 Nike shoe. (Size 12 in Adidas or Mizuno.) Too big to misplace. And the numbers are easy to read. Unfortunately we only have one and it stays in the living room. Back to the control issue. My wife, kids, and I rarely all agree on the same programs to watch. Thus the battle rages. Mom usually wins because we are gentlemen. But on the inside we are bitter and resentful. Recently my former fiancé (now wife of 22 years) was in bed watching a program she knew I couldn’t stomach. I patiently waited with eager anticipation as her eyes grew heavier. “You’re waiting for me to fall asleep so you can slip the controls out of my hands and change the channel,” she noted. I truly believe she forced herself to stay awake another 45 minutes just to spite me. A few nights later I took charge of my home. Unable to sleep, I got up from the bed around 2 a.m. and proceeded to the living room where the giant size 11 Nike remote beckoned me. Ah, total control at last. I surfed those wretched infomercials for two hours before drifting off to sleep. . . with a smile on my face.

Perfomer's Visit Produces Lasting Memories

2009-03-30T21:34:00.003-04:00

A college baseball coach in the spring season is busy enough. But I mixed in some extracurricular activity early last week. And as always, I am entirely too willing to share the details of my personal life. Here goes. You may remember a few years back when I penned a couple columns pertaining to my favorite Christian contemporary band, FFH. I had the good fortune of attending several of their concerts and eventually met them in person at one of their performances. Unfortunately for us fans, FFH decided two years ago to take some time off to pursue individual ministries and to enjoy more family time. Understandable. As you may also remember, I have this “Things To Do Before I Die” list. It’s on my computer and each time I accomplish one of my goals, I highlight it in bold. One of my “To Dos” is to introduce my favorite band, FFH, to a crowd before a concert. When the band decided to take some time off, my dream seemed improbable. But alas, I recently got back in touch with Michael Boggs, my favorite FFH band member, and he actually remembered meeting me before. One thing led to another. And last Sunday night, I was afforded the awesome privilege of introducing Michael Boggs of FFH to an audience at my church. Not only was his performance outstanding, but he also proved himself to be an awesome guy who took time to get to know everyone who waited after to talk to him. Not only that, he accompanied some of the younger generation members of my church to an impromptu meeting at the coffee shop for some hangout time later that night. In case you’re wondering, I am not one of the younger generation. But I was thoroughly impressed with his openness and unpresumptuousness. (I know that’s not a word but hopefully it helps you understand how humble Michael is.) The following Tuesday I introduced him again- this time to the student body at Gardner-Webb before his performance there. And for icing on the proverbial cake, I drove him to the airport afterwards. As our journey began, I became a teenager in the 1960s seeing the Beatles for the first time. Only difference was that my Beatle was sitting beside me in my dirty truck carrying on a conversation with me while we ate Chick-Fil-A from a shared bag. One of my favorite moments of the ride occurred when I pressed the “Play” button on my CD player and it cranked up one of my favorite FFH songs, written of course, by Michael himself. “Recognize that?” I asked. After an adjustment of the volume button, Michael explained to me in detail what had inspired him to write the song and how he had sat down on a park bench with his guitar and composed it in fifteen minutes. Experiencing surreality, (again, not a real word) I mentally pinched myself a few times as he spoke- while the very song he described played softly in the background. Just before saying our goodbyes at the airport, I informed Michael that I would be crossing off an item on my personal “To Do Before I Die” list. He grinned and gave me that “Okay, whatever you say” look. If only the Beatles had been so humble.