When We Were Boys

When the bluegill went on bed and they’d bite a bare Eagle Claw hook. When our blistered skin stung and sweat burned our eyes, we’d lay on our backs and dream of 4-wheel drive pickup trucks and blue-eyed girls- blackbirds sat on cattails and witnessed it all.

When the winds turned cold and a flannel shirt felt good. When maple trees blushed for attention and the days drew short, we’d curl up in a pup tent and tell ghost stories – a screech owl perched on an oak limb witnessed it all.

When snow fell, and a blue jean jacket was no longer enough. When the butterflies vanished, and the geese showed up, we’d sit back-to-back in a cedar thicket debating which shift would be best if we wanted to hunt, fish, and chase a girl now and then – a squirrel lay curled in a nest and witnessed it all.

When a piece of tin intended for a barn, that was never more than a daddy’s dream, was the best sled we could fashion, we’d bend it up at the corners, shoved off, and leave the rest in God’s hands – a possum in a briar patch at the bottom of the hill witnessed it all.

When we lay on the ground naming a litter of pups and then sat on a mare that didn’t mind as long as we scratched her back, my daddy took an out of focus picture, so we’d never forget. We didn’t have much, but we had each other, and man, we were good at being boys.

 

 

A Rush to Hack – Never Late

Until my fourteenth birthday, I only knew two men who golfed: Dick Powell and Grady Sanford. Prior to that, summer Sunday afternoons consisted of fishing. In the space between church meetings, I’d race through Jeff Sanford’s house to grab a Zebco reel and see Mr. Sanford sitting with his feet up intently listening as commentators whispered the difficulty of Nicklaus’ next shot – like watching paint dry, I thought to myself.

Yet, when I turned fourteen, I discovered golf for myself. I only hit one in four straight, but that’s all it took. I was hooked. The problem was that golf required time and money – both of which were scarce on Sunday afternoons in the Blackmon house.

I managed to scratch up enough couch change to pay for nine holes at Gravitt’s Golf Course, but there was still the problem of time. You see, my father applied religion militantly in our home. There was never a sickness bad enough to keep us away from church. In fact, my father knew of no sickness that a good preaching would not make better.

Full disclosure, our faithfulness to organized religion had significantly slipped until my grandfather passed away in 1980. After that, my father rededicated our commitment to church. We did not vote on it.

If we were less than ten minutes early, we were late. I sat quietly and listened during meetings for fear of his disapproving gaze that was so penetrating it could crack the polar ice caps. I even learned to nod my head in agreement with the preacher when I caught Daddy looking at me out the corner of his eye.

I strategically judged his mood and once I caught him having a particularly good day, I proposed Sunday golf. Doing his best to live a Christlike life, my father was a just man. He laid it out plainly. “You can go after church, but you will be back in time to get dressed and make it to evening church on time. Do not be late.”

I called my golfing buddies, Truett Wilbur Moss II, who we called T2, and Shane Moss, and shared the good news. Still, they were both younger than me, and I was only fourteen. Transportation was a problem, but Daddy was benevolent enough to solve that problem for us as well.

“You can drive the truck. Just take the backroads and be careful,” he counseled.

My father was black and white. The laws of Heaven were nonnegotiable, but man is flawed, so breaking his rules might get you in a little trouble, but they wouldn’t tally a sin.

T2, Shane, and I would sit on the edge of the pew idling as Winford Casey wound his Sunday sermon up. We prayed that he would not get caught up in the Spirit, decide to try and capitalize on a good sermon, and opt for an alter call. Or, call on the wrong man to close our meeting in prayer. The old man who would get up, move to the end of the pew, get down on one knee and begin a simple closing prayer that would end up blessing everything from starving children in Africa to old lady Butterworth’s gout. We would be crawling out of our skin by the time he finished.

In reality, the old man should have prayed for our safe travels to and from the golf course. We learned to prep our gear and after a few weeks, we could make it from Amen to tee time in a half hour. By the eighth hole, I was as nervous as a cat on a porch full of rocking chairs. It seemed that we were always running late, and I dared not tempt Carl Blackmon’s anger on a Sunday. Cards tallied, victor crowned, we’d race to that old 1971 Chevrolet, and I’d hit the Dews Pond Road squalling tires on every corner.

One day, we were running especially late. I hit the dirt and gravel, where Lovebridge becomes Langford Road, rounded a curve, and there was Randy McElrath coming the other direction. I could see the whites of his eyes, the fear in his face, as we passed one another. I dodged him on the left, locked up the breaks, and came to rest in a cloud of dust in the ditch. I heard something that sounded like, “Jimbo, have you lost your ever-loving mind,” as I inspected the truck for damage. Luckily, they put a little steel in trucks back then, so no damage done.

Back when hackers had nothing to do with a computer, we were just that – Hackers, but man did we have fun. Sometimes we were still sweaty for Baptist Training Union (BTU), maybe a bit ripe, but thanks to Carl, we were never late.

Kris

Kris Kristofferson said Janis Joplin dreamed pretty dreams. I think that’s beautiful. He also claimed that Jesus was a Capricorn. I don’t know about that, but I know that “Why Me” was sung in honky-tonks’ on Saturday nights and churches on Sunday mornings. That’s genius.

Lord help me Jesus, I’ve wasted it so
Help me Jesus I know what I am
Now that I know that I’ve need you so
Help me Jesus, my soul’s in your hand.

I don’t think Kris gets enough credit. Rhodes Scholar with a masters in English Literature from Oxford. Golden Gloves boxer, Airborne Ranger, and Army helicopter pilot for crying out loud.

KKHe’s legitimately the World’s Most Interesting Man, with a beautiful mind to boot – a genuine renaissance man.

How about composing “Bobby McGee” for Janis or “Sunday Morning Coming Down”” for Cash? Or, a stable of my childhood favorites. Anyone born by 1970 has heard…

Take the ribbon from your hair
Shake it loose and let it fall
Layin’ soft upon my skin
Like the shadows on the wall

“Help Me Make it Through the Night” – mega hit for Ms. Sammi Smith. Yes, written by Kris.

 

Dare I mention, “For the Good Times?”

Lay your head upon my pillow
Hold your warm and tender body
Close to mine

…was considered to raw for its time, yet, Ray Price won song and album of the year with it. Just a warm up. It was also recorded by Elvis, Dolly, Sinatra, Como, Martin, Atkins, eleven others, and Michael sang it to his mother on her birthday – yes Jackson. After that, and “Sunday Morning Coming Down,” Kris said, “I never had to work again.”

We have not even discussed him playing opposite Barbara Streisand in “A Star is Born,” much less

his epic role slaying vampires in the Blade movies. Kristofferson is 82. I’m a huge fan and hope that you are too.

Sitting in a tree just a looking for a deer
Mind began to

wander and then began to veer.
Not thinkin’ ‘bout a thing
Yet I begin to sing.

In the park I saw a daddy, with a laughing little girl who he was swingin’
And I stopped beside a Sunday School and listened to the song that they were singin’
Then I headed back for home and somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin’
And it echoed through the canyons like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.

MAGA – Kristofferson in 2020 for Worlds Most Intereting Man.

Thanks for the tip, & Happy Birthday.

My father was a professional reminiscer. He jumped at every opportunity to tell me about the good old days. With vivid clarity, he could recall the price of eggs, gas, and milk from 1945. Most of his stories revolved around the cotton mill, fishing, archery, and hunting. Many was the day that he told me about taping a match stick to the riser of his bow for a sight.

My archery journey has been all about experimenting with various methods of aiming and shooting. Yet, here I am at 50 years of age, and I’ve never taped a match to my riser. So, yesterday I went out back and did exactly that. The head of the match was much too large for precision aiming, so I broke off a toothpick, dipped the tip in white cresting paint, and taped it to my bow. Within minutes, I had a single sight pin that worked nicely from five to eighteen yards.

The forest was deadly still this morning – so quite you could have heard a squirrel snoring in its nest. As night gave way to dawn, I could see that a large gray blanket of fog covered the Red River, which was still swollen and muddy from last week’s storms. Soon, black turned to blue, then pink on the eastern horizonfullsizeoutput_1b2a.jpeg

With a hint of heat, the fog began to fade. The tops of red oaks with a few golden-brown leaves still desperately clinging on emerged from the gray. Then, suddenly, it was as though new life was breathed into the fog. It started to swell and roll. Like smoke in the wind it began climbing the bluff where I sat watching over 250 feet above.

In a matter of seconds, I was completely engulfed the cloud, a unique position from which to watch the visibly silent fog creep through the trees. Once up, the sun quickly burned the fog off, and the forest came alive. Birds flew branch to branch sounding an alarm for breakfast. A family of chipmunks began squabbling over a nut on a nearby log.

I saw the doe out of the corner of my eye. She was moving from the river up the ridge. Twenty meters back there were two more does. The lead walked with purpose up the trail adjacent to my stand. I prepared to draw when her head disappeared behind a large maple. A tug of the string, limbs bent, and the bow was cocked. I put the tip of the toothpick on the spot and the arrow was gone.

The doe bound up the ridge leaving my arrow on the ground, soaking wet with blood. The big doe only ran thirty yards and lay down, where she expired.

We lost Daddy this July. Today, is his birthday and he would have loved nothing more than to have spent it hunting. He would have been 87. Happy Birthday, Dad.fullsizeoutput_1b2b.jpeg

Little Frank

            Little Frank

The old man lived alone in the woods.

He ran the ridges and waded the streams,

killed squirrels and rabbits by day,

pints by night.

Well, pints, half-pints, quarts, and fifths –

likker was not sequestered to the hours of darkness.

He imbibed whenever there was something to drink.

 

He drank till the well ran dry,

then lay down,

sometimes fell,

often slept on the ground.

 

Mornings,

once the fog had lifted from his mind,

he was gentle and kind,

loved kids,

joked, and laughed,

gossiped and grinned.

 

But, when he got mad…

 

Small and sneaky he was,

cunning and shrewd,

meaner than a badger in a briar thicket.

Cut you,

club you,

hack you,

bushwhack you,

whatever it took.

 

Rolling papers and loose tobacco,

yellowed fingers,

hard as bricks—

always shaking, trembling

till the brown water calmed the seas,

and his nerves relaxed

as the liquid ran warm through his veins.

 

“Watch yourself, whistle britches,” he’d warn—

playing,

half joking,

but I never let my guard down,

never truly relaxed,

even when he was old and spent.

A mean man doesn’t need strength and speed.

He’s committed.

 

He sucked every drop of juice

life’s fruit had to offer,

bitter though the nectar often was.

He was a mortal contradiction—

a caged animal trying to free itself from bondage,

at other times a gentle nurturer,

teaching boys to be men.

 

Last time I saw him,

frail, pale, wheezing, and tired,

he was kissing whiskey,

and coughing in a rag.

His breathing was shallow,

his gravelly voice hollow and weak.

Too late for Little Frank.

 

As the fat lady prepared to sing,

neighbors wondered aloud,

the status of his soul.

“You think he’s saved?”

“Don’t know, but he drank that booze,

and the Devil kept score.”

 

He left nothing but memories and lessons,

images in a boy’s mind

that ought to be shared,

that warrant a few lines on a page.

Not even time has dulled the edges,

softened the texture of his life.

The old man lived alone in the woods,

and that’s where he departed this life.

 

 

 

 

 

A boy…

At 4:00 a.m. I was awake and wondering, had I adequately prepared for a lesson I’d be presenting later this morning? A roll, a turn. It was pointless. I was awake and left with only one option – review my lesson plan.

Quietly, I plugged the modem in and crept from the bedroom to my office. Digitally reconnected to the world, I pulled up the lesson and began to review, but I must admit, first I stole a peek at your Facebook headlines.

The first one I saw was from Matt Mobley. “4-3 Going to the championship.”

Another lady wrote, “Need a picture of what HUSTLE looks like?? These boys have hustled!! I am over the moon right now for them…”

I smiled at the thought of how excited we get for our children. Sure, we often wonder if they even realize how much we sacrifice for their fun – hopefully their growth and development as well – but we don’t truly know what they are gaining from the experiences we provide them until later in life.

Our responsibility is to simply do our best to provide opportunity. We are making an investment in them, in their future, in their potential. That journey is filled with excitement, satisfaction, pride, fear, and all too often heartache and pain, but we would not trade it for the world.

Nobody knows what a boy is worth,
We’ll have to wait and see.
But every man in a noble place,
A boy once used to be.

Leaders, Listen!

A friend once told me that his mentor counseled him, “As the boss, the greatest t

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hing you can do for your people is to be accessible and listen to them.”

I could not agree more; however, I would add that you must not listen only to hear, but to understand. In the U.S. Army, there are many age-old traditions. One of thos

e traditions is that on Thanksgiving Day the leaders dress up in their service uniforms and serve their soldiers and families Thanksgiving dinner.

It’s an unwritten rule that after everyone is served the leaders mill around the room and ask their soldiers how they are doing. As the boss, I told my subordinate leaders that their soldiers knew when they were asked, “How are you doing?” whether the lead
er truly cared to know the answer to the question or not. “They know before you ask them if you really care,” I told them.

Some leaders do what they are expected to do, but they are not authentic. Truly caring means listening not only to hear, but to understand. So many leaders today simply can’t set the rest of the world aside and give their employee a few precious seconds of their time.

Have you ever entered your boss’s office to ask a question or solicit guidance, but they kept glancing at their computer screen as they spoke to you – distracted?  Have you ever been speaking to your boss and grew irritated because every time their iPhone “dinged” they glanced at the screen?

Sadly, I’ve experience these scenarios all too many times.

If you truly care. If you truly want the best your employees have to offer. If you want them to know that you genuinely care about them. Listen to them!

If you don’t really listen – you’ll never UNDERSTAND.

Mining Potential

You may be familiar with the success storypenny of America’s first industrialist, Andrew Carnegie. Early in the 20th Century, when millionaires were sparse in America, forty-three of them worked for Mr. Carnegie. A reporter once asked, “How have you managed to surround yourself with such intelligent, successful, and prosperous people?”

Carnegie replied, “They weren’t millionaires when they began working for me.”

The natural follow-up questions was, “Then how did you develop them, and make them successful?”

To which he replied, “Men are developed the same way gold is mined. Several tons of dirt must be moved to get an ounce of gold. But you don’t go into the mine looking for dirt,” he added. “You go in looking for gold.”

In order to maximize the potential of our people we must accurately identify those with gold at their core, and start digging.

Jimmy Blackmon is a retired U.S. Army Colonel and the author of PALE HORSE: Hunting Terrorists and Commanding Heroes with the 101st Airborne Division. Jimmy is a professional speaker, leadership coach, and the Co-Owner of Out Front Leadership. www.outfrontleadershipllc.com www.jimmyfblackmon.com

Offering Keynotes and Classes on:

Leadership vs. Management

Innovation and Initiative

Time Management & Delegation

Casting & Manifesting a Vision

Shaping Culture

Setting a Climate for Success

Leaders! Being Positive is a Choice

As a young boy, I loved watching “On the Road,” with Charles Kuralt. As advertised, it always made me feel good, warm inside. They were merely brief segments during the CBS Evening News, yet they always left me uplifted. Sadly, the feel-good shows of yesteryear, the Andy Griffiths of TV Land, have all but faded. Today, we are bombarded with a steady flow of negativity. The 24-hour news cycle fuels a constant flow of everything bad that is happening in the world. News shows have become so polarized that they incite fear and hatred. The school yard bully still exists, but social media empowers even the weak and frail to lash out in a thousand hurtful ways, injuring victims in ways far more painful than a bloody nose. It has become acceptable to note every flaw, every fault, every poor choice anyone makes.

If we’re not careful, we’ll become experts at finding fault in everyone, yet blind to the good qualities they possess. Leaders (parents, coaches, teachers, managers) if we truly want to inspire our families, friends, co-workers, and employees to stretch a little farther, reach a little higher then we’d be wise to lift them up more frequently. Encourage those striving to be better, support those doing their very best, champion their strengths and boost their self-confidence. From the most talented people you know to those struggling just to get by, we all respond better to positive feedback.

Early in my military career, I traveled to Fort Irwin, California for a month-long training event. During that event, I served as the Adjutant (Chief of HR & Assistant to the Squadron Commander). My job had very little to do with operations, yet we were practicing wargames, so naturally, I volunteered to lead a planning team to help solve our tactical problems.

After the last big battle of our rotation, we attended an after action review – an event during which we discussed all the things we did well and what we needed to improve upon. At those events, we commonly found that we had far more weaknesses to improve upon, than strengths to sustain.

Following the after action review, I exited the building. Just as I walked out the door, I felt a hand grasp my arm. It was one of the cadre members, Captain Mike Lundy. He pulled me around to the back of the building. Assuming I’d somehow messed something up, I feared the worst, but to my surprise he told me, “Lieutenant, you did a great job during this exercise. You’re going to be a very good leader. Keep doing what you’re doing.” Then he patted me on the back, and I walked back around the building to join my unit – felling like a million dollars.

That captain took one minute to encourage me, to tell me I was doing a good job, and I’ve never forgotten it. He got a lot of mileage out of that quick bit of positive leader behavior. I, like most everyone else I’ve encountered in my life, respond well to encouragement. As leaders, we would be wise to go the extra mile to seek out opportunities to encourage others. Become an enthusiastic cheerleader for those we lead.

I’m not suggesting that we do not correct inappropriate behavior, nor am I saying we should overlook mistakes. Recently, in a men’s class at church, we read these words. I could recommend no better behavior for leaders.

“I come … with a plea that we stop seeking out the storms and enjoy more fully the sunlight. I’m suggesting that we accentuate the positive. I’m asking that we look a little deeper for the good, that we still our voices of insult and sarcasm, that we more generously compliment virtue and effort.

I am not asking that all criticism be silent. Growth comes with correction. Strength comes with repentance. Wise is the man or woman who, committing mistakes pointed out by others, changes his or her course. I am not suggesting that our conversation be all honey. Clever expression that is sincere and honest is a skill to be sought and cultivated. What I am suggesting and asking is that we turn from the negativism that so permeates our society and look for the remarkable good in the land and times in which we live, that we speak of one another’s virtues more than we speak of one another’s faults, that optimism replace pessimism. Let our faith replace our fears.”

It’s not hard to identify faults. Heck, I know I supply ample material for even the most pathetic critic to become a success. But, if we want to truly get the most – the very best – out of those we lead, we need to take a closer look at ourselves. We must honestly ask ourselves, am I a positive leader? Do I inspire those I seek to lead, or do I berate and criticize far too often? I suggest we begin in our homes. Practice finding the good in our own family members. Make positive reinforcement a habit, something we truly excel at. Before long, we’ll develop a keen eye for the good in those around us.

Being positive is choice. Make the decision today!

Livin’

A year ago today, Lisa and I made the decision to hang up our spurs and change our course in life. In many ways, it was a scary and difficult decision, yet we always felt comfort – an assurance that we were making the right decision. On that day, we looked forward into a world with dew still on it – a world full of possibility.

A year later, I still feel like a stumbling, newborn colt, trying desperately to get his legs settled beneath him, yet gazing out upon a world with no fences. I look backward in time and see rich blessings, precious memories of treasured friendships. I look forward with eager anticipation for the relationships I’ve yet to forge.

It would be easy to become entangled in the negativity of our time, to note every briar that nicks our skin, but that would only hold us back. These are exciting times, our opportunity to write the story that will be recorded in the annals of time, our story.

May we each look to the future with great optimism, full of hope, committed to encouraging one another along the path of life.