Timeless Sands...

Timeless Sands....

Small children sit upon the shore,

Carelessly sifting timeless sands;

Never thinking that through their hands

Fall wondrous grains of Nature's lore.

In each small granule is a tale

Of wealth and ruthlessness untold;

Of serpents, shipwrecks, Spanish gold...

Of boys and girls with spade and pail.

Throughout the ages deep at sea,

Secure away within the deep,

Are lodged her secrets safe to keep

Of mesmerizing history.

Of pirate ships on bounding main

That ravished oro laden holds;

And preyed amain on treasured golds

While plank and dirk dispatched the slain.

Of ocean liners sleek and lean

That sunk with thousands to their deaths;

Of warships gasping their last breaths,

Torpedoed by the submarine.

Of mighty storms that ravaged coasts;

Of currents deep and strong and true...

Of teeming life within its blue;

And derelicts that harbor ghosts.

Of fascinating serpents great

That ruled the early days at sea;

And brought a mystic mystery

To unsolved puzzles and of fate.

So children sit upon the shore,

Carelessly sifting timeless sands;

Never thinking that through their hands

Fall wondrous grains of Nature's lore.

For each small granule holds a tale

Of wealth and ruthlessness untold;

Of serpents, shipwrecks, Spanish gold...

Of boys and girls with spade and pail.

(C)2001 Clint Ellison

Bonnie & Clyde

On my frequent business trips from Dallas, headed east on I-20 through Lousisana, I would see a small marker on the interstate marking the exit to the Bonnie & Clyde ambush scene. On one such trip, accompanied by Cindy, we decided to stop and view the actual death site.

Near Gibsland, Lousisana, thirty miles or so east of Shreveport, we exited the superhighway and drove about six miles through the countryside. The ambush site is on a rural---almost deserted--- road. We stopped and took some pictures. We noticed how the marker was chipped from all the souvenir hunters.

About a year later, we were driving north into Oklahoma. At Stringtown, OK, I noticed a historic marker beside the road. We stopped to investigate, and were amazed to find that Clyde Barrow had killed a police officer at that site in 1932. The guy obviously got around.

To refresh your memory, Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow were the cause of a severe crime wave in the central U.S. between 1931 and 1934. At the time of their death, Bonnie was 23 years old and Clyde was 24. They were responsible for over 100 felonies and the murders of 9 police officers and several civilians.

Their exploits were sensationalized in the press, and the American public, reeling from the depression, ate it up.

The law enforcement community was enraged, and they laid a deadly trap for the two young killers. With Clyde at the wheel, the pair approached the ambush site. Lawmen were waiting, their weapons ready. The barrage of lead from rifles and shotguns made a sieve of the cruiser they drove.

Although they had previously expressed a desire to be buried together, this was not permitted. They are buried in Dallas, Texas, in separate cemeteries.

In 1967, the movie, "Bonnie & Clyde" was released starring Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway.

Miss Ellie, God's Little Angel

She was given to me as a present. I had gone through a short period in my life when I was "dogless"; and, having had various pooches as pets all my life, the gift was much appreciated.

I had never had a German Shepherd before. Looking at her for the first time, sitting on the kitchen floor and peering around at her new surroundings for the first time as a 6-week old, she was so very cute.

I decided to name her "Miss Ellie".

Through the years, she became my constant companion. Several times, I took her on the road with me as I worked my job in sales. Overnight, we would stay at dog-friendly inns such as Red Roof. On one such occasion, I was in Jacksonville, Florida when I went to the airport to pick up my boss, who had flown in to work with me for the day.

When he entered the car as the front seat passenger, with a full grown Miss Ellie sitting immediately behind him in the back seat, he said "You know, Clint...it's against company policy to travel with a pet on company business". Miss Ellie replied with a low "grrrrrrr...", not more than 8 inches behind his head. After a minute of silence, my boss asked, "Does your dog bite?" "Yes", I calmly replied. Now that the three of us understood each other, we had a nice, quiet day together. Of course, she never bit anyone and was the kindest of souls.

Miss Ellie was perhaps the smartest dog I've ever known, and I've known lots of them. In fact, she was smarter than most people. And she also had that wonderful, inexplicable ability to sense mood and meaning in human events.

When Miss Ellie was three years old, she went into heat, and every male dog in the neighborhood that wasn't chained down came a'callin'. Miss Ellie split time between my fenced back yard and inside the home itself. Long story short---Miss Ellie eloped, disappeared early one Sunday morning. A day that in Ellison family lore came to be known as "Black Sunday". I was frantic. Our family scoured the neighborhood all day. No dog.

Heartsick at the thought of losing my best friend and confidant, I went outside the house at midnight. And there she was!---coming up the driveway with three hot males in tow. I've never been so relieved and thankful in my life.

Of course, she became a proud momma, and we found good homes for her puppies.

As the years rolled, our bond deepened. And, when the day finally arrived that she was no longer a part of this world, I grieved.

But I know that I will see that angel again some day. And I can't wait.

Now, I know there are a lot of big-time preachers who know more than I do who say dogs don't go to heaven. But I will guarantee you dogs DO go to heaven. God loves dogs.

The Cornerstone Disciples

A remarkable occurrence takes place in Plano, Texas every Tuesday morning at 7:00. A group of six men, between the ages of 40 and 66, meet for fellowship, prayer and uplifting discussion. This group of dedicated Christians is known as the Cornerstone Disciples.

The Cornerstone Disciples share several things in common:

1. They are all Christians

2. They have all experienced the Walk to Emmaus, a wonderful three day event that highlights the tenets of the faith and renews the soul for the remainder of the spiritual journey

3. They all enjoy poking fun at each other

4. They all have individual egos that are firmly under control. Any ego that begins to swell is immediately attacked by the rest of the group and deflated without fanfare.

Recent studies by the group include books by Rev Robert J Morgan ("The Promise", "Red Sea Rules", and "Simple"), assorted books of the Bible, and reviews of various other Christian publications.

A collection of $1 per week is exacted from each member. This money is collected by Paul, our treasurer, who keeps this money in a sock at home. At least, that's what he says. Since we have never actually spent any of this money, it is widely suspected that Paul has created a Ponzi scheme with the funds. We do intend to spend the money, but we cannot agree on which good cause to support. Hence, the money just sits in Paul's sock (or so he says).

Chuck and Bill are the two guys in the group who know everything. Bill knows everything important, and Chuck knows everything else.

Terry and Michael are the youth of the Cornerstone Disciples. They provide the energy that the older fuddieduddies lack. Terry is known for his motto, "Keep Smiling!" None of us has yet figured out why we are supposed to be happy all the time. Michael continually provides insights to issues that the rest of the group would never have if not for his ability to think deeply.

Me? I used to call myself the "conscience" of the group, but it turned out that nobody wanted to hear my pronouncements. So now, I just sit back and quietly enjoy my coffee while the other five guys dance on the head of a pin. Ha.

Seriously, a finer bunch of guys and Christians I have never known. I'm so proud to call these guys friends.

Pictured, From top: Bill, Terry, Chuck, Paul, Michael

Coffee, Java, Joe, Mud, Mocha, Espresso, Cafe....

It all started when I was a little kid. My mom and dad drank coffee in the mornings before their day started. And, they often drank it in the evenings after dinner. They took their joe in pure black form, never polluting it with cream and sugar like most other folks. They drank their "mud", as dad called it, accompanied by several cigarettes. I guess the combination of caffeine and nicotine got 'em started in a big way.

But, I digress. Even at an early age I asked why I, too, could not partake of coffee along with them. My dad's standard answer to this query was always "It'll stunt your growth". He also utilized this same response when I asked about cigarettes and beer. But, I digress again.

So I muddied (pun intended) through life without coffee until I was sent packing to college. There, at dear old Furman University, I was initiated into manhood on my first trip to the dining hall for breakfast.

Full of trepidation and uncertainty over the prospects of my classes, I entered the dining hall early on my first day of studies. The beckoning appeal of brewing coffee was strong. I got my first mug of the stuff and sat down with my bacon and eggs. I washed the protein down with the java, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Over the years I have always taken my mud pure. Let others screw around with sugar and honey and whipped cream and God knows what all---I'm a man and I drink like one.

I went through about a 20 year period in my life when I chain-drank the stuff---all day long---until I came home from work at the end of the day wired higher than a high-tension line.

I finally settled into my current habit of about two mugs in the morning and that's it for the day.

In Germany a few years ago, I observed the European method of downing the stuff and I adopted it as my own...strong, baby, and black. I love the way they make their coffee---the strong smell and the strong flavor of the roasted bean. That's the way, uh huh uh huh I like it now.

Americans in general have lots to learn about coffee. Most coffee made in homes in this country has no flavor. It is merely black, hot water. I can't stand to look at it, much less drink it.

Went to Starbucks the other day --- haven't been there in a couple of years --- and I saw a long line of folks waiting to order. Most of them ordered some kind of a latte or other bastardized version of the good drink. I suppose this is considered an indulgence worth $4.00 a pop, but I call it a waste of perfectly good caffeine. Hells bells, why don't they just go down to Baskin Robbins and get what they really want---an ice cream sundae?

I notice there are lots and lots of different kinds of legitimate coffees to choose from. I counted about fifty of them at our local import market. When I go to The Corner Bakery for my morning mud, I always order the "Europa Blend". It is advertised as "Rich & Sophisticated". Yep, thass me!

Antiquarian Books & Love

The love of books and the love of poetry begin at an early age. My mom and dad always had lots of books around the house---everything from dictionaries to novels to poetry to the classics. There was never a shortage of things to read. In their spare time they would read, read, read.

Over the years I, too developed a love of reading. For me, my favorites are history/biography and poetry.

About 15 years ago, my love of books consumed me and I became a familiar figure around the country at antiquarian book fairs. These fairs are where collectors buy and sell old books of every kind. My passion was---and still is---old poetry books in good condition.

Some of my favorites in my collection are pictured here. The two sets pictured are a sixteen volume original author's set by the great American poet, James Whitcomb Riley and a five volume original set by my personal favorite poet, Madison Cawein of Kentucky.

Riley's set was originally owned by the mother of Eugene Field. The Cawein set is a rare collection of his best works.

The next picture shows first edition volumes by the black American dialect poet, Paul Laurence Dunbar with photograhic illustrations of early American black life; and the other volume is a Riley original edition with wonderful woodcut illustrations. Let's just say they don't make 'em like that any more.

Nevah Min', Miss Lucy

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Seen you down at chu'ch las' night,

Nevah min', Miss Lucy

What I mean? Oh, dat's all right,

Nevah min', Miss Lucy.

You was sma't ez sma't could be,

But you couldn't hide f'om me,

Ain't I got two eyes to see!

Nevah min', Miss Lucy.

Guess you thought you's awful keen;

Nevah min', Miss Lucy.

Evahthing you done, I seen;

Nevah min', Miss Lucy.

Seen him tek yo' ahm jes' so,

When he got outside de do'---

Oh, I know dat man's yo' beau!

Nevah min', Miss Lucy.

Say now, honey, wha'd he say?---

Nevah Min', Miss Lucy!

Keep yo' secrets---dat's yo' way---

Nevah min', Miss Lucy.

Won't tell me an' I'm yo pal---

I'm gwine tell his othah gal,---

Know huh, too, huh name is Sal;

Nevah min', Miss Lucy!

One of My Most Important Lessons...

I remember it like it was yesterday. And, even though the year was 1956, and I was 12 years old at the time, every detail is etched into my brain. That's how it is with important lessons in life---when you really learn them, they stay with you.

My dad decided that since I was now 12 and well on my way to "becoming a man", as he put it, it was time I began to take some responsibility around the house. How would I like to help a little with the yard work?

Yes, my heart leapt at the thought. I pictured myself pushing the lawn mower. That would certainly announce to the neighborhood that I had arrived as a man. "Well, no", he said---he thought I should start out with the hand clippers and learn how to trim the grass growing beside the fence and around the sides of the house. Once I showed him I could do that job, he would see to it that I got my chance with the mighty lawn mower.

This, of course, was not what I had in mind, but it was a beginning, so I agreed to take the unglamorous responsibility of trimming the unsightly grass by the fence and the house. My dad told me I was responsible for completing the chore each week before Sunday.

Well, it rankled me to know that this task was beneath my considerable abilities. I really should have been given the job of directing the all-important lawn mower. I began to procrastinate. On Thursday, the weather was good and it was a perfect time to do my trimming chore, but I thought it best to put it off until Friday.

On Friday, it was a great time to accomplish the one-hour job, but I reasoned that Saturday would also be a good day for it. Saturday was a glorious day, but my friends were calling me to play baseball with them. In short, I procrastinated my way through the time I was supposed to have the task finished.

On Sunday after church, my dad inquired if I had done the job I had agreed to do.

"No sir", I said.

"Why not?" he calmly asked.

"I guess I forgot", I lied, not wanting to admit that I had simply put it off indefinitely.

"Son", he said, "I want you to remember this all your life---don't ever agree to do something and then not do it". Then, in a stern voice, he continued, "Now get out there and do the work you were supposed to already have done."

"But dad", I responded, "I can't do it now---it's raining".

"I'm only going to tell you this once more," he replied. "Get out there and do your work."

So, there I was, on a rainy Sunday afternoon in Houston, soaking wet, sitting on soggy ground, clipping grass beside the fence, silently cursing my father's harshness and my mother's lack of intervention.

I finished the job in about an hour, and I came inside to change clothes. My mom said the neighbors had called and wanted to know if she was aware of the fact that Clinton was outside doing yard work in the rain. She said she told them, "Yes, we are aware of that. Clinton is being taught an important lesson in life."

It is a lesson that has stayed with me. I sure glad I had great parents. And, now that I'm much older, I can report that the lawn mower is much more appealing when you are 12 than when you are 62.