Church, good manners, cows, flamingoes, pigweed, prayer, politics, Texans and a Yankee … this week we are going to cover all bases.
At a funeral last month in Winston-Salem, a preacher confessed that he had struggled with the call to the ministry as a young man. He said he prayed, “Lord, don’t let me be boring.”
Based on that one funeral, God heard his prayer.
If preachers could do one thing to help their reputations, they would always end their sermons by noon. Even a minute later brings grumbles. A minute early brings praise. Nobody minds getting out early.
The old sanctuary at Macedonia Moravian when I was a boy had a large clock positioned so the minister could see it squarely from the pulpit. That clock helped me learn to tell time as a boy.
From the pew, I peeked over my shoulder to watch the advancement of the minute hand upward to noon. Fried chicken was waiting at home.

A family function over the weekend required me to be on my best behavior, always a struggle. I didn’t talk politics. Or religion. Both subjects lend themselves to misunderstandings. I refused to talk about the safest subject of all: The weather.
Grandson Whit, 5, gave me some advice on how to have act nice: “Don’t run away from your Mommy.”
I didn’t.

Elizabeth had a birthday a couple of months back, and four pink flamingoes mysteriously appeared in the yard. They have been nice additions to the landscape.
I’ve become increasingly fond of yard art in my advancing years. The flamingoes need company.
I have my eye on a four-foot concrete Holstein at a place near Rockingham that we pass on the way to the beach. Concrete cows don’t require milking or hay or a barn.
But how do I get that Holstein home?

My college son, now a senior, isn’t in the University of Oklahoma marching band this year, which has taken some of the fun out of watching the games on TV this fall. I often railed aloud at the TV set to show the …