Dr. Cole, Richton, and Reminiscing

I wrote this article not long after the passing of a Richton icon, Dr. E.H. Cole. It was published in the Richton Dispatch. Hope you enjoy!


Doctor Cole, Richton, and Reminiscing

“Sit down James Wilbah. What seems to be the mattah?” Dr. Cole
had always referred to me by my full name and always with that
distinct Southern accent. It was the type of accent that turned “er” into
“ah”. It was the type of accent that made you think of small towns
upstate, close to Memphis, the Delta, the “old south” as opposed to
the “rural south”. It was the type of accent that many Hollywood
actors have attempted and butchered over the years. Think of Carroll
O’Connor in “In The Heat of the Night”, Nicolas Cage in “Con Air”…so
many others. In order to perfect that particular Southern accent, you
had to embody the old-school Southern gentleman that was Dr.
Edwin H. Cole.

We all have memories of Dr. Cole that would fill volumes of books.
Mine are probably not much different than others yet are special to
me. Although I do not remember that fateful afternoon in July of 1967,
I am told that Dr. Cole was the first person to ever lay eyes on me.
From the time he delivered me until the last time I saw him in his
office, he was “my doctor”. Sure, we all see those “other” doctors
from time to time; but for many of us, Dr. Cole was the go-to guy.
Growing up in Richton, you tended to favor either Dr. Moak or Dr.
Cole…sometimes both depending on how busy the clinic was.

A few months after Hurricane Katrina, I lay spiking a fever in the ER
of one of the hospitals in Hattiesburg. For most of the night, the
young doctor who attended me rushed in and out, checking charts
and ordering tests, asking questions, and giving me concerned looks.
Eventually I was released with a couple of prescriptions and the usual
instructions to see my family doctor if my problems persisted. There
was no diagnosis.

The next day, still feverish and now beginning to feel pain in my
stomach, I went to see Dr. Cole. After roughly fifteen minutes, he
confidently told me the problem and what he intended to do about it.
When I gave him a puzzled look and questioned his diagnosis, he
laughed and explained it again…I had never heard of anyone having
that particular condition…he had only seen it a time or two himself.
Needless to say, after a couple of days on a new prescription, the
problem was solved. There is something to be said for experience
and intuition.

Growing up as the son of a nurse, I could often be found at the
hospital. I remember visiting Mom while she was at work and seeing
Dr. Cole there; hearing stories or jokes, or overhearing him speaking
into his recorder and saying “End of dictation. Sign my name.” Years
ago, we ran cattle on some land adjacent to the Cole’s place. I have
sat on the tailgate of my Daddy’s pickup many times while he and Dr.
Cole discussed cattle, broken fences, and life in general.

There were some things about Dr. Cole that never seemed to
change. I only remember seeing him drive one of three vehicles…the
blue station-wagon from the hospital, the conversion van, or my
favorite: that old beat up VW bug. Everywhere you met him, he was
the same; and in today’s times that means something. It’s sad to note
that we are quickly losing that generation of men and women.

The world we live in is getting faster and faster and it seems we are
pushing ourselves harder than ever before. A slower time and more
laid-back existence for many of us has become only a memory. Are
you of the generation who can remember the night Cash Supply
burned? How the flames could be seen from one end of town to the
other? How about Grit Papers? Dr. Roddy? TWL? Pratt’s? Carley’s?
Do you remember when we left our doors unlocked? Our windows
open on summer nights? Do you remember when we had a Chevy
dealership in town?

The streets of Richton used to get so quiet at night that the
occasional eighteen-wheeler passing through was the only traffic at
all. The smell of fresh-cut grass wafting through the house by the pull
of an attic fan was comforting. Waking up to the sounds of log truck
engines and the chatter of men at daylight coming across the street
from “Rex’s” was the norm.

We walked barefoot to the pool in the summer. We all knew
“Johnson’s Trail” like the back of our hand. We knew if we were bad
in class, the news would reach our parents long before we were
finished at the office. The worst problem we faced at our school was
when it would be “rolled” during the week of Halloween.
The “good old days” as they are called are long-gone. Our children
look at us like we are from Mars when we reminisce and tell them
how things used to be. I am sure it is much the same way we once
looked at our own parents.

One by one, we are losing people in our community who were the
cornerstones of the way of life that we have come to love. I once
heard a man say he believed in giving flowers while the recipient was
still alive to enjoy them. To that end we should cherish and enjoy
those people who have helped to forge the community that we enjoy.
While we have no other choice but to keep up with the world today as
we know it, we can look back fondly on our heritage.

You won’t find a Jack Holifield at AutoZone…there is no Warren
Strickland at Rite Aid, and sadly no Dr. Moak or Dr. Cole at the big
hospitals. If there were a school around today with a “Miss Moser” at
the helm, I would enroll my kids immediately. I never knew the history
of our town until I read Miss Josie’s book. It’s been a very long time
since I had a greasy chili-laden burger from “Cooley’s”. Was not
“Steven’s” the closet thing to a Wal-Mart any of us had ever seen?

To those of you who have made a difference in our town and in our
lives, I say “Thank you and God bless you” and you most certainly
know who you are: so many teachers, business-people,
administrators and church leaders…so many common everyday
people...so many unforgettable characters.

Rest in peace Dr. Cole. We will miss you.

It seems only fitting to end this essay with this phrase: End of
dictation. Sign my name.

My Mother...My Inspiration

I finally got around to locating my external hard-drive, organzing it, and "rediscovering" a lot of the things I have written in the last few years. This piece was published by the Hattiesburg American online edition, a couple of Mother's Day's ago. I hope you enjoy...


A “short Coke”, a Bayer aspirin, and some TLC. Most of the time that was all that was needed to
recover from whatever “deadly illness” overtook me during my childhood. Perhaps a good old fashioned “whoopin” to motivate me to get out of bed and get ready for school…or to complete
that long overdue assignment. My Mom set a standard and held us to it; and while it made little
sense to me back then, I am thankful for it now.

When skin allergies took control of my hands and feet, she was there each night to apply
ointment and wrap my hands in bread sacks so I would not scratch in my sleep. She patiently
carried me to the doctor many times a week for my injections, and then brought me by the lunch
counter at the drugstore for a tuna sandwich while we waited for the noxious creams and potions
to be mixed. She argued with Dad about carrying me outside to the grass and into the shop
where the grease was. She was the one who had to listen to my cries when I would break out as
a result of exposure. In an almost ironic way, she was also the one who argued with my Dad
when I reached the age that those things no longer affected me. “Take him with fishing with
you,” she said; “Spend some time with him”. I can only imagine the confusion he had when the
once “hands off” sick kid was now being presented for him to train and mentor. Looking back, I
am sure it caused him to chuckle in his frustration.

She gave birth to six kids; she reared eight. She went back to college and earned a nursing
degree while keeping Dad’s business afloat as his default accountant and sounding board. We
were each a problem child in our own little way; headstrong and stubborn, apt to buck the
system at any given moment. She kept us in line without breaking that independent streak that
she knew would sustain us through the pitfalls of adulthood. She had to endure the disrespect
from the sons she was not maternally connected to. She had to endure the seemingly
endless in fighting and disharmony when Dad passed away. She had to face moving away from
her home of so many years as result.

In all this, my Mother hitched up her bootstraps and “put on her big girl pants” as she likes to
say. She moved back to her family’s land, built a home, and carried on as a fifty-something
widow. The years seemed to fly by as one-by-one new grandkids came on the scene, sons and
daughters-in-law came and went, and loved ones were called away. Before we knew it, we were
surprising her for her 70th birthday with a reception hall full of family and friends. She was
delighted and knowing her, a bit embarrassed by it all.

A child of the economically depressed South, my Mother only knew hard work and hard times
growing up. Divorced young and remarried, she seemed to have spent the bulk of her life rearing
children. I cannot remember a time when she was NOT there in my life; whether it was a special
occasion or just a time when she was ready to disown me for something I had done. Momma is
an icon to me and the standard by which I based my judgment of other women throughout my
life. Even after retiring from the local hospital, she continued to make the drive to Hattiesburg
each day to work at a nursing home. She would say she needed the money and while that may
have been mostly true, I knew she cared for her patients and truly enjoyed the profession she
had chosen. Strangely enough I see the same traits in my sisters.

When family strife affected me, she was there. When I changed jobs so many times, looking for
that one perfect fit, she was there. When I was called into a singing ministry and needed help
packing dozens of CDs and flyers into mailing envelopes, she was there. We have sat and drank
coffee late into the night as I sealed packages and she wrote addresses. She has always been
ready to help any of us, from modifying school uniforms for that perfect fit; to lessons in canning
and preserving, or her famous dumplings. Years I ago I remember we had to “rein her in” when
my sister had been offended by something someone said at a church she had attended. Mom
was ready to go into battle and defend her baby.

The worst day of my life undoubtedly was when I got the call that Mom had suffered a heart
attack. Though 180 miles offshore, I was able to be connected to her by phone in the CCU. I told
her I was on my way home and true to form, she admonished me to drive carefully and not get a
ticket. God was gracious to Mom and she came through her surgery with flying colors. A week
later, she began to suffer problems with her kidneys. As we walked back to the ICU waiting room that night, not knowing what the next few hours would bring, we all had a chance to reflect and pray. I remember asking God to give us the grace to accept His will, but if I had a say in matters I wanted Him to know that I was not ready to give up Momma. He listened.

Mom turns 75 on May 5 and she is still as feisty as ever. Even after two total knee-replacements
Momma shows no signs of letting up. Her days mostly consist of doing housework, crossword
puzzles, and chasing her four ½ year old great-granddaughter. Sarah phones her each morning
and then comes over for a visit. The two have a “special” relationship indeed. I watch her pull a
chair up to the stove and “help Nana cook”…and it reminds me of myself so many years ago.
Often we cajole her into a road trip to visit our siblings in Georgia and Tennessee. Sometimes she
travels with my family to whatever location we may be in concert. Mom is always ready to help
someone in need; serve at her church; or administer wisdom and advice.

We do not always agree…we sometimes argue. I suppose she would not expect it any other way.
My mother, Mary Helen Cooper, is one-of-a-kind and I thank God for her. She instilled in her
children a strict work-ethic, a strong backbone, and a determination that has never left us. That
will forever be part of her legacy.

To: dad@missingyou.hvn

Wow! What can I say? It seems like it’s been forever. I suppose I would come closer to saying everything I truly feel in this format rather than face to face. That was always tough for me when dealing with you. You had that overpowering presence about you. You seemed to take over a room when you walked into it, without even trying.

I never told you some of the things I am about to tell you when you were with us. The main reason is that I did not know these things at the time. They came into being as I got older, joined the workforce, got married, and became a parent. I hope you liked the flowers we brought out last week. Deb fixed them up, as she always does, and I dropped them off. I brought Mallorie and Micah with me. Mal was reading your headstone and she got this shocked look on her face. She looked up and pointed to the stone and then at me and said “That’s YOUR name!” I had to explain the whole “junior” concept to her at that point. You would have had a time with those grandkids…as if they aren’t spoiled enough. At last count there were over thirty. What a family tree and legacy. I hope someday those kids realize where they came from.

You were rough around the edges, a bit uncouth at times, always direct and honest, and often hid your enormous heart. I knew you would give the shirt right off your back to someone who needed it. I have even heard that is why you wore your shirt outside your overalls. The only thing you asked in return was fairness and respect. You had a hard time with people who did not understand that. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, as they say.

The family has undergone a lot of changes since you left. It seems that you were the only one strong enough to hold things together. I was ashamed of the way things fell apart and felt guilty about it for the longest time; but I had to realize I had my hands full with my own life. I hate we didn’t have more time together. At seventeen, it didn’t make sense and it didn’t seem fair. I was mad at you, mad at God, and just plain mad. I thought there was so much that I had to learn; but as I got older I saw that you had planted a lot of seeds that were beginning to grow.

I want to thank you for being the hard-nosed, old-fashioned and tough man you were. I didn’t understand it way back then, but I appreciate it now. Sure, you weren’t perfect and there were things I would have liked to have been different. Yet looking back I see you did the best job you could with the skills you had. I often hear one of your speeches or statements coming out of my mouth when I am talking to my girls. They roll their eyes at me like I did at you; occasionally they puff like I used to; and I respond just like you did by saying “Go ahead and puff like a puffin’ adder, but you better hear me!” There’s that apple again…

Yesterday while going through security at the airport I patted myself down to make sure I had not left anything in my pockets. I couldn’t help laughing when it dawned on me it was the same old routine you did daily when you were looking for your cigarettes, lighter, or anything else that was lost in the pockets of your bib overalls. I get told a lot that I look like you. I smile when I hear it because I can’t think of a better compliment that anyone could pay me.

Not long after you left, I dropped the Junior from my name. Some didn’t understand it, but I had always hated “Jimmy”. I figured the best tribute I could pay you would be to honor the name you gave me. I hope I can live up to it. I guess I can relate to George “Dubya” in that regard. You had your gig. I had mine. I hope we both did ok.

A lot of years went by before I found out that you had prayed the week you left. If I got my facts straight, two different times with two different men of God. That was you to a T…making sure things were square. I can look forward to seeing you again and that really encourages me. To see my Heavenly Father and to know my earthly one is there too…what an awesome experience that will be.

I often try to imagine what you would be like if you were still here. Your hair would have to still be dark because as I tell your daughter-in-law, “Cooper men don’t go gray”, ha ha. You and Momma living under the big oak tree, spending time with the grands and great-grands, and keeping the peace. It would be amazing to come to you for advice. It would be worth the price of admission to hear you two “tie up” again too. You would have been 86 next week. Wow.

About a year ago I found a website dedicated to dirt track racing in Mississippi. There was picture of you going around the track in the #77 car. I have had an old Polaroid of that same car for years and I never knew until that moment whose car it was. Through the webmaster I was put in touch with the track announcer from the Laurel track back in the fifties. His memory of you was as sharp as ever. He told me about the wreck that almost killed you; and about one that did kill another driver. He told me about your driving style and how nothing seemed to rattle you. He told me there wasn’t an engine around that you couldn’t listen to and fix. You would not believe how that made me feel.

I don’t know what’s going on lately…maybe life is catching up to me; maybe it’s the mortgage, the kids, the bills…I don’t know. It just feels like I have finally connected with you the way I always wanted to. It’s strange; I almost feel like I need to go through the grieving process again. This time not as an angry teenager, but as an adult who really understands. Lord knows I miss you…and so do a lot of others. I feel sorry for those folks who never really got to know you; I have heard some say they were scared of you. If they only knew who they were dealing with, they wouldn’t have felt that way.

I think you would be proud of the way we all turned out. We are battle-scarred for sure; but hopefully wiser for all the wear and tear. You were always a music fan and I like to think you would have enjoyed mine. They say a person’s outlook on God is often shaped by their view of their Dad. It took a long time to get the image of God smacking me when I messed up out of my head. It took years to finally see the loving person that you were inside, and I could have only seen that by knowing a loving God.

Happy (late) Father’s Day and Happy (early) Birthday. With the rate she’s going, this old earth can’t last much longer; so we’ll see you soon I am sure. I miss you every day and so does the rest of the gang…even the ones you never got to meet. I love you,

Jr.

...and all this from an arctic chicken...

When I was in sixth grade, Mrs. Hill assigned us a project. While I cannot remember the exact subject we were studying, I do remember it had something to do with animals from around the world. One of those animals was the ptarmigan.

You remember those days right? We had encyclopedias. We had tracing paper. If further research on any subject was needed, you had a library card. The smell and the quietness of the library downtown was almost surreal. On a summer day it was a temperature-controlled haven where you could lose yourself among the books while the afternoon passed. Fortunately at home, we had three different sets of encyclopedias to choose from. I found my ptarmigan in the "Little Golden Books" series of encyclopedias.

Ptarmigan. I never forgot that animal because the spelling intrigued me. I had to draw a picture of the ptarmigan. I had to write a paragraph about the ptarmigan. I tried to pronounce the word without spitting. As I recall, I made a passing grade on the project...but that almost did not happen.

Always the procrastinator, I kept putting off the project while my classmates worked enthusiastically on theirs. One day, near the deadline, as I lay napping on my sister's bed, I awoke to a familiar voice coming from the kitchen. As I tried to focus and and shake off the sleepiness, I recognized that voice mingling with my Mother's over the smell of freshly-brewed coffee. My heart almost stopped as I heard Mrs. Hill revealing to my Mother that she had seen no progress on my project and was not even sure if I had started on it. Mother listened intently; they continued to chat pleasantly, and I heard Mother thank her for coming over. I knew the next few minutes would not be nice.

Mom came into the room and in her own special way, made certain I was fully awake and alert. She let me know I had to finish that project at once. She would check it herself the next morning. How I accomplished that task was up to me...but I would NOT fail. I worked all afternoon and into the night, frantically putting together my booklet. I was proud of my work. Mom was pleased. Mrs. Hill smiled.

Looking back I am thankful to have had teachers like Mrs. Hill in my past. She didn't have to come over. She could have just given me what I deserved; a failing grade. The fact that she didn't speaks volumes about her wisdom and intuition; and was an amazing example of grace.

Grace, as we know, is something we are given that we do not deserve. We don't have to be taught how to lie, misbehave or disobey. It is born into us and is part of our fleshly nature. When confronted about breaking God's rules in the Garden of Eden, Adam wasted no time in placing the blame on Eve, and by proxy God Himself. God punished them, but He still continued to bless them. When asked about the whereabouts of his brother, Cain answered incredulously when he said he was not his brother's keeper. Although He was unhappy, God gave Cain another chance at life. King David was prepared to mete out harsh punishment against the rich man who took the poor man's only lamb; until he realized it was he himself at the center of Nathan's metaphor. God, ever merciful, forgave David and never ceased to prosper him.

God's Grace overwhelms me. As Christians it seems all too often our walk resembles a hilly highway. We have our mountaintop moments...we have our valley-low moments. Sometimes we are pushing and fighting to get through a trial; and sometimes we seem to be coasting along. The one constant in this ever changing battle is the Grace of God Almighty. When we are at our lowest, He reaches down to us. When we are at our highest, He still takes the time to minister to us. We could only speculate at the many times He has protected us from dangers that we had no idea were coming our way.

God takes time to let me know when I am falling behind on my "projects" for the Kingdom. He awakens me from my spiritual slumber. He encourages me to burn the midnight oil to make things right. When I cannot even look at myself in the mirror, I know He still loves me. When I cannot understand how I will make it through another day, I know He still has plans for me. He has blessed me with an amazing family. He has given me a life that I once only dreamed of. He enables me to overcome the challenges that come my way; even when I want to just give up.

It is amazing what can run through your mind in a short drive down a dusty gravel road. It is amazing the memories that can be triggered just by taking in the beauty around you. Seeing a small brown and white "arctic chicken" strutting around in the tundra took me back 30 years and caused me to reflect on a lifetime of learning. Thank You God for loving me and for never ceasing to take care of me, and amaze me with Your Grace.

What Does It Do For You?

Music. I've heard that it calms the savage beast. I don't know, I've never tried it and can't say that I would like to. I do suppose that should a polar bear cross my path someday that I will most definitely be singing "Amazing Grace". Whether he goes away or I go to Heaven shortly thereafter is still a mystery and I hope it remains so.

A couple weeks ago as I was flying north from Anchorage, over the rugged and majestic Alaskan wilderness, I was mindlessly scrolling through my mp3 player. In a strange way that probably only oilfield hands can relate to, on crew-change day we seem to find ourselves in some sort of far-away mentally melancholy place. We dream of home. We think of family. We plan the task ahead. We fantasize about the day we retire. Music has always taken me to another place in my ever-active mind. On my crew-change day it seems to amplify, if I may use that pun.

For every major event in my life, there is song that triggers the memories; and often the raw emotion from that time period. As I was shuffling tunes and listening, my mind was reeling like a movie theater. All the while I was gazing out the window of the 737 at some of the most beautiful country ever created.

Edwin McCain sings "I'll Be" and I think of my wife and girls. When he starts into "I Could Not Ask for More" I listen for while then switch to Sarah Evans' version...much better I think. I laugh as Billy Curington sells turnips on the back of his truck and I envy that "honk" the dobro player is getting from his instrument. Even with a factory-installed Quartermain cone, I cannot get the same sound from mine. Van Halen's "Jump" takes me immediately back to Richton High School, 1984...the name of the album the song came from. Good Lord what a mess we were...harmless by today's standards, but bad enough for back then. Tom Petty takes me "Free Fallin'" and for a little while I imagine a hot summer in California and what he was thinking he wrote the song.

About the time we flew over Mt. McKinley, or Denali, Enya's "Braveheart Theme" comes on. Although it is Celtic music, it seems to fit with the silent scenery I am lost in. I walk those mountains in peace and harmony and solve the problems of the world. I dream of a rustic cabin in some far away place. Far away from health care reform, lying politicians and ever-increasing electricity bills. "Maggie May" reminds me of how you can get away with mixing a Hammond Organ and Mandolin on the same song...Rod Stewart pulled it off so I had no fear of trying it on one of my albums.

The Bee Gee's take me back to when I was a kid, no matter what they are singing. I am standing in front of my sister Diane's record player and hoping she doesn't catch me messing with her records. When Melanie sings about a "Brand New Key" I am five again and cutting up with my sister Debbie. The song "Le Freak" puts me in junior high, having a hamburger at (Bertha) "Rae's Cafe" and hoping my Daddy doesn't find out I have that stuff on the juke box. When "Come on Eileen" or "Break my Stride" plays, my sister Denise and I are going out to the "Wade place" south of town to feed the cows. It is cold. We are in my old 72 step-side.

When the Beatles start "Paperback Writer" I remember hearing that song while half asleep, waking up and phoning SL-100 to ask what that song was. They were playing the "quarter-till classic" I think they called it. I was going to JCJC. The Doobie Brothers, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Merle Haggard, Brad Paisley, Brent Mason...they keep reminding my why I picked up a guitar for the first time. Jewel and Sara McLachlan, Colbie Callait...while I probably butchered the spelling of their names, I thoroughly enjoy their work. It makes me think...and it makes me want to write my own music in a different direction than the norm.

There are songs I won't mention because of the personal heartache that they conjure up. The kind of heartache that we think will kill us at the time, but is actually serving to mold us into the people we need to be. Everyone has a breakup song. Some of us have more than others.

There are other songs that remind me of people that I have loved and lost. When Naked Eyes "Always Something There to Remind Me" starts to play I remember JoAnne McCoy and her pretty blue eyes and disarming smile..."Der Kommisar" does that to me also; so does "She Blinded me With Science". That song was on the radio when I came home from her funeral. I cannot listen to it without being in ninth grade all over again. For some strange reason, as Johnny Cash sings "Sunday Morning Coming Down" I feel a tear roll down my cheek and I think of my Daddy. When Night Ranger comes on, there's Rodger Freeman in his old green Dodge pickup.

Bruce Hornsby starts into "That's Just the Way it Is" and I am in my second year at JCJC. Lynyrd Skynrd's "Mississippi Kid" takes me to my first hitch offshore. Guns-N-Roses has the first band I was ever a part of, jamming out at the RHS Auditorium to "Sweet Child o Mine". The Temptations sing "My Girl" and I remember when that was my ringer for my Momma on my cell phone. "Mustang Sally" puts me a couple of summers ago at the rig picnic, when I sat in with the band and brought my harps. When Michael Buble' starts singing "Home" I have to switch to another tune...it's far too early for that one.

If anyone is wondering why a Bible thumping gospel singer has such a playlist, don't. When you start thinking that way you are about to start judging. We are products of our past and for those of us who write music, our influences can be seen in what we produce. I love good music from Sam Cooke to Kenny Hinson; and it shows when I play, sing, and write. I guess I should say I don't get into gangster rap, punk or goth metal, lol...just never tickled my ears quite right.

Someday I will write about my gospel music playlist and tell you about the battles and victories that I am reminded of with each song. I would love to talk about how a song like "When He Spoke To Me" takes me to that landmark in my life when Jesus called me out of the mess I was in. I will give you all the details of how Mike Bowling singing "The Call" kept me from quitting soon after I started travelling and singing. A nice cup of coffee next to the computer, crack my knuckles, and I will start typing about how I used to listen to The Hinsons on The Gospel Singing Jubilee and dream of doing that someday.

I can hardly wait for that one...

As I sadly watched my battery power dwindle, wishing I had charged it the night before, I leaned against the window and smiled. I am blessed. I really am.