The Best Man I've Ever Known

JD was the most alive man I've ever known.  

His funeral was today.

He walked into my life on a public rec bench 28 years ago when our girls were at their first softball practice.  Saturday morning, 10 am.  I'm sitting on the first row watching intently because I'm not the coach.  I'm wanting to make sure the coaches and the girls were into it.

He sits down next to me and says, "Hey, what'cha doing?"

And from that point forward, I can't remember when he wasn't my best friend.  

John David Ferguson was a unique light on our earth.

Born and raised in Denver City, Texas.  

Raised some ruckus in Denver City as the son of the pastor of the local Baptist Church.  

He liked to go fast.  

He admittedly was a tad ADD.  

In college at Baylor, he couldn't sleep.  So, he went on rides with the University Police.  That's where he got his, "Howdy Deputy" greeting.  

JD was passionate about the Gospel, and things that roar.  He went thru phases that I'll always cherish.  Harley-Davidson motorcycles.  Corvettes.  Bass boats.  Airplanes.  Specifically, Cirrus airplanes.  

In his flying phase, he would tune into some FAA channel and listen to air traffic control around the world late at night after he had put the girls to bed and Carol was sound asleep.  

Fourteen months ago, he got news that still doesn't make sense.  Acute leukemia.  He was only supposed to last a week.  

JD fought it like nobody his doctor had ever seen.  Hundreds of hours of chemo.  Never complained and for the most part, didn't have a bad reaction.

A week ago, John David Ferguson died at home.  Peacefully.  In the loving company of his sweet wife Carol and Leslie, Emily and Molly.  

My kids grew up with the Ferguson's.  We are blessed from that.

My wife Lea was close with the Ferguson's before we married.  Lea and I lost a dear friend together.

If you knew JD, you were blessed.

If you didn't know JD, you were prayed for.

John David Ferguson was a Christian.  Christ was in him, and he projected Christ to all he met.  He was full of joy that only comes from knowing that your eternal life is secure.  

John David Ferguson was one of the funniest humans that ever lived.  He created stories and then told them about himself.  

There are hundreds to choose from.  Here's one of my favorites.

JD worked for a global tech firm.  He traveled to Japan and China frequently.  

On one return home, he landed in Vancouver on his way back to Dallas.  

JD had a headache.  A big time headache.  He saw a barber shop in the Vancouver airport.  He asked the barber if he would use his massage machine on his head.  

The barber said yes.  But, the barber had other ideas.  

The barber poured Witch Hazel all over JD's head and proceeded to rub his forehead with a steaming hot towel.  

The net result was JD's hair (meaning he was bald on top with hair still on the sides) was curled up like Bozo.  The rubbing of the barber had created an open sore in the middle of his forehead.  And, he smelled like a drunk bum from all the Witch Hazel.  

And, he still had to fly from Vancouver to Dallas.  The flight attendants were apparently a bit concerned and then in fits of laughter when they heard the story.

John David Ferguson, thank you for choosing me.  Thank you for allowing me into your life.  Thank you for being a man.  Thank you for loving your family so.  

No one on earth knows what Heaven is really like.  

I believe there is laughter there tonight.  I believe you are going fast on some kind of vehicle.  

I love you, John David Ferguson.  

I miss you so hard.  But, I know I'll see you again.  

Can't wait to hear the new stories.

Bulk Trash

Dallas got hit by a rain bomb on June 9.  Thousands and thousands of trees down and tons of branches sheared off by historic wind.

The result is miles and miles of bulk trash in the streets of Dallas.  It will take months to clean it all up.

What this place needs is the East Point Sanitation Department summer bulk-trash team from 1971.

East Point is a suburb of Atlanta.  Near the Atlanta Airport, and one of three towns that make up the Tri-Cities:  College Park, Hapeville and East Point.  Sometimes known as East Joint.

One of the greatest summer jobs was working on the trash trucks.  Trash is what you put out on the street.  Not to be confused with garbage which is what you used to put in those metal cans.

Mr. Wilson ran the sanitation department.  If he wasn't a Marine, he missed his calling.  He liked to hire kids from the local high schools to work the trash trucks during the summer. Make them toe the line, incent them with higher than minimum wage and work their asses off to keep them out of trouble.

In 1971 the minimum wage was $1.60 per hour.  This job paid $2.49 per hour.  As Mr. Wilson said, a grown man's wage.

One of my best buds at that time was Jim Bennett.  We wanted one of those trash truck jobs really bad so we could pay for gasoline and fatter tires for our cars.

My dad new Mr. Wilson.  They had graduated from Russell High together.  I begged him to make a call on our behalf.  He did, and we were granted an interview the next morning at the sanitation department barn on Bayard Street. 

Mr. Wilson was well known for his dislike of long hair and sloppy dress.  Part of his plan to save the youth of East Point was to keep them from looking like a beatnik.

Bennett and I weren't beatniks, but we did have hair down past our collar and we weren't in any hurry to cut it off.  So, before the interview, we slicked our hair with gobs of Vitalis.  We looked like the dad played by Dennis Leary in "The Sandlot".  

We showed up for the interview, Mr. Wilson applauded us for looking so sharp and clean and we were hired and told to show up for work the next morning.

For the first few days, we continued the Vitalis routine.  Towards the end of the first week, we had convinced some friends to clock in for us so that we didn't risk being caught by The Man.  On about the fifth day of work, our buddies came out of the barn with the most awful news.  Our time cards weren't in their slots and Mr. Wilson wanted to see Burks and Bennett in his office immediately.

"Men, I hired you two because I know you come from good families.  I am disappointed in you for tricking me with the hair during our interview.  So here's the deal.  You have one hour to go get a proper haircut and be back here or you're fired."

It was a short discussion between Bennett and me.  No, our girlfriends wouldn't love a crew cut.  But, $2.49 an hour (and avoiding the wrath of my Dad) were worth getting a nob job.  

We went to the nearest barber shop we could find.  Twenty-five cents and 10 minutes later, we were ready to roll.  Whitewalls around the ears.  Short, clean and ready for duty.  We went back to the barn and we were on the trucks for the afternoon. 

We spent that summer cruising the mean streets of EP in a truck like this.  No A/C.  Stick shift.  The crew typically rode in the bed of the truck until it got too full and we all sat on top of each other in the cab.  

And, we worked our asses off.  We picked up grass trimmings. tree limbs, furniture, appliances, corn stalks, mattresses and you name it.  With a pitch fork and 17 year old muscle and sweat.  Grass trimmings guaranteed rats.  Corn stalks guaranteed snakes.  How much fun could a kid have?

Dale Hendrickson was the driver of my truck.  He was pretty serious about the work.  Didn't let anyone else drive.  Was the safety officer (sort of).  Until two things happened.  We were full and had to go the dump.  And, the last day of work that summer.

Trips to the dump meant a steady flow of fresh air to dry the sweat.  Often a stop at a country store for gas and a Coke.  And if we were really lucky, we'd pass one of our fellow trucks and all hell would break loose.  You learned to save rotten tomatoes, peaches, corn or anything else you could heave.  And when we passed each other, it was Mad Max ahead of its time driving thru College Park on the way to Welcome All Road.  

The dump was a treasure.  It stunk like nothing you've ever experienced.  Especially on a hot, humid August afternoon after a little thunderstorm.  You knew there were dead things in that place.  You saw bits and pieces of once valuable things-cars, golf clubs, tools, animals and furniture.  Oh, the stories buried in that place.  

It was at the dump that I attempted one of the dumbest tricks ever.  A hold my beer kind of moment.  Dale was about to dump the truck. I told him I wanted to hang on the bed of the truck to see how high it went.  My plan was to grab the lip that protected the top of the truck cab and then swing my leg over the top for a great ride.  I miscalculated how fast the bed rose up.  I grabbed the edge of that lip and hung on for dear life as several tons of trash fell out below me.  I was trying to pull myself up when the truck did what a dump truck does.  It does a little forward/backward bump to make sure all the stuff is out of the bed.  When it did that, that lip smacked me in the forehead.  I saw stars.  Literally.  But, out of fear and pride, I held on to that truck bed until it was back down in place.  But for the grace of God, I'd be buried with corn stalks and rats and snakes off of Welcome All Road.

The last day of work, Dale informed us of his plan for the day.  First, find him a chair.  We found a nasty old orange thing with the springs sticking out.  He sat it in the bed of the truck and proclaimed it his throne for the day.  He proceeded to start drinking peach brandy in the morning and allowed the rest of us to drive the truck while he howled at the good folks in town.  

Thank you, Mr. Wilson, for the job and the lessons learned.  Thank you, East Point, for a great place to grow up.  Thank you, Dad, for making that phone call.  Thanks, Bennett, for being my partner in crime.

To the City of Dallas, if you need some help, we can round up the crew from '71.  I've got a big bag of rotting peaches ready for the reunion.

An Open Letter About Memorial Day

An Open Letter to Educators, Marketers, Publishers and Broadcasters:

About Memorial Day

“Happy 9/11!”

“It’s Our Biggest Hurricane Katrina Party Ever!”

“Hurry!  These Johnstown Flood Sale Prices

Are About to Wash Away!"

These fake headlines are cringe-worthy.  For many Americans,  communications around Memorial Day causes real cringing, pain and sadness.

Memorial Day is a unique national holiday in the United States. 

It is one of ten Federal holidays recognized by the U.S. government.  Therefore, it has become one of the three-day weekends that we enjoy in the United States.  Because it falls in late May, it is also the unofficial “beginning of summer”.

However, it is the only holiday that honors Americans who have died.  Specifically, Memorial Day honors and remembers military personnel who perished while serving in the United States Armed Forces. It is different than Veterans Day:  that holiday honors all who have served wearing the Cloth of our Nation.

For the friends, families, battle buddies and anyone in the circle of a fallen hero, Memorial Day is a tough day.  A rough weekend.  It brings back memories.  Yes, it brings honor for those who made the ultimate sacrifice.  But, the very public reminder makes the loss very present. 

Every day is a memorial day for anyone close to those who fell in uniform.   When Memorial Day gets trivialized and it’s meaning forgotten, it causes sadness and pain to those who work so hard to never forget.

Words like “Happy Memorial Day”, “Memorial Day Sale” and “Memorial Day Celebration” make it clear that the person or organization behind those words doesn’t get it.

According to an article published on May 21, 2019 on military.com:

Only 55% of Americans know what Memorial Day is about, and only about one in five plan to fly a flag at half-staff or attend a patriotic event on May 27, according to a Harris poll survey commissioned by the University of Phoenix.

The survey, conducted April 9-11 among 2,025 adults, showed that only 28% had attended a local ceremony or patriotic event on a previous Memorial Day. It also found that only 23% had flown a flag at half-staff, while 22% had left a flag or flowers at a gravesite or visited a military monument.

Only 55% could correctly describe Memorial Day as a day to honor the fallen from all the nation's wars, the Harris survey states, and 45% said they either always or often attended a commemoration activity.

About 27% of those surveyed thought Memorial Day honored all military veterans, 5% thought it honored those currently serving, and 3% thought the day marked the official beginning of summer, the survey states.

Older adults are more likely to observe Memorial Day and describe it correctly, the survey found. About 53% of those aged 55-64 commemorated Memorial Day, compared with 40% of those aged 18-34, according to the survey's findings.

The implications of this study are clear. Older Americans lived thru wars like WWII, Korea and Vietnam. We had the draft. Most of America was directly touched by those wars. Younger Americans have not been as connected to the military since the draft was eliminated in 1972. And, this study only surveyed adults. Americans under the age of 18 are no doubt even less aware of the meaning of Memorial Day.

We would like to ask those who manage and control mass communications and education in America for your help.

Here are three requests. Only you can make these happen:

1. Educate your staffs on the meaning of Memorial Day.

2. Educate all Americans on the meaning of Memorial Day.

3. Educate your clients on the meaning of Memorial Day and how to talk about it. Encourage them to change their language on around that weekend, i.e. “It’s Our Beginning of Summer Sale”, “Have a great weekend, but never forget what it’s all about”


As President Calvin Coolidge said:

“A nation that forgets its heroes will itself soon be forgotten.”



Thank you in advance for your help.



Sincerely,



Alan Burks

Gold Star Father of

2LT Peter Burks

KIA Baghdad, Iraq on 11/14/2007

Mama loved lighthouses

Mother's Day is this Sunday, and I'm missing mine,

Mama passed on December 30, 2002.  Sixteen years and four months ago.  I miss her everyday.  

Mom was a piece of work.  Depression kid.  Writer.  Reader.  Dreamer.  Pragmatist.  Antagonist.  Cynical.  Hardworking.  Immovable.  Family first.  Not afraid to make a statement.

Mama had this unique ability to sense things that hadn't happened yet.  Unforeseen dangers.  Products that should be created.  What people were about to do or say.  We called it her ESP.  

One quirky thing about her was her love of lighthouses.  I talked about it at her funeral.  She never lived near the shore.  She never was a swimmer or a ship captain.  But, mama loved lighthouses.

I think what she really loved was the idea of being in a totally safe place in the midst of a treacherous storm next to a fire with a cup of coffee and a good book.  

The more I've thought about her over the years, Babe was like a lighthouse.

She was first and foremost a place of safety.  If you watched her, listened to her, she would guide you to where you wanted to be.

She was a bit of antique technology that still works today.  A light in the storm telling lost folks where to steer.  

She stood there in the storm for smart people.  Idiots didn't heed.  Betty Jane harbored no fools.  

She was as dependable as the sun.  Always there.  Never moving.  Every day.  Every night.  She was just always there.  

She was giving.  Nothing about her existence was about her.  It was about others.

She had that light on top of her head.  If you never met Elizabeth Jane McLarin Burks, she had a mop of white hair that shown like a silver moon.  I could always find her.  

Happy Mother's Day, Mama.  I still see your light.  Stoke the fire, brew some more coffee and pick out a good book for me.  

A Valentine's Story

Mom died 16 years ago.

She wrote this note to my dad years ago.  It was taped to the inside of his medicine cabinet for him to see everyday.  It followed him from their home in Fayetteville, Georgia to his apartment in Alpharetta and  to his assisted living aparment in Johns Creek.

My dad is 92.  Took a tumble last month and busted his ass.  Literally.  Fractured his pelvis in five places.  My brother, sister and I with the help of medical angels got him from the hospital to a physical rehab facility and back home in three and half weeks.

We moved him to a new room closer to the nurses station so they can keep a closer eye on him.  

During the move, I found the note and made sure it moved with him.  It's taped to the back of his medicine cabinet in his new spot.

Love never dies.  It's the only thing I know of that is everlasting.

Happy Valentine's, Haskell and Betty.  

Oh Dear Pete,

Bubba,

Goodness, gracious do I miss you.

You were the rock.


My dad is not doing well.  Your PaPa.

Your Aunt Laurie and Uncle Mike are doing miracles for him.  Ali, Sadie and Zac are pitching in.  But, my Pops remembers best his oldest grandchild.  He has your picture in his room.  He grieves for you every day.


I'm going to Atlanta for as long as it takes to take care of him.  Just like you'd do.


I haven't cried for a while, but I did tonight.


I miss your sweet soul.


Pops

Speaking in tongues: Golf and the holidays

I'm not sure anyone today understands the biblical term, "speaking in tongues."  What I believe is that it occurred, and when it happened someone understood.

Not that Sim Sala Bim gibberish that Robert Tilton and Benny Hinn babble that no one understands (although it sounds to me like "show me the money".)

I apparently speak in tongues.  Meaning, I use words I don't know but other people clearly understand.  It happens when playing golf and during the holidays.

Let's say, I've hit a great drive and I have less than 100 yards to the pin.  I pull out a sand wedge and promptly skull it over the green and out of bounds.  I'll typically say then what I say when the GFI circuit powering all of the outdoor lights has blown for the 17th time during the inevitable December rains.  And, the GFI reset is in an outlet in the middle of the garage ceiling.  A garage full of wrapping paper, Amazon boxes to be recycled, a car and furniture that had to be moved for our "minimalist" decorations.  That's when I say something that sounds a lot like, "Cupid mastered."

Imagine it's a chilly, windy day.  I've hit another magnificent drive with the wind on a 525 yard par five.  I've but a four iron to the middle of the green.  Birdie opportunity, eagle possibility.  I shank the four iron two fairways over.  With hands still vibrating (remember, Ben Hogan said "90% of a golf club is the shaft"), I'll typically say then what I say when decorating the tree and I'm putting the angel on top whilst standing on a pitiful two-step ladder and I start leaning too far and I have to grab whatever seems stable to prevent a full face-plant.  That's when I say something like "My mother was a trucker."  (She wasn't, by the way.  She was secretary to the superintendent of Fulton County Schools and a highly respected woman with purple hair well known in East Point, Georgia.)

My most severe golf language issue occurs on the 18th green.  Usually playing my nemesis, Dr. James X. Noble (the only surgeon in the world to perform the rear-entry double lobotomy, a story that has landed us a table without a reservation at many a fine restaurant).  Our bet stands at +1/0/-1.  I have a three foot putt uphill.  He has a 17 foot double breaker over mounds the size of Cass Elliot.  He holes his center cup.  I yank mine 6 inches left and two feet past.  Then, I slap the next one that lips out.  I'll typically say then what I say when I get up to whizz at 4:32 am the day after Christmas and step on a Hot Wheels firetruck left strategically by one of the 97 grandchildren.  That's when I say something that sounds like "Sit on the BENCH".

We had dinner on New Year's Eve with two married couples that are dear old friends.  One of the guys is the kindest, gentlest, most Godly men I've ever met.  We started discussing things that we've learned about our spouses.  He said he never could have imagined the pain and agony of decorating for Christmas.  "The two worst days of the year are when we take them down from the attic and the day we put them up."

I'm pretty sure he has an outbreak of glossolalia on those days as well.