That’s what Mrs. Jackson was when she was my teacher in the first and second grades. I’m not sure how much seasoning she had, but she looked older than my Mom and Dad. They were in their thirties, and I thought she must be somewhere between them and my grandparents.
My third-grade teacher was about my parents’ age. Most of my teachers through grade school and junior high were in that range between my parents and their folks, at least until 7th-grade gym. That was the coach’s first year out of college. After the first quarter, he and my Dad had a conversation.
He gave me the first “D” I ever received on a grade card. It was the only grade below a “B” that I saw on any report. When my father saw it, he asked me a lot of questions. Was I always in class and dressed out? Did I follow instructions, and did I try my best?
I told him that my grade was low because I could not do as many sit-ups, pull-ups, push-ups, or run as fast as my classmates. The next morning, when he dropped me off at school, he parked and went inside to talk to the coach. Next quarter, my grade was a “B” for both quarters.
In high school, I continued to have seasoned teachers, and in my freshman year, I thought that our Spanish teacher had a little too much seasoning for my classmate Vern and I. We were in the Spanish III class as freshmen. Our class was the first to have had Spanish since fifth grade.
The administration said that we had the equivalent of the first two high school classes. She disagreed and told us that if we did not pass the first test, she would make us take the first class even if we had to wait until the following year. The scores on our first test were tied with two seniors. We all had 98%.
After that, we had no more trouble with our instructor. Another first-time teacher came along in my sophomore year. She taught my favorite subject, chemistry, and she was a hot, newly graduated blond female. Not at all seasoned in the least. She was an enjoyable, fresh face for this teenage boy. I found out that you can be seasoned at some things without being very old. One of my classmates asked if we had to heat glass tubing before we bent it. I thought that was a dumb question because of my experience.
Experience is the best teacher is a saying I’ve heard forever. My business experience proved to me that my education was a very useful thing. When I began to work in an office, I did not rely on secretaries to type purchase orders or sales documents for me; I could do that myself.
In college, my typing and shorthand from high school enabled me to take notes fast and type them as well. I still have those notes in my files for reference in my writing when I need them.
When I had the opportunity to become a sales service specialist, it was necessary to use algebraic equations to determine drive speeds, ratios, belt and chain lengths, as well as numerous other things like torque and horsepower required for machinery. When someone says they never use those skills, they probably haven’t thought about all the ways mathematics, reading, and writing have to be used in our technological world.
“I was doing eighty on the highway because the Vice Principal said my second grader was caught “distributing contraband” in the cafeteria. I thought he had drugs. I was wrong. It was pepperoni.
I walked into the administrative office still wearing my work boots, drywall dust on my jeans. The secretary looked at me like I was going to track mud on her carpet. I didn’t care. I just wanted to see Leo.
I found him sitting on the “Cool Down Chair” in the corner of Vice Principal Miller’s office. He didn’t look scared. He didn’t look guilty. He looked confused. His hands were folded in his lap, and there was a smudge of tomato sauce on his chin.
“Mr. Russo, thank you for coming so quickly,” Mrs. Miller said. She was a nice enough woman, usually, but today she had the posture of a steel beam. “We have a zero-tolerance policy regarding the exchange of food items. It’s a liability issue. Allergies. Sanitary concerns. We simply cannot have students passing food around like… like it’s a free-for-all.”
She slid a discipline across the desk. Incident: Unauthorized distribution of lunch materials. Defiance of cafeteria protocol.
“He gave away his lunch?” I asked, looking at Leo. “That’s why I’m missing a half-day of pay? Because he gave away a slice of pizza?”
“It’s not just the pizza, Mr. Russo. It’s the defiance,” she sighed, adjusting her glasses. “The lunch monitor instructed Leo to keep his food to himself. He refused. He insisted on giving half to a classmate, Samuel. When told to stop, Leo argued with the monitor.”
I turned to my son. “Leo, buddy. Look at me. Why did you do that? You know you’re supposed to eat your own lunch.”
Leo looked up, his big brown eyes filled with frustration that seemed too heavy for a seven-year-old.
“Sam didn’t have a tray, Dad,” Leo said. His voice was small but steady.
“What do you mean?”
“It was Pizza Friday,” Leo explained, as if that explained everything. In elementary school, it basically did. “Sam got in line, but when he got to the register, the lady took his tray away. She threw the pizza in the trash bin behind her and gave him the cold cheese sandwich in the plastic bag. She said his account was ‘in the red.'”
I felt a tightening in my chest. I knew that term. I knew the ‘Cheese Sandwich of Shame.’ It happens when parents forget to load the lunch account or when money is tight.
“Sam started crying,” Leo continued. “He didn’t want the cold sandwich. He was hungry. So, I broke my pizza in half. I gave him the big piece.”
“And then?” I asked.
“Then the monitor came over and took it away from Sam. She threw that piece away, too. She said I was breaking the safety rules.” Leo pointed a small finger at the wall behind Mrs. Miller’s desk. “She said rules are rules.”
I looked where he was pointing.
Directly behind the Vice Principal’s head was a massive, laminated poster, decorated with bright primary colors and cartoon stars. It was the school’s motto for the year.
KINDNESS MATTERS.
Below it, in smaller print: In a world where you can be anything, be kind.
Leo looked at me, then at Mrs. Miller. “Dad, I’m confused. The poster is big. The rule book is small. I thought the big poster was the boss.”
The room went silent. The air conditioner hummed. Mrs. Miller opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked at the liability forms on her desk, then she turned around and looked at the poster she walked past every single morning.
The monitor said I was being bad,” Leo whispered. “But if I ate my pizza while Sam cried… wouldn’t that make me bad?”
Mrs. Miller took off her glasses. The corporate stiffness drained out of her shoulders. She was suddenly just a person in a room with a father and a son who had asked a question she couldn’t answer with a handbook.
“It’s a policy, Mr. Russo,” she said, her voice softer now, almost apologetic. “We have to protect the school from lawsuits. If Sam had an allergy…”
“Does Sam have an allergy?” I asked.
“No,” she admitted. “But we have to assume…”
“I know,” I cut her off. I stood up and pulled out my wallet. It was thin, but I had enough. “How much is Sam’s debt?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sam’s lunch account. How much is he in the red? Five bucks? Ten?”
“Mr. Russo, you don’t have to…”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to. How much?”
She typed for a second. “Four dollars and fifty cents.”
I pulled out a twenty. “Clear it. And put the rest on Sam’s account for next week. And if Leo gives him a slice of pizza again, please just… look the other way.”
I didn’t wait for the change. I signed the disciplinary slip—admitting my son was a “disturbance”—and walked out with Leo holding my hand.
We walked to the truck in silence. I buckled him in.
“Am I in trouble, Dad?” Leo asked, looking at his knees. “I promise I won’t do it again.”
I started the engine and turned to him.
“Leo, look at me.”
He looked up, bracing for the lecture.
“You are not in trouble,” I said firmly. “You did the right thing. The school has its rules, and they must follow them to keep their jobs. But you have a heart, and you have to follow that to keep your soul.”
“But they threw the pizza away,” he said sadly.
“I know. Sometimes doing the right thing makes a mess. Do it anyway.”
We stopped at a pizza place on the way home. I bought two large pepperoni pies. One for us, and one for Leo to take to school on Monday, just in case.
As I watched him eat, getting sauce all over his face again, I realized something terrifying.
We spend eighteen years trying to program our kids to fit into the system, to sit still, to stay in line, to follow the handbook. We teach them that “compliance” is the same thing as “goodness.” But today, my seven-year-old showed me that sometimes, you must break the rules to keep the promise on the wall.
Civilization isn’t built on handbooks and liability waivers. It’s built on breaking your pizza in half when your friend is hungry.
If that’s a punishable offense, then I hope my son stays a criminal for the rest of his life.”
I found this on Facebook, and it was not accredited by any author. This is why we should never accept the authorities that claim something as they see it. Rules and manuals are just that. Kindness is a law of God. I think we all need to follow it. If this is your story, please advise me and I will reassign the copyright when you provide proof of authorship.
Of course, I am speaking of AM. Billy Joel begins his song “Piano Man” with five o’clock on a Saturday, which is PM. He is speaking of the bar that he is playing at. He then describes the crowd that walks in, sits down, and has a few. The TV sitcom “Cheers” theme song was “Where Everybody Knows Your Name.”
I always thought that it was your local church. You can tell which one I go to more often. Nine o’clock on a Sunday refers to going to church. I would like to talk about some of the general types of characters that you might see on a Sunday morning.
We all know that the pastor will be there. When I am listing these descriptions of folks, your pastor or deacon, etc., may show up under these. Some of the members of the congregation at your church may overlap in these areas. They are all meant to be humorous and not insulting to anyone, even me.
Susy Sunshine is there every week with a smile on her face. She’s happy, and the other ladies wonder why. They think she must be drunk or on drugs to be that happy all the time. She’s just putting on a face because her husband just left her with two kids and took off with his secretary.
Nicholas Nobody walks in the door, and the greeter shakes his hand. He walks with his head down as no one speaks his name or says a word to him except for Jocular Jed. More on him later. He’s new and wonders if he should even have come.
The sports fanatic is there every week unless the football, hockey, baseball, lacrosse, or tidily wink match starts before church ends. They are there religiously when it does not interfere with these. Don’t worry, they will make up for the tithes they miss from their winnings in sports betting.
I already mentioned Jed, and I used the term jocular because he is the guy who always tells jokes. Some are funny, others are not. Part of them don’t even make sense. They all take too long to tell. At least Nicholas smiles at most of the things Jed tells him. Jed knows that most of the others think he’s foolish, and he considers himself a fool for Christ.
It’s time to think of the ones that are hiding under the pews. That’s right, the children. They crawl from the front to the back, looking for that squirrel that Ray Stevens sang the song about. They start out with mom and dad and sing all the songs that they know.
The teenagers are sitting somewhere. They may be scattered or in a group. If the church has a youth minister, he and his wife are close to this group. These are the future of the Church. They need love and encouragement.
There is one last group that should never be forgotten in the church. These are the older adults. We have been around for longer than any others. Some of us are grandparents or great-grandparents. We used to be the backbone of the body and are now viewed as the last generation.
As the story was being told this morning at a Springfield business, it was reminiscent of the old radio program that was broadcast on KICK radio on 1340 on the AM dial here. It had a Christian twist to it.
The story takes place in a local long-term care facility. A friend’s wife is there for recuperation after surgery. As most patients do, she was craving outside food. Her husband, obligingly, delivered carryout chicken to her room one evening. A neighbor down the hall smelled the fried chicken and came to the room to ask to purchase a couple of pieces of the delightfully fragrant food. Hospital food smells, but not like that.
My friend continued to add extra chicken or other goodies to be sure there was extra for this lady. She gave him the name of Chicken Man. I asked if he was familiar with the radio program by that title. He was not originally from Springfield and had never heard of the show. I gave a brief description of it.
The point I want to make is that we can be kind and gracious to others in many ways. It does not take much to be a special person in the lives of folks that we encounter every day. They may need no more than a smile or a kind word.
Is this not what servanthood means? We are all told by Jesus to serve our neighbors. That’s what my friend did for the lady in the nursing home who was his wife’s friend. You should look around and see a need that you can supply. Be careful, though.
I read a story of a boy whose father was called to school for his bad behavior. This was unusual for this father. When he got there, he found out that his son had given half of the pizza he had bought for lunch to a friend who did not want the cheese sandwich he was offered. When he was caught doing this, his pizza was taken from him, and both were thrown away, and he was sent to the office.
Sounds stupid, doesn’t it? I think so, too. We should be teaching children to be helpful to each other, especially in our schools. There is no good reason for an adult disposing of a generous child’s lunch as punishment. This was posted on Facebook as a true story. Hopefully, that is some of the false news our President tells us about.
The story ended with the father paying the delinquent lunch account of the other student and encouraging others to do the same for those who might be having this type of problem at their schools. I know others who work in schools or have kids there who do the same thing when they hear of a situation where they can assist.
Why not become this kind of Chicken Man in one of the small ways that you can? The thing I remember most about this radio show was that they always said, “Chicken man, he’s everywhere, he’s everywhere.” I think we should all strive to be like my friend Chicken Man so that this slogan is once again true.
He spent 29 years teaching children about kindness, patience, and gentleness.
Then he died.
And most people never even knew his real name.
To millions of children, he was simply Mr. Green Jeans.
His name was Hugh Brannum.
He was born on January 5, 1910, in Sandwich, Illinois. His parents expected him to become a lawyer. He did exactly that, earning a law degree and preparing for a respectable, predictable life.
Then Hugh picked up a bass.
Music pulled him away from courtrooms and contracts and into a life of sound, rhythm, and storytelling. Throughout the 1930s and 1940s, he toured with Fred Waring and His Pennsylvanians, one of the most popular big bands in America. He wasn’t just technically skilled, he was warm, engaging, and gifted at connecting with people. Between songs, he told stories. He learned how to hold an audience without rushing them.
Radio followed. There, Hugh honed something even more important than performance: the ability to reach people gently, using only his voice. That quiet skill would become his greatest strength.
In the early 1950s, Hugh found himself in New York, just as television was being invented in real time. It was there he met Bob Keeshan, a young performer fresh off Howdy Doody, who was developing a radical idea for a children’s show.
Keeshan didn’t want noise.
He didn’t want chaos.
He wanted calm.
He envisioned a show that treated children with respect—one that moved slowly, spoke softly, and teaching without lecturing.
In 1955, CBS launched Captain Kangaroo.
Bob Keeshan became the captain—a gentle figure with a mustache and a jacket full of oversized pockets, living in a magical place called the Treasure House. But he needed someone else. Someone warm. Someone patient. Someone genuine.
He cast Hugh Brannum as Mr. Green Jeans.
The name came from the costume—green denim jeans and farmer’s overalls. But the character came from Hugh himself. Mr. Green Jeans was a farmer and handyman who lived nearby and visited often, bringing animals with him—rabbits, chickens, goats—and a quiet respect for the natural world.
He never rushed.
He never raised his voice.
He never talked down to children.
When he brought a rabbit, he showed children how to hold it gently. When he brought chickens, he explained where they lived and what they ate. He assumed children could understand if given time and patience.
That approach was revolutionary.
At a time when children’s television was loud, frantic, and filled with slapstick, Captain Kangaroo slowed everything down. There was room to wonder. Room to think. Room to learn.
And Mr. Green Jeans embodied that philosophy perfectly.
The show aired weekday mornings for nearly three decades—from 1955 to 1984—over 7,000 episodes. Entire generations grew up watching it. Parents who had once sat cross-legged in front of the television were now turning it on for their own children.
Behind the scenes, Hugh Brannum did far more than play Mr. Green Jeans. He performed multiple characters, contributed music, and served as the show’s musical backbone. His bass, his storytelling instincts, and his calm presence shaped the program’s soul.
Yet almost no one recognized him.
On the street, Hugh Brannum was invisible. Put him in overalls, though, and millions of children knew exactly who he was. And that was enough for him.
He never sought celebrity. He understood that Mr. Green Jeans wasn’t about being known, it was about being useful. About offering children a steady, kind presence in a world that often moved too fast.
In the early 1980s, as his health declined, Hugh retired. He played Mr. Green Jeans for 29 years—one of the longest-running characters in television history. The show continued briefly without him, but something essential was gone.
On April 19, 1987, Hugh Brannum died at age 77.
His obituary identified him simply as the man who played Mr. Green Jeans.
And suddenly, millions of adults realized something startling:
Mr. Green Jeans had helped raise them.
Not with speeches.
Not with discipline.
But with gentleness.
He showed generations of children that strength could be quiet. That knowledge was meant to be shared. Those animals deserved care. That patience mattered.
These weren’t flashy lessons. They weren’t dramatic. But they were foundational—the kind that shape who a person becomes.
Hugh Brannum had a law degree. He toured with famous musicians. He worked in radio and television. He lived a full, accomplished life.
But for nearly three decades, he chose to be Mr. Green Jeans.
And because of that choice, millions of people grew up a little kinder, a little more patient, and a little more curious about the world.
Most people never knew his name.
But they knew his example.
Hugh Brannum died in 1987.
Mr. Green Jeans lives on—in memory, in gentleness, in the quiet lessons that never needed applause.
That is not just a television legacy.
That is a moral education delivered so softly it felt like love.
Remember him. He earned it.
Once again, I took this from Facebook, and it was not credited. If it is yours, I will reassign the copyright. I grew up with the Captain, Mr. Green Jeans, and the entire cast. Thank you to whoever wrote this.
I first met Gary about fifty-three years ago. I know that because I had not met my wife yet. I was introduced to her fifty-two years ago. Don and I traveled to Hamlin Memorial Baptist Church from Immanuel, where we went. We had been called to restart the Royal Ambassador program there.
Gary, the associational R.A. director, asked us to visit them on Wednesday evening. In the summer, I volunteered to be a counselor at Baptist Hill, which is important to him. He also called me, and I scheduled a practice game for the Immanuel women’s softball team I led and the Hamlin team he coached.
I began to see him often after Cindy, and I started dating. He and Geri were at our wedding, which was held at Cindy’s church, Hamlin. Gary was our class leader when we visited on weekends while we lived in Joplin. After we moved back to Springfield, he was our young married class leader until I began teaching.
Gary was a deacon, and he and his wife were involved in many events where the Deacon Body led the church. I joined his R.A. staff and worked closely with him, and later became the R.A. Director when he moved on to other ministries.
I took some advice from him and took a week of vacation from work each summer to lead Vacation Bible School. He was working with younger people to teach them to become the leaders that they are today. When his kids were in the children’s and youth groups, I was one of their teachers.
One Sunday, when Ryan, his son, was in my seventh and eighth grade class, we had an impromptu discussion of sex. Our lessons had an annual discussion on this subject. That morning, I answered questions that the boys had. I ended the class with a warning to them to tell their parents that we discussed chocolate, if they were asked.
That evening at church, Gary confronted me and wanted to know what his son meant when he told him our lesson was on chocolate. I explained a story I had used to teach the young men on the correct approach to sex. Some of those men remember that discussion; others do not. I often would use this code word to alert Gary when I was broaching this subject with a group.
Gary and I continued to work together as Deacons and leaders at Hamlin until they moved to another church, and he continued to be the same man who had taught me how to be a better minister and father. Gary’s life was not as easy as mine had been. He had served in Vietnam and experienced situations I never had.
Gary and Geri’s son and daughter know more about the trials that he experienced. I witnessed his anger on a few occasions and tried to understand because I also have issues with anger. Most of us do at times. Like all of us, we are not perfect.
Gary knew that he was not without sin. He taught his children and I that, despite our sinful state, Jesus could be our savior and Lord. Because he knew this, when his earthly body died, his soul and spirit went home. He was welcomed there as we who have accepted Jesus will be.
Are you looking to relocate to a place where the cost of living is relatively low? Have I got a deal for you? Come home to Springfield, Missouri. Yes, I said, come home. I have lived here for most of my life. We moved to Joplin early in our marriage. We came home as soon as we could.
I think that 15.5% below the national average for cost of living would be good. You must understand that for most of us, we consider our wages low. Our average housing cost is 15.7% below the national average. I’m not bragging, I am stating facts from Google’s AI answer to my search. Look for yourself.
We are the third-largest city in Missouri and the largest Springfield among thirty-six in the country. Once again, if you don’t believe me, check the last census numbers. I looked it up myself because people who have never heard of us can’t believe it. Is it my fault you’ve been living under a rock your whole life?
Businessinsider.com put us thirty-two in their top 32 largest midwestern cities. We don’t have to be number one; we just try harder. Our public school system is the largest district in Missouri. We have five high schools, and if you don’t like public schools, we have almost every type of private school you might want.
Our technical college is one of the best, and they have several campuses in our outlying area. We have three major universities and numerous other types of higher private education facilities. Do you want to learn non-traditional skills? We do that as well.
Do you want rural or suburban living? We have a lot of that? Farmland is close, and you can even buy eggs and milk from the producers. There are almost as many small towns and villages close to Springfield as you will find in any city of our size. We have lots of bars and churches when you need to go to a place where everybody knows your name.
What about the opera, stage plays, symphony, and other cultural activities? We have you covered there as well. Our airport is not one of the major international hubs. We have connecting flights to most of the busiest, if you really like long lines.
We have two cab companies, and most of the internet services for moving people and goods. Oh, I forgot to mention shopping. If our mall isn’t large enough for you, there are half a dozen more within a fifty-minute drive of my house. I’ve driven longer than that in St. Louis or Kansas City to get to the good shopping once I got to those cities.
The construction industry seems to be having a heyday with homes and businesses, especially car washes and some of the most popular franchise fast food restaurants. Google your favorite and see if we have one or will next week.
We are the home of Bass Pro Shops, General Council of the Assemblies of God, Convoy of Hope, and Springfield-style Cashew Chicken. You don’t know about our own knock-off offering of a favorite oriental dish? You’ve had nothing like it.
I could go on for hours, but I’ll end with this. If you would like to go to Branson, MO, for the music shows or drive Historic Route 66 from Chicago to LA, we are on your way, and you can check us out the next time you pass through. You’ve probably been within fifty miles of us and never noticed the highway signs. The group Buffalo Springfield came through in the sixties and got their name from one of our signs. We hope to see you soon.
Our long-time pastor and friend, Calvin Maberry, is now home with Jesus. He left his earth suit and went home on Friday morning. If you do not know this man of God, let me tell you about him.
I met him the first time I went to Hamlin Church with Cindy. She was raised in that congregation, and he and his wife, Arlene, had worked with the youth and became their pastor a few years before. I instantly liked Calvin and Arlene, even if she told me I better not hurt my new girlfriend.
Their family lived outside of Willard, MO, and their three kids were Cindy’s friends. My future wife was a fifteen-year-old, and Arlene was her Sunday School teacher. This may be the reason that I was given the warning. I was a junior in college at the time.
Calvin became a mentor to me as I negotiated my way through college as a ministerial student. They were at our wedding and supported us for the last fifty-plus years as we attended many classes that they were part of.
My first opportunity to officiate at a wedding took place while we were living in Joplin, MO. Calvin advised me on common ceremonies and problems I might have. The pastor of the bride was not someone I knew, and I felt more comfortable with Brother Maberry than our pastor in Joplin.
Years later, when I was asked to officiate at my first funeral, Pastor Calvin was there for me as well. He gave me some sage advice that I have heard from him often. Follow what you believe the Lord wants you to do, and follow what the family asks you to do. Other ministers I knew told me before other funerals what were different opinions of what should be done.
When Calvin decided to announce his retirement as our pastor, we spoke about it before it was announced to the church. I was the Chairman of the Deacon body and would be responsible for helping that group lead the congregation through the transition period.
I was the one who asked him to allow the church to bestow the title of Pastor Emeritus on him when we celebrated his term as our under shepherd. I felt like I was fighting an uphill battle to convince him to accept that honor. Life at the church changed a great deal after that.
For a few years, we saw him and Arlene occasionally at church, but bumped into them at many other places. They always asked how we were getting along and how the girls were. They were always the adoptive grandparents to the kids at Hamlin.
When Arlene was fighting the Illness that ultimately took her life, Calvin was scheduled for bypass surgery. I had just gone through that operation and tried to encourage him that it was difficult, but the Lord would see him through it. I remember that he told me that if it were not for Arlene needing him, he would not have had the surgery. He was ready to go home.
Now that he is there with her, his savior and Lord, and all those that still call him pastor Calvin and friend, I am continuing to look forward to the day that Christ says welcome home to me as well. I know that we are there together, even though some do not realize it, yet.
Do you remember this actor? The first time I saw him was when he first appeared in “The Homecoming.” This was the movie pilot for “The Waltons” TV series. Thomas played the part of John-Boy. I bring him up because he is coming to Springfield, MO as Mark Twain in “Mark Twain Tonight.”
September seventeenth is the date for the performance at The Hammons Hall for the Performing Arts at Missouri State University. If you are not familiar with “Mark Twain Tonight” it was written by Hal Holbrook. He was the only one who portrayed Mister Twain in this one-man show. Until now.
Thomas has been cast to perform this one man play. He appears as Samuel Langhorn Clemens also known as author, speaker, and humorist Mark Twain. Twain is one of my favorite authors. His story telling style was unique and is now widely imitated.
Hal Holbrook brought Twain to life for us in the twentieth century and now Richard is doing the same thing through the collection of Twain’s own words that Holbrook wrote into his show. His humor is often caustic and satirical. Our new generations love that.
The Twain costume is hilarious. We see a man whose appearance was never perfect. An actor must work hard to appear this disheveled on stage. It fits the character, who was a real man. We need to emulate Uncle Sam in this manner. Maybe not in everything he did.
Thomas’s acting career began in 1956 on “As the World Turns” and “The Guiding Light.” He was five at the time. He was on another soap opera called “From These Roots” starting at that time until he was ten when this live series was ended. In 1964 to 1965 he was on another soap called “A Flame in the Wind.”
Until 1971 when he scored the roll of John Boy in the Waltons pilot movie “The Homecoming” he had guest roles on several prime-time series. His big break began the following year and lasted until 1978 when his career took him to other projects.
Some of my other favorite appearances he was in during this time were “Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus,” “The Christmas Box,” “The Christmas Secret,” three Walton TV-Movies where he reprised his role as John-Boy, and two other Walton movies where he narrated the films as the same character.
Movies and other guest spots on TV kept him busy between his plays and other acting opportunities. He has narrated over 300 audio books. His talents are recognized around the world.
We will welcome him to the Ozarks this month and hope that he can check out some of our sights. As with most celebrities, he probably will not have the time, especially with appearances on local media programs to promote his play. Welcome to Springfield, Mr. Thomas.
Old friends are a treasure that some do not have in abundance. I am not one of those. In the 1960’s we lived on Nichols Street. The house sat on one lot, and the lot next door on the corner of Warren Ave. also belonged to Dad and Mom. To the east on Nichols was Rick. Rob lived on West Ave. Frank and Gary lived north on Warren. I’ve lost track of all of them except for the last. Over the last several years, I have tried to call him on his birthday. This year, I am going to write about some of our joint experiences.
I could call him a hand-me-down friend, but I prefer the terms longtime family friend or brother from a different mother. Gary started school at York Elementary, the same year my brother Sam did. Four years later, when I began my education there, they did not want a kid like me hanging around. When my brother graduated from high school and joined the Navy, the process of being a family friend had already started.
We attended the same church, and when I was in the Youth group, he was in High School and graduated the year I finished Junior High. He took a year away from SMSU and his degree to join the National Guard to begin his military career. He returned as a part-time student and was there when my college career began four years after he started.
Lunch at the cafeteria, or Bear’s Den, bowling, and pinball games at the campus union solidified this friendship between my brother Bud, Gary, and me. If it had not been for him bringing the new pastor at church to meet me and invite me to a group for college students, I might not have been called and accepted my call to ministry. Because of that, I left SMSU and transferred to Southwest Baptist College.
As a side note, Gary’s first nephew was born on my sixteenth birthday, the day before his. I don’t know if I have been forgiven for the ribbing I gave him about that. He may not know it, but one of my daughters was born in August. Fortunately, she came before either of our birthdays. I was glad because I didn’t want the teasing I gave him.
Gary graduated and was promoted and moved by the company he worked for. We saw each other briefly at Christmas. When Sam went back to the Navy, he drove to visit Gary up north and through Pennsylvania to see me where I was pastoring a church that summer, and then down to his duty station in Florida.
The next phase of our relationship was when he returned to Springfield and began working where Cindy, my wife, worked. I remember the night he came by our house and told us he had been terminated. That was when he started dating his future wife, who also worked there.
He raised his family, and I mine these last forty years, and we have talked from time to time. Some special occasions brought us together. Birthdays, anniversaries, funerals, and even the occasional Walmart trips meant short or protracted conversations.
He is still employed, unlike Cindy and I. From time to time, I visit him at work, as I did when I was working, and he is someone I can confide in and share memories with him that no one else knows about.
We can truly be called old friends in more ways than one. This is my way of saying, Happy Birthday to you, my dear friend. And many more.
Charles (Chuck) Kensinger 