I’d like to finish the story of one of our least remembered and talked-about Americans that I started yesterday. Check these facts online if you do not believe me.
By the late 1860s, he was nearly blind. His body, destroyed by fifty years of frontier punishment, finally forced him to stop. He retired to a small Missouri farm to live with his daughter, his mountain man era finished.
On July 17, 1881, Jim Bridger died at age 77.
America barely noticed.
The newspapers that had once mocked his “lies” didn’t bother with obituaries. The mountain men who’d first mapped the West had been replaced by railroad tycoons and cattle barons. The wilderness Bridger knew was being conquered, divided, and forgotten.
The man who’d seen the Great Salt Lake when most Americans couldn’t locate Utah on a map died in poverty and obscurity.
But here’s what makes his story extraordinary:
He wasn’t merely an explorer. He was a witness to wonders no one was ready to acknowledge.
His “lies” about Yellowstone became a treasured national park. His fort saved countless pioneer families. His guidance determined railroad routes still carrying freight today. His mental maps, drawn from pure memory, proved astonishingly accurate when modern surveyors checked them decades later.
He transformed from an orphaned, uneducated teenager with zero prospects into one of the most valuable sources of geographical knowledge in 19th-century America.
Today, his name marks the landscape he explored: Fort Bridger State Historic Site, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Bridger Peak, Bridger Pass, Bridger Wilderness Area. His story fills countless Western history books.
But perhaps the most powerful tribute is this:
When modern geologists finally studied Yellowstone’s geothermal features, when surveyors mapped the Great Salt Lake’s chemistry, when historians retraced the Oregon Trail—they discovered that the “absurd fabrications” of an old mountain man were remarkably, almost impossibly precise.
Jim Bridger saw what no one else could see. He told truths no one was prepared to hear. And he died before the world caught up to everything he’d known all along.
The newspaper advertisement he answered at 18 promised adventure and danger. It delivered fifty years of discovery that helped build a nation—even if that nation forgot to thank him before he went blind and died.
Not bad for a broke, blind orphan who once mistook a desert lake for the ocean.
He told them he’d found water that boiled without fire and forests made of stone. They called him a liar. Every word was true.
St. Louis, 1822. An 18-year-old orphan named Jim Bridger worked in a blacksmith shop for pennies. No education. No family. No future anyone could see.
Then he saw a newspaper advertisement that would rewrite his entire existence: “Enterprising Young Men” wanted for a fur trapping expedition into the Rocky Mountains. Pay. Uncertain return. Possible death.
Jim Bridger had nothing to lose and everything to prove. He signed his name and walked away from the only life he’d known.
What followed was nearly six decades of exploration that would make him the most knowledgeable man in America about a landscape most Americans couldn’t even imagine.
Around 1824, young Bridger and fellow trappers followed Utah’s Bear River to discover where it ended. When Bridger reached an enormous body of water stretching beyond sight, he knelt at the shore and tasted it.
Salt. Intense, bitter salt.
He’d reached the Pacific Ocean—or so he believed. He was magnificently wrong. He’d discovered the Great Salt Lake, one of the western hemisphere’s largest saltwater lakes, sitting impossibly in the middle of the desert. He was the first non-Native person to document it.
But that discovery was merely his opening act.
In the late 1820s, Bridger ventured into the Yellowstone region. What he witnessed there defied reality itself.
Water exploding from the earth in columns hundreds of feet high. Pools of boiling liquid in every color imaginable. Mud that bubbled like cooking stew. Entire forests of trees turned completely into stone. Ground trembled. Air that smelled of sulfur.
When Bridger returned to civilization and described what he’d seen, the response was universal: laughter.
They called him “Old Gabe the Liar.” Journalists mocked his “tall tales.” Even fellow mountain men questioned whether he’d lost his mind.
He hadn’t invented a single detail. He’d simply witnessed Yellowstone four decades before it would become America’s first national park—before the nation was ready to accept that such a place could exist on Earth.
Every impossible thing he described was real. The world just wasn’t ready to believe him.
For twenty years, Bridger lived as a mountain man, surviving conditions that killed most men within weeks. He learned six Native languages fluently. He married into the Flathead tribe, later marrying twice more after tragedy. He became legendary for reading weather, tracking game, and navigating terrain with supernatural precision.
When the beaver fur market collapsed in the 1840s, Bridger adapted instantly. Thousands of emigrants were beginning the desperate journey west. They needed help.
In 1843, he and his partner, Louis Vasquez, constructed Fort Bridger in southwestern Wyoming. For a decade, that fort served as a critical rest stop where pioneer families could repair wagons, buy supplies, and gather strength before the final brutal push to Oregon or California.
Thousands of lives were saved at Fort Bridger.
As westward expansion accelerated, Bridger became irreplaceable. Military expeditions needed guides who knew every mountain pass. Railroad surveyors needed someone who’d walked every mile of potential routes. Scientific expeditions needed the man who’d accumulated thirty years of geographical knowledge that existed nowhere else.
He guided expeditions well into his sixties, even as his eyesight deteriorated—the price of decades under relentless sun and blinding snow reflecting off endless white peaks.
I’m guessing that few of you have ever heard of a man named Jim Bridger. In 1822, this 18-year-old orphan was working in St. Louis, MO, as a blacksmith when he heard about a trapping expedition to the Rocky Mountains. They promised no glory and a lot of risk. He took the chance.
In 1824, he thought they had found the Pacific Ocean because the water went as far as they could see and was extremely salty. He was the first white man to see the Great Salt Lake of what is now Utah. His journals record that later that decade he discovered fountains of boiling water shooting from the ground in what is now Yellowstone Park.
Back in civilization, they called him mad or crazy. Bridger spent two decades as a mountain man, learned six Native American languages, married into the Flathead tribe, tracked game, read the weather like a book, and could lead others through terrain only he and his red brothers knew.
In 1843, he and Louis Vasquez, his partner, built Fort Bridger in southwestern Wyoming. Pioneers going to Oregon or California made this their stop for supplies, directions, and rest to complete the dangerous journey. As westward expansion increased, Jim was called on by the military to lead military expeditions into uncharted territory.
Railroad surveyors and scientists relied on his knowledge of these areas to keep them safe. Into his sixties, he was known as the man who could find anywhere in these territories and get back safely. He showed others the wonders he had discovered.
In the late 1860s, he retired to his daughter Virginia’s farm near Kansas City, Missouri. He died on July 17, 1881, at the age of 77. Few knew or cared who Jim Bridger was by then.
When geologists, scientists, and other experts began to compare what they found in the great expanses of the western United States, they discovered his journals were surprisingly correct. Except for that mistake about the Pacific Ocean being in the deserts of Utah, he seemed to have recorded the terrain accurately before others knew it was even there. This man, who saved thousands of travelers’ lives and led scores of immigrants to places no one had ever been, is remembered in the land he knew.
Fort Bridger State Historic Site, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Bridger Peak, Bridger Pass, and Bridger Wilderness Area all bear the name of a young man who took a chance where others would one day wish to settle. The settlement of these US territories would have taken much longer without his guidance.
The next time you tell a friend what you have seen and know is true, and they laugh at you, just say, “That’s OK. They laughed at Jim Bridger.” If they ask who he was, tell them to look him up on the internet. History cannot be forgotten if we want to learn.
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.
Charles (Chuck) Kensinger 