tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2463012609431278142024-03-05T21:59:48.259-06:00long journey homeDavid Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.comBlogger1012125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-42126139927027661452018-09-25T10:48:00.003-05:002018-09-25T10:49:08.619-05:00Old School<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMF2dCw7XegCiLGc28cSGnaStg-0C9RrSLn_7P4uONLV4Z9qhsCJfrBCbVMvFmdY26r_q87xc1F1LA5C6EqJHBSzWzHNRcqszMW6S_3Zge7uTRMOQvPQYFAKnVUWQNDT32K-CBGlwcQmb/s1600/aaa_Vintage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="88" data-original-width="400" height="87" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMF2dCw7XegCiLGc28cSGnaStg-0C9RrSLn_7P4uONLV4Z9qhsCJfrBCbVMvFmdY26r_q87xc1F1LA5C6EqJHBSzWzHNRcqszMW6S_3Zge7uTRMOQvPQYFAKnVUWQNDT32K-CBGlwcQmb/s400/aaa_Vintage.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="color: #ffd966;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">If you ever saw dad's sermon notes, you'd appreciate his lettering as
much as you would his messages. He would often put in little drawings
to illustrate his points along the way. But it was his headings, the
subheads and bullet point fonts were always executed with a little
fancier hand drawn font.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #ffd966;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> Dad had the most beautiful
handwriting. Good penmanship is no longer taught, and it's a lost skill
to most these days. My brother has an incredible handwriting that echos
of<span class="text_exposed_show"> our father's influence.</span></span></span><br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<span style="color: #ffd966;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
I think dad got his interest in using his fancy hand drawn fonts, like
his younger brother Patillo Ainsworth Finlayson, from his older brother
Burruss Wofford Finlayson. Dad and Ainsworth were just avid amateurs
when it came to hand lettering. Wofford was the seasoned pro. Wofford
was an old school commercial artist of the highest caliber. He did his
share of painting movie posters and signage for theaters in Columbia back in the 30's and 40's.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #ffd966;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
One of my life's regrets is that I didn't take his offer of living in
Columbia, South Carolina and work for him. I was in my early to mid
teens and didn't know what I was being offered at the time. I would've
had a Summer to remember and a wealth of knowledge that could've taken
me further into my art.</span></span></div>
</div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-25274437018015952472018-04-15T23:06:00.000-05:002018-04-15T23:06:59.717-05:00The Late Christmas Present<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimp3Zya8LNEnvoWZavOIj1NcmYWz4dldUPQ34RG6KKRTPt1M3Z514PtzmgKgHIR986SHVrVpQN51QxwdAEnmxHU1lLrlI6O8WPrfuLGLsIie18_OMhsVNOWRiJu5TEv1VJBZycyvjh3rjc/s1600/UOoGB2018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimp3Zya8LNEnvoWZavOIj1NcmYWz4dldUPQ34RG6KKRTPt1M3Z514PtzmgKgHIR986SHVrVpQN51QxwdAEnmxHU1lLrlI6O8WPrfuLGLsIie18_OMhsVNOWRiJu5TEv1VJBZycyvjh3rjc/s400/UOoGB2018.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #f1c232;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain, Morrow, GA, 04/15/2018</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Last Christmas, my family presented me with a computer print out of a receipt for tickets purchased for a very special concert. I've been a fan of The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain since I discovered them on YouTube about five years ago. Since Christmas, Gina started learning to play the ukulele. It just something she decided to pick up along the way, but wasn't very familiar with the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain. I knew as the day drew closer that she'd receive just as much enjoyment as I would. My hunch proved true. My daughters thoroughly enjoyed the show as well.<br /><br />Knowing that dialysis would probably wear me out, we broke up the trip into a two day outing. We drove to Atlanta on the fourteenth, stayed overnight and then took our time finding the campus and Spivey Hall early this afternoon. The concert was on the campus of Clayton State University in Morrow, GA. It's a pretty campus and the hall is a nice venue. <br /><br />Now all that I had seen of the UOoGB was on YouTube until today. I found out today that none of the videos do this little ensemble justice. The videos that I previously thought humorous and delightful, in person are mesmerizing and beautiful. UOoGB do not spoof songs, but give wonderful well thought out renditions of loved music with mere ukuleles. Listening to their take on these old hits are like hearing them again for the first time.<br /><br />Also. Not only can they play, they all sing. Man can they sing. The harmonies were tight and spectacular. They are the Blue Angels of the ukulele. Again. The YouTube videos don't do them justice. If you ever get a chance to hear them live, GO!</span><br />
<h1 class="heading-1 product-title" itemprop="name" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><iframe allow="autoplay; encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/nW0ACEOEq6w" width="560"></iframe></span></span><br /></h1>
</div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-76937594072528084742017-12-25T20:10:00.001-06:002017-12-25T20:10:17.458-06:00His Bride<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrVXpM-oaHjvKywr58se3F-VdewL67rOx8Z7mAiJAExiW5I54OwhTe96WVAvZvdZCaIcj5f0wx3Y1nLRYOLuUuype1AJ53FeVLaNId-lhbK9vmOPx9MPcwvUBDh-ouWRUHjCSEZq_DWVrN/s1600/kingdom.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrVXpM-oaHjvKywr58se3F-VdewL67rOx8Z7mAiJAExiW5I54OwhTe96WVAvZvdZCaIcj5f0wx3Y1nLRYOLuUuype1AJ53FeVLaNId-lhbK9vmOPx9MPcwvUBDh-ouWRUHjCSEZq_DWVrN/s400/kingdom.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="_5pbx userContent _22jv _3576" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="js_5ma">
<span style="color: #ffe599;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">We
do not become angels when we die. Angels were created to be servants.
We were created to be The Bride of Jesus. We are not issued harps and
wings, rather we receive a crown and throne. We will dwell in the mansions He has
prepared for us.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #ffe599;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> By believing on Him, we have become part of His
royal family. We will not truly comprehend what He has done for us,
planned for his bride until we are actually in His presence. He so
loves us! We will see things clearly when we get there.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #ffe599;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> All the troubles of this world will be wiped away as tears from our eyes.</span></span></div>
</div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-45060010968219789692017-12-23T18:06:00.001-06:002017-12-23T18:06:10.862-06:00beyond the curtain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAD7h9JsK_s4NqvEFezW3zm9maJcURK9yF9oUqsqeZZumgV_Vc6qpEbOKu8ifwGVmP5byzeihYbbrVyhaJUfbS6pqtQbiQqgLYya_BhPR4_FdEaSr9-qxBrrsWKvj6ej7nkZn_8QxW1CMI/s1600/flyingbus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="188" data-original-width="335" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAD7h9JsK_s4NqvEFezW3zm9maJcURK9yF9oUqsqeZZumgV_Vc6qpEbOKu8ifwGVmP5byzeihYbbrVyhaJUfbS6pqtQbiQqgLYya_BhPR4_FdEaSr9-qxBrrsWKvj6ej7nkZn_8QxW1CMI/s400/flyingbus.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">We simply can't imagine what this world was intended to be before the
corruption of sin. What we are going through now, wasn't what our
Creator wanted for us. One day beyond this world, we will discover
innocence again, and dwell beneath and amid the one true Light.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
For this moment, the ramifications of my sins, the sins of others, past
and present, will continue to play out. The price was paid by our
Redeemer, yet our lives must be lived out with the consequences of each a<span class="text_exposed_show">ct.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">
That day, when we wake up, we will experience life as it should've
been. I believe we will be surprised by how natural it will all feel ~
knowing this is what life should've been all along. This is the life our
Creator planned for us. This is our natural environment.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> We
peer now behind the dark glass of our own making. I look forward to
that moment when the lights go out and He draws back the curtain.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> It is beyond imagination, yet very familiar. It will be so good.</span></div>
</div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-33045012096233213792017-11-14T09:46:00.006-06:002017-11-14T09:46:57.199-06:00the art closet<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtttL40kERJA2o9RrtZ6FQqG8rhpFE2H3W5EXeRFABb9lffq44-P3wGdYVNFx-UTaM2pE3rcJ2zKL8wt1jvtxfvufmYvyssuXUYd6Ll0DtOlMQ_2K0aU85Xa94wAcQSaKJ289r03tG4yh/s1600/glue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="525" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtttL40kERJA2o9RrtZ6FQqG8rhpFE2H3W5EXeRFABb9lffq44-P3wGdYVNFx-UTaM2pE3rcJ2zKL8wt1jvtxfvufmYvyssuXUYd6Ll0DtOlMQ_2K0aU85Xa94wAcQSaKJ289r03tG4yh/s320/glue.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span data-offset-key="ratn-0-0"><span data-text="true"><span style="color: #ffd966;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">We
had an art closet at the house on Scenic. It had a double sliding
door. There were art books about drawing, painting and fonts in there.
There were large art pads, canvas board, old wooden boxes of brushes,
ancient tubes of watercolors, acrylics and oils. Dad did some brochure
paste-up work for Green Valley Drag Strip, Bethlehem Camp, Gadsden Table
Tennis Association, etc. He'd also do logo work for a legal client
from time to time. I still have the large amber bottle of Carter's
rubber cement with brush he used for his layouts. The kids went to that
closet more than my dad did because the pencil sharpener was mounted on a
shelf in there. I remember dad had a box of India inks of various
colors, a bunch of useless parts, nibs, tubes from fountain pens. To go
into the art closet, one would have to dig to find what one needed for a
project. I rarely had to buy art supplies for a school project as a
kid. It was a mess in there, but I could find the implements and
material needed to do the task.<br /><br />That closet had always fascinated
me. When I grew up I became a graphic designer with too much stuff to
keep in a mere closet. As time went by and technology changed, I had no
real need to keep the tools once required for my trade. No more hording
of paper scraps. My large arsenal of Pantone and Design markers, most
of them older than my children's ages combined, are slowly drying and
dying in a in my garage. Only my youngest daughter has uses them from
time to time. I no longer use them. I don't think I would have enough
art material to even warrant an art closet anymore. I have my light
table, a variety of common pens, a scanner and my CPU. It's all I really
need these days. Every thing changed in time. How many years has it
been since I actually had to make a mechanical? It's been well over a
decade.<br /><br />I picture my father with his wheelchair rolled up to our
round kitchen table. He'd be working on one of those brochure designs.
He'd want to do as much of it himself, but often needed me to hold the
ruler down so her could draw or cut the line. As a child I was
fascinated by it, wondered if one day I could do it too.</span></span></span></span></div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-78727890834389143492017-11-05T23:01:00.000-06:002017-11-05T23:33:58.455-06:00beneath the shadow of war<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwID94i3NhZHF-rkjqmmvt0aTt8OVc9SCKGtTs1yq5v_q0xHLUFQbrbQ0vvnhvIQS3YQ4ShqE219vIdRcijnX5xN62jkV20Hqku4MK2P6TpctmUCVeNZWVEh3u7F2wQYklbwfEtetjM0BH/s1600/David_Army_Boy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwID94i3NhZHF-rkjqmmvt0aTt8OVc9SCKGtTs1yq5v_q0xHLUFQbrbQ0vvnhvIQS3YQ4ShqE219vIdRcijnX5xN62jkV20Hqku4MK2P6TpctmUCVeNZWVEh3u7F2wQYklbwfEtetjM0BH/s320/David_Army_Boy.jpg" width="312" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /><span style="color: #6aa84f;">I was born thirteen years after World War II and five years after the Korean War, and three years after President Eisenhower sent first military advisors to South Vietnam to train the South Vietnamese Army. I was a sophomore in high school when the Vietnam War ended. The draft was over by then too.<br /><br />Since I was knee high to a grasshopper, I grew up playing with little green army men and G.I. Joes. When I ventured outdoors ~ you'd find me somewhere with other neighborhood boys playing army. My 'toys' included actual military surplus ~ helmets, web belting, back packs, etc. One of my guns was an actual carbine stock with a cut off broomstick as a barrel ~ my sniper rifle. I had a pile of gear and an arsenal of play guns. My older brother had some old military manuals that I would flip through to see if I could acquire an edge while playing an opponent. But I wasn't the only kid in my neighborhood who took his war games serious.<br /><br />My favorite television shows were COMBAT! and TWELVE O'CLOCK HIGH. My favorite movies were primarily war movies. I can't count the amount of these movies I have watched and how many times I've re-watched them (over and over) over these past six decades. I still enjoy the good ones whether they be 'History or Hollywood'. My list of favorites would simply be too long and tedious to mention within this post.<br /><br />I remember when I was in junior high school, the Vietnam war was still raging. The news of casualties daily being reported on our old Zenith. The draft was still in effect and my brother still carried his card in his pocket. It was one of those days that was in the yard readying for a neighborhood mission, when he casually passed by me and remarked,<b><i> "In a couple of years, you might be doing this for real." </i></b><br /><br />Strange. I grew up thinking that I might very well have to do it for real ~ that one day it might be required of me to serve. That day never came, but I think every boy born in the shadow of those wars were raised with the idea of the possible inevitability of one day riding out on that bus.</span><br /><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/%3Ciframe%20width=%22560%22%20height=%22315%22%20src=%22https://www.youtube.com/embed/14kc_uiM7jY%22%20frameborder=%220%22%20allowfullscreen%3E%3C/iframe%3E" target="_blank"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/14kc_uiM7jY" width="560"></iframe></a></span></div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-20610380971792113282017-10-28T17:05:00.002-05:002017-10-28T22:20:03.105-05:00dad was here<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTX91INlsNS6LN8CTHqlhrdzbqQ8RLjv-iaIYUc4BB4DEHgw7Re2AxzlmAeZONIGIzUWFjlEzRCM-qjJxlvvqNz9eg_gg1n4RW24bpRkhPG4L4yfMyCFBJHpnYQ97_CpN3qKYrJEJqZrmS/s1600/Workbench.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTX91INlsNS6LN8CTHqlhrdzbqQ8RLjv-iaIYUc4BB4DEHgw7Re2AxzlmAeZONIGIzUWFjlEzRCM-qjJxlvvqNz9eg_gg1n4RW24bpRkhPG4L4yfMyCFBJHpnYQ97_CpN3qKYrJEJqZrmS/s400/Workbench.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was chilly in the garage so I kept the doors closed and turned on the space heater. I was looking for a distraction from the nausea I felt in the morning. There had been a drawer that I had pulled from dad's old workshop bench that kept getting stuck, so I thought I'd sand and dry soap it. After fixing the drawer, I replaced the tools that had been kept in it, then automatically started cleaning and organizing the rest of the drawers. My nausea dissipated somewhere along the way.<br /><br />This is a great old workbench. I acquired it after we moved into my present home twenty-one years ago, having room to pull it out of Mr. Roy Rakestraw's storage. Roy had it disassembled and stacked in a shed for six years after mother sold the house on Henrietta. I was glad to have a big enough garage to put it in.<br /><br />I had to heighten the bench about eight inches, because Dad had it built to accommodate working from his wheelchair. One of his favorite pass times was woodwork. He did everything he could to get one of his children to be a helper on Saturdays. I spent a great deal of time out in the shop begrudgingly at his side. Like most kids, I wanted to be elsewhere playing. Dad wanted to do as much as he could for himself, so a helper would usually just be his other hand, hold the other end steady while he did the rest.<br /><br />Dad would often pay me to clean and organize the workshop, which was no small task. He was a pack-rat when it came to saving various bits of hardware and wood pieces. It would often take me the better part of a non-stop weekend to get it all done. It was always a frustration that he would then turn around and clutter things up again right after all that meticulous hard work.<br /><br />Mom spent a good bit of time with Dad in the garage. Each of their children have a piece or two that they built. I have a secretary desk in my house that they built. They gave it to me when I first left the house years ago. I also have a book stand that my dad used to keep his commentaries by his bedside. It is by my bedside now.<br /><br />So as I organized the drawers, I traveled back three decades. Many of Dad's tools are now my tools, tools he made better use of than I have. Even though I have most of my faculties, he seemed to<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> have</span> ma<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">d</span>e better use of the fewer he had than I have with mine. Like my dad, I find a pleasant distraction piddling in the garage. I always find a quiet connection with my father at that old workbench. My Uncle Pat once told me that their Papa would often be found piddling at his workbench in his spare time as well. I guess my dad found a little of his dad working in the shop too.<br /><br />Yes, if I could truly go back, I'd be a better, more willing helper. <br /><br />I still miss you Dad.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2p741DwxX9NPLXlWs6PVFRP1HdvdcGn9UKDuHr2JApzYH8plxs8O8Lh4rEXEeX27lvpYa_CHql-E1S3PLNOkcyctbXaxtzh67NexKI_jhbZ6L2Q7FotNp4StLt7mSCqNM_lVUB_WZp5hR/s1600/Dad_Shop.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="395" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2p741DwxX9NPLXlWs6PVFRP1HdvdcGn9UKDuHr2JApzYH8plxs8O8Lh4rEXEeX27lvpYa_CHql-E1S3PLNOkcyctbXaxtzh67NexKI_jhbZ6L2Q7FotNp4StLt7mSCqNM_lVUB_WZp5hR/s320/Dad_Shop.jpg" width="252" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-45138856168387554012017-07-20T16:16:00.000-05:002017-07-20T16:16:46.290-05:00When Hollywood is The Family Business.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div data-contents="true">
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="9vu3s" data-offset-key="7c3qb-0-0">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3lNtUnk15NGWiz-oPFbd7kmjrGw1k_v6OyZFOT304_8c5X9QL6yQetCS2icBF4_P3ByMiXw-qdr9_RTaP8x2-VcSGy9z3EgeJteI-NERunOecLgMMKoPNo4ZA_gulvFsU7iH0wmiKP07S/s1600/James+Mitchum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="660" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3lNtUnk15NGWiz-oPFbd7kmjrGw1k_v6OyZFOT304_8c5X9QL6yQetCS2icBF4_P3ByMiXw-qdr9_RTaP8x2-VcSGy9z3EgeJteI-NERunOecLgMMKoPNo4ZA_gulvFsU7iH0wmiKP07S/s400/James+Mitchum.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="fi3ui-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="fi3ui-0-0"><span data-text="true">Hollywood dynasty's rarely pan out. We've witnessed many children of famous actors who couldn't quite make it out from beneath the shadow of their parent's stardom. Look to the Barrymores and Hustons for the success stories. Something creative definitely passed down in those family genes.<br /><br />There are names and faces we recognize but whose film careers didn't quite materialize as hoped. It's a tough business to succeed, even when given a big leg-up. When it comes down to it, it's not in the name, but do have the chops for it? There are plenty who have made decent living in the business. Alan Ladd Jr. has become one of the industry's most respected film executives. Alan Hale Jr. and John Ritter's stardom shined just as brilliant as their famous fathers. <br /><br />There's a long list~ but this is just a short list of names that come to my mind while writing this post. What names come to your mind?<br /> <br />Patrick, Michael and Ethan Wayne<br />James and Christopher Mitchum<br />Gary, Dennis and Lindsay Crosby<br />Alan Ladd Jr. and Alana Ladd<br />John Ritter<br />Harold Lloyd Jr.<br />Charles Chaplin Jr.<br />Liza Minnelli<br />Carrie Fisher<br />Jody McCrea<br />Alan Hale Jr.<br />Dean Paul, Ricci and Craig Martin<br />Scott, Francesca, Kyle, Alison, Morgan, Kathryn and Kimber Eastwood<br /></span></span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-56624045780929601242017-06-22T17:47:00.005-05:002017-06-22T17:47:42.585-05:00booby-trapped landscape<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div data-contents="true">
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="ck7m7" data-offset-key="24avg-0-0">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpglP44IM9axiFhmy5-mppKmEDpnZ3JsNDsjN47bTvXHK81C_u3wPwMJ4JGzV3efISG4y4w1KjQlkaqZXcFGN0M-yjl_8G-yGAKT3pYiMk0mjIuwtis2Pf0Euv-sQczoc-OVu50LOS1RR/s1600/grass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="975" data-original-width="1300" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpglP44IM9axiFhmy5-mppKmEDpnZ3JsNDsjN47bTvXHK81C_u3wPwMJ4JGzV3efISG4y4w1KjQlkaqZXcFGN0M-yjl_8G-yGAKT3pYiMk0mjIuwtis2Pf0Euv-sQczoc-OVu50LOS1RR/s320/grass.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="24avg-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="24avg-0-0"><span data-text="true">Our last tenant left a heavy duty dog stake and chain in the backyard. I couldn't see in the high grass while I was mowing. It played a number on the lawn tractor. I hauled it to the repair shop. I returned the next day to the property with my home tractor. I was then unfortunate enough to run over heavy gauge wire that was hiding under leaves. The wire wrapped and knotted itself around the shaft and the blade. It was as if the entire property was booby-trapped. I tried an assortment of hand held cutters and a hacksaw with no success. The only way I could cut through the taught and tangled mess was with hand held power angle grinder. BINGO! I finally got the yard and field mowed as the sky darkened ~ expecting it to rain at any moment. It felt good to finally get it all mowed before the rain came down. </span></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="ck7m7" data-offset-key="68pni-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="68pni-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="68pni-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="ck7m7" data-offset-key="8p6cb-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8p6cb-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="8p6cb-0-0"><span data-text="true">I woke up this morning listening to rain outside ~ feeling that grass growing out there. Next time it'll be easier.</span></span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-32377631884013065552017-06-10T20:27:00.001-05:002017-06-10T20:30:25.628-05:00the real step toward racial healing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a class="_42ft _4jy0 _55pi _5vto _55_p _2agf _4o_4 _p _1zg8 _3m8n _4jy3 _517h _51sy _59pe" data-hover="tooltip" data-testid="privacy_selector_10158976211635454" data-tooltip-alignh="right" data-tooltip-content="Public" href="https://www.facebook.com/dbfinlayson#" id="u_p_5" rel="toggle" role="button" style="max-width: 26px;"><span class="_4o_3"></span></a><br />
<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="js_lf">
<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_593c9abc546f34a14542350">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPxAHcT-R2HhtiIzKeSrD6vKlsdr3QSbwY1zk3eJr1hzx0r-V7XzxuTh0K6deimxjpXPjnjRUrbiLwL8sBo0lp03G6qnjjoTZLBZxElnrnavEHPieOwTcQwdYvfcfCAB7YsFRbmIJ5NzDo/s1600/happy+black.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="362" data-original-width="644" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPxAHcT-R2HhtiIzKeSrD6vKlsdr3QSbwY1zk3eJr1hzx0r-V7XzxuTh0K6deimxjpXPjnjRUrbiLwL8sBo0lp03G6qnjjoTZLBZxElnrnavEHPieOwTcQwdYvfcfCAB7YsFRbmIJ5NzDo/s400/happy+black.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />I
pay the 'racist' moniker no mind. It's been over used and the card over
played. I've met folks of various colors who are racists and feel
'righteously' justified in harboring and stoking their hate. My advice to folks of
all colors. Love your brother as you love yourself. Do unto others as
you'd have them do unto you.<br /><br />There's nothing the white man can
give the black man that will heal the heart and bring unity. No man, no
government, no legislation that can make the scars go away. Self<span class="text_exposed_show">
proclaiming political saviors do nothing but stir the divide and keep
the old wounds bleeding. Wounds can heal when we don't pick at them.</span><br /><br />The real step toward true healing is to simply forgive those who have
trespassed against you ~ past and present. There's no amount of
reparations that will ever sate the angry, distrustful heart. There's
not a political remedy. The answer is forgiving your white brother -
forgiving your black brother - as Christ forgave us.</span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-11574396439014592332017-06-06T08:24:00.003-05:002017-06-06T08:52:39.848-05:00Finding Henry<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVnu868GfSjBKjqDAK0S5DsqFuGFdkcmMyD17deCkeOYyi3WhfvL9JMPnxc7RMmavuiCf1IMNXq3MiwaEVKdOYatqz0P3jjAZQi3DySSnnUbGkyfunl0vXO3vJG8k7sCeggsOhUo3rlQFk/s1600/Henry+Finlayson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1096" data-original-width="908" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVnu868GfSjBKjqDAK0S5DsqFuGFdkcmMyD17deCkeOYyi3WhfvL9JMPnxc7RMmavuiCf1IMNXq3MiwaEVKdOYatqz0P3jjAZQi3DySSnnUbGkyfunl0vXO3vJG8k7sCeggsOhUo3rlQFk/s400/Henry+Finlayson.jpg" width="331" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #ffd966;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Henry Wright Finlayson</span></span><br /><b>b: 28 Aug 1857 Duplin Cty, NC<br />d: 26 Apr 1918 Brooklyn, NY</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div data-contents="true">
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8s827" data-offset-key="5mdhv-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5mdhv-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="5mdhv-0-0"><span data-text="true">Using Ancestry and Find A Grave, I was able to find our great uncle <a href="https://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=150941458" target="_blank">Henry Wright Finlayson</a>. He's dad's uncle who was the merchant who moved his dry goods business to Brooklyn and raised his family.</span></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8s827" data-offset-key="4ihj7-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="4ihj7-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="4ihj7-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8s827" data-offset-key="5n409-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5n409-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="5n409-0-0"><span data-text="true">Murdoch Uriah and Martha Lucinda's Find A Grave didn't have Henry Wright listed among their children. I had to go digging. I found his wife, <a href="https://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=150941455&ref=acom" target="_blank">Charity Elizabeth Proffit</a> in Find A Grave that led to their daughter - from the daughter I was able to find Henry's grave. You can't always get to where you're going by traveling a straight line. Every now and then you have to go forward to move back, or back to move forward. Nice find.</span></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8s827" data-offset-key="1agv0-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="1agv0-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="1agv0-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8s827" data-offset-key="bjft4-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bjft4-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="bjft4-0-0"><span data-text="true">I was able to add photos of Henry at his Find A Grave memorial and link him to his parents and his wife. It will take a little time for the birth dates updates and marital status to show at Find A Grave for both - but should soon.</span></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8s827" data-offset-key="fhavu-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="fhavu-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="fhavu-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8s827" data-offset-key="9t1vb-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9t1vb-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="9t1vb-0-0"><span data-text="true">Uncle Henry and Charity Finlayson are buried at <a href="http://www.green-wood.com/burial_results/index.php" target="_blank">Green-Wood Cemetery</a> in Kings County, Brooklyn, NY.</span></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8s827" data-offset-key="ethrj-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="ethrj-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="ethrj-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8s827" data-offset-key="v4o0-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="v4o0-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="v4o0-0-0"><span data-text="true">There is a chance that through the Henry Wright Finlaysons, we might eventually get more information regarding Daniel and Charity Westbrook Finlayson. <br /><br />My father, Henry Westbrook Finlayson was born two years after his Uncle Henry died. Most of Burruss Finlayson's children were probably too young to remember him. Henry Wright Finlayson had a store in Cheraw before he relocated to Brooklyn. He's not in the picture below, but his brothers Elias Vance and young Burruss Finlayson (my grandfather) are there. <b><span style="color: #ffd966;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Click on image to enlarge.</i></span></span></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="v4o0-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="v4o0-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="v4o0-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="v4o0-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7AkWxOvadh1OkVKPrYE1HOtyXvLfsvn_k9jP0xJx5Xc0uUJ-HSWmA97kGQrVotO2D9pjzz7jBAr68k3r-o_y_QlR0Xphi1uR6pZGBv4h8bFGBkP7z50S-fII2u8WCKX-cmsNcqU9CrXF/s1600/HW+Store.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1079" data-original-width="1600" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7AkWxOvadh1OkVKPrYE1HOtyXvLfsvn_k9jP0xJx5Xc0uUJ-HSWmA97kGQrVotO2D9pjzz7jBAr68k3r-o_y_QlR0Xphi1uR6pZGBv4h8bFGBkP7z50S-fII2u8WCKX-cmsNcqU9CrXF/s400/HW+Store.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Henry Wright Finlayson's Store in Cheraw, SC</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="v4o0-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-90049144226482039302017-06-01T18:10:00.001-05:002017-06-01T18:10:19.428-05:00Little Herbert, Not Forgotten<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSXa6yXIBkDAMtuGjVpADutZwiEtTyt4mEP1E_qHG7TQ1tw22Kux_H1QeUAPzNk4rVTzpput_7VcGy1Og0odzIlazJSBs5GGU4SxzKH5mfSJtHW-ze7ALXEtZ2tprvEzDqY0IvO-LCuMNZ/s1600/Herbert+Finlayson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="326" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSXa6yXIBkDAMtuGjVpADutZwiEtTyt4mEP1E_qHG7TQ1tw22Kux_H1QeUAPzNk4rVTzpput_7VcGy1Og0odzIlazJSBs5GGU4SxzKH5mfSJtHW-ze7ALXEtZ2tprvEzDqY0IvO-LCuMNZ/s320/Herbert+Finlayson.jpg" width="208" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Herbert Carlisle Brock</span><br /><span style="font-size: xx-small;">b. Jul. 21, 1891 ~ d: Apr. 22, 1897</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Herbert Brock was the only child of <a href="https://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=80808461" target="_blank">Burruss Finlayson</a> and <a href="https://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=80808697" target="_blank">Mary Florence Brock</a>. I was informed that Burruss and Mary were married for about twelve years. Herbert died at the age of six resulting from a stomach
obstruction. Florence died of a cancer shortly after Herbert's
passed.</span><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />Burruss later married Jennie Wait Foster (my grandmother) and they had seven children together. All of the children from the second marriage referred to Florence as 'Miss Florence' and Herbert as 'Little Herbert' (usually with 'poor' before it). <br /><br />Only half of all living babies born in the Victorian Era survived until their first birthday. Only two out of ten babies actually managed to reach their second birthday. Children died of influenza outbreaks, diphtheria, scarlet fever, measles, whooping cough, polio, tetanus and typhoid. They were not fortunate enough to benefit from the medicine that we have access of today. Poor sanitation (no piped-piped water, lack of immunizations) made it a tough time for a kid to survive. </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> There's a lot of small markers of little ones from that era. We feel a little sadness when we come across those small stones.<br /></span>A top reason couples had larger families was because of the high mortality rate for children. Parents accepted the sad fact that not all of their children would make it to adulthood. My grandfather's second marriage produced seven offspring, each who had good long lives. Only one of their children contracted polio ~ but still lived a full live.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The bright side to little Herbert's story, as countless other little children who died so young, were born to Heaven early. Burruss, Florence and Herbert have long since reunited, as have all of Burruss' loved ones that came after him. It's a continual grand reunion.<br /><br />When our time comes, we'll each join that celebration. <br /></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #e06666;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><strong><em>"</em></strong></span></b></span></span><em><span style="color: #e06666;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">So
we are always of good courage. We know that while we are at home in the
body we are away from the Lord, for we walk by faith, not by sight.
Yes, we are of good courage, and we would rather be away from the body
and at home with the Lord."<br />~II Corinthians 5:6-8</span></b></span></span></em></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-9935228071581143072017-05-31T20:59:00.000-05:002017-05-31T20:59:33.005-05:00Two Important People<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKJb-QpH9EeWmLd4LnizZNU9495bcDXJg12lNLSdfje_oHfcXRm4zTPMfNBH9O7mvohJ_FC-FazMEOFC2jHrIyZERQr304qurFAgh1RHjOSf84jA2Zh4KdJSEz9GyvZVE8bcGUrs0blZ-Q/s1600/RevWashingtonLafayetteWait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1114" data-original-width="751" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKJb-QpH9EeWmLd4LnizZNU9495bcDXJg12lNLSdfje_oHfcXRm4zTPMfNBH9O7mvohJ_FC-FazMEOFC2jHrIyZERQr304qurFAgh1RHjOSf84jA2Zh4KdJSEz9GyvZVE8bcGUrs0blZ-Q/s400/RevWashingtonLafayetteWait.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Rev. Washington Lafayette Wait</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMv98GTlrc9Nz1ThZ5Yl_TehPWNcDIb3zP-oC-VBW2ojTqrCPQgFTkv4FAVFysw85fanCAU2T_Q_v2bAgwP8P3aHGR8eksMfSrg4CspolA6zoP-n_hMSezfPRRl0qY1yFubp-iTASpFrAQ/s1600/Jane+Wofford+Wait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="742" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMv98GTlrc9Nz1ThZ5Yl_TehPWNcDIb3zP-oC-VBW2ojTqrCPQgFTkv4FAVFysw85fanCAU2T_Q_v2bAgwP8P3aHGR8eksMfSrg4CspolA6zoP-n_hMSezfPRRl0qY1yFubp-iTASpFrAQ/s320/Jane+Wofford+Wait.jpg" width="246" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Jane Wofford Wait</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My paternal grandmother, <a href="http://burruss.blogspot.com/2017/05/miss-jennie-wait-foster-pianoforte.html" target="_blank">Jennie Wait Foster Finlayson</a> ,was born into a large family, but the children were scattered
when her parents James Turner and his wife Rebecca Wofford Foster died. Jennie Wait and her brother Louie Eugene were raised by her relatives, <a href="https://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GSvcid=344856&GRid=10072108&" target="_blank">Rev. Washington Lafayette Wait</a> and <a href="https://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=10072105" target="_blank">Mrs. Jane Wofford Wait</a> who lived in
Spartanburg, SC. Mrs. Jane Wofford was my great grandmother's sister. Sisters Rebecca and Jane were nieces of </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GSvcid=344856&GRid=52093972&" target="_blank">Dr. Benjamin Wofford</a>, founder <a href="https://www.wofford.edu/library/archives/benjamin-wofford.aspx" target="_blank">Wofford College</a>.</span><br />It's a bitter sweet story and I wish I knew more of it to tell; parents die, siblings scattered, raised by relatives. I'd like to know more of that story, what happened to all the other children of James and Rebecca Turner.<br /><br />I have had these two pictures hanging on my studio wall above my desk for the last decade. They are strangers to me, yet when I look to them, I am reminded of the place they made in their heart and home to my grandmother.<br /><br />Both Rev. Washington Lafayette Wait and his wife Jane Wofford Wait are buried at the Springwood Cemetary in Greenville, SC.</span></div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-14787225902901103172017-05-30T15:12:00.000-05:002017-05-30T15:58:13.431-05:00a real lady<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC3ZXPDtbQKKpEWzm2VnrZ2fRRRsCEBOdTSKB0Mg8DiWm1yJzIP-aXL0NiFQ41-tGjDlDmQ_2z2XocTfJvZbVUepC92GUpB63XU0E3_x7ujaCIRQ8EUHk8XewsPKX7rRQXyrgubN7xmCHc/s1600/Esther_16_BiloxiMS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="565" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC3ZXPDtbQKKpEWzm2VnrZ2fRRRsCEBOdTSKB0Mg8DiWm1yJzIP-aXL0NiFQ41-tGjDlDmQ_2z2XocTfJvZbVUepC92GUpB63XU0E3_x7ujaCIRQ8EUHk8XewsPKX7rRQXyrgubN7xmCHc/s400/Esther_16_BiloxiMS.jpg" width="336" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Esther Ophelia Davidson</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This is my mother at sixteen years old. I believe this photo was taken while visiting her namesake Aunt Esther (Covington) during her trip to Biloxi, MS. Mother never mentioned other trips of her youth other than the Biloxi adventure. It's apparent she turned a lot of heads of our servicemen during that trip. She was a real looker.<br /><br />Back in 1988, I was shooting a video for Gadsden Museum of Arts that featured the late Leo Reynolds. Leo was a well known artist in the Etowah County area. During our taping, he asked me if I was one of Esther Finlayson's children. He put down his brush, sighed and leaned back in his chair. He started talking about his youth around the Davidson children, sharing sweet memories of his childhood. He expressed his adoration for my Esther, what a wonderful person she was. Of course I agreed.<br /><br />"She's a real lady". Leo said that two or three times during that visit. Of course I agreed.</span></div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-240346203415045452017-05-29T01:10:00.003-05:002017-05-29T01:10:55.760-05:00Rutha at Twenty<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc3YgqOgphYHMaiOFR9ptlBcRczH2dLnXRvAboVvh1hMDhyphenhyphenysQnZhTFAB3pGucseFV-mX99_kBV3k-cF3Zr41kpEBZ_yZV5H0-vlhzwpFopC6yHjntZXn1PcPKugEtDH1tRgO9xc5nDPiV/s1600/Rutha+Wait+Dyal++1925.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="403" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc3YgqOgphYHMaiOFR9ptlBcRczH2dLnXRvAboVvh1hMDhyphenhyphenysQnZhTFAB3pGucseFV-mX99_kBV3k-cF3Zr41kpEBZ_yZV5H0-vlhzwpFopC6yHjntZXn1PcPKugEtDH1tRgO9xc5nDPiV/s400/Rutha+Wait+Dyal++1925.jpg" width="322" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Rutha Wait Finlayson<br />Lander College, 1925</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><b><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">" Rutha possesses a laughing sunny disposition and rare musical talents. She has the art of so adapting herself that she is in harmony with her surroundings."<br />-Lander College Annual</span></i></b><br /><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Miss Rutha Wait Finlayson was soon to become Mrs. Ernest Dyal, soon to become widowed by twenty-two. I remember her voice and her laughter, her deep love for music. Her sunny disposition though was wounded when the bullet passed through her husband's head and he fell lifeless into her lap. She never married again.<br /><br />I knew Rutha, but not the adaptable woman who was described "in harmony with her surroundings". She went on afterward, taught voice and piano like her mother. She lived on, kept her faith and laughed ~ but there was always an anxiousness about her.<br /><br />I try not to remember her merely for that tragedy, but that sad shadow was always about her. Whenever our Columbia kin came for a visit, we were told to put away all our toy guns. We all did our part to keep that shadow to the back of her. <br /><br />One day we'll meet <a href="https://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=120148400" target="_blank">Rutha</a> anew. We'll see her without the shadow, long since adapted to the harmony that is experienced in Heaven's light. We shall soon see her smile like we've never saw it here.<br /><i><br /><br />"Oh, there is something in that voice that reaches the innermost recesses of my spirit!"</i><br /><br /></span></div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-17124977266676201262017-05-28T00:16:00.001-05:002017-05-28T20:21:55.895-05:00Miss. Jennie Wait Foster, Pianoforte<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbpL9fSNv3HFr_L3hdtb_4Dnz50Kkn_XjDar2Q08nYWvNahzy9vlL0pZo1sskujFBNbyXZ7LfOYX8QAi-SvOLB0CvTol-mwAZ3PW7ORT3qBkwyi_DkvjvtDL6vDqK69nUYkuppyiELbFqe/s1600/Jennie_Wait_Foster_Columbia+College.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1061" data-original-width="825" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbpL9fSNv3HFr_L3hdtb_4Dnz50Kkn_XjDar2Q08nYWvNahzy9vlL0pZo1sskujFBNbyXZ7LfOYX8QAi-SvOLB0CvTol-mwAZ3PW7ORT3qBkwyi_DkvjvtDL6vDqK69nUYkuppyiELbFqe/s400/Jennie_Wait_Foster_Columbia+College.jpg" width="310" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My paternal grandmother, before she met my grandfather, was pictured among the faculty of Columbia College in the their first yearbook (The Columbian) ever published for the college in 1904. At that time, Columbia College had just moved to it's new location in North Columbia. The college changed it's name from Columbia Female College in 1905, which was the same year she married my grandfather. <br /><br />The college was founded in 1854 and officially opened in 1859 and is among the oldest women's colleges in the United States. The college closed in 1865, when Sherman's troops marched through Columbia. Professor of Music W.H. Orchard saved the college from being burned to the ground by standing in the doorway of the college where he could be seen by the Union troops. The college reopened in 1873.<br /><br />Miss Foster left her position and married a dry goods merchant, Mr. Burruss Finlayson, and made her home in Cheraw, South Carolina. She resumed teaching piano and voice from the Finlayson residence as she raised seven children. All of those Finlayson children loved to sing just like their mother.<br /><br />About thirty years ago, after playing a concert in Macon, Georgia, Dizzy Gillespie and Patillo Ainsworth Finlayson (Uncle Pat) met and had a moment to chat. Both Pat and Dizzy had been friends as youth before the war ~ having worked as ushers at Lyric Theatre. Dizzy asked about all Pat's siblings, and expressed his high regard and praise for Cheraw's voice and piano teacher ~ Mrs. Burruss Finlayson. </span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1NcM3queBpluaUJgCTuZ0KdUrCN-mYLtPnPLcM3svG7l1t59yl7tDANn2oPSVvPRfwnYDSaEVpbcvDtVogYTVyu4bM_capadLkVOvYPKTnGzo8FRNqva2nkDf_phWc0186Lo7BlfSmUMf/s1600/Jennie_Wait_Foster_Columbia+College_CU.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="356" data-original-width="296" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1NcM3queBpluaUJgCTuZ0KdUrCN-mYLtPnPLcM3svG7l1t59yl7tDANn2oPSVvPRfwnYDSaEVpbcvDtVogYTVyu4bM_capadLkVOvYPKTnGzo8FRNqva2nkDf_phWc0186Lo7BlfSmUMf/s400/Jennie_Wait_Foster_Columbia+College_CU.jpg" width="332" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">JENNIE WAIT FOSTER</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-79103099943968986652017-05-06T14:15:00.002-05:002017-05-06T14:15:57.402-05:00no one here<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-6qb7UjspjMxKHcWBF-8wbAyKUqnAhmIL5CzSHmo5X1UeSyRbcF_wsXuMvZarCl_fAOyH7RPSiDbUBivlatJ6QaNZVinDyiCKHspK4ZLLsAtsQzMC2nY21t1RTtNJn7R_hkCWiKy7f4ql/s1600/Marker_Forrest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-6qb7UjspjMxKHcWBF-8wbAyKUqnAhmIL5CzSHmo5X1UeSyRbcF_wsXuMvZarCl_fAOyH7RPSiDbUBivlatJ6QaNZVinDyiCKHspK4ZLLsAtsQzMC2nY21t1RTtNJn7R_hkCWiKy7f4ql/s400/Marker_Forrest.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">i come here</span></span></i><br /><i><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">no one there</span></span></i><br /><i><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">just familiar names</span></span></i><br /><i><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">of two i loved and love</span></span></i><br /><i><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">it is just a mile marker</span></span></i><br /><i><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">of souls who passed through here</span></span></i><br /><i><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">now somewhere else</span></span></i><br /><i><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">no longer slumbering</span></span></i><br /><i><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">amid the quiet</span></span></i><br /><i><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">rather elsewhere celebrating together</span></span></i><br /><i><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">dwelling where we had all rather be</span></span></i><br /><i><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span></span></i><br /><i><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Home</span></span></i><br /><i><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span></span></i><br /><i><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">with you</span></span></i><br /><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"></span><br /></div>
</div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-30878914440506693372017-04-28T11:47:00.001-05:002017-04-28T11:48:28.731-05:00Some stories must be told<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN91VtIK0KWTMEouIfzMc0B8ZxeMppR3kC6Ms8OuMhz4YwHKFyPHNLseA2OGE7JlCok182ni7Xx6IQIkHjWVZjEJIyrwHTg5ehtYhK97CMW-JI45jdJT3JWML02IPyl1T71CctUFzcpYEs/s1600/David_facebook_Sketch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN91VtIK0KWTMEouIfzMc0B8ZxeMppR3kC6Ms8OuMhz4YwHKFyPHNLseA2OGE7JlCok182ni7Xx6IQIkHjWVZjEJIyrwHTg5ehtYhK97CMW-JI45jdJT3JWML02IPyl1T71CctUFzcpYEs/s400/David_facebook_Sketch.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #a2c4c9;">Gina has been asking me to write my stories, but I don't think she's ever read my blog. I've written many life stories here at Long Journey Home and at the Boomerville, USA blog. There are certain stories that just can't be written, but must be told for the best effect...like that time I accidentally let Dad roll down hill in his wheelchair or that Halloween that I passed a creepy dummy off as my grandfather while on a date. Some stories just have to be told.</span></span></div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-19196217169974042252017-03-17T03:33:00.001-05:002017-03-17T03:33:24.346-05:00seek what is true<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div data-contents="true">
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="95ud8" data-offset-key="d575d-0-0">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC7tmOi7j_DZlK5AmQREUlOvfGJptJZOpbRibwjOyxELa0lNGwqcFlKVeX1uvB_YoO9qrzwKj0zTMPSgOZ5Qx9YaPEcn0riHdqMFrEr2CSATiO3He4qUU1JxS-9JtK6caLwJV4UTrOZfDH/s1600/confirmation-bias.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC7tmOi7j_DZlK5AmQREUlOvfGJptJZOpbRibwjOyxELa0lNGwqcFlKVeX1uvB_YoO9qrzwKj0zTMPSgOZ5Qx9YaPEcn0riHdqMFrEr2CSATiO3He4qUU1JxS-9JtK6caLwJV4UTrOZfDH/s400/confirmation-bias.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d575d-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="d575d-0-0"><span data-text="true">Are you practicing confirmation bias? Are you genuinely seeking to confirm evidence rather than the evidence that will dis-confirm your point of view? Are you willing to go there?</span></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="95ud8" data-offset-key="3qj4r-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3qj4r-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="3qj4r-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="95ud8" data-offset-key="fknpf-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="fknpf-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="fknpf-0-0"><span data-text="true">An open minded individual doesn't reject information that endangers one's position. The open minded individual seeks what is true ~ rather than ignore/downplay evidence that threatens to undermine his or her ideology.</span></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="95ud8" data-offset-key="7katq-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7katq-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="7katq-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="95ud8" data-offset-key="b1vp0-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="b1vp0-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="b1vp0-0-0"><span data-text="true">Seek what is true, even if it's uncomfortable. Pride can keep us ignorant. Pride keeps us from truly learning. Pride keeps us apart. </span></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="95ud8" data-offset-key="81ijg-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="81ijg-0-0">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span data-offset-key="81ijg-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br />Wherever we are ~ let's start with an humble heart and go from there.<br /></span></span><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><b><i><span><span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody"><span>When pride comes, then comes disgrace, but with the humble is wisdom. </span><br /><span>~Proverbs 11:2</span></span></span></span></span></i></b></span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-5802687535596641672016-07-22T18:04:00.001-05:002016-07-22T18:04:21.537-05:00Wicked Witch of The West Wing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnK9hnzJ4lrueQS0N_mnF0vueK5wXaLW1yNYliJqR8vuX3VKc4034ATEOeMkBqugau9WDxQFAvdimItVuKZeMlMafmElSlVfCDiwRAG-3sGGDq0-SMa7MLJ1MryM2LVvIS7dal8SlkN284/s1600/flying+monkey+Hillary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnK9hnzJ4lrueQS0N_mnF0vueK5wXaLW1yNYliJqR8vuX3VKc4034ATEOeMkBqugau9WDxQFAvdimItVuKZeMlMafmElSlVfCDiwRAG-3sGGDq0-SMa7MLJ1MryM2LVvIS7dal8SlkN284/s400/flying+monkey+Hillary.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">During a speech this week, Hillary made an analogy relating her
opposition on the right as characters from The Wizard of Oz. She
scoffed, <b>"lots of sound and fury, even a fog machine. But when you
pulled back the curtain it was just Donald Trump with nothing to offer
to the American people"</b>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> If you recall, The Great & Powerful
Wizard wasn't all he said he was, but did come through in the end. In
his own way, The Wizard couldn't offer a magic answer, but was able to
give the <span class="text_exposed_show">main characters what they
needed. Did he not have a way to get Dorothy back to Kansas? The
Wizard was a good guy in this story.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
Once upon a time John McCain referred to the Tea Party as "Tea Party
Hobbits". To John, this was supposed to be a clever disparaging insult
at his opposition. Yet it was the Hobbits in Tolkien's epic tale who
were the heroes that saved Middle-earth. So if the Tea Party are
Hobbits, what does that make John McCain, a tool of Mordor?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
Hillary should've thought her analogy through thoroughly before opening
her mouth. If Trump is The Wizard, then whose character in this story is
she?</span></div>
</div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-82677310736003020542016-05-24T13:06:00.001-05:002016-05-24T20:57:50.572-05:00two thumbs up and five gold stars<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-E-IJPEqe2N246Na2XQtlkJsFoQAslphEuefcxXmIJslECQ__O7l5G4BcLOsS7CUmZ_hhsCZgC2rRUx0eJybO4PSyKRAxDuyPen_1kYDORXnZ79SzDmmj7dhcud_ld1mBpuKYsfeT3O7/s1600/bose-speaker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-E-IJPEqe2N246Na2XQtlkJsFoQAslphEuefcxXmIJslECQ__O7l5G4BcLOsS7CUmZ_hhsCZgC2rRUx0eJybO4PSyKRAxDuyPen_1kYDORXnZ79SzDmmj7dhcud_ld1mBpuKYsfeT3O7/s400/bose-speaker.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I purchased my Bose Soundlink a year ago. This is a great little Bluetooth speaker that puts out a lot of sound, not just a lot, but a full sound. I usually use it with my iphone 6, but have used it as my laptop speaker. My wife enjoys watching Netflix shows on her Kindle Fire, my daughter has enjoyed listening to music on her iPad. The Bose Color Soundlink can connect up to eight devi<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">c</span>es. If you're a massage therapist, this little speaker won't take up space in your work area, and it's ideal when you have to take your show on the road. The Soundlink comes in various colors. I chose red so I lessen the chance of leaving behind. I take this little speaker almost everywhere I go. I usually purchase black, but I knew I'd be more apt to lose it if I went that route.<br /><br />Bose is just as renown for sound quality as they are packing a lot of sound into a small package. The average retail is $130.00. I bought my Bose at Best Buy and it was worth every penny. The speaker comes with a heavy duty wall charger/USB cable. I recommend you pick up an 1/8th inch speaker cable just in case you have need run it to a Bluetoothless computer. The rechargeable lithium-ion battery lasts up to eight hours. That's a lot of listening pleasure!<br /><br />I'm not a tech savvy guy, so being easy to operate is also a big plus. </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This unit is very user friendly.</span><br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/xXs1t8m9poI" width="560"></iframe><br /></div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-4686652318179721322016-04-10T20:44:00.003-05:002016-04-11T17:16:29.796-05:00two incredible souls<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJBwPV6-OhnCbMyAHJ14qcRGd9ORDsRj73U2GH1lEa_ZPc2h0v-Wx8wftfvhx1BcEYgDHo5LVTn39IdF-fOTw1D5AXwO5_Po3b0iAzuKIxu5MDy6-HL-hcxtgi1RQVs4gCCX05Gxco5ULM/s1600/rickandbecki.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJBwPV6-OhnCbMyAHJ14qcRGd9ORDsRj73U2GH1lEa_ZPc2h0v-Wx8wftfvhx1BcEYgDHo5LVTn39IdF-fOTw1D5AXwO5_Po3b0iAzuKIxu5MDy6-HL-hcxtgi1RQVs4gCCX05Gxco5ULM/s400/rickandbecki.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I got a job in Huntsville April of last year. My home is an hour and a half away from that job. I had been spending a little over three hours drive time to and from that job month after month until Rick and Beckie graciously invited me into their home. They were insistent about me treating their home as my home and not act as a guest. They really meant it. They made me feel like family, and I still feel like they are indeed family.<br /><br />I had to quit my job at Virginia College due to my health. I haven't been back up there since I fell ill. <span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">M</span>y clothes are still hanging in Rick and Beckie's closet. I've got to get back up there and pick up the gear I left behind. They said that it's not in their way, that there's no hurry. I know that even when my stuff is gone, a part of me will remain. <span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My mind <span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">regularly w<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">a</span>nder<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">s northward of here, </span>what's <span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">happening at school, what's <span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">happening at my <span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">other home.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><br />I'll miss that big marble table, heated by the space heater, that we all seemed to draw toward at the end of every day. It seems the heart of their hom<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">e<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">. Every night</span></span> Captain Kangaroo' (their long-legged cat) would be drawn to Beckie's lap. <span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"></span>Rick would often light up his pipe and we'd <span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">drift into </span>deep conversations for hours on end. I will miss those talks about music, life and God.<br /><br />Life is all about change. You never know when change will take place, but we must be willing to roll with each day. I know a good season is behind me. The experience was hard but pleasant. I'll move on with this change, let go of what is now over, but not my love for these two incredible souls. We will see each other, but not as much as before. I love you two. </span></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was blessed to be welcomed into <span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">your</span> family. I am blessed to have had <span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">you</span> in my lif<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">e.</span> </span></span></div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-35227874246168683302016-04-06T23:52:00.000-05:002017-09-02T11:06:58.586-05:00My Chick-fil-A Daze<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmTzfAk4UpS1qOTL7gQeEhD6nCcS9nIgQPQN9SUT_Sr4FgwGAhI27W6ZKj_yt7hc33_tZzxhR7Bn1NRkL_CrUMuMP5Do4CgQsk0dAGAlB8qU5r7m1GADK7klHCW0o5zD-s2zzy2i3ov21M/s1600/Gina1984.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmTzfAk4UpS1qOTL7gQeEhD6nCcS9nIgQPQN9SUT_Sr4FgwGAhI27W6ZKj_yt7hc33_tZzxhR7Bn1NRkL_CrUMuMP5Do4CgQsk0dAGAlB8qU5r7m1GADK7klHCW0o5zD-s2zzy2i3ov21M/s320/Gina1984.jpg" width="135" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I never had a Chick-fil-A sandwich before I got the job at Chick-fil-A. Maybe it's because, in those days, I rarely went to the mall. I went to the mall one day back in 1984 looking for a job. I went from one end to the other filling out applications with little luck I didn't even think of Chick-fil-A. In fact, I had called it quits and was on my way out of the Gadsden Mall to go home.<br /><br />Then, I heard someone call my name. When I looked to my right, I saw this bright eyed girl smiling and waving at me from behind the counter of that chicken joint. I knew that I had seen her at Christian Brothers Coffeehouse, but couldn't remember her name. I met countless people through Christian Brothers as a host, people would know my name but unfortunately, I couldn't remember all of their names. She was one of them. I replied with a "Hi!" and walked over to her. The conversation was brief. She asked me what I was up to. I told her that I had been looking for a job. "Would you like to work here", "Sure, that would be great!", I replied. She said, "Give me a minute and let me go up and talk to Steve real quick." I still didn't know her name and was feeling sort of embarrassed that I couldn't recall it. I was relieved when the manager, Steve Plimpton, came down and gave me both her name and the job I needed. He said something like "Gina tells me you'd like to join our team, and if Gina recommends you, I'll hire you." <br /><br />Her name is Gina.<br /><br />I started on a very busy Friday night. Back in those days, it seemed like every person in Etowah County was at the Gadsden Mall - they probably were. It was even crowded behind the counter with all the staff in those narrow work spaces. Associates behind every register with a couple of people on the board filling the orders. The kitchen was just as busy. It was so busy that first night that I felt very much in the way. I was given the task of cleaning restrooms, filling the ice chests up front from the ice maker in the kitchen. I squeezed a ton of lemons and was taught how to make that incredible Chick-fil-A lemonade. People would put me on task and then leave me to figure things out. <br /><br />I always looked forward to working with that girl Gina. She pretty much trained me in the ways of Chick-fil-A. I saw that she was very friendly and patient person. She was a hard worker. She was a very honest person. Of course I took interest, but didn't say anything. She was involved in someone else at the time. Gina eventually got a job at Eckerd Drug, not the one next door, but the one in Alabama City. I didn't see her as much after she left.<br /><br />I guess I worked at Chick-fil-A for about a year of my life. I hustled at that job. If I didn't have something to do, I'd find something to do. It was overall a good experience. The fun times were closing up shop, when the mall was empty and a few of the associates would lock ourselves in to break it all down and clean up. I met Jerry Connell while working for Chick-fil-A. I especially enjoyed closing with Jerry. He'd clean the kitchen and I'd clean the front. We enjoyed each others sense of humor and laughed and laughed as we worked. We'd often hit a movie if we finished up on time. We are still dear friends today.<br /><br />One day that girl Gina dropped by Chick-fil-A. She asked me how the job was doing and I said "okay". I could do with a change. She asked me if I'd be interested in working at Eckerds. Well, it worked out great the first time she asked me if I wanted a job. Once again, I was learning a new job with that pretty girl teaching me the ropes again. It took me a while to express my interest in her. I waited a while after she became un-involved with that guy. She never seemed in need of a date. <br /><br />Well.<br /><br />Eventually we'd venture out after work as a group of friends to eat or see a movie. Eventually, I asked her to go to a movie by ourselves. Eventually she became my girl - and eventually my wife.</span></div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-25264863040207069972016-01-05T23:59:00.002-06:002016-01-07T06:14:10.117-06:00silver wings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxW01nAeHOj-vBUZP8KlugNgMfxNXBXz3SBrg6gIb2jsdER1Wlp7OJctml5Qp7myaX5hqQpssOqhuvnwmn5wrcFpBcU6sD8KClqDnUXrqu74srRZ4tMxF3bYQ5IRSZn8K8cY-kp3shIwR9/s1600/vapor+trail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxW01nAeHOj-vBUZP8KlugNgMfxNXBXz3SBrg6gIb2jsdER1Wlp7OJctml5Qp7myaX5hqQpssOqhuvnwmn5wrcFpBcU6sD8KClqDnUXrqu74srRZ4tMxF3bYQ5IRSZn8K8cY-kp3shIwR9/s400/vapor+trail.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #cfe2f3;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The Lady Lee was crippled and had fallen back from the formation. I could hear his calm voice as it crackled over the radio. Lloyd was the only man left on her. The plane had heavy flack damage, including the cockpit. The seasoned pilot was unable to leave it. I got on the horn and we chattered, hoping to give him some comfort that he wasn't alone, but he didn't let on that he needed it. There was an unfamiliar weakness in his voice, yet his handle on the yoke stayed sure and steady. Even amid our brief encounter in the air, he seemed peaceful and resolute. His demeanor calmed my spirit, rather than mine, his.<br /><br />I caught a visual on the fire from both wings, starting to bellow out thick and black. The closer I got, the more flack damage I could see. Lady Lee was a hopeless, yet defiant girl. I could now hear the engines sputter. I pulled closer beside my good friend, he turned and we made eye contact. He offered me a smile through the broken glass and a firm thumbs up. <br /><br />Lloyd then pulled his yoke back and directed his tattered vessel upward and away. I kept watch on him, as his vessel ascended into a sea of white cloud and into the heavens.<br /><br />Then he was gone.<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vGWHW_0LQ64" width="420"></iframe></span></span></div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246301260943127814.post-29961628844941965762015-12-30T15:49:00.002-06:002016-01-07T07:40:29.231-06:00the beauty that counts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWK1mzn2ovAC3IaxnamSyBYYY0kiT2lfbQCfnJU-9nDld_voV6kQPM8cgXEnBGC2w_2b0tD3oxoQ62ccYcj2Kz40pn3UBXyXGtyum2UdYOrvufzniZYAOj4r8iz1sZL8-vOgY5Ldoqag7r/s1600/beauty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWK1mzn2ovAC3IaxnamSyBYYY0kiT2lfbQCfnJU-9nDld_voV6kQPM8cgXEnBGC2w_2b0tD3oxoQ62ccYcj2Kz40pn3UBXyXGtyum2UdYOrvufzniZYAOj4r8iz1sZL8-vOgY5Ldoqag7r/s400/beauty.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><b>"Beauty is only skin deep."</b></i><br /><br /> No it isn't. <br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Judging beauty solely by someone's epidermis is literally superficial. To behold the lasting beauty, one must measure deeper. We must each invest time to see the true and lasting beauty of someone's soul. Beauty is more inward than outward. Beauty is a pure and loving heart. It is what is inside that counts.<br /><i><b><br /><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">"Rather let it be the hidden person of the heart, with the
imperishable quality of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is precious in
the sight of God.</span></b></i></span><span class="p"><i><b><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">"<br />~1 Peter 3:4</span></span></b></i></span><br />
<span class="p"><i><b><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"> </span></span></b></i></span><span class="p"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">As we age, let us allow our Creator to renew our minds and refine our hearts to become more like the beautiful image of our Savior. As we age, let us pursue His way. As we age, let us age well!</span></span></span></div>
David Finlaysonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777087169060713857noreply@blogger.com0