Category Archives: Inspiration

The Year of the Sweater

It was the Christmas of 1971. It was customary that Grandmother Nichols would arrive early in the morning at the Sims house with her annual contributions to the family Christmas meal. She was a widow and enjoyed spending holidays with us. We only lived two blocks away from both of our grandmothers, so the daily interaction between generations was one of the most wonderful thing about growing up in a small town around loving family. Grandmother Nichols’ secret recipe for homemade yeast rolls was legendary. They were rolls that literally melted in the mouth. None of the family has mastered her recipe since she passed away. What made it special was probably the measureless cup of love that went into each roll. It was a requirement that she provided the rolls for any special dinner at the family table.

Estelle Nichols

When Grandmother finally came through the door, I noticed that she was without with her freshly prepared pan of yeast rolls. Instead she carried an armful of gifts to place under the tree. I assumed the rolls were still in her car. My little sister gained her attention immediately pointing out the array of toys Santa had brought. Amidst the joyous confusion, she placed her gifts under the tree just before the time to open our gifts for one another.

I was fourteen years old and in junior high in 1971. Home from college, my older brother Mike was 19, and our sister Donna was only eight. Of course, Donna was the center of attention during the gift opening time, squealing at the opportunity to open each new gift, and then loudly declaring what it was to the entire room. I remember it as heartwarming chaos.

Being fourteen, I had transitioned from toys to other “stuff,” although I remember secretly longing for those days when a new Christmas toy lit up my life. But I was working hard to appear as mature as possible, so I never let my disappointment show. Most of my Christmas gifts were clothes, and electronics (which in that day were limited to clock-radios and lava lamps). My brother’s gifts were even more adult– clothes, a billfold, and some 8-track tapes for his car.

Grandmother Nichols waited breathlessly for my bother and me to open her gift to us. They were shirt boxes wrapped identically in green holly wrapping paper. It was difficult to decipher which box belonged to whom, since “Mike” and “Mark” looked the same in Grandmother’s handwriting.

Expecting a warm winter shirt, we each tore the paper away and opened the gift. I got to the goods first and held it up in front of me– a light blue sweater with two huge brown deer adorning the front!! “Oh, wow, Grandma! Thank you so much,” I uttered with fake glee, thinking “How in the world can I wear this sweater in the front of anyone who knows me?” Fourteen year olds have a hard time with self-image as it is, so wearing it in public was out of the question for me. I had a hard enough time getting my bangs to swoosh over my forehead in an acceptable manner. The blue sweater emblazoned with deer was a reputation graveyard.

I cut my eyes over at Mike who was giving me the smirk that said it all. He knew I was mortified and all he could do was hold back a laugh. Then he opened his box from Grandmother Nichols. Oh yes. It was light blue as well. Alas, she had found the giant deer print in his size too! Matching sweaters for the Sims boys!

Grandmother was so proud of her accomplishment. “Do you like ‘um,” she asked? All we could do was say meaningless words like, “wow,” and “look,” and “oh, boy,” Mom was watching closely, covering her mouth as she always did when she was in shock. She remembered how she used to dress us up in matching attire– until Mike refused to be dressed like his kid brother– five years his junior. Dressed in matching pedal-pushers (light blue and gold) had been the end of the twins-look for the Sims boys– and that was a full decade ago. What could we do? Of course, we did what we had to do. We thanked her profusely and gave her lots of hugs as kisses. Besides, the rolls at the dinner table would be quite enough for us.

Mom announced that we would be eating Christmas dinner at Grandmother Nichols house this year, since Aunt Ruth and Uncle Bruner would be joining us at the family table. Mom instructed Mike and me to help Dad get Mom’s food loaded into Grandmother’s car so that she could return home to prepare. In our house coats and pajamas we loaded her car and sent her on her way– eagerly anticipating a wonderful Christmas feast (and yummy yeast rolls) in a matter of hours.

Returning into the house, Mom met us at the door with a smile, and we all had a big laugh. We acknowledged with Mom that Grandma’s gift came with a heart of love, and how thankful we were for her undying affection for all of us. Then Mom said, “She will be so happy to see ya’ll in those sweaters at Christmas dinner.”

I froze, saying nothing. Mike did the same. But we knew we had to do it. Mom finally said, “If you’ll wear them today at her house, you’ll never have to wear them again.” So, Mike and I chose to walk to Grandma Nichols house that day– thorough a path in the woods– a shortcut we had used as kids. We laughed all the way proudly displaying the Christmas deer for all the animals in the forest to see. Mom was satisfied. Aunt Ruth thought they were darling. Grandmother Nichols showered us with love all day long. And the rolls were delicious.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. 1 Corinthians 13:13

Remember……..

Isn’t it amazing that there are certain events in our lives that have been engraved in our memory so deeply that we remember almost every detail about that event? I remember asking my parents, “Do you remember the attack on Pearl Harbor? Where were you and what were you doing?” Mom and Dad remembered vividly. Each time I asked them about it, they recalled the very same details in the very same way.

On December 7, 1941 my parents were Juniors in high school and were already a dating couple. In fact they were together that fateful Sunday afternoon when they first heard about the Japanese attack on the radio. Dad and Mom were drinking an RC Cola and talking with friends right in front of Jordan’s Drug Store on the square in Ashland. It was a Sunday afternoon gathering spot for teens. My parents were listening to Big Band music on the radio when the announcer broke in for a special news bulletin. From that day on, their lives changed. Dad even remembered thinking that eventually he and all of his friends would be going to war. Each time either of them recounted that day, they brought up a friend who was talking with them at Papa Sims’ car– Ned Browning, an Auburn freshman who was home for the weekend. My parents both lamented that it was the very last day they ever saw Ned. Ned died somewhere in the Pacific before the war was ended.

For me it was remembering the day President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. I was a second grader in November of 1963. It was just after lunchtime when our teacher, Mrs. Garrett, was called out into the hallway by Mrs. Levie. Like it was yesterday I remember exactly what she said when she returned to the room. Mrs. Garrett quietly closed the door and said,

“Boys and girls, President Kennedy has been shot in the head.” She even pointed at her temple as she said it. I remember being stunned. One of the kids in the class spoke up immediately and said,

“My daddy’s gonna be glad somebody did it.”  At that outburst, Mrs. Garrett grabbed him by the arm, jerked him up, and blistered his behind! I remember not knowing what to think, or what to do. I knew that my Dad was not very fond of President Kennedy—I had heard him say so—but I couldn’t imagine him wanting the President to be shot!

School let out about an hour early that day. I walked home with my friend Cathy. We were both confused and a bit scared. When I stepped into my house, I remember seeing my Mom sitting in the den in front of our black and white TV watching the news coverage. She was crying. Mom got up and met me as I came through the kitchen and held me close to her as she cried and said,

“I’m just so sorry you and Mike and Donna have to grow up in this terrible world.”

I was relieved knowing that my parents didn’t think his death was a good thing—not that I figured that they would—but it was comforting to know for sure. Second graders need clarity.

In college I asked fellow students “Where were you when Kennedy was assassinated?”  Just like me, every one of them could recall almost every detail. Even my wife who lived in South America in 1963, remembered it vividly.  Why? Because our baby-boomer world changed that day.

For my children it was the attack on 9/11. They can relive it in their minds like it was yesterday. Again, the world as we all knew it changed.

Remembrance is part of the uniqueness of humanity.  It has always been this way–  “Passover,” “The Parting of the Red Sea,”  “Lexington and Concord,” “Remember the Alamo,” “Remember Pearl Harbor,” “Remember 9/11.”– they all take us back to a singular moment that the world changed.  Even in the book of Isaiah we read the prophet Isaiah’s quote:

“In the year King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord……” Isaiah 6:1

According to Isaiah, his life changed that day. During a period of intense grief, Isaiah saw a vision, and he was never the same after that day.

It’s good to remember. It’s good to go back and relive the days that changed our lives.
And it won’t be just one or two, but many days where even the finest details are forever etched into our minds. Sometimes it causes us great pain, and other times great joy. But nevertheless, they are defining moments.

It is why I celebrate Christmas and Easter;

It is why I remember the day of my Baptism;

It is why I recount the miracles of God that I have personally witnessed.

It is good to remember.

“Remember the former things of old; for I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like me…”
Isaiah 46:9

“Santa?”

In the late winter of 2003 I took a crew of Master’s Commission students on a ministry trip to Finland. We were helping to establish a Master’s Commission program in the city of Rovaniemi—a city in the far north of Finland—a city actually bordering the Arctic Circle.

Aurora Borealis

Needless to say, it was quite cold in Rovaniemi, but beautiful beyond belief. We enjoyed seeing the Northern Lights in the sky after the short hours of sunlight, and ice fishing through a hole on a frozen river. Especially wonderful were the evening visits to typical Finnish saunas. After a few minutes in the blazing hot sauna, rolling around in the snow or taking a quick dip in 33 degree water (after a hole is cut in the ice covered lake) gives one’s heart a workout! Then the run back to the sauna leaves the body covered in frost, only to melt in the sauna once again. Riviting! The temperature was cold, but the hospitable Finnish people were as warm as their saunas!

The Napapiiri

While in Rovaniemi I was given the use of a small car. Driving in ice and snow in Finland was much different than driving in ice and snow in Alabama—probably because they do it half of their year and they’re good at it! One particular day I journeyed a short distance on a north bound highway, just so I could say I crossed the Arctic Circle. Sure enough, there was a marker on the side of the road reading, “Napapiiri” in Finnish, and “Arctic Circle” in English. Just to step across the line felt like a big thing.

Just across the Napapiiri was a famous tourist park called “Santa Claus Village.” It was actually a family friendly North Pole experience frequented by Finns, Swedes, Germans, Brits, and wealthy Americans. Everything was labeled in English since most Northern Europeans now understand English perfectly. Unfortunately, I arrived just after the village closed, but I was still able to walk right in like I owned the place. The very first door I opened led me into an enormous empty hallway spilling into a beautiful room adorned with all sorts of Christmas décor. At one end was a huge wooden throne surrounded by fragrant evergreens. It was obviously where Santa sat to greet the throngs of children who visited Santa Claus Village year-round.

Santa Claus Rovaniemi, Finland

I tiptoed around since I was the only person in sight. I didn’t want to make noise to draw attention to myself as I crept toward the enormous throne. Then, all of a sudden I heard a deep, kind voice echo in the huge room, “Hello.”

I spun around and there behind me stood a tall white bearded man in a deep red wool suit. He was at least 6’6” and wore reindeer hide boots, a black belt, and a red and white cap. My 47 year-old body was transfixed in front of the impressive fellow. And then, like a trembling 7 year-old, I somehow found a way to simply utter one word– one question:

“Santa?”

“Welcome to my house,” he responded, seeming to see that I was caught off guard by his powerful presence. I calmed myself and tried to think of an adult comment to make. So I decided to ask a question.

“Oh, so you speak English?”

“I speak every language,” Santa answered.

“Every language?” I responded with blind and total belief in what he just said.

“Not really,” he laughed. “I just speak Finnish, Swedish, German and English….and American since I spent a few years in the states.”

I finally relaxed and reached out for a handshake. We sat and talked for at least thirty minutes, exchanging life stories and common experiences. He had attended college and worked in North Carolina for several years before moving back to Finland to be closer to his family. He wanted to discuss with me the recent 9/11 terror attack on New York, and the war in Iraq and Afghanistan. We talked culture and politics and economics and sports and even religion. He commented on how important faith seemed to be in the lives of many Americans that he came to know. We were able to have a real heart to heart talk.

He even explained to me some things about Christmas tradition that really made sense.
For instance, in Lapland (which is a part of Finland) the early Laplanders had a tradition that on Christmas Eve a white bearded goat stained with red dye would find all the little children who had not been good and would spike them with his horns. He was called the “Joulupukki” (“Christmas Goat” or “Yuletide Goat”) the to the Laplanders, and it kept the children in line for a whole year—much like the threat of  “switches and lumps of coal in the stocking” motivate American children to be good. Eventually, the cruel “Christmas Goat” tradition merged with the “St. Nicholas” children’s gift-giving tradition, and became a man in a red suit and white beard will bring gifts to children who have been good. It makes a lot of sense.

Before I left I asked him why such a highly educated and successful guy would be working as a full-time Santa. His response fascinated me. He basically said that the only way he could find happiness was in making other people happy. So he left the rat race and moved to Finland to be Santa. “Besides,” he said, ” I look the part.”

I asked him if he ever regretted it, and he said, “Absolutely not.”

I’ll never forget the day I met the “real Santa Claus,” and we sat down at the Arctic Circle and talked about what’s really important in life.

Santa Claus Village Finland

“Whoever brings blessing will be enriched, and one who waters will himself be watered.” Proverbs 11:25

“Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.” Philippians 2:4

The Marvelous Mullet

The mullet is a hairstyle in which the hair is cut short at the front and sides, but left long at the back, and was more commonly worn by men than women. Mullets became popular in the 1980’s and 90’s sported by athletes, country music stars, punk rockers, actors, and TV preachers. Paul McCartney was an early mullet man, as was Rod Stewart, Billy Ray Cyrus, Toby Keith, Chuck Norris, John Stamos, and on and on.

John Stamos
Paul McCartney

By the turn of the last millennium, there were dozens of mullet hairstyles to be observed in the world. There were redneck mullets, Latino mullets, African-american mullets and Euro-mullets. I’ve seen long mullets, mini-mullets, perm-mullets, and wavy mullets. There was even a fashionable mullet for balding guys, called a “skullet.” The Plymouth pilgrims described the Native American chief, Samoset, as sporting a legit mullet, and Mike Gundy, the coach of the Oklahoma State Cowboys football team is still a mullet man. There are even ancient Roman and Greek statues depicting mullet hairstyles from the B.C years! Whew!

Blake Shelton

About ten years ago, as mullet culture had all but faded from the scene, I invented a game called “mullet watch” that was enjoyed by me, my two grown daughters and a few other members of the family. Any time we sighted a marvelous, spectacular mullet hairdo, we attempted to take a stealth pic of it and share it between us—just for fun. “Mullet sighting!” we would text with an incredible photo of the nearly endangered species. Of course, they were never posted on social media or exposed to the public. The last thing we wanted was a mullet defamation lawsuit. We just wanted to enjoy American history.

Andre Agassi

One afternoon in 2012, my sister and I were sitting in a physician’s waiting room with our 89 year-old father. The waiting room was almost full with about a dozen or more people crammed into the room. I sat next to Dad while my sister sat in an available chair not far away. The room was basically quiet since almost everyone in the room was either looking at a magazine, or staring into their cell phone.

Within a few minutes a tall, hefty bearded man entered waiting room sporting the most magnificent mullet that had ever been seen on planet Earth. He had a tall flat-top haircut on top, a close crew cut on the sides, and a long, flowing mullet from the middle of the back of his head and reaching almost to his belt. His hair was mousy brown and gray, but the bottom HALF of his mullet was bleach blonde with a mustard hue! It was spectacular! Just one quick photo to my daughters would certainly win the contest for me. Game over!

My sister disguised a grin as I stood up from my chair and worked my way to the magazine rack—which was adjacent to the man with the magnificent mullet. She knew exactly what I was doing. I checked to make sure the phone was on silent. I wouldn’t want the room to hear a tell-tale “click” of the camera. Very carefully I positioned my cell phone in his general direction and began doing paparazzi work, taking about three snapshots from varying angles. After I returned to my chair I checked my photos. There were a couple of shots that were perfect! It was the most marvelous mullet I had ever seen.

I wasted no time texting my daughters and sending them the pics. I could hardly wait for them to respond. Dad became suddenly interested in my hectic activity on the cell phone and leaned over to observe. Then, to my utter disbelief Dad asked out loud,

                           “What’s a mullet?”

His words split the air in the room like a bolt of lightning. I froze. My sister faked a cough, got up, and abandoned us altogether! Every person in the room looked straight at Dad and me, and then to Mullet Man himself. I avoided even glancing in Mullet Man’s direction, but I could feel him looking at us. I broke out in a cold sweat, not knowing what to do or say. Then, I faked it. I turned to Dad and muttered, “Oh, you know, it’s a fish.”

It was the worst attempt at “covering a rear” in the history of the world. I just prayed that Dad wouldn’t ask another question. The whole room suffered in the extreme discomfort of the moment, except for Dad who was clueless.

Alas, I was the elephant in the room.

AWOL

The following is an edited excerpt from my recent book, IS THAT YOU, COOLIDGE?  The book is a memoir of the life of my father, Coolidge Sims, and of my relationship with him. In a conversation with him during the last days of his life, he recounted for me a story from his time in World War 2– a tale that I had never heard. It revealed the real story behind an odd wartime photograph that I had questioned him about.

“It was toward the end of the war in Europe, after we had won the Battle of the Bulge, a buddy of mine and I got a rare seven-day furlough pass. It had been a tough winter so we decided to go to Paris for some R and R. We hitchhiked on troop trucks back across the Rhine and all the way to Paris. My buddy and I, Dunwoody we called him, were crossing the Champs Elysees (the main boulevard in Paris) when we saw one of my high school friends from Ashland—Billy Saxon!”

“Out of two million American servicemen in Europe, I ran across one of my best friends from a small Alabama town of 2000. Unbelievable! And we had the best reunion you can imagine, right in the middle of an intersection in the center of Paris, France. The Arc de Triomphe was on one side of us, and the Eiffel Tower on the other. Billy was an MP and was directing traffic at the time—we’re lucky we didn’t get run over! Dunwoody and I stayed with him for a couple of days in Paris, and then we decided to go to London. By the time we got across the English Channel and to London, our week’s furlough was almost over.  But then something totally unexpected happened.”

“You see, Dunwoody was a big guy and had a pretty hot temper. He got into an argument with an American MP and got so mad that he punched him in the face and knocked him to the ground. And before the poor guy could get up, Dunwoody started running, with me following right behind him. Neither of us wanted to get locked up in the military brig, so we ran like scared rabbits.”

“There was a train station right around the corner from where we were, so we jumped on board just as it was about to leave. During the war servicemen in uniform didn’t have to buy a ticket, so we just took a seat and assumed we were heading back to the coast where we could get the ferry back to France. But we quickly learned the the train wasn’t going south, but north—to Scotland!  We decided that since we were already going to be late, we might as well be really late and enjoy it. So we had a great time being AWOL in Edinburgh, Scotland.”

“I’ll never forget when that picture was taken. The photographer was outdoors on a windy balcony. My knobby little legs were freezing wearing that man-dress, and it took him forever to take that photo!”

“Our fathers never leave us…. ever.”   Brad Meltzer