Returning to Basics
By Richard Mabey Jr.
In writing this blog, I have found myself subject to a lot of harsh criticism. Some of it extremely cruel. Some of the people chose to use extremely unkind lingo. Kind of sad.
Basically, the Internet allows people to comment on a person’s blog, where the critic can be totally anonymous. As a result, I have to confess that I have found myself becoming less than enthusiastic about the idea of writing my blog.
It’s been a time of mourning for me. My beloved Shetland Sheepdog recently lost her battle to liver failure. Two dear and wonderful people from my old neighborhood, who were both younger than me, recently went Home to be with the Lord. Both of these good women had a solid belief in the Lord. Still, in the human state of mind, one mourns.
In the past few weeks, I’ve been battling a terrible case of writer’s block. For those of you who are writers, you know this is no joke. Writer’s block is very real.
At the same time, in these past few weeks, I have thought and reflected a lot upon memories of my beloved dad. A million and one memories have walked the path across the chambers of my heart and mind. I’ve reflected upon little things, seemingly unimportant moments, as well as those moments in time that made the headlines.
My dad served as Scoutmaster of Boy Scout Troop 170 from 1966 till 1994. For 28 years, Dad dedicated his heart, mind and inner being to see that the boys of our old Mayberry had the chance to enjoy camping, hiking and learn scouting skills. It was always the hope and dream of my dad, that through scouting, the boys who went through the scouting program would grow into gentlemen who would become productive members of their community. I’ve had the honor to keep in touch with some of the former scouts of good old 170. Dad’s dream become a reality.
For the past three years of my life, I’ve been working in the Security Division of a large gated community in Florida. All this past week, while at work, little bubbles of memories of dear old Dad floated across the inner screen of my mind. I knew in my heart, mind and soul that the time had come to return to basics, in my direction as a writer. The time had come to return to my long lost dream of seeing my book, “I Remember Dad,” become published.
It’s painful to admit this, but I’ve hit some roadblocks along the way. In some editors’ eyes my book lacks drama, it lacks conflict, it lacks page-turning tension. “I Remember Dad” is an honest reflection of the one man who had the greatest influence upon my life. I have to confess that it is not very dramatic, it is not that exciting. But it is the very core of the heart of my beloved Dad.
I remember how my dad would come home on a Friday night, from his job as a long-distance truck driver. During supper, I would see the aches and pains that he felt in the fiber and joints of his body, reflected in his eyes. Dad worked hard, very hard. And when Friday evenings came, I am sure that his easy chair in our old homestead living room looked all too inviting. But, somehow and someway my dad dug deep into his heart and found the strength and the energy to recharge his battery. After supper, Dad would go upstairs and shave, get washed up, and put on his scout uniform. At quarter after seven, we’d both jump into Dad’s pick up truck and drive off to the meeting hall of Saint Andrew’s Episcopal Church, for another meeting of the scouts of good old 170. This moment in time is one of the most cherished memories of my childhood.
So, to all my critics I say, knock yourselves out. Have a blast. Run me down all you want. Something has renewed the flame in my heart, to once again give it all I’ve got to see that my tribute book to my dad becomes published. To all the book publishing companies that have rejected “I Remember Dad,” I say this to you: IT’S YOUR LOSS!
I know this may sound arrogant of me. But it’s just the way that I honestly feel.
Peace and harmony,