Category: Commentary

By Kathleene Runnels

A while back Bo and Wendy Maxwell approached me about doing a painting for them. They wanted this painting to depict old/time Devine as Bo would imagine it in the 1800s. His vision was the young town nestled down in the valley with the train passing through. He wanted bluebonnets, oak trees, a horseman, a road runner and a rattlesnake, (which I almost refused to do), a house and barn, children playing in the lane, a farmhouse and cattle in the distance, and, of course, the hill country on the horizon. I can do that. But wait. This is no ordinary painting on canvas. This is going to be a mural painted on the Maxwell‘s dining room wall! This is going to be a 14 feet wide and 5 feet tall mural painted on site! Well, this is a new venture, but of course I can do it! 

So, when the time came around in February of this year, I gathered up my materials – paint, turpentine, brushes, acrylic paint for the base and headed to Devine. For the next six weeks, I showed up two or three times a week for a 3 to 4 hour afternoon painting session. 

It didn’t take long for Bo and Wendy to learn that I loved Big Red and chips, especially Cheetos. So, every time I showed up, they brought out the refreshments. 

Day One, with the scaffolding in place, I climbed up so I could reach the ceiling! The wall was painted dark maroon, a 14’ wide and 8’ tall maroon wall. Bo had planned to put up a rustic wooden siding along the bottom 3’, so he had taped it off. Remaining was the 14’ X 5’ wall that I had to prime with acrylic to neutralize the maroon! 

The scenario of me on the scaffolding lasted for weeks. But, eventually I painted my way down to ground level! 

On occasion Bo would make suggestions. It’s always good to have a fresh set of eyes. But the coolest thing about this project is how special Wendy and Bo Maxwell treated me and that, regardless of whether it’s true or not, they think the painting is wonderful. I recently asked Wendy if they were tired of looking at it yet. She assured me that they still enjoy it, and I certainly hope so because it’s there for posterity.

By Kathleene Runnels

I’m sure everyone is familiar with the 1930s song that you still hear from time to time:  “Shine on Harvest Moon”. But I wonder if anyone knows the jingle that precedes that opening line, “Shine on, shine on harvest moon, for me and my gal….”

My mother used to sing it, and I’m fortunate to have it recorded, albeit on a cassette tape. It goes like this:

“The night was mighty dark and you could hardly see; the moon refused to shine. The couple sitting underneath the willow tree for love they pined. The little maid was kind of ‘fraid of darkness, so, she said, “l guess I’ll go.” The boy began to sigh; he looked up in the sky and told the moon his little tale of woe: “Shine on, shine on harvest moon, up in the sky….”

I found it on YouTube. And if you’re curious and want to be entertained, listen to it sung by Ruth Etting, 1931.

And speaking of courting, a term used before my time, believe it or not, one day my husband, Franklin, out of nowhere popped out with this little ditty, recorded this time on my phone. Too bad I don’t have music to accompany this jingle, but the words speak volumes.

“Don’t start courting in a hot rod, but in a buggy like your mom and dad.

How can you hear those dear sweet words when you can’t hear nothing that’s said. ‘I’d rather hear the clop of old Dobbin‘s feet.’

[and she said, in Franklin’s best high-pitched girl imitation] ‘I’d rather hear glasspacks going down the street.’

Don’t start courting in a hot rod, but in a buggy like your mom and dad.”

If you have a favorite jingle or quote or memory, get it recorded. Lately I’ve been recording my childhood memories, just little voice memos, on my phone. Don’t you wish you had asked more questions on your grandparents?

When we both still had our mothers, I sat down at the computer and typed as each of them at various times told stories of their youth and their young adulthood. These stories are priceless.

Hopefully these memories shared give a glimpse of another era, one that we lived, that the children can appreciate later on.

“Baseball, it is said, is only a game. True. And the Grand Canyon is only a hole in Arizona. Not all holes, or games, are created equal.”
George Will

Historical news from the baseball world erupted recently. Two players, Pete Rose and “Shoeless Joe” Jackson, among others, were reinstated by Major League Baseball. Both had received lifetime bans from the MLB. It makes these two sports legends eligible for induction into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Pondering Pete and Joe this week, I realized some may not know the stories behind this story. Let me tell you about Joe…
The iconic baseball movie Field of Dreams stars Kevin Costner as an Iowa farmer, who at the prompting of a mysterious voice, builds a baseball diamond in the middle of his cornfield. As a result, ghosts of former baseball greats show up to play. The first player to emerge from the corn is “Shoeless Joe” Jackson.
Jackson was born in Pickens County, South Carolina on July 16, 1887, the son of a sharecropper. One of eight children, he went to work at the age of seven in a textile mill to help support his family. As a result, he didn’t attend school and never learned to read or write. But he could play baseball.
He acquired the nickname “Shoeless Joe” while he was playing semi-pro ball in the South Carolina mill leagues. In one game, wearing a new set of spikes that gave him blisters, he removed them and played in his stockings. After hitting a triple and sliding into third base, a loud-mouthed opposing fan shouted, “You shoeless son of a gun, you!” A reporter for the Greenville newspaper heard it and wrote about “Shoeless Joe” Jackson. The name stuck. Joe hated the nickname and throughout his life bought lots of shoes in an effort to prove he was not shoeless.
Joe was a natural ball player and is considered one of the best to ever play the game. His .356 lifetime career batting average is still the fourth highest in MLB history. Recognizing his genius, baseball legend Babe Ruth said that he modeled his swing after Joe. After two partial seasons with the Philadelphia Athletics in 1908-1909, Joe played his first full season in the majors with the Cleveland Naps, batting .408 (still one of the highest batting averages ever recorded for a rookie). In 1915, Joe was traded to the Chicago White Sox. Two years later they won the World Series, with his help.
Despite his amazing career, Jackson is best known for his role in the Black Sox Scandal, where members of the 1919 Chicago White Sox conspired to fix the World Series, losing on purpose to the Cincinnati Reds. Eight White Sox players, including Jackson, were indicted and charged with conspiring to defraud the public and accepting payment from gamblers to throw the games. The jury in their 1921 trial found the players not guilty, but baseball commissioner Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis still banned the players from the game for life because of their alleged involvement.
The ban from baseball crushed Joe. He was never the same. Although he admitted to accepting some payment, he maintained that he had not taken any on-field actions to jeopardize the games and had “tried to win all the time.” During the series in question, Joe hit a record of 12 base hits that set a Series record not broken until 1964. He also led both teams with a .375 batting average for the Series.
Broken-hearted without baseball, Joe spent the last years of his life running a liquor store on Pendleton Street in Greenville, South Carolina. There is a story that Joe’s friend Ty Cobb came in to the store to see him one day. After Joe acted like he didn’t know who he was, Ty Cobb asked, “Don’t you know me, Joe?” Joe responded, “Sure, I know you, Ty, but I wasn’t sure you wanted to know me. A lot of them don’t.”
As he aged, Joe struggled with heart trouble. At the age of 64, on December 5, 1951, “Shoeless Joe” Jackson died of a heart attack. He was buried at Woodland Memorial Park in his hometown of Greenville, South Carolina. Fans still love him. You can always find baseballs left at his grave.
I hope they have baseball in heaven…
© 2025 Jody Dyer
typewriterweekly.com

Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.

But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass.
And as he stares into the sky, there
are twice as many stars as usual.
Laura Gilpin

It has been said that poetry is prayer. That may be true. It is an expression of the soul, something that matters. I memorized a poem this week – The Two-Headed Calf, by Laura Gilpin. It is a special poem, with deep personal meaning.
Laura Gilpin was a poet and a nurse and a beautiful human being. She loved words. In 1976 she won the Walt Whitman Award for her first book of poetry – The Hocus-Pocus of the Universe. Gilpin died young. In the summer of 2006, she was diagnosed with a form of incurable brain cancer – glioblastoma multiforme (GBM). Ironically, one of the symptoms of GBM is double vision. Like the calf in her famous poem, she could see twice as many stars as the rest of us. Gilpin died six months after being diagnosed, at the age of 56. She had just finished her second poetry collection – The Weight of a Soul.
The Two-Headed Calf is Gilpin’s most celebrated poem. It describes the short, sweet life of a newborn calf suffering from polycephaly, a rare genetic defect. Calves born with two heads, or more often two faces, are usually stillborn. In rare cases they live for a short time, surviving for only a few hours or a few days. Their lives are short and tragic.
The imagery in this poem is striking. The first stanza is cold and speaks of death, describing the calf as a “freak of nature” to be discarded and carried away to a museum for people to stare at.
The second stanza in contrast is warm, drawing the reader into the present where the precious newborn calf is alive “and in the north field with his mother,” gazing at the stars in the summer sky. The calf is unaware that he will no longer be alive in the morning.
Much can be gleaned from this short poem and these few words. It speaks to the precious beauty of life, however short, and living in the moment. It reminds us that we don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Many, myself included, who find themselves different, can relate to this poem. We may not fit in or conform well to the world around us. We may look different or be different, just like the two-headed calf. In the end, we are reminded to love ourselves and others as we are, two heads and all. And we are reminded to appreciate the time given to us in life.
I found another one of Gilpin’s poems this week. It is less known, but equally beautiful and moving. It offers us deep truth about love and life and death. The poem is Life After Death, by Laura Gilpin.

These things I know:
How the living go on living
and how the dead go on living with them
so that in a forest
even a dead tree casts a shadow
and the leaves fall one by one
and the branches break in the wind
and the bark peels off slowly
and the trunk cracks
and the rain seeps in through the cracks
and the trunk falls to the ground
and the moss covers it
and in the spring the rabbits find it
and build their nest
inside the dead tree
so that nothing is wasted in nature

“The man who has experienced shipwreck shudders even at a calm sea.”
Ovid – Roman Poet

There is an episode of the hit TV series Seinfeld where George Costanza, engaged in a dispute over a new apartment rental, is pitted against an older gentleman with a tragic life history – he is an Andrea Doria survivor.  As the story unfolds, under the review of the tenant association, George’s personal pathetic life story is more tragic even than this man’s seafaring trauma.  The association, out of pity, awards George the apartment, which he later loses to another tenant for a bribe of $50.  For many, this obscure cultural reference is all they know about the Andrea Doria.  But the Andrea Doria was an actual ship with a real and tragic story – and a most bizarre twist.  This one gets interesting.  Truth is stranger than fiction.
 The SS Andrea Doria (named for a famous 16th-century Italian statesman and naval leader) was a luxury transatlantic ocean liner, Italy’s largest and fastest ship at the time.  She was made famous by her sinking in the North Atlantic.  This was the first shipwreck documented on television for the world to see.
 On July 25, 1956, the ship bound for New York was approaching the coast of Nantucket, Massachusetts.  In the midst of thick fog, the Andrea Doria met the MS Stockholm.  Although both ships were equipped with radar, they apparently misread warnings.  When visual contact was made, it was too late to avoid a collision.  At 11:10 pm the bow of the Stockholm plowed into the Anrea Doria.  Upon impact, 46 passengers on the Andrea Doria and five on the Stockholm were killed. 
 Struck on her starboard side, the Andrea Doria immediately started to list and take on water.  She stayed afloat for over 11 hours before capsizing and sinking.  1,660 passengers and crew were rescued and survived.
 When the news broke, every major outlet picked up the story, including ABC news.  Edward Morgan was the ABC news anchor tasked with reporting the story.  But there was a problem.  Minutes before Edward Morgan went on the air, he was informed that his 14-year-old daughter Linda, who was a passenger on the Andrea Doria, was missing and presumed dead.  Unbelievably, he was able to go on the air and report the story without losing his composure or mentioning his daughter.
 At the same time, another facet of the story was developing.  A young girl who had been asleep in her cabin aboard the Andrea Doria, woke up in the night and began screaming for her mother.  A man on the Stockholm heard her cries and ran across the twisted wreckage towards the bow of the ship.  There he found, perched on the destroyed railing of the Stockholm, a bed.  And in that bed was a 14-year-old girl.  That girl was Linda Morgan.  Apparently, the bow of the Stockholm had scooped up the girl in her bed when it pierced the Andrea Doria and dragged her back as it withdrew, leaving her on the deck.
 When Edward Morgan went back on the air the next day, he was able to talk about his daughter and her incredible survival story.  He shared how difficult it was to share tragic news when it was about someone you loved.  In an interview later, he said, “Within a space of 24 hours, this reporter has been pushed down the elevator shaft to the sub-basement of despair and raised again to the heights of incredible joy.”
 Linda Morgan suffered a broken arm and was quickly dubbed The Miracle Girl.  She returned to New York City aboard the damaged Stockholm, where she was reunited with her father.  Though she physically recovered, she suffered her entire life with survivor’s guilt.  Her stepfather and younger half-sister were killed in the accident, and her mother was badly injured. 
 Linda Morgan, now known as Linda Hardberger, moved to San Antonio, Texas, in 1970.  She served as curator for both the McNay Art Museum and the Tobin Theatre Arts Fund.  Her husband, Phil Hardberger, was the mayor of San Antonio from 2005 to 2009. 
 The wreck of the Andrea Doria remains one of the worst maritime disasters to occur in U.S. waters.  And the true story of the Miracle Girl on board remains stranger than fiction.

© 2025 Jody Dyer
typewriterweekly.com

“Life doesn’t come with a manual; it comes with a mother.”
Anonymous

I like the song – Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother.  If you need a soundtrack for Mother’s Day, I think it’s appropriate.  Written off the cuff by the great Ray Wylie Hubbard after a perilous late-night beer run and bar fight in Red River, New Mexico, and later popularized by Jerry Jeff Walker, it is questionably one of the greatest songs ever written honoring mothers – mothers who have loved their sons so well.
 For the record, I hold the term redneck in the highest regard.  Redneck mothers are much like regular mothers, but they come with an extra dose of mamma bear courage paired with a titanium spine.  They love their babies hard, often raise them in the country, and turn their offspring into fine citizens, for the most part.   If you grew up with a redneck mother, you know it, and are better for it.
 My mom, a daughter of the Great Depression, grew up in the tiny burg of Hector, Arkansas.  She married my dad in 1953 after he returned from fighting in Korea, and they had two sons, one of whom was me.
 My mom was a beautiful woman.  I remember my fourth-grade teacher describing her as regal.  She had the most captivating laugh I have ever heard.  Good with animals, Mom loved horses and dogs.  She was especially fond of mean little Chihuahuas.  I still have scars on my hands from our vicious little family pet.  Mom was also a chicken person, so we always had a few hens.  She kept a garden, and enjoyed nothing more than harvesting her tomatoes, fresh out of the sun.  And she liked onions.  She ate them raw with every meal.
 Every year when I was in elementary school, Mom was a redneck Room Mother.  At every holiday and special event, she and one or two of her cohorts would show up at school with cupcakes in hand to help us celebrate.
 Mom was ever protective, but not above letting her boys experience new things as we grew.  We lived in the country, and she let me drive at the age of eleven.  Our family car then was a 1961 Dodge Pioneer with red vinyl seats (Mom’s favorite color was red).  With Mom in the front seat, and my slew-foot brother and his baseball cards in the back, we sped along the dirt roads of our little community.  I felt like Mario Andretti.
 Besides driving, another favorite activity that we enjoyed were bike rides.  Mom would pack a lunch (fried egg sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil) and we would peddle to Englehardt’s store for a Coke and candy bar, stopping at the pines for a break before navigating more dirt roads back home.
 We were a 4-H family, and Mom was present at every club meeting, county fair, and steer show.  She even made it to 4-H camp every summer.
 Mom was known for her cooking.  Our humble family spread at Thanksgiving was legendary.  Mom’s turkey and cornbread stuffing were delectable.  At Christmas we were blessed with Mom’s amazing fudge.  She would make tubs, and we ate it with abandon.  And her banana pudding was to die for.
 Redneck mothers are tough, and Mom sure was that.  And she had a bit of a temper.  If her boys were accosted in any way, Mom never hesitated to jump into a fight.  One memorable episode happened on a visit to our Gramma Nano’s house.  To relieve my brother and I from hours of tedious adult conversation indoors, we were allowed to walk a short way to the local “outlet store” as we called it.  With little money, we were content to prowl the isles just looking.  On this particular day, an irritable hag of a store clerk ran us out the back door.  She evidently saw us as pint-sized potential juvenile shoplifters and told us to leave the store if we weren’t going to buy anything.  When we stumbled back to my grandmother’s house and Mom learned that we’d been kicked out, she was livid.  She marched us back over to that store and lit up the place.  That cranky clerk received a nuclear level chewing out the residue of which may still hang somewhere in the atmosphere above North America.  We were then allowed to stay and shop to our heart’s content.
 Mom sometimes made enemies, but as a redneck mother, she was never too concerned with what other folks thought.  Once an ill-tempered neighbor, Mrs. Lay, came riding by our house on horseback with her dog trailing.  Mom happened to be out in our steer pen next to the road, and when Mrs. Lay’s Red Heeler darted under the fence and attempted to chase our livestock, Mom went to throwing rocks.  The dog was unhurt, but Mrs. Lay was highly offended and the two commenced a cussing war that I think the neighbors still talk about.  It was blistering, but all in a day’s work for a redneck mother.
 By loving their children well, mothers build the foundation on which we construct our lives.  They teach us how to love, both ourselves and others.  And that’s the best thing a mother can do.  Thank God for redneck mothers.  I love you Mom…      

 “There’s so much plastic in this culture that vinyl leopard skin is becoming an endangered synthetic.”

Lily Tomlin

 There is a scene in the movie The Graduate (Dustin Hoffman & Anne Bancroft – 1967) where Benjamin Braddock, the 21-year-old disaffected protagonist, played by Dustin Hoffman, is at a cocktail party with his parents.  A family friend, a Mr. McGuire, takes young Ben aside during the party and tells him he has just one word of advice for him, just one word – “plastics.”  Young Banjamin may not have 

taken that advice, but the rest of the world sure did. Our modern society is covered up in plastics. And it seems that we humans have absorbed much of the refuse. Like marbling in a side of beef, our bodies are harboring plastics, or more specifically, microplastics. As that great soul and R&B group from the ‘70s, The Dramatics, sang – “Some people are made of plastic.” Now, those people are us.
What are microplastics, and why are they a concern? Microplastics are tiny (small to invisible in size) particles of plastic. They have either been intentionally added to products we use or they are fragments that break off of products as they degrade and wear out. All plastics deteriorate and break down over time. Fragments disperse and spread, going everywhere, like sand in your shorts and wallet after a trip to the beach. Microplastics can now be found far and wide, from the pristine beaches of Belize to the blood and tissues of most humans on planet Earth.
Microplastics can be a problem for two reasons. First, tiny plastic particles in our body can be harmful, causing inflammation and an increased risk of disease. But there is another concern related to microplastics.
Microplastics are made of chemicals, and they can carry and deposit these chemicals into our bodies. Most of these chemicals are considered endocrine disruptors, mimicking estrogen and affecting bodily functions and contributing to disease. Here are a few of these dastardly chemicals found within the plastic bits inhabiting your body.
BPA – Bisphenol-A and other bisphenols are used to make resins and certain hard plastics. BPA can be found in food and drink cans, water bottles, storage containers, sports safety equipment, eyeglass lenses, computers, and more. BPA is also used as a thin coating on thermal paper, including grocery store receipts. BPA easily transfers from receipts to skin and can cause a spike in blood sugar (glucose) within seconds of handling.
Phthalates – The term phthalates refer to a group of chemicals that are added as plasticizers, making products flexible and more durable. Phthalates are used in hundreds of products, including cosmetics, nail polish, soap, shampoo, hair spray, garden hoses, shower curtains, flooring, lubrication oils, and medical tubing.
PFAS – The term PFAS refers to a large family of chemicals often referred to as “forever chemicals” because once they are made, they don’t break down and essentially persist in the environment indefinitely. PFAS can be found in some plastic products, but they are also added to cloth, metal, paper, and cardboard. PFAS can make products nonstick, grease-proof, stain-resistant, waterproof, and resistant to heat and corrosion. PFAS are often used to make food packaging, clothing, furniture, non-stick pans, and dental floss.
So, how do we avoid all these nasty chemicals and the microplastics that carry them? Is it possible to limit our risk? Yes, it is. Here are some suggestions…
Choose fresh whole foods and avoid packaged and processed foods when you can.
Use and look for BPA-free containers (glass, stainless steel, and ceramic). Some foods and beverages are now available in BPA-free packaging and containers.
Do not put plastic in the microwave – ever. Heating plastic carries the risk of chemicals leaching into your food.
Do not drink from water bottles left in the sun or a hot car. Even moderate heat from the sun can leave chemicals in your water.
Throw away your non-stick pans and cookware. And do not use plastic utensils when cooking. Heat will release chemicals into your food.
Avoid tea bags – use loose leaf tea instead. Plastic bits can leach from bags into hot water.
Avoid handling paper receipts. Remember BPA is used as thin coating on thermal paper and transfers to your skin easily.
Here’s a positive word to go with all this bad news. Recent studies have shown that folks who avoided canned foods and drinks, avoided using plastics for food and water consumption and storage, and minimized their contact with thermal receipt papers saw a significant reduction in chemical exposure.
Our world is full of chemical-filled plastic, so it is hard to avoid. Just do the best you can…
© 2025 Jody Dyer
typewriterweekly.com

Baseball is back, and fans all over the country are again enjoying the thrill and satisfaction that only comes from America’s best sport. With baseball on my mind this week, it seemed appropriate to share a bit of bizarre baseball history. Fun and strange things can happen at the ballpark.
The Shortest Home Run in History – This is a minor league baseball story, circa 1900. Andy Oyler was a shortstop for the Minnesota Millers. After a night of heavy rain, his team found themselves playing in deep mud the next day. At bat in the bottom of the ninth inning, Oyler ducked a pitch that was apparently aimed at his head. The ball inadvertently hit Oyler’s bat and traveled approximately 24 inches before sinking into the mud in front of home plate. Oyler saw the ball, but none of the opposing fielders did. He was able to complete an inside-the-park home run before the ball was found.
The Smallest Pinch Hitter – In 1951, Bill Veeck, owner of the St. Louis Browns, came up with a wild publicity stunt. He signed professional performer Eddie Gaedel as a new player. Gaedel was a little person, standing just 3 feet 7 inches tall and weighing 60 pounds…LOGIN TO CONTINUE READING at www.devinenewsmembers.com. You will get INSTANT online access to our full E-edition, and begin getting the newspaper delivered to your home next week for $36 a year in Medina County. Support important local city, county, and school news like this!

The Art of a Non-Apology

by Jerel Beaty
Apology: A delicate social ritual meant to convey remorse, mend fences, and acknowledge one’s shortcomings. Except, of course, when it does not. We’ve all encountered that special breed of a non-apology.
One that is so dripping with self-congratulation, deflection, and insincerity that could make one question if the offender even understands what the word “sorry” truly means. Instead of remorse, these non-apologies reek of ego, turning what should be a moment of humility into a performance of self-promotion.
Examples? Sure.
There are some apologies that may come across as, “I deeply regret that my innovative, record-breaking work ethic has inadvertently set an impossible standard for my peers.”…LOGIN TO CONTINUE READING at www.devinenewsmembers.com. You will get INSTANT online access to our full E-edition, and begin getting the newspaper delivered to your home next week for $36 a year in Medina County. Support important local city, county, and school news like this!