Happy Anniversary

Sunday, June 7 was my parents' 40th wedding anniversary. I have had the privilege to observe them for 37 of those 40 years. For some of those years the observation was very close indeed. I've heard it said that the best lessons in life are caught, not just taught. Robert and Mary McFarland saw to it that we had both channels - and maybe a few more - in their house. There are too many lessons to write them all down. But I would like to share just a few of them with you.

1. Put first things first. And in the McFarland house, God was the first thing. We were at church every time the doors were open. Sometimes my dad was the one to unlock them. But for my parents, faith was more than simply going to church. Their faith was in Jesus Christ, and that governed and permeated everything else that went on in our lives.

2. Put your family a very, very close second. Whether it was caring for their young children or their aging parents, family was always a priority. While we didn't live right next door to my grandparents or aunts and uncles, we were always close in our hearts. And we visited them plenty.

3. Don't argue in front of the kids. I'm sure my parents argued. But I don't remember it. Not even once. The only voices I remember being raised in our house were mine and my brother's. They certainly weren't zombies. Nor did they repress a bunch of latent anger. They just didn't yell at each other, or us. Amazing.

4. It's only money. Despite not having an Atari when everybody else did, we didn't suffer for anything. We always had a roof overhead, food on the table, and gas in the car. My parents believed in hard work. But they weren't materialistic by any measure. They didn't try to keep up with the Joneses. If they did, we would have had an Atari - because the Jones Boys who lived next door had one. Mom and Dad have always been generous - first to God, second to their family, and finally to others.

5. Breakfast is the best meal of the day. We always had breakfast growing up. It was usually hot. I probably appreciate it more now than I did at the time. My mom still fixes it every day, even when it's just the two of them to eat it.

I can only hope that 23 years down the road when Kristi and I mark our 40th, we will have as much to show for it.

Congratulations Mom and Dad; Happy 40th. We will throw you a party on your 50th whether you want it or not.

Jeff

Save America Now

Dear Friends,

American values are under attack. Even as I write these words, my hands are shaking with patriotic zeal. There was a day - some of us can remember it - when life in Small Town America was tranquil. There was a day when kids could ride their bikes to the library without fear; a day when families actually spoke to one another from front porch to front porch. There was once a day when community values tied us together. I am an optimist at heart, and I tend to shrug off stories of America's best days being behind her. But earlier this week, I experienced something firsthand that has shaken me to my core.

It was Tuesday, and we were packing up the chairs and gear. As we left the baseball park, my son and I walked side by side down the road to the pickup truck. We were parked behind City Hall, next to the fire station. We said goodbye to friends, neighbors, and teammates as we loaded up and headed for home.

"Dad, can we get some ice cream now?" I remembered I owed him a treat for making a great play a couple of games back. It would be good to follow through with that tonight, even though it was almost 10:00; tonight's games weren't ones for the record books.

"Sure. How 'bout Sonic?" I cranked the engine of the beat-up '93 Dodge Dakota. It was the first car I had ever bought and paid for with my own hard-earned dollars. We got it two weeks to the day after we got married. It only had 3 miles on the odometer when we first called it "ours."

"That would be great!" We pulled out of the parking lot and headed down the road. As we crossed the railroad tracks and passed the old downtown area near the High School, I remembered when this used to be the only traffic light in town. We passed a Baptist church on the left, a Methodist church on the right, and another Baptist church on the left. On the right was an empty lot.

"Hey Dad, didn't you used to work there?"

"Yeah, there was a little house and a couple of mobile homes attached to it. I worked for this guy who fixed TVs and VCRs. We didn't have DVD players way back then." My old neighborhood was behind the empty lot. My parents still lived there. We turned left into the local drive-in and parked in the fourth spot. The place was relatively busy, even this late at night.

"Milkshake?"

"Can I have an Oreo Blast?" He was taking advantage of my sentimental mood. Smart kid. I cranked the window down and pushed the Red Button. The response time was impressive.

"Welcome to Sonic! Would you like to try a Value Meal?"

"No, thanks. But I would like to try an Oreo Blast and a medium hot fudge malt with extra malt." I was so bad. It was way past my dinnertime. I had wrestled with the decision all the way from the ballpark. I knew I didn't need any ice cream. I wasn't hungry. I didn't even want it that badly. It was more a crime of opportunity than anything: how could I drive through Sonic and not get a hot fudge malt for myself? Once the words were out of my mouth, the battle was won (or lost) and I immediately began to savor the thought of the thick (but not too thick) cold ice cream juxtaposed with the molten chocolate all woven together with the rejuvenating flavor of powdered Whoppers.

"We don't have malt anymore." My mind didn't immediately register the response.

"Excuse me?"

"We don't have malt anymore. They changed all the menus on Sunday, and They took malt off the menu. Would you like a milkshake instead?"

WE DON'T HAVE MALT ANYMORE?

WE DON'T HAVE MALT ANYMORE?

I could not have been more shocked if I had been told it was illegal to shoot fireworks in the Benton city limits. How can you not have malt anymore? You're the Sonic! That's like KFC telling me they don't have fried chicken anymore! Or the Waffle House saying they don't have waffles anymore. What do you mean, you don't have malt anymore?

"Are you sure you don't have any malt?" I was in denial. Samuel was highly amused. The guy on the other side of the Red Button played it cool.

"I'm sure. No malt."

The ghosts of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and all the Founding Fathers rose up with one accord and shouted in my ear, "What have you people done with our country?" The gargantuan image of Lincoln, forever seated on the throne of justice on the National Mall, shed a quiet tear. Betsy Ross and Susan B. Anthony cried in anguish. My son began an audible snickering which quickly turned to rolling laughter.

"Well, give me a hot fudge milkshake." It was a far, far second-best. But now I had anger to feed as well as gluttony. Sonic. "America's Drive-in" Not any America I know. If I wanted a milkshake, I could have gone to McDonald's, Burger King, or any other of the host of calorie dispensers in the I-30/Reynolds Road metroplex.

"Would you like to try one of our bunt cakes?"

"Does it have malt in it?" Sam was howling. I was stewing. At least I hadn't given my son any new bad words to use.

As we pulled back onto the highway and turned homeward, I began to reflect on the evening's events. How could something like this happen - here, in my hometown? Maybe in Havana, or Pyongyang, or even California - but here, in Bryant, Arkansas - home of the 1988-1989 Girls Basketball Overall State Champions Lady Hornets? I shook my head and silently muttered bits and pieces of the Bill of Rights and the Gettysburg Address.

We crossed the interstate, looped around, and drove further toward home. Home sweet home. Home - a place where a man can malt his own milkshake without fear of government intrusion. Home - where children can stack firewood and pull weeds and feed dogs without anybody's permission or condemnation. Home - where one can post blogs without the worry of anyone ever actually reading it.

I had been absentmindedly sipping my consolation prize while I brooded. Suddenly a wave of panic capped with grief and terror hit me like a gravel truck.

"THEY FORGOT TO PUT ANY HOT FUDGE IN THIS THING!" Plain. Vanilla. Milk. Shake.

Here, dear friends, I end my account. I apologize for offending those of gentle sensibilities. But I do not apologize if I have stirred within your heart the same love for hearth and home that has been stirred in mine. I do not apologize if I have awakened you to the fact that freedom isn't free, and that those things we cherish most today can be suddenly, completely, and shockingly gone tomorrow by the mere whim of some marketing intern at Corporate Headquarters.

Friends, fellow Americans, what can we do to halt the landslide down the slippery slope that threatens our more cherished values? Honestly, I'm not sure. I'm not an agitator. People who know me well will tell you that I really don't have strong convictions about most things. But at least - at the very, very least - we can let our voices be heard. Individually, we might not make much of a difference. But together, we're greater than the sum of our parts. Friends, I urge you to make a simple phone call to the Sonic corporation and implore them to return malt to the Bryant Sonic. Their phone number is 1-866-OK-SONIC (1-866-657-6642). (Clearly, they have anticipated the backlash and have removed the email feedback feature from their website.)

Thank you, and God bless these United States of America.

Your friend,

Jeff McFarland

Inside Baseball

"That's four runs!" Great. How in the world did we let that one slip through our fingers - again? All we had to do was score one run for the win. Instead, three up, three down, then we let them come back and score four to tie it. Amazing.

"OK, let's score some runs. 15, you're up. 42 and 8, you're on deck." And now we're more than halfway down the lineup. Not that the top of the lineup did their job last inning.

"Batter up!" Oh, brother, not again! Why does her dad have to coach from the bleachers every time she gets up to bat? She'd probably be a decent hitter if Daddy wasn't giving her a complex.

"Strike!" Huh. She was looking over at the bleachers before the umpire even called it.

"That's all right 15, you got two more. Focus on the ball, quit worryin' about distractions. This is just like practice. Have some faith in yourself!" Have faith in yourself. If I had a nickel for every time I said that to an 8-year-old with a bat...

"Safe!" Merry Christmas. But we'll take it. How many days this very week did we practice batting? We're never going to win with infield dribblers like that. But would you look at that coach yelling at his kid for fumbling the ball? Note to self: chill out; screaming just makes you look stupid.

"Batter up!" Here comes God's Gift to Softball. At least her Mom thinks so. She'd probably be happier in ballet shoes. But no, she's got to follow in Mama's footsteps and be a Collegiate Softball Princess. Poor kid. No telling how much time and money her parents put into fancy bats and private training. Too bad her heart's not in it.

"Come on 42, let's put the ball in play! Have faith in yourself!" And stride toward the pitcher.

"Strike 3!" You have to swing to hit. I'm pretty sure we've worked on this. More than once. Do those people really think yelling at the umpire is going to get them anywhere? Sure, his strike zone is... variable... but at least it's been equally screwed up for both teams. I'm sure it's my fault somehow, though. I'll take the blame for the bad weather, too.

"Let's go 8, it's your turn to crush that ball! Have some faith!" Only one out. One runner on base. This one will strike out and then we'll be at the top of the lineup. Maybe if we're lucky we'll get a couple of runs after all.

"Strike!" And her parents complain that she's at the bottom of the lineup? What do they expect when they only make half the practices and never swing the bat or throw the ball at home? Do I have some kind of magic potion - oh great - infield fly.

"BACK! BACK! BACK!" Oh -

"Out!" Crap. Unbelievable. Sometimes these kids are worse than squirrels.

"Hats and gloves! Hats and gloves! Hustle out. Same positions. Hang on - 42, you go to center field. 15, you're on third." No, Sis, we are not having this conversation again in front of the whole ballpark. Your little girl needs to be in center field because there's a batter coming up who one-hopped it to the fence her last time at bat. You'd think a guy's own family might cut him some slack. At least I only have one sibling to get bent out of shape. I heard about this guy over in Bryant who had eight or nine grandkids playing on the same team. Crazy.

"Outside!" Why is this guy arguing with me again. I've already told him a dozen times who gets to pitch when, we're trying to balance fairness with winning, blah blah blah. Do these parents think I haven't already thought of doing things some other way? I didn't just wander in off the street. Do they have any clue how many hours I lay awake at night staring at the ceiling ciphering on how to make these girls better as a team? Why do I even bother. Here, you be the coach.

"C'mon, just put a strike in there. Don't listen to the chatter. Have faith in yourself!" This has been nothing but a pain in the butt. All the time, all the money, all the energy - and what do I have to show for it? Last place and a hornets' nest of whining, angry parents.

"Batter up!" Let's just get this over with.

"IT'S COMIN' TO YOU 42! CATCH IT IN THE AIR! CATCH IT! Good try." Just not good enough.

"Ballgame!" Hey, that could be our motto: Pineville Patriots: When Your Best Just Isn't Good Enough. It certainly captures the spirit of this season.

"Line up. Good game." Yeah right. Good game for the winners.

"Hey coach, do we get to play them again? We're gonna beat them next time!"

"Coach, did you see my hit?"

"Uncle Mike, I tried so hard to catch that long fly ball!"

"Hey Coach, thanks for lettin' me play first base!"

"Coach, did I have a better attitude this time? Or do I need to run to the pole some more?"

"Dad, I tagged that girl out clean, that umpire wasn't even watching!"

"My Daddy was here! Did he see me run home?"

"Good game, Coach. We'll get 'em next time."

"Daddy, when I'm 8 will you be my coach too?"

I love this game.

"Practice tomorrow at 6!"