Blog Posts - Richard W Black

Rue de la Croix Cantee

9/14/2017

My old French neighbor told me a fascinating story during our resent vacation in France that illustrates the smallness of the world. If I get some of the details wrong, it is because he was telling the story in good French and I was listening in bad French. I apologize in advance for any errors.
In the mid 80s, both of our families lived on a street in the village of Epron, France called Rue de la Croix Cantee. A few years after we left France, our neighbors moved from Normandy to a suburb of Paris. Time passed, he changed jobs, the children grew and life continued.
As one of the perks of his new company, he and his wife were given a weekend holiday package at the Hippodrome de Longchamp outside of Paris.
Since they did not know anyone else at the hotel, they asked to be seated for dinner at a small table with one other couple as opposed to a table with a large party of people. As the evening progressed, they began getting to know their dinner companions. To their surprise, they discovered that the other couple not only lived in Epron, but also on Rue de la Croix Cantee. In fact, they had lived there for years and were there while we and our neighbors were in Epron. Our homes were on one end of the short street and the other couple resided on the opposite end. Our old neighbors and the couple did not remember ever meeting and had to travel halfway across France to get to know each other.
Epron was a small town and we attended several local events. My neighbor and I also participated in the community tennis tournament. I imagine that we encountered the other couple, passed them on occasion and probably knew them in that casual manner people in little communities do.
Many are no doubt familiar with the principle of six degrees of separation. The theory states that a person is six steps or less away from any other person in the world through a chain of acquaintances or events. With 7.44 billion inhabitants on Earth, the concept is that we all know each and every other person in some form or fashion.
As we live life and wander through this world, perhaps we should do so with greater care in how we treat others. Maybe our words should be more measured, especially on the social networks, and our actions considerably gentler. We do not know who we might encounter along the way that might someday hold sway over a reputation, job or home, or even become our dinner companion. And no one wants another person to end a sentence badly that begins, “I know someone who knows someone who has a friend that knows you and they said…”

Another Adventure

8/21/2017

“I think I’m quite ready for another adventure,” said an old and tired Bilbo Baggins at the conclusion of The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. The idea of sailing off in the last ship to leave Middle Earth invigorated his soul and spirit. That’s the magic of adventures.
“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door,” Bilbo earlier told his young friend. “You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
Far too often, people allow the mundane of life to interfere with the potential adventures of life. They become so wrapped up in the daily aspects of it that they fail to grab for its gusto. They mistake comfort for contentment and live a quiet restlessness never understanding why. There are bills to pay, jobs with work that must be done and responsibilities, always responsibilities. Then, quite suddenly, the opportunities for adventure have come and gone; unused.
Barbara and I have our regrets; the things we have tried which have not worked out as we had hoped. But of all the ventures that have not ended as we planned, we have no regrets about taking them on, stepping out our door. We would rather have gone on an adventure and failed than to have not gone at all. And age, it seems, has not dimmed our enthusiasm for life’s quests.
Together therefore, as we have always done in our partnership, we are going on another adventure. We have heard the call of Paris, France calling us back for a visit. Our French has long ago turned to rust and we no longer have the physical stamina we once possessed. Nevertheless, our spirits need the rejuvenation of something new and exciting, so vive la France!
You will forgive us if we use the social network to document our latest adventure. You are welcome to come along, that is, if you are not on one of your own.

Heresy's Child - now in hardcopy

7/28/2017

Under the heading of old news that is new again, a number of months ago, ASJ Publishing released my novel Heresy's Child as an eBook. However, the hardcopy got caught up in events where everyone connected to the project, including me, were so busy with other projects that we failed to realize the it had not been released to print. Yes, that can actually happen. That has been corrected and everyone can now get their own page-turning book.
Heresy's Child is a story where I looked at the course that world events were taking and saw God working and the Bible becoming more and more real. I believe that I was inspired to write it and especially enjoyable was how the twist I love to put in my stories managed to surprise the people who read it.
It is my hope that you will support a starving author by picking up a copy, but more than that, I pray that you will be inspired in reading it to believe that God is active in our ever-changing world.
Once again, my very talented daughter, MD Black of MDBlackPhotography.com provided the cover photo.

Daughter of Richard – A Father’s Day Thought

6/17/2017

While Father’s Day is a time to celebrate fatherhood, which is much needed in our current social climate, it is also a time for fathers to reflect on one of their most important jobs, second only to being a husband. Most men have dreams and desires. Nevertheless, what they accomplish in their own personal lives and careers will be insignificant in the history of eternity to how they raise their children.
In the Bible, there was a man called Joshua son of Nun. We know a lot about Joshua. He was initially one of the twelve spies who scouted the Promised Land and, along with Caleb, brought back an enthusiastic report. The advice of Joshua and Caleb to take hold of God’s promise was ignored and the people were forced to wander for 40 years. He later became a great warrior, general and leader. Volumes have been written about his ability as a soldier, his wisdom as a leader and his strong faith in God.
We know almost nothing about Nun.
Imagine, Nun was the father of a man who went on to greatness, fame and fortune, but all the recognition Nun received in history was by virtue of his relationship to his son. I wonder if Nun had dreams of achieving great things or the desire to be known as this type of man or that kind of guy. What did Nun want to be? We will never know in this world, but what we do know is that he raised a son who took on huge challenges, mighty enemies and established the foundations for a great nation. Nun must have done a good job at fatherhood because Joshua was one of the few Biblical characters without any major flaws; there is little written in the Bible detailing any personal, profession or spiritual shortcomings. Also, he had the unenviable task of coming after a charismatic leader of monumental stature, yet Joshua quietly led his people successfully through times of war and peace.
I must confess that there was a time when I dreamed of doing great things for God. I gave Him my life and told Him to use it as He wanted. Today, I am looking back on far more of life than I have in front of me. Age causes a man to reflect on what was and on what is yet to be. As a dad, there have been failures and successes. But, while I can wish that I had done a better job of being a father, I could never wish for a better daughter. Tomorrow, if all history were to say of me was that I was Miriam-Danielle daughter of Richard, I can accept with that.

Uncle Ron, a personal tribute

6/11/2017

Today, my extended family suffered the loss of one of our older saints, Ron Miller. He was on my list of heroes and I was fortunate to have had him in my life growing up. I was blessed to have a lot of strong Christian male figures, including my father and Uncle Ron, who were in every way examples of Godly manhood.
I have a number of fond memories of Uncle Ron and his family. We would gather at his home for at least one or two of the Miller family reunions each year. His home was always open, friendly and welcoming and I cannot possibly count the number of times we played cards in the basement, swam in the pool or watched football in the family room. However, my most treasured remembrance was the night before he opened his new paint store. The entire family was invited to a reception in the new building and Uncle Ron arranged to have a time of prayer and dedication to God led by Uncle Wilb. It spoke so much to his faith and determination that his company would be a witness to his faith in Christ. The example marked my life for years to come.
I never heard a disparaging word by anyone in the Goshen community concerning his personal or professional life or about how he conducted his businesses. I believe that God blessed him financially because Uncle Ron was more interested in living a Godly life than economic success. His reputation was such that, when I was inquiring about renting an apartment in Goshen, I mentioned his name as a reference. Apparently, that was enough for my potential landlord; the fact that I was Ron Miller’s nephew was sufficient to give me the apartment over other interested parties. I know because he told me it was the reason he rented the apartment to me without reviewing other applicants.
It could be said that Ron Miller enjoyed a good, long and comfortable life here on Earth. But from what I witnessed of that life, I can attest to the mounds of treasure he stored up in Heaven. His past life in this world was nothing compared to what he is currently enjoying among the saints in the presence of his God, Lord and Savior.
You will be missed, Uncle Ron.

Remembering Dad...

6/2/2017

With Father's Day on the horizon, my own father has been on my mind. I miss him and am reminded that a father's job is never done. First, he is a provider and protector, then a teacher, an instructor. He becomes an advisor and moves on to be an encourager. Through it all, he must be a man of prayer, for that is the only way he can be sure he has done all he can. Eventually, after he leaves this life, he is there a greeter, welcoming those he loved in that old world into a new and greater kingdom.
Below is the eulogy I wrote for my father's memorial. It seems appropriate for celebrating fathers everywhere.
A Tribute to R. Dilmon Black
by: Richard Black
I once saw an interview where a celebrity was asked about his heroes, those who had most influenced his life. And I thought, I should have my own list of heroes. So, I began a mental list and the first person I put on it was born Robert Dilmon Black. Most called him Dilmon and at work he was Blackie. But to me, he was Dad. Of all the people, teachers, professors, pastors I’ve known, none has taught me more than did my father.
First and foremost he showed me what it was to be a man. I believe that most of the qualities of manhood Jesus Christ exhibited on earth could also be seen in Dad.
He was a man of faith who gave God not only a financial tithe but a tithe of service. He taught Sunday school, chaperoned the youth group and never missed a work project at the church.
He was a gentle man; difficult to anger. I remember the last spanking he gave me. It was on the back porch. Actually, it was over his knee, on my butt, on the back porch. I don’t remember my offense, those were impossible to keep track of for they were legion. But I remember the spanking. He used his belt. I cried after the first smack even though it didn’t hurt. He stopped at three whacks – none of them hard enough to even sting. He stopped because it did hurt him more than it hurt me. Yet, I learned so much about the heart of a father.
He was a hard worker. I could count the number of days he missed work on one hand. He arrived on time and worked a full shift or more. His example taught me the value of showing up, the importance of faithfulness in everything, even the day-to-day drudgery of a job.
He could grow things. How he loved his garden. How I hated that garden. The scariest words in the summer were, “we’re going to the garden.” I knew that meant we’re going to the garden until the sun went down. I think that’s why I love a good summer rain; couldn’t go to the garden when it was wet. We weeded and hoed and harvested. Quarts and quarts of strawberries. Tons of carrots, radishes, onions and lettuce. Buckets and buckets of peas, bean and tomatoes. Boy could he grow tomatoes. I may be prejudice but I have never tasted a better tomato than Dad’s; red and yellow, big, round, firm and delicious. And I remember learning about the real world in first grade. Peas were on the menu. I love peas but the mushy, sickly colored sludge they put on my tray were not peas. They were one level from toxic waste. Dad grew peas, real peas.
He was patient. There were six children under one roof; kids who had/have their failings. He made sure we finished school, went to church and respected each other. As well, it was expected we would respect our mother. There was no greater offense than to disrespect Mom. He taught us all to drive; six kids!! I taught one to drive and almost lost my sanity, he did it six times. And those occasions that we had bumps and stumbles, he never showed his disappointment when we came home.
That home was a safe place. It was warm and comfortable. Free of danger. It was filled with love and acceptance. All our needs and some of our wants were met. I know what it means to be rich, for I watched a wealthy man freely give of his wealth to those he loved. Yet, he never asked for anything in return.
He was forgiving. Never can I recall him ever bringing up my past mistakes. I know I must have let him down a time or two but I don’t know how or when or where. He never told me; they were all forgotten.
Over the years, heroes have come and gone. The list has grown and shrunk. But one name has never left it. One person has and always will be my hero.
In college I read a book entitled, The Lord Is My Parole Officer. It was a collection of letters by troubled teens with negative father figures. To assist them in understanding God as their Father, they were encouraged to write about a positive male role model in their lives and relate him to God. I have no problem imagining God as my Father. When I arrive in heaven, the face of God will not be a surprise to me. Because I have seen his image here on Earth. He was Robert Dilmon Black, my hero, my father, my Dad. And I am proud to be his son.

Fire Walkers

5/8/2017

“Life is not tried, it is merely survived if you're standing outside the fire…” (written by Jenny Yates and Garth Brooks; recorded and performed by Garth Books).
An often-repeated theme of mine is that people cannot succeed without trying but they will always fail by doing nothing. Garth sang about it so eloquently in his 1993 hit about love but the sentiment applies to every aspect of life. I am convinced that most of the anger and rage in American society and the world is from people who have invested in the lives of entertainers, politicians, political parties, religions, special interest groups, etc., not in their own lives. When those through whom they are living vicariously fail, or are perceived to have failed, those living their lives by proxy also fail. Thereby creating frustration and anxiety in those followers. Political parties, social movements, the entertainment industry, general consumerism of the market place all depend on people thinking that the success of others will translate to them. And people sway in search of happiness and contentment from one fad to the next big thing, one political idea to another, one product to a new and improved product.
So, what are you doing with your one-and-only life? Are you allowing someone else to live it for you?
In conversations with people about writing, I always emphasize that a good screenplay, novel or short story is in the rewriting. There is no rewriting if there is nothing to rewrite. That may sound too obvious, but I have encountered many who say that they have an idea for a story or a piece of creativity or a business but never take the first step to accomplishing anything. Sometimes, you have to just sit down with a computer or pick up a pen and paper and simply write. There is one sure way to fail at writing, never write a word; major fail!
I have a list of people I admire; average people who took the risk of being burnt by walking into the fire. They are those who started writing and managed to get from fade in to fade out or preface to epilogue. They wrote a 3000 to 7500 word short story or a how-to manual on creating a website, building a custom car or whatever interested them. Big heroes are people who left their comfort zones and started their own businesses. Some jumped out of planes, went to a firing range or hiked the Appalachian Trail.
The one constant in the world is that of constant change. The world is going to go on as the world does; today is different from yesterday and will be far different tomorrow and all the tomorrows that come. There are those in it whose success is completely reliant on others being willing to live life through them; people willing to give them their one-and-only lives. Then there are individuals who walk into the fire and risk the chance of being burned for the chance to really, truly live their own lives.
Perhaps today is it time for fire walking.

Spring is New

4/12/2017

Spring is a time of new beginnings; I have to remind myself of it every year.

I have always lived in areas with four distinct seasons. Warm, often hot green summers, colorful, crisp falls, cool, if not cold, winters, and always bright and welcoming spring.

Spring brings an end to the hibernation which encompasses most of nature during the winter months. There is renewed warmth and a burst of color. This rosebush is an example. We replanted it last year when the bushes around it started choking off its space. Instead of throwing it out or letting it struggle where it was, we gave it a chance at a renewed life. Given room to grow and a little TLC, it has shown the promise to grow and expand and become something wonderful.

And so, I tell my sagging spirit and battered ego that, "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven..." (Ecclesiastes 3:1 KJV). It is, after all, spring.

Big Ties Are Back

2/16/2017

In the 5th and 6th grades, I had a teacher named Mr. Yoder. He used to wear big ties with big knots in a time when the fashion was skinny ties with small knots. He used to tell us that big ties would be back and he was just ahead of his time, not behind it. Within six years, the late 60s hit and big ties were a sign of someone who was hip and cool. The lesson was simple; what was will be again and what is today will soon be yesterday but will someday be tomorrow.

I had a favorite Bible College professor who was ahead of his colleagues in his methods and approach to just about everything. Yet, he admonished us not to be in such a hurry to rush to the next big thing because it would soon be last year’s trend.

If you want to celebrate that big ties are back or fear that big ties are now the fashion statement of the day, take heart. Skinny ties might be the past, but they are also in the future. Life, politics, fashion are a pendulum swinging back and forth. It always swings back after swinging forth.

Kevin, a True Story

1/30/2017

More than likely, other freelance writers are like me and have files of material they wrote but never sold or for which they did not find a purpose. Occasionally, I peruse my files for ideas that might fit if repurposed. I pitched this short story to one publication but it was not pick-up and I eventually used it as a basis for a screenplay. It seems a shame to let it collect dust so I decided to share it.

Kevin, a True Story
by: Richard W Black
Earnest Hemingway is famously quoted as saying, “Madame, all stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and he is no true-story teller who would keep that from you.” In deference to that great American writer, he was almost right. All true stories do end in death yet that is but a beginning, not an end. My faith tells me that what is beyond is far better than anything previously experienced. Therefore, this is a true story of what was and might be.

I had always wanted to be a writer. It was the one sustaining hobby in my life. As I grew older, I determined that I would spend my retirement years writing full-time. Then in my mid-fifties, my job suddenly disappeared. The company was sold and it was moved to another state. My wife and I felt we were in a financial position where I could pursue my dream so I began a writing career and thought I was in heaven.

Quickly, I learned that one of my great joys as a freelance writer was sitting on the front porch in the cool of the summer mornings with my laptop and writing as my neighbors went off to work. It was there on one of those beautiful Tennessee days when I saw him trotting down the sidewalk and into my life.
A salt and pepper miniature schnauzer, he pranced in front of the house, turned into my driveway and stood at the base of the stairs leading up to the porch where I worked. He paced for a while in what I thought was shyness, but would later learn that it was something far worse. I ignored him, figuring he was an escapee from the neighborhood and someone would be along to claim him or he would go home on his own. Eventually though, he climbed the steps.

I was working on a story with a happy-go-lucky character called Kevin so that became his name. It seemed to fit. I talked, he listened and we waited all morning for his pet parents to come for him, they did not. At lunchtime, I bid him farewell and went inside thinking he would be gone by the time I returned. He was still there when I went back to my computer. Foolishly, I fed him a small piece of leftover chicken from my lunch; I felt sorry for him. As the afternoon wore on, I became concerned. I did not want to take a dog into my house that might have fleas or other related problems; he was a bit scraggly and had a touch of an odor. I called the local vet for assistance and they suggested I have him checked out. Actually, I thought they might keep him and solve my dilemma.

An hour before they closed, I packed Kevin into the car and drove over. The veterinary staff declared him free of fleas and other bugs but he did not have an identity chip. They searched through the ads of missing dogs on the internet sites to no avail. I had, by that time, become fond of Kevin and was pleased they would not keep him. Taking him home, I gave him a bath because of the slight smell. That evening, I introduced my wife to our new house guest. I took his picture but must confess to never posting it on telephone poles around the neighborhood or any missing dog website.

After a week, we were too attached to him and stopped pretending to look for his owners. Writers can have long periods of isolation from human contact when working and Kevin seemed God’s gift; a companion during the day who did not interrupt or try to carry on a conversation while I was writing.

I took him back to the veterinarian for a more thorough physical and discovered that he was far older than he appeared, had a limp in his back leg and his teeth were in a deplorable condition. Actually, the teeth were the source of the odor so, poor Kevin had another vet appointment where his teeth were cleaned and several very bad ones were removed. Given their state, the little guy probably had pain when eating, but that was rectified.

The limp bothered me so the vet x-rayed him while he was knocked out for his teeth cleaning. Although the doctor’s original diagnosis had been arthritis, she found a disturbing lump located in his hind quarter and neither the vet nor a local specialist who reviewed the x-rays and subsequent ultrasound images knew what it was. She researched it without finding a probable explanation. I had to make a choice, one I have had to live with ever since. At Kevin’s age, the vet feared that surgery was a 50/50 proposition. An operation might determine what it was and maybe she could remove it or treat it, but my puppy might not survive the surgical procedure or the recovery period. I opted to treat the symptoms with medication that made his life less painful and not risk the surgery.

Kevin became my writing buddy. He lay beside me all day as I wrote and provided the breaks I needed away from the keyboard when he wanted to walk.

Unfortunately, Kevin was not a fan of the rest of the world and that included my wife. So long as I was around, he was friendly and tolerant but when I was not, he had a real attitude toward other people. The groomers at two pet stores refused to take him after the initial visit but we were finally able to have the groomer at the vet clinic handle him with the help of a pill. When we left the house, we had to cage him or he would pee on the floor in rebellion. My wife mistakenly failed to keep an eye on him one evening when I was at a meeting and he left her a nice puddle, which I had to clean up. If we stayed out too late at our Euchre Club, he would urinate in the corner of his cage and I had to wash the blanket and sanitize the liner. It was difficult for my wife to walk him because he only allowed me to pick him up at the steps to the front porch when they returned.

Stairs were hard for Kevin. That first day was not so much about his bashfulness as it was about the pain he had climbing steps. He could descend them but I had to lift him up onto the porch after walks. The neighbor kids found that funny; they did not understand his medical problem and I did not bother to tell them. In the evenings, Kevin leaped off the couch to greet my wife when she returned from work in one of his few expressions of tolerance for her but then I would lift him back up beside me. Our evening ritual included picking him up and carrying him up the steps to bed. I have to admit that I liked doing it, holding him close. He was not a burden.

Seventeen months after Kevin entered our lives, the bad thing inside him did its evil work. For a month, we made several trips to the vet trying to defeat the lump but eventually it won. Eighteen months from his appearance on our front porch, I was forced to accept the inevitable. The doctor gently advised me that Kevin had given up the fight to live and all that was left for him in this world was suffering. I held him that terrible, terrible day as we gave him back to God and my heart broke. If these pages appear stained, it is from the tears of my soul for my little buddy.

We grieved for several months and my writing was a mirror of the pain I felt inside; filled with a sad darkness. I swore I would never allow my heart to become so attached again, but that was the sorrow speaking.

Eventually, I ventured onto websites of breeders of miniature schnauzers when faced with periods of writer’s block under the guise of research for some story or something. Gradually, I had to admit that there was a missing piece to our family and I began exploring the dog rescue sites. I filled out the adoption form and we had a nice visit from a volunteer to evaluate if we were suitable pet parents. Nevertheless, we continued to be hesitant at taking the risk until some very cruel rescue person sent us a photo.

The one-year-old puppy had been given the goofy name of a professional football quarterback when he was saved from the animal shelter on the day before he was scheduled to be terminated. In the picture, he was looking over at the photographer with his sad little eyes and droopy ears. No fair! How could anyone have resisted that face? Of course, the name would have to go, it was dreadful. We made a list and decided on Calvin from the comic strip Calvin and Hobbes.

So, on the day of our wedding anniversary, we filled the hole in our hearts when we picked up Calvin from the miniature schnauzer rescue folks. We immediately fell in love with him. He lies beside me as I write and provides walking breaks. He learned quickly who was in charge and runs the house under his rigid routine. Not long after he arrived, I realized that I was picking Calvin up and carrying him to bed each night even though he was capable of walking up the stairs on his own. I put him on the bed despite the fact that he could jump up by himself. Calvin does not seem to mind, in fact, he expects it every night.

I love Calvin and would not trade him for anything.

However, the older I am the more I think about heaven. Though I am not one to believe that animals have souls, I have to believe that the God who created all creatures will include them as part of the heavenly experience. My dream is that God will give me Kevin when I arrive at his celestial palace. I would give any and all of the jewels in the crown God has promised and even the crown itself to have my little Kevin race out of that house with many rooms to greet me. What great joy it would be to once again take him into my arms and carry him up the steps and into the mansion of God. That would truly be heaven.