Southern Roots: Lessons From a Southern Upbringing

By Russell L. Estes

Have you ever asked yourself, "How did I end up in this mess?!"

We're experts at messing up our lives. We need constant reminders that not all is lost. We need to see grace in action!

This is where the lessons of yesteryear come into play, those you not only listened to but lived. Russell L. Estes recalls hi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Russell Estes
• Release date: Dec 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087930046

Russell L. Estes

Russell Estes is a bestselling author of Christian and inspirational books, and a motivational speaker with a hint of Southern humor that keeps you waiting on his next line. He currently lives in Tuscaloosa, Alabama where he is married to his lovely wife, Kristy. She and their two children, Dawson and Emilee are the joy of his life.

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Southern Roots

Lessons from a Southern Upbringing

Russell L. Estes

Copyright © 2020 by Russell L. Estes

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

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The ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®). ESV® Text Edition: 2016. Copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. The ESV® text has been reproduced in cooperation with and by permission of Good News Publishers. Unauthorized reproduction of this publication is prohibited. All rights reserved.

Dedication

In memory of my sweet mother, Eathel B. Estes

Throughout my life, I have dealt with many obstacles. From my time as a young boy growing up in public housing to juggling finances as an adult, regardless of what I was going through, she always had an encouraging word. Her outlook on every situation was always the same: just trust the Lord.

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She worked her whole life—sometimes two jobs—to help us have the things we needed. No matter how tired she was, she always made time for me. No matter how long the workday was, she always provided a meal for us. No matter how she felt, she put everyone else first.

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Mom was stricken with dementia at age seventy-four. It changed a lot. I no longer was the one relying on her words to get me through something; instead, I became the one helping her fight this terrible thing.

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During her battle, I quickly learned that she still loved everyone unconditionally. That never changed. I watched as dementia held her captive in a shell, but her vocabulary and actions still revolved around kindness.

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When I was supposed to be the caregiver, she was still teaching. I became more sensitive to the feelings of others and more aware of the needs of those I met. I saw how Mom responded to those trying to help her, and thought, if she can show this much kindness and love during the most difficult time of her life, it should be easy for me.

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That within itself is enough reason for this book to be recognized in her memory.

Contents

Preface

Where the Good Water Comes From

The Past is Here Now

An Old Green Nova, a Six-pack of Miller Lite, and the Drive-In

Picture Day

Honesty on the Farm

Carl

Expired Blessings

Restoration

Class Reunion

The Joys of Puppy Training

If I Could Take it Back. . .

Acknowledgments

Preface

Do you have moments in your life that defined a part of you? What about certain memories that take you back to a precise time?

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Throughout our lives, we’re taught by books, teachers, and parents. Even with all the vast knowledge we acquire through these teachings, it is the moments we live that we remember most. A fishing trip that cleared your mind. A long talk with a loved one that got you through a hard time. Maybe a chance meeting with a stranger that left an impact on you.

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For me, the memories of yesteryear are a cherished treasure, for they contain the foundation of who I am today.

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This book is jammed full of stories that, throughout my life, have helped me get through the tough times. Some are my own experiences and some are stories that have been passed on to me through my encounters with others who helped me along the way. And some stories, well, they’re just tucked in here to give you a smile. One of life’s most favorable medicines is the gift of laughter.

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As you read through this book, I hope you find a glimmer of hope, an ounce of laughter, and a need to pass on a smile to the ones you’ll meet on your journeys.

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Russell L. Estes

Image - The Good Water

Where the Good Water Comes From

It was a typical summer day in the little northwest county of Alabama we called home. The sun beat down upon everything beneath it as if it were tempting folks to go outside, like a dare . . . a double-dog dare. It was a dare that almost no one was willing to take that day.

The humidity was nearly as high as the temperature itself, which reached just around the hundred-degree mark. I sat on the front porch of our little three-bedroom apartment in the Brilliant Housing Projects, sipping on a cold Coca-Cola from the glass bottle; the best kind. Like most twelve-year-old boys, I wasn’t giving in to the heat.

I had just finished playing basketball on the asphalt courts that doubled as parking spaces in front of apartment #28 and the adjourning housing units, never once thinking of going inside. Oh no, not during the summer with so much to do outdoors! My next quest for the day would be to jump on my twenty-inch bike—made from at least three other bikes that had earlier met their fate on one of the many ramshackle ramps we’d built—and head over to my best friend Joey’s apartment.

From there, we could grab a fishing pole and a cup of worms and ride to the bottom of the hill that our little town sat on to Boston Creek. We never caught anything much bigger than our hands, but we’d heard the tales around town. Those tales professed there were catfish in that creek big enough to pull a boat. So big that even a twenty-pound test line couldn’t hold them.

My brother, Kenneth, claimed to have hooked one of them. He said that it almost seemed to know he’d been fishing for it. When it broke his line, it swam right up by him at the bank and flipped its tail—a tail at least a foot wide—and soaked him in mockery for going after it. I believed him!

Kenneth was seventeen years older than me. I looked up to him. He could fish, hunt, and was the best at bottle rocket wars . . . oh, and this thing called half-ball, a game made up by using a broken broomstick and a rubber ball cut in half. He was really good at that. My brother was the best!

He had seen the big fish, and I believed him. And a boy of my age at the time believed he could be the one to catch the legend of the creek!

As I finished off the Coke and grabbed my fishing rod, I heard the squeak of the front screen door and the following pop as it slammed shut from the force of the oversized spring attached to it. Don’t run off too far. We’re about to go get a few jugs of the good water, my dad announced.

Willard Estes was the kind of man that never sat still. He worked twelve hours a day and still came home to find something that needed his attention. That Saturday, he had been up since the crack of dawn.

His face was worn and carried deep wrinkles from years of working paycheck to paycheck. He’d spent many years laboring in the coal mines until one day, they packed up shop and left town, only to leave some broken-down equipment and a playground for the mischievous kids. After the departure of the mining company, he found his days just as long, but as a welder fabricating outdoor furniture for a company in a nearby town.

Dad’s instructions meant my fishing trip was on hold. I saw him carry several jugs and place them in the trunk of our old ’76 Chevy Nova. He kept every empty milk jug that he had room for in hopes that the spring water—or as he called it, the good water—would never run dry.

He claimed it was as pure as the water that fell from the clouds, never touched by human hands, and it tasted better than the chlorine water the city charged us for. I had to agree about the taste. The chlorine in the city water was sometimes so strong you could smell it.

After Dad packed every last jug that would fit into the car, it was time to embark upon our journey, just Mom, Dad, and me. My sister (the only other sibling still at home) was at the lake with her high school friends. We loaded up and off we went to the adjoining county to catch some of God’s water, and Dad mentioned that on the way back we might swing by Green’s Mill, a popular fishing and swimming hole, to pick a gallon or two of blackberries for Mom’s oh-so-good blackberry cobbler.

As we drove down the familiar highway, I could hardly talk due to the wind in my face. The Nova didn’t have a working A/C and Dad’s belief was the faster I go, the more air that will come in the four windows. That would have been okay if not for the exhaust leak at the headers that allowed fumes to collect in the back seat. I’ve often contemplated how I survived those trips. To this day, when I have a bad headache, I wonder if those fumes aren’t the culprit.

Only an hour’s drive, I can make it, right? I thought.

Even as traumatic as I make it sound, those drives are one thing I miss the most. It was almost as if they were something that made us a family, something that we did together. Something that made a lasting memory.

I even remember the scenery. The thick green forest with the occasional dogwood tree or honeysuckle vine added color to the hills that rolled like a painting from the pages of a book. We passed rock bluffs and crossed bridges over bustling creeks.

Alabama truly is a beautiful place to live in. I never realized it growing up, but we are lucky to live here with all of God’s creations. From state line to state line, we have every aspect of nature from beaches to mountains.

The wind started to diminish as our four-door vapor box slowed to idle speed. There was a worn area on the shoulder of the road just big enough to safely pull over and about three car-lengths long. Dad, always mindful of others, pulled all the way up to the first spot, leaving room for anyone else that might have known about the good water. We had arrived!

I’d visited that place so many times as a kid that it was carved into my memory as much as anything else I’d ever experienced. The water rustling over the rocks was calming. Only the smell changed with the seasons, from spring and summer when the wildflowers created nature’s own potpourri to winter when it seemed to strip it of any scent at all.

There was a well-worn path, maybe six to eight feet wide. The ground was stripped of any vegetation from the many visitors. Above, the trees produced an awning that gave us shade. Even in the heat of that hot day, it was comfortable, possibly ten to fifteen degrees cooler.

The path had a slight incline, just enough to be noticeable but not enough to cause resistance to our walk. Naturally placed rocks, some as large as the cows we’d passed just a few miles back, littered the woods and nearby hillside.

About twenty feet into the path was a stack of smaller rocks and protruding out of them was a small pipe. I never knew who placed it there, where it ran from, or if it was meant to be shared. But to Dad, it was a gift from God himself. That—that right there—was where the good water came from.

We each grabbed a couple of jugs and moved toward the miracle liquid splashing into the puddle it created. Years and years of the never-ending fountain cut a bowl into the flat rock beneath it. From there, it flowed down to the road and through a storm pipe that had been laid under the road by the state. The path to get there winded like a snake, finding the path of least resistance and bouncing from rock to rock in the banks of the shallow ditch it cut.

Dad started filling the first jug as I made my way back to the trunk to get more. Mom found a large rock that was just the right height to sit on.

Come over here and get a swig of this, Dad said, holding a jug out toward me.

I took the jug and turned it up. It was as cold as the water we kept in the refrigerator back home. No chlorine, no smell. Just good, cold water! That first swallow gave approval to the hour it took to get there. I tilted the jug toward Heaven again and let the divine liquid flow down my throat, some spilling on my face and cooling the parched skin from the days I’d spent outside.

Easy, son! Don’t give yourself a bellyache. We’ll have plenty to take with us, Dad exclaimed as he continued filling the next container.

After the last jug had been loaded back into the car—all seventeen containers—we pulled out and started back home. I can only imagine now how it must have looked to the passing cars seeing us load all of that.

I’m almost certain that anyone who didn’t know about the natural spring hidden just a few steps behind the tree line assumed we had finished loading up the next batch from our moonshine still hid in the woods just off the county road. Dad didn’t care what they thought, just as long as he had enough of the good water to last a few weeks. He’d just refilled one of the things that made him happy.

A few miles down the road, with the exhaust fumes once again making my eyes water, I made sure to remind Dad, Don’t forget about the blackberries.

"Jesus answered, ‘Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.’" (John 4:13-14

NIV

)

So, what made getting this water so special? Was it because city water was so bad? Or was that water really that good? Even though we packed up enough water to quench our thirst, I still wanted blackberries. Does anything earthly ever satisfy us to the point that we don’t want anything else?

No matter how hard we try, earthly things will never satisfy the natural human longing for more.

Eventually, human nature finds itself ultimately dissatisfied with material things. We seek other kinds of water because we unsuccessfully try to quench our spiritual thirst without fully accepting what that means.

Some of the wealthiest people to have ever lived turned to drugs and other artificial means to quench their thirst. Some, never finding what they were chasing, even took their own life, convinced it was the only thing left to do. Even the average working-class family chases things they can possess.

Is it wrong to want more? Is it wrong to want to take that vacation that your neighbor took a month ago? What about when your income allows you to buy a bigger house, a newer car, or move to a more desirable location? Is that a bad thing?

I mean, it’s not that I don’t still serve Christ or want to do His work. I don’t covet anything that anyone else has or does. I want to provide things for my family that I never had. I want them to experience things that I never could.

But—but—we STILL . . . WANT . . . MORE!

Only a relationship with God, through salvation in Christ, can solve that problem. Only Jesus can supply the water that our thirsty souls desire. Only He can fill the emptiness and the ache.

An amazing promise of Jesus’s gift, His blessing, His refreshment, is that it is lasting. This water that Jesus gives is a spring of water, never-ending. It is living, not static or stagnant. It gives life, and this life provides more water.

That ol’ spring erupting from the hillside that we filled our jugs from, it too was never-ending. It had run for years, and probably, if I went back there today, it would most likely still be running. Because it was always moving and appeared alive, it never became stagnant.

But what made it different? Why is the water of Christ more refreshing?

Even after taking in all the water I wanted, I still desired those blackberries. If that spring produced spiritual water, that’s all that I would desire. Just more water. I would want more water than my six-foot, two-inch body could hold.

Desiring things isn’t bad as long as they’re placed in the right order and those things aren’t evil to begin with, such as drugs or any other thing that leads to a sinful lifestyle. In other words, the evil in our desires often lies not in what we want, but in the fact that we want it too much. Natural desires for good things are meant to exist, but they must not be greater than our desire to please the Giver of Gifts.

I am a true believer that God will turn our desires into a focus on Him if, and only when, we give ourselves 100% to Him, offering up our lives as a tool to be used for His glory and Kingdom. Based on that, are preferences, wishes, desires, longings, hopes, and expectations always sinful? Of course not.

What we call natural affections is part of our humanity. They’re part of what makes humans different from all other living creatures, able to tell the difference between a blessing and a curse, pleasure and pain. It is right that we don’t want the pains of rejection, death, poverty, and illness, and we do want the joys of friendship, life, money, and health. These things, if obtained, can all be used to glorify Him.

Living water . . . we need it!

We need spiritual water. It refreshes us, leads us, and makes our lives purpose-filled and a thing of beauty. The same as with the forest from where we filled our jugs back when I was young; it was beautiful and green around the flowing water. Full of life and always changing.

The difference with or without rain in the forest is amazing. Hills can be barren and brown when there’s no water, but after a season of rain, they’re covered in green