Front porches

by Bill Cunningham
Kentucky Supreme Court Justice

Charlotte, North Carolina is a beautiful city.
It is rapidly emerging, if not already arriving, as the financial center of the south, pushing Atlanta for bragging rights to the region. So aptly and elegantly called, the “Queen City” is towered over by gleaming new skyscrapers. Down below, wide, clean boulevards connect to shady, tree-lined streets of magnificent homes.
The civic leaders there have done a good job over the years of tidying up the inner city blight and improving the living conditions of its minorities. In short, Charlotte is a dynamic city on the move, fueled by the information age and white collar whiz kids, many from the north.
One brilliant spring Saturday morning, I walked along one of its upper middle class neighborhoods. Appropriately enough, the name of the tree-lined avenue was “Champaigne Street.” Giant boughs in full foliage hovered over wide sidewalks, divided from the streets by grass medians. Splendid homes in the half million dollar range sat like stately sentinels upon lush, manicured lawns.
An occasional jogger or hurried walker, in designer gym wear with electronic wiring devices anchored to their heads, were the only signs of life I saw on this breathtakingly splendid Saturday morning. The people I observed were unsmiling and somber, most times with their heads down, as if their stern exercise mission was simply a carry over chore from their frantic Friday workload in the city.
While leisurely strolling along this peaceful community of Norman Rockwell lore – made aesthetically more powerful in the splendor of spring – I noticed something was missing. There were no kids on bikes. No dogs. No neighbors visiting over back fences. No commands being yelled from upstairs windows by busy moms. No squadrons of small children frolicking in the yards.
A numbing absence of life in a heavenly world of splendor.
As I observed more closely this row upon row of impressive homes, I noticed something else was missing. There were no front porches.
Large, gargantuan homes of grand design and masterful craftsmanship had only stoops with occasional decorative columns – marking what amounted to only a front aperture to the building. I did not see one single wide-sweeping front porch with a swing, glider or wicker chair.
But this is the case, not just on Champaigne Street in Charlotte, North Carolina. Regrettably, this has become the norm for most of the modern, American neighborhoods, even in the sprawling new subdivisions in Smalltown, USA.
The life and soul has been suctioned right out of many of our neighborhoods. Why even people in my hometown of Kuttawa, Kentucky, may not know the couple living two doors down the street. To a large degree, architecture is serving to isolate us, not only from each other, but from the world around us.
Air-conditioning is the main culprit. No one these days, especially in the hot, muggy south, would want to live without it. But it is irrefutable that air-conditioning, along with television, have created cocoons of our homes in which we move about and become who we are, what we think, how we act.
People work in glass and metal cages all day, then speed home in airtight containers on wheels. We open garage doors without getting out of our cars and move into the cool and closed quarters of places we call home. Inside sits a large crate, sometimes massive enough to dominate an entire room. It immediately comes alive with news of bombings, murders and mayhem. This box spews forth a steady stream of perversion and decadence. There are some stations that broadcast bad news around the clock.
This steady stream of frightful events – most of them happening thousands of miles away – flood our homes during most of our waking moments. At last, with our heads full of bad news and insipid programming, we go to bed for the night – locked down like inmates in a cell block wing of a maximum security prison.
No wonder Americans are scared to death.
We have moved from the wonderful fresh air of our front porches to the darkened cells of the indoors, living on the first floor in all aspects of our lives.
There was a day – which we as Americans must recapture in some way – when we looked across our streets and country roads into the hedge row of our neighbors with a familiarity and openness of a first name and a daily greeting. Front porches made friends out of strangers. They brought home the wonderful scents of chicken frying in a skillet or a pie baking in the oven, and the noises of voices we knew. They made the morning sun and evening shade enter our own lives with the communal assurance that we – even in a sometime frightful and uneasy world – are not alone, and that in spite of it all, we are mostly good.
As a small boy, my family’s front porch was another living room. I remember one summer night when my mother had gone to spend a few days with my grandfather. My older sisters had been left in charge of homemaking. My father had gone to a Masonic meeting, and I was determined to wait up for him on the front porch. Sitting there on the glider by myself, I was serenaded by the wonderful nocturnal sounds of crickets, katydids, and frogs, as well as the low murmuring of neighbors sitting and conversing on their own front porches. As one would expect of a rambunctious barefoot boy, quieted by the soft summer night after a day of perpetual motion, I grew drowsy and fell asleep on the glider.
I woke up the next morning in my bed. Upon returning home, my father had found his small son sound asleep on the front porch and had lugged him off to bed. It was a fatherly rite performed by an endless number of men – yesterday, today, and forever. But sadly so, no longer from front porches.

The Galloways and Bridging the Gap

by Mike Tierney
Reporter--The Marshall Times

Last week we had an article about the Galloway’s, a very inspirational Gospel singing family who performed a concert on the Benton Courthouse Square. At the end of the concert Earl Galloway, very softly and with an air of passion, spoke to the crowd about his strong conviction and dedication to a new quest he has in his life. This article is a continuation of the Galloway family story.
When the Galloway singing family moved to Nashville in 2000, they, as most gospel singing groups, due to their schedules, were on the road most weekends performing. Earl said, " I wanted to find a church home but because of the travel we were not able to." The family visited a lot of different churches as they did their concerts but they could not call any of the churches their real church home. Finally in 2007 this situation changed as a result of Candy Christmas inviting the Galloways to a service for the homeless called "The Bridge" which was held at 6:30 p.m. every Tuesday night under the Jefferson Street Bridge in Nashville, Tennessee. Earl explained that when he agreed to perform at the service he had mixed emotions about attending the service. In a sense he said he felt that the homeless were in their situation by choice and did not want to help themselves and just went around town dirty, drinking, and begging.
Candy Christmas is a well known singer who has performed with her family, The Hemphels, and also performed at many of the Gaither homecomings. The Bridge ministry started by Candy has a three fold purpose: to provide spiritual help for the homeless, provide food and clothing, and help the homeless get into rehab and health programs. During the summer months there is an average attendance of 350 homeless who attend the service. The weather is not a factor affecting the service because the homeless attend the service year round whether it is freezing, raining or snowing. They come pushing or pulling their carts filled with the only belongings they have and are hungry, lonely, sick, and many times drunk from drinking the drink of choice, Listerine. Candy always begins the service telling the homeless these words, "If no one has told you I love you today, let me be the first to tell you that I love you and God does too."
After a service of songs and a spiritual message by a guest minister, the group of homeless line up to receive a hot meal and then they are given what clothing they may need and they also can take food with them in bags. The Bridge Ministry now has a 20,000 foot warehouse to house all the donated items for the homeless. Many churches from all across the country now donate to the program and hundreds of volunteers help out throughout the year providing help to the Nashville homeless under the Jefferson Street Bridge.
In Earl’s own words, "My visit to the bridge on that February evening changed my life forever." "I and my family have found a church home every Tuesday evening at 6:30 under the Bridge." After a few services at the Bridge, it did not take Earl and his family long to know what their lives would become focused on, and that would be a mission of ministry to the homeless. The homeless became real individual people to Earl and his family and not just "the homeless."
Earl gave an example of how different individual homeless individuals have had a profound influence on his new life He explained this by telling a very heartwarming story about a homeless man named Jack who was a good guitar player and songwriter. He said Jack always loved playing the guitar but had to borrow one because he did not own one. Earl said that when his family was touring in Pennsylvania and giving a concert at a church called the Key to the Kingdom, the pastor of the church heard about Jack during the Galloway’s concert. The Church had a new Yamaha guitar in its band and the church minister, after hearing about Jack, felt it upon his heart to have Earl take the guitar to Nashville to give to Jack. Earl said, "when I returned to Nashville and gave the guitar to Jack he became totally elated." Jack told Earl, "I will never get rid of this guitar for as long as I live." It was very ironic that the guitar Jack received originally came from Broadway Street in Nashville right across from the famous church, The Ryman.
Jack was from a family of 10 children who got separated at a early age. When the Galloways were touring in Florida, Earl told the Jack Story during a concert and a lady who heard the story contacted Earl and said she believed Jack was her brother, and what a wonderful reunion, as Jack is her brother. Earl has numerous stories to tell of those whom he has come in contact with while working with the homeless. Earl says, "everyone has a story to tell." Guess where Earl and his family spent last Christmas day? You are right, he and his family were at the Jefferson Street Bridge singing and ministering to the homeless.
The Bridge ministry has been such a success that there are plans to develop similar bridge ministries in the cities of Detroit and Atlanta. The Galloway family have taken it upon themselves to promote the homeless ministries in these cities with their talent and zeal of spiritual inspiration. They are truly bridging the gap with the homeless.