In Will Campbell's book, Forty Acres and a Goat, he tells of hearing a black preacher say:
Mr. Folsom just need to take his buggy wheel to the river. The noise from the crowd was far in excess of its number. Again the students did not understand, had never watched their daddy or grand-daddy remove a buggy wheel, its spokes loose on the hub and rim from sun and wear and years, take it to the river where the cold running water would swell the wooden parts to fit as tight as new in a few days of soaking, and the buggy could roll on. Renewed.
I've had many reports of the Remembrance Sunday service held at Dickleburgh (in Norfolk, England) this year, mostly about the preacher. Since Dickleburgh has a historic connection with the Americans from the time of Second World War, they always invite the American Air Base at Mildenhall in Suffolk to join them for the service, and always invite the current American air force chaplain to preach.
On the Sunday afternoon following Thanksgiving, when I was in seventh grade, it began to snow. It started slowly and undramatically -- much like any number of other snows I had experienced growing up in Detroit. The sky turned the shade of dirty wool and the flakes danced through the wind as in one of those glass balls that you invert. Little by little the sidewalks whitened, and soon the neighborhood was alive with the rasping sound of shovels. Before long the roads were filled and you could no longer see the curb.