A Lifetime

He was a successful businessman, and, I liked it that he answered all my questions with ‘sir’.

And, he graciously got up when I told him our seats were next to his.

And, he told me he had three children, very similar in age to mine.

But he said they all still lived at home.

“I guess I’m too soft on them, letting them live with me at their age,” he said.

“Not at all,” I replied.  “You only have a lifetime to spend with them; make it worth it.”

And, he jerked a bit and looked at me.

And then he smiled and said, “You are so right, sir.”

Harvard

The hills gave way to fewer hills, and, soon a more urban sprawl took over.

And, then, there was Boston.  And we slowed as we navigated the narrow, bumpy cobblestone streets.

And, as luck would have it, the restaurant that the sweet daughter chose for dinner was nestled in downtown and all the neat little shops and vendors that go along with it.

By later afternoon, the question of supper rolled around, and, someone thought wood fired pizza would be good. 

The address was Cambridge, but since I haven’t studied up on my stuff recently, I didn’t recognize it for what it was.

Until we started driving by some very old brick buildings, the story of which had their start in 1639 and has since become one of the most prestigious universities in this country.

I felt distinctly humbled and uneducated.

I wondered, if, I really had enough mentality to give pause to such a post, or even such a blog, as I have been wont to give time to. 

I saw the classrooms, all lit up with night classes and filled with students, facing away from the street and listening to the words falling, even then, from their professors’ meditations.

I saw big digital screens lit up, ready for the next group of disciples who were sacrificing the evening hours and the next few years of their lives, laying themselves fully upon this peculiar altar.

And, I heard, in the neat little pizzeria we sat in, the animated tones of those who had come from far and wide to this revered center of learning to discover themselves.

And, I realized, I heard in them, myself, some 25 years ago or more.

I saw myself, albeit in much humbler surroundings, as I approached the parts counter of the local John Deere.  I heard myself tell the parts counter man that I planned to start work there in two weeks, and, could he recommend which wrenches would work the best?

I saw my journey to the next parts store, as I continued to fill my kit with the necessary tools, although each could have been a textbook, if I had known then.

And, I heard in their voices, at the pizzeria, the same hope I heard in my voice, back then.  Because, they say, we humans always hope in some way or another, for something. 

And I heard and recognized in their hope, enthusiasm.  For life.  And all it could throw at them.  Because they felt invincible, just as I had.

Invincible, because I couldn’t have known, and neither could they, what life had on the table for me.

I couldn’t know of blazing hot service calls, without a drink for hours, and an angry customer standing nearby.

I hadn’t yet felt the accidental blows to fingers that were lifelong lessons in themselves.

I didn’t know yet of lachrymose machines that wept out never ending drops of oil as they sat, waiting, while I travailed in what seemed a vain attempt to heal their problem.

Nor could I know of friendly coworkers, without whom I would have decidedly failed.

Neither could I know of customers who, at just the right moment, offered an ice cold soft drink.

And, I never could have predicted, that some of those same customers would remain friends to this day.

So, I sat there, and I listened to them.

And, I realized that life is a great mediator, and even if they have lots of letters behind their name, it will humble and exalt them, just as it did me.

And so, in the end, I wondered.

Will their life be fuller, or not as much, as mine, because of where they went to school?

I wondered as I sat there with my dear ones and as I missed my sons who were even then working and dealing with life back at home. 

I wondered.

Did I need to feel humbled, as I sat in the presence of those who attend such a university as the one located nearby?

Your Choice

You and two of your friends are walking down a sidewalk that is wide enough for two.

You have the choice to either walk in front of, or behind your friends.

One choice says you may do well in the business world, and, perhaps not as well in the world of friendship. 

The other says you may have more friends, but perhaps not do so well in the business world.

Where you find yourself walking could say something about the person you are.

The choice is yours.

In My House

I am your typical first child in a family.

I am fastidious, because, by default I was taught to be. 

I am sensitive to my parents and their desires and wishes; they wouldn’t want it any other way.

I know, I know, any child not born first is going to raise the cry of ‘not true’ at what I say next.

My parents tried their best to get it right when they trained me.  Their discipline to me was straightforward and consistent.

Today, when I look at my younger brother, I don’t see it that way for him.  

He definitely gets more advantages than I did.

At least, that’s how I see it. 

And, I’m okay with it.  Mostly.  I know what is required of me, and I can give it in a way that is satisfactory to my folks.

I  know that in the end, me being the oldest, I’ll get first dibs on whatever it is my folks have to give when they choose to.

Knowing this, I recently entered into a partnership with my folks on the farm.  I’m interested in its legacy, and I’ll do what I can to see it through to the next generation.

*****

My little brother is a different sort entirely. 

I have yet to see any resemblance of responsibility shown by him. 

I don’t get it.  He is up late in the morning, and to bed way later than the rest of us.  You can pretty much guess how he faces each day living that kind of schedule.  The way I figure, he puts in a half day of work most days.  And then I still must go redo his work most of the time.

So, it came as a bit of relief one day when he approached our folks and told them he was interested in joining a trade school in a nearby town.  He said farming just wasn’t his thing. 

On our farm, we boys don’t get wages as such.  We get a pittance wage in return with the promise that when folks retire, the farm cedes to us.  In the meantime, our basic needs are met by folks. 

My folks listened attentively to my little brother, and I was amazed to hear my dad say he’d cover the first semester of trade school, and then he expected my little brother to pay his own way with afterhours work.

That first semester fee was more than the sum total of my wages I have received to date. 

My jaw dropped and stayed unhinged for quite some time after hearing those words, and it’s probably good it did, because if it had worked, I’m sure I would have said something I would have later regreted.

*****

Little bro was soon off to trade school.  Honestly, I didn’t notice much added to my workload.  Which proved my earlier suspicion; he really hadn’t pulled his share of the load anyway.

Well, the first semester came to an end, and we got word that jobs were scarce in the city, and, could the next semester be paid from home?  He would try his best to get a job and pay back the loan as quickly as he could.

I was okay with this, per se.  I encouraged folks to start a schedule of repayment for his loan.  I didn’t want any of that cash slipping out and gone for good.  We were running a slim enough margin that not much could go unaccounted for. 

We got busy on the farm then, and it seemed like just a few days, and the second semester was over.  I asked folks if their loan had been repaid.  Their answer stunned me. 

They said nothing had been paid back.

And they felt so badly, they said, that they advanced my brother more cash. 

They assured me it would be okay; they had confidence it would all come back. 

But it didn’t.

It wasn’t long, and I saw dad quietly selling some unused equipment.  Soon, he traded off more essential equipment, and purchased older, and smaller equipment to take its place.  What once had been a farm anyone could have been proud of started going to shambles.

I burned with fury.  It was obvious folks had overextended themselves.  Dad and I slaved day and part of the night with that older, high maintenance equipment, just trying to eek out enough to make it to the next year.

The livestock went next.  I was heartbroken.  I loved the cattle, they were my friends.

The years slipped by and with frugal living and careful farming methods, we began to slowly gain. 

Enough so, that one day we were able to buy a good-looking heifer that was bred with good bloodlines.  We figured if her calf was a bull, we were set, as it looked like by then we might have enough to purchase a small heifer calf to pair with it.  And we did.  We got that heifer calf, and if all went well, in a few months we planned to turn her in with the bull. 

My hopes begin to rise, ever so slightly.

I even dared to hope that I might be able to get married, which was something I didn’t feel like was possible with the estate the farm was in, even though my folks encouraged me to take the step in faith; that it all would work out if I did.

One day I was out planting.  It looked like the seed was going into good moisture, and there was a chance of rain that night.  If I put in a few extra hours, I knew I could finish and then we’d see if that rain came or not.

I was about finished when I happened to glance toward the house. 

My heart froze. 

Every light was on.  Had there been an accident?  I saw vehicles filled the yard and spilled out onto the road.

I picked up and ran for all I was worth in that direction.  I came even with the corrals and my heart sank.  I saw a blood trail leave it and go towards the house, but I was still clueless as to what had happened.

And then suddenly I knew. 

I just felt it, I guess.

My little brother was home.

I tasted the bitter, acrid taste of the most conflicting emotion I have ever known.

I was stunned.  Speechless.

Not only had my little brother drained the farm and us of all we had, but rumor had also filtered back that the life he was living never was a life at school. 

He had turned our good family name into a travesty.

Now, here he was, back home, and from the looks of things, all the stops had been pulled out and a huge celebration was in the makings.

All for an imbecile, who just happened to be my little brother.

And then, I must have gone berserk. 

I really don’t remember much of what happened next. 

I was standing near one of the outbuildings of the place, and, I must have lost it.

“NO!”  I screamed.

“NO!  NO!  NO!  You suffering fool!”

“NO!”  And I slammed my fist into the wall of the shed. 

I continued screaming and hitting the building until, spent and bloodied, I sat down against the wall facing away from the house.

And then, I started sobbing.  Deep, horrific sobs that are the loneliest thing a man can ever endure.  I cried in anger, rage, and frustration. 

Finally, my sobs lost some of their force, and I sat there, quietly crying, in the deepest sadness I had ever known. 

And then I realized someone was sitting beside me. 

I don’t know how long he had been there. 

He waited for my crying to cease, and, then, sat in silence with me for a few minutes before asking, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

I told him everything. 

It came out in a torrent of words that I couldn’t have stopped if I tried.  At one point, my language got so vile, I stopped, appalled at what he must be thinking.

“Go on,” he said, in the kindest of tones.

When I finished, we sat there, in silence, and I waited for the blow to fall. 

I was sure he would chastise me, lay some harsh words down on me.

But he didn’t. 

“I get it,” he said. 

And, we sat in silence again, for a spell.

“You have every reason to feel the way you are feeling,” he said, after a while.

“You worked so hard, and I’m sure your father noticed that, and appreciated it.”

I began to sob again.

He draped a kind, loving arm across my shoulders and continued.

“You did everything right.  You worked so hard.  You had the long view in mind, which is always good. 

You were, in a sense, everything your brother wasn’t.”

It was such a relief to hear those words.

“But you need to be in the house,” he said.

“What?”

“Yes.  You need to be in the house.  Together with them.”

“No.  No, there is no way I could be.  Not after everything that has happened.”

“You belong in the house.”

“Obviously not.  Look at the fuss they are making over my brother.  And after all he did. 

No.  They don’t want me there.”

“It’s in the house you’ll find yourself,” he continued, seeming somehow to understand what I was feeling, and yet urging me on to something I did not yet understand.

“You did it right, and your father has every reason to be proud of you.  You saved the farm, more than you’ll ever know.”

He paused.

“But it’s been lonely, hasn’t it.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“It’s just been you and your work, all these years.”

“Yes.”

“A person, living in your situation, has the tendency to become a law unto himself, or self-right.  I wouldn’t blame you if it happened to you.  It can happen to anyone.

You tend to start doing things the way you think they ought to be done, and it soon becomes the only way they are done.  It’s sort of like you live your life by good works, and, really, you have done quite well in that.”

“But my brother . . . “

“Ah, yes.  He’s on the other side of the coin, isn’t he.  You could say that in a way, his life was one for plumbing the depths of grace, while yours has been one for plumbing the depths of good works.  Every day, your brother got farther and farther away, in your mind, because you were isolating yourself from him and hedging yourself around with the good work you did.  You sort of removed yourself from all of life, for that matter. You had become an island unto yourself. 

Meanwhile, as his circumstances got more and more desperate, and the grace so freely extended to your brother was finally siphoned away to what seemed nothing, your brother became just as isolated; his isolation was terrible.  There seemed to be no hope for him.”

We sat silent for a while, and then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his handkerchief and gave it to me. 

I blew my nose and wiped the tear streaks away. 

“Keep it,” he said, when I handed it back to him.  “I want you to have something from me to remember our time with.”

“Thanks,” I said, and then, I got my first really good look at him.

“Your brother was at his end; hopeless.  Total despair.  He knew he had squandered every drop of grace, or so it seemed.

But there’s always grace.  Not for him in the huge amounts like it was when he started out, but enough to warm him to the thought of what it must be like in his father’s house.

And he got himself there; and surprisingly for you, he used some of the same effort you have used these last few years.

Grace alone couldn’t do it for him.  Good works alone can’t do it for you.”

The light began to dawn on me, and I suddenly realized what a fool I had been.

“The farm can wait,” he said.

“You need to be in my house.

They are waiting for you there.”

String of Pain

I saw them in a perfect line along the top of her hand.

“Like a string of pearls,” I thought.

“Or five words, neatly written in a calligraphy of red on a tan manuscript.”

They had a touch of artistry to them.

And they spoke volumes to me as she handed me my medication. 

And I noticed she had lost weight and looked older since the last time I was there.

And I wondered, “Will she be here the next time I come in?”

Because her eyes told me the rest.  They were blown wide open, and the suffering pooled in them and glittered.

I hope someone is there to walk beside her. 

It’s going to be a painful journey, I’m afraid.

India #7

He sat there, bored and a bit aloof, and, I really couldn’t blame him.

His 15 years of living had been mostly filled with this little room and the knowledge it had to impart.

The 20 x 30 foot space was not lost on him; he knew every deviation and modulation of the rough floor as well as he knew the nearby Himalayan skyline. 

He knew, because there were no desks in the room, and all their work was done on the floor. 

And they lined up in rows, youngest in front, to the oldest in back.  And the room was full, just like it was today, every day. 

And just as warm, under the tin roof, as the insects and outside air filtered through the large openings in the concrete walls.

And he knew what it was like to share that space with 40 others, day in and day out. 

He was the oldest now, but he could easily see himself as one of the little 3 ½ year olds that were just beginning their own personal journey under their beloved pedagogue.

The irony of it all surely wasn’t lost on him either.  He knew why this school was here.  The thinly veiled references to Christianity and the songs they sang all talked about it in one way or another.  And even though his village was predominately Hindu, and even though Christianity was excluded, taught against, in the evenings and the rest of the week, it was the only school they had, so he went to it.

He followed the movements of the two young men as they set up the flannel graph tripod, placed the board on it, and then watched as his teacher ceded his authority to them for the next 45 minutes. 

He didn’t pick out any songs to sing, even though he did help sing them; he had had his turn at such, now it was the younger one’s turn.

He listened as the flannel graph Bible story was told.  Likely he had heard it before, and his good training showed in his courteous and mannerly attitude.

He took the paper with the picture they were supposed to color, and I caught myself rebelling for him.

But he didn’t.  He crouched down like all the rest and began coloring.  Some of the smallest ones quickly colored theirs, and then, their short attention span depleted, ducked into daydreams that nodded off into short naps before the rest were done.

But not so with him. 

He took the colored pencils from the two young men and surveyed them and his picture carefully.  It was then I saw that what could have been a project to sneer at, from his lofty age, became a challenge they all shared, according to their various ages.

He carefully worked the color into the corners, deftly moved it along the straight lines, then skillfully shaded in the broader areas.  And when he was finished, he handed his picture to the two young men for them to sign and leave a kind written remark, just like all the rest.  He knew that his picture would be judged by his own merit and the amount of hard work he had put into it; not by how it compared to all the rest. 

He accepted, without ceremony, the piece of candy one of the young men gave him and went back to his place to wait until all the rest had finished, and one more song would be sung.  Then he could go home.

But it took a little longer to finish this time, because a small one, maybe four years old, who couldn’t speak any English at all, wanted two pieces of candy.  He quietly stood near one of the young men, bumping up against the young man’s knee, and held out his little hand.

We all watched as the young man kindly told him in his native tongue, that he could have one color or the other, but not both.  The little one quietly begged; no words were spoken; his big almond eyes telling the story.  He could wait; he wanted the candy, but, maybe, he wanted the presence of the young man even more. 

Finally, school was dismissed, and they all left, some in ones and twos, some in groups. 

He left by himself.  And a part of me went with him, somehow.  He seemed so quiet, so aloof.  I wanted to make friends with him, but my time with him was over. 

I watched as he broke into a jog, then into a run and I saw the ground slip beneath him with surprising alacrity.

In just seconds, he had vanished from my sight. 

The two young men took the flannel graph board and tripod down.  One of them spoke some kind words of encouragement to the schoolteacher, who was there on his own hook, and because of his love for Christ. 

We soon packed ourselves away into the Scorpio, and one of the young men told us to roll our windows down and hold our hands out, because the schoolchildren would be lined up along the road out of the village to high five us as we went by. 

We drove slowly, and, tears were never far away as we touched their hands and told them Namaste, Namaste.  Because it felt like I loved them.  And they were my friends, even though I didn’t even know their names.  And I knew I’d never see them again.

I looked behind to see many of them standing, just where we had met and high fived, looking on as we slowly left their little place.

We rounded the last curve and turned onto the main road.

And there he was. 

The last in a long line of friends all lined up to say goodbye. 

More than a half mile from the schoolroom. 

Standing in his own confidence, perfectly in control of himself. 

His eyes looked deep into mine, and mine did into his. 

I didn’t high five him. 

I gripped his hand and held it as long as I could as we slowly rolled by.

Because I knew why he left early and ran hard.

Dear K1, K2, and K3

I hear, in a roundabout way, that your teacher dropped herself on her head, and now you don’t need to have school for the rest of the week.

I bet that’s a good feeling.  Not having school that is.

But do something for me, will you?  Take care of your schoolteacher for me, since I can’t be there to harass her back to the light of day.

I have good news to tell you. 

The vacuum sweeper? 

It quit.

On the very plugin that it embarrassed me so dreadfully with the help lady.

I won’t even bother to call the help lady about it.  Because now it started working again, on a different plugin this time. 

I think it has a thing about work and chooses when or when not to get busy.  Might not be so very different from people who go to school.

I hadn’t talked to Bozar in a long time, so I rode out to where he was munching away on the dried out, brown grass that is all there is left to eat anymore.

He took one look at me, lowered his head, and whipped it from side to side, stringing slobber all over the place.  Next, he made a lunge at me, like he was ready to take me out.  But he stopped short, and just chuckled at me.  “Dude,” I said, “You are so stupid, you aren’t even stupid.” 

I patted his head, thumped his thick, heavy neck, and talked about life with him.  He lowered his head against my leg and just held it there for a while, then he rubbed up and down a couple of times and said, “That’s it pal,” so I got on my way back home.

I need to grill some chicken tomorrow morning for Bryce.  They are supposed to do an Indian meal for the youth tomorrow evening.  I imagine I’ll do the grilling over charcoal, seems like it always tastes better that way, even if it is more work.

Just so you know, by my count it’s 13 days until I see if I can find a jet plane that will fly me over to Syracuse, and then I’ll see if I can’t find a ride to Ohara road. 

We may have some good times together if we aren’t careful. 

Oh.  It’s my turn to choose a word for next week.  Amber, who is just a bit older than you, K3, and I take turns picking a word and then we both include it in what we write.

I have several words saved up to choose from.  They are Myopic, Ululation, Pith, Scamp, Alacrity, and Natty. 

Why don’t you pick one for me out of that list?

(Do you think since I included all of them in this that I won’t need to write on any of them now?)

Till then,

Kind

His son is challenged in ways a lot of us aren’t.

His son often roamed the yard, lips moving rapidly, brows knit together; something heavy on his mind.

His son had an affinity for rocks.  He had a wicked backhand throw that sent them spinning through the air a high rate of speed.

His first choice of target was the mirrors on his dad’s farm equipment; It was often when I was on the yard that I looked up and saw broken mirrors staring back at me from their vantage point.

His second choice of target was the moving fan blades in front of the engine on his dad’s tractors.

If his rock made it into that 6-inch gap between the fan shroud and engine, and made contact with the moving fan, one of two things would happen.  Either the rock made it through the blades and got hit by them on the backside of the fan, where it was propelled at tremendous speed into the radiator, or, the rock came in contact with the blades on the front side of the fan, and was propelled at horrific speeds back out in any random direction.

I don’t know how many mirrors and radiators his dad had to purchase during the time he lived with them.  For a while, his dad hung heavy canvas tarp material from the sides of the hood on each tractor as a sort of protection to deflect the rocks away before they hit the fan.  But he couldn’t fasten them on the bottom, because then the air couldn’t make it out, and the engine would overheat.  So, when the tractor ran, the canvas flapped open at the bottom, giving his son just a fraction of an angle shot, up into the fan blades.

It worried us mechanics to work there.  It was more than once that I was charging the A/C and I heard a sharp clang, and looking up, I saw his son some yards distant, cheering at his good shot.  I guess I must have been lucky not to have been hit.  I’m sure if I had, it could have been fatal.

But his dad.  Was so, kind.

He was just enough mysterious that you believed him. 

He carried a sort of deep strength about him.

He tried to stay in the area where we were working to keep tabs on his son.

And if his son got a shot off, and if it was one of those nerve shattering, rock smashing hits with the fan, I saw him go to him.

And I saw him gently wrap his arm around his son’s bent shoulders.

And he eased him off to the side, so that he couldn’t harm us.

And when he spoke softly to him, I saw the creased, troubled face of his son smooth over in peace.

I saw his son smile, then, and I saw his son put his arm around his dad. 

And I saw them stand there, arm in arm, while I worked on his tractor.

On His Knees

She was a good student.

She always got right to work after the assignments were given, and stayed with it until she was finished.

She didn’t ask a lot of questions, and her grades were usually on the good side.

She often seemed disinterested in school, and I could see why.  She lived in a family of adults, and she was the last one to attend school. 

But she hated creative writing.

She said she wasn’t good at it.

And that was interesting to me; because she was good at it.  Really good.

So, I got the Stir Crazy popcorn popper, some oil, and popcorn and put it on the back counter.

And each time, just a bit before Creative Writing, I’d get it going, and then we’d all have popcorn while we did our writing.  (Because, sometimes I wrote with them, and I needed the distraction just as much as she did.)

One morning I asked them to write where God was when they prayed to him.

Some said he was at the top of the room.   Some said he was up in the sky somewhere.  Some said he was in the same house.

She said, “On His knees beside me.”

Evidence

I see the gashes.

Some are deep and fresh; some are from earlier days.

I remember the fog last night.  I remember how beautiful it looked, way up there on the hills.  It all seemed so distant, so non-threatening. 

And then the deer leaped out; I braked, but the driver in front of me couldn’t stop fast enough.  Because he was pulling a heavy load. 

I was surprised at how sad I felt for the deer as it tumbled, rolled, and finally just slid down the icy incline.

I remember seeing a fresh set of tracks down into the ditch, in the snow and ice, and several trucks lined up, ready to pull the vehicle down there back up to the road, so I moved on.

I remember, later in the evening, how danger tasted; tart and bitter.  Because the black night was all around me by then.  And I knew there were icy spots on the dark, winding road that I couldn’t see.  And because civilization and cell service were imaginary, at best.  And my lovely sat beside me, and I feared for her safety.

*****

I know that the temperature is still below freezing, even though the sun is shining this morning.  I see icy spots here and there on bridges, so I take my time and am careful.

I continue to see the gashes.

There are lots of them.  Some still have broken vehicles parked in them.  Some of the guardrails have come undone. 

Finally, because there are so many of them, and since it’s not icy anymore, and because the day is warm, they slip by in a 79 miles per hour collage of blurred snap shots. 

They don’t affect me so much anymore.  The deer is an isolated event from the evening before; there is distance between me and it now.

I began to wonder why so many people were out on the roads when they were so icy. 

I shrug.  I don’t know the answer to that question. 

And, I’m afraid, there is a little bit of indifference in my shrug.

But then the truth slams home. 

Every one of those gashes tells a story. 

Every person who slipped off the icy road yesterday is looking at life totally different today, because of the gashes. 

Some may have been changed only enough to have had to call a tow truck and the rearrangement of their schedules.

Some may be changed in a way that leaves them physically impaired.

*****

I see the gashes.

They may not be visible, but I see them, nonetheless.

I see them as my life and yours intermingles.

On some, they are fresh, they are deep. 

Whether deep and fresh, or timeworn, the truth they tell has been etched with excoriating certainty. 

The pain they cause is definable; real.

Your wounds remind me of mine, and I’m surprised, at times, how deeply I feel about your life.

Sometimes your wounds cause a new round of pain in my own life that I need to take time to deal with. 

And that is how it is supposed to be.

The day should never wear on, like it did for me on the interstate, and I become complacent, even zoned out, to what you feel.

Because each wound, each scar, is evidence to me that your life has been irrevocably changed.

And I hope that for every person down in the ditch today, there are 3, maybe 4 folks stopped by the side of the road, ready to give assistance.

I may not know you.  For sure, I don’t know what you are going through at this exact moment. 

But because of the scars in my own life, I feel deeply for you.