“Our” Country

I remember so many things about it.

First impressions, if you will.

Like the roads that left a skim of red film on my car.  Roads, that, fairly defined, really should be called one lane roads, although they often squeezed in two vehicles in passing.

I clearly recall turning down Longview road for the first time and encountering deep and numerous potholes.  I asked once how often the road maintainer ran over the roads to fix them.  “Maybe once a year,” was the reply.  “That’s about how often they gravel them, too.”  And I’m sure my face showed a bit of my concern when I looked at the ‘gravel’ that constituted itself in 1 inch to 1 ¼ inch size rock.  I wondered at length what they would call the stuff we put on our roads back in Kansas.  I found out later.  “Sand roads,” they called them.

Years later, I noticed the road didn’t go where it used to.  It wound around where before it had been a much straighter run.  And I remembered those potholes.  Evidently, after enough elbow clashing and stomach rattling, over time those potholes won out and the road moved over to the side of them.  The fact that the road now runs in what used to be the ditch really doesn’t matter, because you can’t much tell the difference anyway.

I remember the first time I saw Kudzu.  It made me think of some huge, mutated reptile yet to be catalogued, and was so violently green and smothering it took me years to get used to it as it slow crawled and destroyed everything in its path.  Supposedly, some guy fighting in a war on the other side of the pond brought it back home with the thought of curbing erosion with it.  I saw acres of that out-of-control stuff, with here and there in the middle of it, a mounded up long-gone shrub or maybe even a dwelling place, punctuated by here and there a half size pillar; some full-grown tree with its life slowly snuffed out as it got wrestled to the ground. I like to cried for those trees.  Because in Kansas, trees are sacred.

But that wasn’t all.  One day they told me they needed to go out and bushhog the back 40 to get rid of the weeds growing up out there.  I looked and looked for weeds in the grass and sapling trees and then I guessed it.  Those small trees were what they were calling weeds.

The first time I tried to do a little bit of manual labor in that still, southern heat still hangs heavy in my memory.  It wasn’t long and I was drenched, head to foot, in my own sweat.  I happened to go up to the door of a fine southern gentlewoman in my drenched state.  She looked me over and asked, with grave concern in her voice, what medical issue I was experiencing. “Nothing,” I said, “it’s just this heat that’s doing it to me.”  

“Son,” she said, “If you were going to live here full time, you’d learn how to glisten.  You can’t go sweating up like that and expect it to be good for your health.”

Well, I’ve tried to learn how to glisten, like she said, but about the only time I get close to that is when I hear my name called and I know something embarrassing is about to be said about me. 

I think one of the most disappointing things about that part of the country is when I go to bed.  I revert back to Kansas nights and somehow expect a weather reset like happens back at home come morning.  I get my reset all right, it’s clear to me I’m not in Kansas anymore when I step out into noon time heat and it’s not even 7 in the morning yet. 

On the flip side, though, I learned something else about their weather.  It was getting on close to wintertime and we were scheduled to make a trip down there.  I had heard, even seen and sneered privately at them, when some of them came up to my country in springtime and saw them shivering around and complaining vociferously about how cold it was.  And the thermometer read a nice balmy 60 degrees as they carried on and on.  So, I clothed myself with a bit of my foolish pride and a light jacket as I sped south to share Christmas and winter with them. 

Not anymore.  Their cold is horrible cold.  Their 40 degrees is way colder than our 10 degrees.  I mean business when I pack my coats to go spend Christmas with them these days.

I still take every chance I get to swing by the courthouse in Carrolton.  I usually come in from the west, and since the street splits and goes around the courthouse on either side, it takes a bit to get turned around and headed back west so I can look up to my left at the face in the window.  I stopped there one time and went inside to ask about it.  Legend has it that Henry Wells, a former slave, had a grievance against the town and torched the original courthouse.  Supposedly he was getting run down by a lynch mob and, fearing for his life, ran up into the attic of the new courthouse (the current courthouse today) that was almost completed, to hide.  To his horror, as he was looking out from the dark attic at his pursuers below, lightning struck the very window he looked out from.  The negative of his face, etched in that window, still looks down at me today when I drive by.

I’ve never been to a place that sucks up light at night more than when I find myself traveling down those shadowy highways with 80-foot pines on either side.  I was convinced my headlights had problems for the first several years each time I entered the area, but by now I know it ain’t them.  It’s that black night, those stoic trees, and a smudged history from almost 200 years ago that America would just as soon forget that darks out the light and makes me begin to think I’m seeing things back in those hollows that maybe really aren’t there.

We were working on machinery one day, lacked a few parts, and I suggested we run into town to get them and finish the project up.  “No,” they said, “It’s Thursday afternoon.  Everything’s closed.” 

“What for?” I asked.

“Some holiday or something,” they said.  “Been this way for as long as we remember.”

I guess time must be a bit more flexible and rusts away a little easier in those hot, hazy afternoons.

Twenty odd years ago I didn’t know what the word gumbo meant, much less any image it might conjure up in my mind.  But give me a dollop of cheese grits in the bottom of my bowl, spoon me a thick, savory mixture of shrimp, conecuh sausage, mushrooms, celery, green pepper, onion, and roux on top of that.  Set me a wedge of cornbread that was made in a cast iron skillet to the side, or on top of that gumbo depending on my mood, and I tend to take up the cry of ‘From cornmeal we are, to cornmeal we shall return’ with the best of them.  Today, I know that whole mess and the family time that goes with it is called gumbo.  And I feel genuinely sorry for anyone who doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

Nevertheless, I was a little surprised at something I said the other evening, and I guess I realized that something, somewhere must have changed.

One of my favorite nieces asked which book I was reading.

“My Southern Journey by Rick Bragg,” I replied.  “He’s one of the best authors I know of.  He won the Pulitzer prize once.  The way he describes stuff is amazing.  But I like him most because he comes from our country and writes about the places and things from there.”

“Wait a minute,” I thought to myself.  “Did I just say ‘our’ country?”

It was then I realized something must have changed.

Now, I know all you true southerners have already turned your nose way up at my feeble expressions of the south, beings as you might say, they are said from an outsider looking in.

But I say that little change in my speech calling it ‘our’ country, without a second thought, gives me some credit in spite of all that. 

It must have something to do with being married to one of those southern gentlewomen for over 26 years now that did it to me. 

Somehow, her country has become mine, just as, I hope, mine has become hers.  I claim the good and the bad of hers, and love it just as fiercely as I do her.

I even claim I could live there for a spell, and pretty much enjoy it at that.

Just don’t you go moving my sweet tea out of my reach while I’m there.

Musician

“You ever hear about those Levites?”

“You talking about the ones that lived in the temple?  I did a few years ago.”

“Yeah.  The ones that lived in the temple.  You know why they lived there?”

“Not totally.”

“They were musicians.  They were on duty at all times.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.  They were exempt from all other work so they could be on call, any time day or night, to sing.”

“They sang at night?”

“Yep.  Sometimes all night.  What do you think that would have been like to be fast asleep, and awake to the gentle swell of music wafting over the camp?”

“I can’t imagine.  It seems like you might have almost wondered if you were on the fringes of Heaven, listening in.”

“Night singing was very important.  But they were used for other reasons.  They once went out in front of our army to meet those who had come set up an attack against us.  We won that day.”

“Without armor?”

“With armor.  They were armed with song.”

“That took unimaginable courage.”

“Yes.  But songs give courage, so it wasn’t entirely up to them.”

“Wow.”

“Always, always, they were there, ready.  Always there in the temple.”

*****

“Do you get it?”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“I’m your Musician. 

I’m always in the temple.  Always on call.  I’ll sing to you in the night, or, I’ll be out in front of you, singing as we go to war.”

“Oh.” 

A Life Well Lived

I’ve heard that phrase off and on throughout my life.

I’ve heard it refer to a missionary, who braved meeting cannibalistic peoples on their home soil to share the gospel with them.

I’ve heard it refer to movie actors/actresses who played their part well.  It was said they touched many people through the silver screen.

I’ve heard it refer to successful businessmen, who, once they had made their millions, turned to philanthropy, and shared their wealth in very unselfish ways.

I’ve heard it used to describe the life of one who gave his life for another man back in the days of the wild west.  “He lived well, and died well,” was the general consensus of such a one.

I’ve heard it used, in retrospect, when groups were gathered here and there after the funeral of one taken suddenly, and mention was made of the unexpected crowds that showed up to pay their last respects.  “We didn’t know he touched so many people’s lives,” they said.

I’ve tried to decide, through the years, what my definition of that phrase might be. 

I’ve thought of the opposite of its meaning, in an effort to understand it.  I’ve thought of men whose personality is so abrasive that they leave a trail of broken pieces from the people they have come in contact with along life’s way.

They say it takes three generations, more or less, for a good name to be completely forgotten in a community. 

And I think I’ve lived long enough now, to see the proof of that.  I’ve seen massive farmsteads rise and flourish.  As long as the one who started the whole game is alive, we all know the farm and property by his name, and the property itself seems to take on a sort of half-life of its own.  But let the one who started it die, and I don’t see the farmstead flourish or have nearly as much life as it used to.  Give it 30 or 40 years, and as my boys and I drive by it on our way to some job, they ask, “Whose place is that?”  And I tell them.  The name still means something to me, because I knew the owner.  But they didn’t, and so it means nothing to them.

So, it doesn’t seem that a life well lived is substantiated by acreage or holdings.

I’ve asked myself if a life well lived has to do with how thoughtful a person is of others, or how many good deeds they do along the way.  I think all that possibly plays a part.

I recently became acquainted with an individual that I think unlocked most of the mystery for me. 

It became clear to me that a life well lived is one that points towards Christ.  And while such a life may do a nice amount of good deeds such as Christ may have done, they aren’t the defining factor. 

The mystery was further unveiled to me in this that no life is placed here on earth without that purpose in mind, that is, to represent its Creator. 

No life, however conceived, is a mistake.

And every life, however short or long, has the potential to point back from whence it came. 

Today, I am a better person because of a young lad named Cyrus.

He lived here for four weeks with us.  He didn’t have time to do some mighty deeds of valor or unselfishness.  In fact, he wasn’t capable of such.

But he had just enough time to point me, and I believe, a few others, to a life that transcends everything here, and in so doing, urge me to make that Place.

You might say his life made the way look attractive, so to speak. 

Choice

“You don’t like choices do you.”

“No.  It’s like somedays I’d rather not make any choices at all and then those are the days they come pummeling in.

“Yeah, you can be a bit petulant on those days.”

“And then there are the days when I really do want to make a choice, but the choice most obvious is the least attractive. Is it wrong to want what I want?  To wish for certain things that are unique only to me?”

“A bit imperious, are you?  No.  It’s not wrong.  Not wrong to wish about it anyway.

You remind me of a little girl I saw once.  She found a pile of books and couldn’t stop picking out which ones she wanted until she had more than an armful.  Then when she tried to carry them across the room, they fell out of her arms one by one.”

“So, I can choose what I want as long as I don’t go haywire about it?”

“Sort of, but not really.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that choice is really about what matters most.  When you choose ten books out of the book pile, do you really want them all?”

“Well, probably not really.  I mean, there are maybe three in that stack that I really like, so I could go with three instead of ten.”

“Can you read all three at once?”

“Obviously not.”

“So, trim it down to one then.”

“Okay, maybe.  But what about everything else I’d miss out on?”

“Can you do that and read your book at the same time?”

“No.”

“Can you read your book and talk to me at the same time?”

“No.”

“Right.  And I don’t want you reading a book when you talk to me.  That is why I made choice, so that when it’s all said and done, it’s just you and me, nothing else you have chosen to bring along.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.  I’m jealous that way.  And you know what?  If you choose me above all else, I will never waste our time together with someone or something else.

Because you are that much to me. ”

Flaming Revenge

There are several unique spots that invite a person’s imagination to roam when looking over a 9000 series John Deere combine.

One spot is situated towards the front, directly below the cab, below the feederhouse, closed in on either side by the front wheels and lift assist cylinders for the feederhouse itself.

You have to duck double to get under there at the front of the feederhouse, and once under, the bottom of the feederhouse slopes back up towards the rear of the combine.  By the time you have rolled on your rollaway chair to the back, you can sit comfortably with your head just grazing the feederhouse floor,  elbows nudging the lift assist cylinders on either side, and knees bumping right up against the sharp angle iron brace for the transmission. 

In front of you are the seven shoe auger supply bearings that so commonly wear out and need to be replaced.  If you are lucky, you can slam the roll pin through the keyed gear, loosen the locking collar on the bearing, grab a really big punch and a minimum of a two-pound sledge to drive the shaft back up and through the gear, bearing, and locking collar. 

You’ll be under there for a number of hours.  It’s a nice place to think and get away from all the incessant clamor of country music that your coworker kicks on as his second move in the morning and which same button gets pressed as his second to last move each evening.

Obviously, if you have eaten Taco Bell recently, the place can get extremely constrictive in a very short amount of time as you strain away at your work under there.

It’s always hot under there, unless, of course, you are doing a farm call and are doing your work outside on a winter day towards the tail end of harvest.

And, should the shaft refuse the two pound sledge hammer’s instructions, then the torch becomes necessary, and the acrid smoke from melting grease and plastic seals becomes nigh well intolerable. 

I would torch as long as I could, holding my breath until my vision started to blear off and I wasn’t sure if I was torching shaft or bearing, click off my torch in a sequence that always left the oxygen on just a wee bit longer than the acetylene, resulting in a nice loud crack as it snuffed itself out even as I skittered myself out from under and gulped huge lungful’s of fresh air.

*****

Coming from the farm as I did, with nary a lick of mechanical experience, I was learning on the fly.  There wasn’t a day went by that I didn’t feel extremely threatened by those longtime mechanics on either side of me.  And they sort of held to their side of things by helping me feel threatened also, as sort of a senior dog/underdog play.

You fought to survive, to gain ground, to be accepted.  And, whether I gained ground or was accepted in their eyes, I’m not sure.  But I did survive, made a decent living for my family those seven years in fact.  And it seems I made a few friends along the way. 

However, the journey wasn’t without price.  To be fair, I probably exacted just as high of a price on my colleagues as they did on me.

*****

I had been there a couple of years and felt a little entitled to a snooty face when he walked in on his first day of work.

He was huge.

Probably 6’ 6” in his socks and all of that fairly well shaped up.  They said he was going to start in setup, work on general combine repair and if he proved good, they’d move him on into the main combine shop. 

I liked him, but I was just as scared of him.

He came into our shop one day and said he was supposed to R and R feederhouse wearstrips.  He said he had looked at them and it looked like they just snapped out with a prybar and a few taps with a hammer had the new ones in.  My coworker put on his best poker face and replied, “Yep, just snap ‘em out, snap ‘em in.  You’ll have them done in a jiffy.”

We didn’t tell him there were two hidden locknuts on each strip that required a specialized wrench, removal of the whole feederhouse, and hours of labor.  We watched, instead, through the door window between our two shop for several hours as he fretted this way and that, trying to conform his huge frame either to the top of the feederhouse, or twisted double underneath as he tried, in vain, to change those wearstrips. 

He came back to our shop a while later and told us in a rather beaten tone of voice that he guessed he just didn’t have what it took. 

That’s when we took a flashlight and showed him the hidden locknuts and the specialized wrench.

Evidently we failed to see the marks of revenge twitching around the corners of his nose and the edges of his eyes. 

Because from that day on, we had a more or less friendly war going on in various stages of intensity. 

*****

Months had gone by since that first day, and Buck and I were good friends.  There was always payback needed to be exacted, though, depending on whose turn it was to get who.

Apparently I had lost track of who was who, and was tucked neatly away under my feederhouse, changing the above described bearings when I saw the door to the setup shop open.

From my hunched over position, I saw two number 14 boots and a pair of clean blue denim jeans up to about the knees striding my way.  The floor of the feederhouse blocked my view of everything else off. 

I didn’t pay the boots too much mind because those in setup often traversed through our shop to get to the front of the store and the parts counter.  I figured there was every chance those boots were headed there.

But then my peripheral picked up on a gait change.  The walk changed to stealthy, circumventing like.  The feet were laid down gingerly as if to make as little noise as possible.

It was a winter day, and the shop was a little cool, like normal.  I was wearing my winter coat, which was probably the best to the wear, all things considering, as I realized later. 

“Kinda warm under there?”  His question seemed odd to me; actually, I was a little on the warm side, having been in a fight with those bearings for some time already.  However, I didn’t know how he could have seen it.

I opened my mouth to reply, but no reply made it out as I saw two hands drop into my range of vision below the feederhouse floor.  In one hand was a can of aerosol penetrating oil.  In the other, a cigarette lighter.  Those hands were still four feet or so away but were approaching fast.  Even as they did so, I saw the hand with the cigarette lighter move towards the can of penetrating oil. 

Several sketchy thoughts blitzed through my mind, mostly involving escape ideas, that I didn’t have much room to flinch or I’d hit any part of me lovely body on the sharp objects close at hand, and, lastly, that it must have been his turn at pay back, something that still remains a question to this day.

I had no time to react before the thumb on the hand holding the lighter gave it a flick, and I saw a long yellow flame dancing its way towards me.  Then just as quickly, I saw the thumb on the other hand depress the spray nozzle on the penetrating oil and in one fluid motion both hands intersected with the hand holding the lighter directly in front of the oil spewing nozzle. 

A sheet of flame advanced from a foot outside my little sanctuary to well within.

The temperature rose exorbitantly. 

I recoiled against the far side and I heard, from somewhere near the confluence of the flames, “Kinda warm under there?”  And it seemed to sound like it came from a mouth that was smiling, maybe even laughing. 

By that time, I had ducked past double and shot out of the far side, under the lift assist cylinders, gulped in a massive breath of air since I had been holding mine for some time, and made a fast attack in the general direction of the flames.

But they had gone out already, since the thumb depressing the nozzle no longer depressed it, and all I saw was a huge retreating figure and heard distant sounds of cackling laughter.

The flames and heat were one thing, (nothing was burned actually) but more maddening was the oil that hadn’t burned and now covered everything in its path, including all of me.

It was still early in the afternoon, and I knew I’d wear that oil for the rest of the day. 

I still like Buck and stop in to chat with him whenever I am in his area.

Memphis Zoo

He was 16, almost 17, when he started getting them.

Severe headaches and double vision.

His Dad took him to the ER, and the doc on call happened to be a family friend.  The CAT scan didn’t show anything, but his gut feeling told him this was something serious.  They sent them on to Halifax, and they operated yet that night.

It was a brain tumor.  Part of it had grown into a ventricle, which they were able to clear with that operation. 

But they were told the tumor itself was inoperable; that they would start him on a low dose of palliative chemotherapy. 

They said there would be no cure. 

They said he had a year, maybe longer, to live.

Later, the tumor disseminated and traveled, via the spinal canal, down his backbone and begin to grow again there.

They did radiation to his spine in order to save the mobility of his legs, and later, after his legs had shut down, to save his arms.

But you can’t tie a 17-year-old up and expect him to go with it.  Not even cancer can. 

He lived as normally as life allowed, maybe even more so with some of the inventions he concocted to get himself around and to keep himself from being more of a burden than necessary to those around him.

*****

I met him for the first and only time at Memphis Zoo. 

His family was in the area, and we and some of our family made out to meet them there and go through the zoo.

I was looking forward to this.  Not the zoo.  I don’t seem to get the meaning of zoos, but that’s okay.  If you want to meet me at one and go through it together, I will.

I was looking forward to meeting him, because, in my mind he had become legendary. 

I knew, by then, that the amount of chemo they had given him already had exceeded by far what medical limits declared livable. 

I knew that he was in a wheelchair by then.

We found a parking space, facing east, and waited a bit until we saw a moderate looking full size family van pull up with Nova Scotia tags on it. 

It rolled to a halt near us, and the doors bulged open to allow family of different sizes and shapes, and even a bit of luggage, to spill out. 

I stepped over and met some of his siblings for the first time, but I was eyeing the front passenger side door.

It looked like that might be him up there.  He and his dad were chatting quietly just prior to getting out. 

His dad jumped out and the group moved over to say hello to him. 

I saw the passenger door ease open, and I moved over to say hello to the one slowly and carefully coming down from his seat, using only his strong arms and hands to support himself and hold himself in place while he waited for someone else to bring his wheelchair up to him.

Once his hands were free, I shook his hand and told him who I was.  He wasn’t unfriendly; probably more neutral would be a better description. 

I instinctively wanted to help get him situated, but I could see he was a man of his own by that time and had his moves and ways that worked for him.  His wheelchair tried to roll away from him as he was settling in to it, so I grabbed it and held it steady.  He paused to thank me.

But then he was ratcheting himself back up out of the chair. 

“What do you need,” I asked.

“I forgot.  Got some Gospel Tracts in my carryon I wanted to take with me.”

“Where are they?  I can get them for you.”

“Nah, I’ll get them.”

And so began the arduous process of hoisting himself out of his wheelchair, up to a standing position without standing on anything, back across the seat to his carryon and then back down after he had retrieved the tracts.

It was just him and I by that time; the rest had gone on to buy tickets or run ahead to see what they could see.

He got himself situated again and looked up at me, taking stock of me it seemed.  After a brief quiet spell in which we both settled into knowing each other, he said, “Folks take these tracts way easier from a person like me.  I’m not threatening to them.  And a zoo is the best place to hand them out.  Lots of people all around.”

“Hmmm,” I thought to myself, “This guy has different priorities than a lot of folks coming to the zoo today, including myself.”

I stayed near him during the entire zoo visit.  I don’t recall anything of the animals.  But I do recall, very vividly, a young man who shared the Gospel with anyone who came near to him.

And it was exactly like he said.  People accepted what he had to give them readily. 

I think at least a hundred people had life-changing literature in their hands by the time we exited the zoo that morning.   

*****

He died when he was 23 ½ years old.  He lived 6 ½ years with that cancer. 

Really lived, in fact.

Grateful, not Generous, Receipt

She was sitting where Jane Goodall had sat a few weeks ago.

KU Jacket, KU stickers on her computer.  Books arranged in a semicircle around her on the table.   Studying, by the looks of things, for a medical degree.

Early twenties.  Pretty.  Studious.

In a word, well put together.

I was sitting in my favorite place at the high table; the painting on the wall had changed from total abstract to a little less abstract. 

I was well into my project, fingers and thoughts meshed in a nice thrum that felt like it was getting places.

Her phone rang.  I could tell it was an old friend on the other end; probably not seen recently due to school requirements.  They were planning a get-together for later sometime. 

In between they chit-chatted, catching up on each other’s lives.

About then the gal on the other end of the line said she was going to bring something to the deal out of the goodness of her heart.  She didn’t say it in a way to lift herself up, just more by way of information.

“Oh my word,” said Miss KU, “you don’t have to do that!”

The other gal said she knew that, but she wanted to.

And then I heard it in Miss KU.  A subtle inflection in her voice.

“Don’t go there,” I muttered under my breath.  Because too many times I have, and I know the general outcome of such.

But she went there.

“Do you like homemade bread?” she asked.

“Stop,” I begged, again to myself.  But I knew it was useless.

It was enough of an out of character question that the gal on the other end asked Miss KU to repeat what she said.

“Do you like homemade bread? If you do, I could whip up a batch of it tonight and bring some over to your place on my way out of town.”

I can’t be too hard on Miss KU.  She was young, and probably did what anyone else that age would have done.

*****

We had our family Christmas yesterday.  I couldn’t wait to give my gifts.  I had so much fun trying to find just exactly what I thought the ones I was buying for would want.  I think the joy I felt in giving probably comes from the old saying, “It’s more blessed to give than to receive.”

I wonder, though, if there isn’t a secondary blessed that often gets overlooked, maybe even crowded completely out.

This secondary blessed seems to bless both the giver and receiver when properly attended to. 

But it has every potential to wreck things, subtract if you will, when thought isn’t given to it.

If I am really thankful for what I received, do I need to rave on and on about it? 

Such raving leaves the giver with an emaciated piece of confidence that has them guessing as to whether their gift had been the right thing or not.

A few quiet words, spoken from the heart, mean so much more than a huge verbal bouquet. 

And please, don’t try to one up the spirit with something of your own. 

I know.  Sometimes we are so glad and happy for what we have been given that it’s almost natural to suddenly hear ourselves asking if our friend likes homemade bread. 

I’m suspicious Miss KU’s friend did like homemade bread, but if it could have waited, say, a few weeks, and then been quietly given some evening, I think it could have acknowledged every gratitude of the first exchange and then some.  Dare I say, even a simple “Thank you” could have been enough? 

It’s a secondary blessed, sure, but powerful. 

Sort of like a line I read in a book some years ago about an old man who had given a younger man something of his own possessions.  And, it said, he thought the more of the young man when he didn’t offer to pay for it.



Recorded

Let the record show that on or about November 18, between the hours of 8:30 a.m. and 10:57 p.m., or thereabouts, a lapse of the ever-present vigilance on the part of Mama Jan was observed.

The beginning of the series of events, which, when taken as a whole are presumed to make Mama J guilty of said lapse, occurred on November 14, around 10:00 a.m.

I will set forth the facts in the order of which they occurred, trusting that any departure from the truth will be negligible or nonexistent.

I received a phone call from the sweet daughter, as has been previously stated, around 10 o’clock on November the 14^th.  We chatted about what her day consisted of, I talked as much as conditions would allow.  I was on my way to Sublette to deposit a check, and I was driving in whiteout conditions and slick pavements.

She (the sweet daughter) was a little blue about the upcoming weeks.  Her plans consisted of flying to a church conference, after which she would fly back to New York.  The folks she normally lives with would continue on to their family after being at the same conference she was at.

Which meant she would have to drive home, in the dark, alone, to an empty house, and which also meant that she would spend Thanksgiving alone.

She was game for the challenge, as far as that goes, but it looked a little daunting.

In an effort to offer a bit of consolation, I said, “Well, at least with having your own vehicle at the airport, you have options,” although, if she would have challenged me on what I thought those options were, I would have been hard pressed to explain.

But she, being the positive thinker that she is, said, “Hey, maybe I should see if I could get permission to take a couple more days off, ride home from this conference with my friends, and surprise mom.”

I told her I thought that was a good idea, and if she could get clearance on it and was okay with paying for a ticket change, I’d do my part to help.

A day later she had permission.  Two days later she had her ticket changed.  We had four days in which to plan and to keep the lid on this thing, between the two of us.

We faced a formidable foe in the form of Mama J.  Because, well, Mama’s are mama’s for a reason I guess, and they always need to know where there children are, who has who’s name for Christmas, and what each one might be getting the other for a gift, even if they are adults. 

We laid out our battle plans carefully.

We knew our first skirmish would be the Life 360 app which all of our family is on and which gives live locations of anyone at any time.

Mama Jan keeps a steady eye on that app; it’s her way of taking care of her chillun’s.

I told the sweet daughter she would need to shut off her location sharing, maybe a day ahead, and plead excuse that it was running her battery down.  (It does run it down, for sure if you are out of your home area.)  I happened to see, early one morning, that the daughter’s location was turned off and casually mentioned to Mama J that Lex must be having battery usage issues with her phone because it looked like she had turned off her location on Life 360. 

We saw that one coming, and had it headed off at the pass before it ever made it near us.  Score for us.

The next big skirmish was how to communicate the ride to the airport.  Original plans called for the sweet daughter to spend the last night with her grandparents and they would take her to the airport.  A 20 minute drive for them.  New plans called for the daughter to stay at the motel she was at with friends and drive the 13 hours home with them. 

New plans also meant that we had to convey a sense of the journey by air whilst the journey on land was taking place.  New plans also meant that the daughter would tell Mama J she planned to spend the last night with friends instead and that they had offered her a ride.  (She purposely did not mention ‘to the airport’ when relating this bit of information to her mother.)  This information was tossed out a day early, and under a thick smokescreen of rapid-fire small talk about other things.

But her mother does Sudoku.  16 x 16 Sudoku’s in fact, since even the hardest 9 x 9 Sudoku’s are too easy.  We knew that it was a simple matter of numbers with her mother and it was only a matter of time before she called wolf on her daughter getting a ride with friends.  Because a ride with friends (supposedly to the airport) from the motel she was staying at called for a 2 hour transit time, going the wrong way for the friends, versus the 20 minute transit time with her Grandpa’s.

We trembled with uneasiness.  Would Mama J blow our cover?

The counterattack came a day later when Austin’s lovely wife stepped in the front door to get the mail.  Mama J was chatting about this and that, and then it happened. 

“I can’t figure out why Lex wouldn’t go back to my folks for night and then to the airport with them.  It’s only twenty minutes for them and it will be way out of the way for her friends to take her.” 

“Oh well, you know how girls that age are.  It’s not such a huge thing when you are having fun together,” Lindsey said. 

“I guess,” said Mama J, but she sounded a bit unconvinced.

I was so amazed at how well Linds had played her part that I made an excuse to Mama Jan as soon as she left that I needed to go check Bozar and went straight to her house.  Her mouth fell when I asked her if she knew Lex was coming home.  It was as I suspected.  She hadn’t known about the change in plans.

Knowing, at least a little, the thought process of her mother, the sweet daughter dutifully messaged her as soon as they left the motel.  “On my way,” she said, and which info was also dutifully relayed to me by her mother as soon as she was acquainted with it.

I saw her mother switch over from checking Life 360, even though she knew there was hardly a chance her daughter would turn it back on, to the Flightaware app.  I knew I could breathe easier for a little while as her attention would be used in making sure all flights were on time, following the flight path through the air, and checking the weather at the arrival airport, just like any good mother does. 

And the sweet daughter dutifully turned her phone to airplane mode during the time she was supposedly in the air and then turned it off once she landed.

But we hit a snag when Mama J discovered that Atlanta was delayed.  I held off from offering any consolation for as long as I could, it was getting tense, but then we were saved when Flightaware changed the delay to an on time status. 

I was updated throughout the day on flight status from one female and road status from the other.  The other female knew better than to use Whatsapp, because her Mother would see when she was last seen, so she switched to texting.

It was late in the afternoon when the sweet daughter messaged to say they were probably going to stop for Indian food in Wichita, which we both knew would delay her arrival considerably.

And . . . we both knew we were nearing zero hour when the daughter would land in New York, and Mama J would want location turned back on, because she always has it turned on over there. 

If they would have kept on time and not stopped in Wichita, we knew the time from when she ‘landed’ in New York until when she actually walked in the patio door here was short enough, and we might be able to swing it.

Now, it was a matter of meeting the battle as it came to us and on its terms.

I suggested to the sweet daughter that she video call her Mom and break the news to her before it got too late, but she said she wanted to continue with her original plan for as long as possible.

She parried off with a message to her mother as soon as she ‘landed’ that she was okay.  She said she was going to get something to eat and then if she got tired on the way ‘home’ she would call to stay awake.  She also said she would let us know when she got home.  (This last obviously, just maybe in a different way than Mama J was expecting.)

Of course, being the good Mama she is and all, her Mother messaged her a time or two on her ‘drive’ home in New York.  But we almost bit the dust when the daughter forgot and left her phone in the vehicle when she went in to eat Indian at Wichita.  Her mother wasn’t getting any replies to her messages and started going ballistic. 

I tried sending one to her myself, telling her she was going to need to say something or else we were up in smoke.  It was a bit later she was back in the vehicle and realized her mistake.

She quickly messaged her mother, telling her she had gotten something to eat, and was going to try to get some sleep.  According to New York time, she was at home now and would be going to bed to get this sleep, although by now it was Kansas road time again and she was safe in trying to get some sleep while the rest drove.

She wanted the dogs penned up so they wouldn’t bark when she got home and so she could see her beloved Taz on her own terms.  I mentioned to her mother that as cold as it was going to be that night, it might not be a bad idea just to pen the dogs.  Her mother agreed and even got up and penned the dogs herself, unknowingly.

The daughter messaged me soon after saying ETA would be 10:53 p.m. 

I knew we couldn’t stay up because that was later than we had been getting to bed, so I soon said I would go to bed, and my good wife followed. 

I fell asleep for a bit, but awakened around 10:50 and saw I had a couple of messages from my friend Caden, sending me some songs they had sung. 

“Perfect timing,” I thought, realizing that my good wife hadn’t fallen asleep yet.

I played those messages, quite a bit louder than I normally do, to cover any outside noise, even though my good wife claims now that she heard something out in the yard in spite of all that.

I heard the patio door quietly close.

In seconds, I heard, more than saw, our bedroom door open. 

And then the lights flashed on.

And there stood the sweet daughter, as real as life.

Mama J raised up from her pillow on her elbows and squinted in the glare of light.

“What the world,” she muttered.  I could tell the truth hadn’t dawned yet, being too early in the night for that.

She rose up again from her pillow.  (My song messages continued to serenade us.)

“What the world,” disbelieving.

“What the world,” slight panic.

“What the world,” believing, yet not believing.

“What the world!” Full belief.

A huge hug.

“What in the world.”

As recorded earlier, let the record show that a lapse occurred, on or about November 18, between the hours of 8:30 a.m. and 10:57 p.m., in which Mama Jan’s unswerving vigilance for her children was in the wrong place at the wrong time and said vigilance was therefore lacking upon the individual mentioned heretofore.

Spring

“Listen for it,” he said.

“For what?”

“For the trill of the robin.  You could hear it any day now.”

“What?  It’s not even the middle of December.”

He chuckled.  “You think I don’t know that?”

“But it’s winter.”

“I know.  But listen anyway.  Don’t you remember that one winter you saw a robin out hopping around in the snow?”

“Sure do.  It’s hard for me to reconcile something like that.  I hear the first trill of the robin, and I get all excited spring is on the way.  We have a few days where it feels like spring, even smells like it, and then we get a blizzard.  I can hardly bear that, when I have my hopes all up and then they come shrieking to a halt with the first blast of snow.  Besides, I’ve always wondered how those poor birds keep their feet warm, standing around in the snow like that.  But I do remember the winter you talk about.  I even remember hearing that robin sing out there in the snow.”

“Yeah, I know it frustrates you.  You’d like everything orderly, in its place, all predictable and zipped up in a pretty package, seasons not excepting. 

Have you ever truly enjoyed those brief spring days that surprise you?  Or do you spend all day muttering about how you need to have a full wardrobe of clothes in your truck.  Coats for the morning, jackets for noon, and short sleeves for afternoon, maybe even a raincoat, muck boots and regular shoes.

Those spring days are priceless, if you’ll just look at them that way.  I send them because of your winter.  I send them as a spoonful of hope.  I send them to sparkle up your tattered grey skies with brilliant sunshine with glorified joy.  I send them, because you need them, even if you don’t realize it and grumble about them when you know you have two months of winter left to go.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.  Listen for the trill of the robin.  You could hear it any day now.”

Song of Solomon 2 : 11-13

Different

I am different, and I know it. 

It maybe doesn’t show so drastically on the outside, but I still know it. 

Life choices have a way of leaving their mark.

Some of my life choices were my own.  Some made and implemented by others when I was still young.

Regardless, I have their mark to live with today, and it makes me different.

I know that my kind of different probably isn’t so different than the way you think you are different.

But my personal different is big to me.

It holds me back from a full range of life experiences.

I am hindered by it mostly because I feel like I don’t measure up.  It always tugs on me when I’m with my friends or in a group. 

Sometimes, it rides with me when I’m all alone in the car. 

I know that I have some good things about me, but because of my different, they are often pressed down and pushed to the back.

So, it came as quite a surprise one day when I got a message from a friend with whom I had only limited contact, inviting me to his house for lunch.

I often thought about this friend with admiration.  I often wished to be ‘in’ with him. 

But I always figured my different is what kept anything from happening.

My different did not keep it from happening, as I found out later, but not in the way I had been thinking.

I’ll never forget the way he said my name when I walked into his house. 

It rolled off his tongue in such a kind way; but more.  I am convinced from the way he said it that he honestly wanted my friendship; that he had been lonesome for it.

We talked about a lot of things that day.  Eventually I made reference to my different and asked why he had invited me to his house in spite of it.

“No, you have it wrong,” he said.  “Your different is the sole reason I invited you here today.”

“What?”

“Yes.”

I sat numbly, waiting for the happiest hour of my life to end with a rebuke or course correction given by him.

“Look,” he said, “some folks have cabinets with all the same kind of coffee cups in them.  They don’t know if they are drinking out of the same one today as they did yesterday, because they all look the same. 

When I go to my cabinet, there are many different kinds of coffee cups.  I stand there for a while each morning, thinking just which cup my coffee will taste the best in, and once I’ve decided, I can’t stop smiling for how good it tastes, just because of the unique way the cup is.  I know, you probably think I’m a little somehow that way.”

“So you invited me today because I’m different?”

“And because you were the one, above all else, I wanted to spend my day with,” he said.

*****

Every morning, when I step outside, I smell it. 

It’s the same smell I smelled when I first met him at his place.

I wonder.  Do you ever smell it?  Have you ever been to His place?

Song of Solomon 1:3-6