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I felt sorry for her.

At least I think that is how I felt about her. 

Sure, there were times when I didn’t feel that way, but then, if you knew the circumstances I knew, you probably would agree that they stood in my favor if I didn’t feel that way about her.

It’s just that some days, the way she went about her life rubbed me wrong. 

Okay.  She did have it bad.  Her mom died when she was 16 and she was left with caring for the family, since she was the oldest of 6 siblings. 

I suppose the life she was subjected to while still at home made her anxious to get away from it all.  At least that is how it looked to me when that good for nothing young man came along and started trying to woo her. 

Anybody with a lick of common sense could see what he was out for.  He had never learned to work; one of those yuppie types.  She had every quality he didn’t have—beauty, a chaste life, good work ethics, and, even if they were desperately poor, had the ability to save a few coins now and then to help along with her dad’s expenses.

Of course she fell for him.  They got married and it wasn’t long, and he was off, galivanting his life away with hard playing and hard drugs.  She dutifully kept the home fires burning for his intermittent, stop-by-on-my-way-through visits. 

I didn’t know if to be relieved or grieved for her when he partied too late one night and was killed in an accident on some lonely road.

Yes, she had two little boys to try to raise on her own, and I knew that was going to be a challenge, for sure if either of them had inherited any of their father’s good for nothingness.  But I figured the rest of us would be around to help financially when the need arose.  In fact, not that I want it known around town or anything, but I set up an automatic transfer to her bank account from mine for $50 a month. 

Anonymous of course.  She never knew it was me.

I figured that little bit of cash might ease some of the hard times and grief she was going through.  I couldn’t figure her out.  Seemed like she spent an awfully long time grieving that good for nothing husband of hers.  I never could see what she saw in him; must have been something more than I saw, that’s for sure.

Well, time has moved along, at least for some of us.  Not so much for her.  She would make an attractive picture if she would sew up some newer fabric into one of the more stylish patterns I see the lady folks wearing these days. 

Oh.  And her boys? 

So, let’s just say with me being on the school board and all gives me pretty much a weekly interaction with them.  And it’s just like I could have predicted.  Those boys are trouble.  It’s been more than once that I’ve had to go deal out a little bit of tough love to get things back on track.  It pretty much tears the heart out of me though, the way those little guys cling to me during those times. 

I must say, though, that their mom has courage and some sort of determination.  I suspect you’d have to, if you lived in her shoes. 

I don’t quite get why she does some of the things she does; seems like a tradition from earlier days.  It’s often that she’ll have a few of us over for a meal.  Knowing how little she is able to pay on her school tuition, I don’t see how she scrapes by. 

We men know that when we go there for a meal, we aren’t coming away full to the brim like we do when we eat out with our friends some Saturday evening uptown.  No, she has that meal figured down to what is good and healthy for a person and that’s about what you get.  And it’s not your rich food either.  Always stuff you know was on sale that week in the local grocery store. 

Like I say, she’s a bit out of style in that area.  Our set likes to meet uptown for a meal.  Gives you more space and lets your money show you care, which is a bit more of the norm these days.

I haven’t thought about her for a week or two now.  Glad I have that $50 set in place for when the rest of my life gets too busy. 

The reason I haven’t thought of her, is because there is talk of adding on to our church.  I’m all for it.  But it does come at a rather inconvenient time for me.  Our business is really booming, and I had just purchased some equipment to enhance our bottom line.  I’m not sure how I’ll make the donation that I’d like to make for the church. 

Sure, nobody else will see the size of it, but I have a personal goal I like to meet each time there is a chance to give monetarily.  Do well, give well, live well—that’s the motto our set goes by, and I aim to live up to it as much as I can.

*****

This church addition thing has me losing sleep. 

Finally, around 2 this morning, I fell into a fitful, dream addled sleep. 

I still see everything in that dream so clearly.

We were at a gathering of some sort.  All my friends were there, and I noticed that she and her boys were there also. 

I hadn’t been there for an hour before I noticed there was a stranger among us.  He really wasn’t a stranger though, by looks he fit in very well. 

I stepped over to introduce myself and my family and found him very congenial to be around.  Seemed I was attracted to him a little more than normal, for some reason. 

It wasn’t long before I saw that others felt the same way, and it soon became an unspoken challenge with me to try to make friends with him before too many others did.  I offered a couple of times to take him out for a coffee at one of the better-known bistro’s in town, but it seemed he wasn’t too keen on it.  And as often as I would start engaging him in conversation, just as often he would break off to go visit with our widow lady and her two boys. 

And what’s more, those boys behaved flawlessly around Him.  It seemed His love reached and filled so many hollows in their little lives, sort of like they found in Him the father they had lost so many years ago.

I thought to myself, “If that Man knows anything about their dad and his shortcomings, He’d probably be careful just how much attention He gave them.”

There was a basket at the front of the food line to raise funds for our church project.  I had my check ready, even though I needed to swing a loan from another venture of mine to write it. 

I figured I’d hang back just a bit, so it wouldn’t look quite so conspicuous when I dropped it in. 

A lot of my friends had gone through the line already, and I could see the basket was brimming up, when I saw our lady take her boys and get in line.

It didn’t take a accountant to figure out what happened next.  I saw those two one-dollar bills fall from her work worn hands onto the heap of checks and large denomination bills already there and felt a pang of embarrassment for her.  I knew it was probably the last two dollars she had.

“Hmmm,” I heard from the Stranger standing at my side, as though speaking to Himself, “She just gave more than anyone else will give this evening.  It’s her love for her Father and her fellowman that multiplies it.  God bless her.” 

*****

“What a mistake”, I thought, as I awakened from my dream.  “What an total mistake I have made to think that love or favor can be bartered by the monies I have, or some good deed done”

And the more I think about that, the more I realize, in retrospect, just how much that poor widow lady gave and how, up to this point, how very little I have given.

All But One (Warning, Extra-long)

A year ago, last month, we had received approximately 15 inches of rain.  Last month we were at 5 inches.

A year ago, last month, the four-wheeler wasn’t running right, and the only way we could get it to run was to take the airbox completely off.  I had a lot more power that way, and it definitely had a throatier sound.  But I didn’t like running it much that way because the dust could be sucked straight into the engine.

A year ago, last month, the sweet daughter and Bryce had just finished a corral in the pasture where we normally ran our spring purchase.

A year ago, last month, the corn was at much the same stage it is now, tasseled and close to 9 feet tall.

A year ago, last month, we hadn’t had nearly as many hot days as we have had this year, but we still had experienced some low hundreds for temperatures.

A year ago, last month, Bryce was newly engaged, not that it necessarily made such a huge difference, and then again, maybe it did.

A year ago, last month, I told Lex, Bryce, and my good wife at the supper table that I wanted to gather the calves in off the pasture and into that new corral, bring them to our corral, and have them ready to ship by the next day since the grass was about grazed off.

I got out there on the four-wheeler and started them all moving in the direction of the new corrals.  I had Bryce in his truck down below and west of the corrals that I was moving northward towards.  Lex was in my truck, not as far below and to the north of the corrals.  I was hoping that once they encountered Bryce’s talkative diesel and the front on, lights on approach of my truck, they might veer from north to east and if they did that, then the three of us would form a moving fence behind them that would funnel them up against the hot wire fence on the south side, and the rails and open gate of the corral on the north side.

They all got started easily enough, and it wasn’t long before we had a quarter mile of blacks in twos and threes, some kicking up their heels to the sky, others twisting their tails straight up and running in short bursts around each other.  I sat back for a bit and got a feeling that I thought could have been akin to that of the wild west and a good summer’s evening drive towards Dodge City, or maybe even as far as Abilene.

But things kept moving along, and I knew I couldn’t sit back for long or I’d lose the show.  They moved on over the hill, met Bryce and turned as I hoped.  We three eased in behind them as they neared the corrals and started bunching up.  I motioned to the other two to let up on pressure and we all sat back about 100 yards behind them as they grouped up in a tight, slow-moving circle. 

In a few minutes, a couple of them saw the gate and moved through, and less than a minute later, all 150 head were in the corral and we skittered up there swung the gate shut.

Even though the sun was only fifty feet above the dusty horizon, Bryce and I hooked on to the gooseneck and got started ferrying those heifers to the home corral where we had a load out system that worked better than the one we were at.

We fell into an easy, on again off again conversation as we loaded and unloaded.  I could tell from the small twitches at the edge of his mouth that he was messaging someone down in Florida, namely his betrothed.  We chatted about their family and ours, what was the same and what was different.  I listened to a discourse given by some man on what hymn style music was and what constituted proper emotion in music when Bryce and I weren’t talking back and forth. 

I had been jumping out when we got to our place and opening the gate of the trailer to offload the calves.  It was getting dark, and I told Bryce this would be our last load; I would chain things up at the corral we had been loading out of, and he could go kick that last load out and close things up at home.  We met back at the house, and I checked my count with his as to how many we had here, and it agreed at 111.

It had been a hot, dusty evening and the shower felt good.  I dropped into bed and was soon oblivious to the occasional bellow and general shuffling noise of 444 hooves moving here and there in the dark.  In the morning, we’d go get the few odd head left at the other corral and be ready to ship the next day.

I awakened early for some reason that next morning and rolled over to look at my phone.  “Strange,” I thought, “to have a missed call this early.  I’ll quick see who it is and maybe catch another hour of sleep.”

My missed call was from a man who was driving by a half mile south of our place and had encountered some calves on the road with what he thought might be our brand.

Okay.  So I didn’t find that next hour of sleep. 

What I did find, as I walked dazedly out to the corral, was the bottom gate hanging open, smiling jauntily at me, and one, again, only one calf moving around in circles like she was lost, looking for her mates.

All but one. Gone. 

For an insane moment, I thought of swinging the gate wide and urging her out to join the rest.

For the next hour, the daze I had walked out to the corral in pretty much enveloped me and rendered me speechless.  I remember my good wife calling me and asking me what she should do, and I replied that, “I really don’t know.  This thing is too enormous for me, I can’t even think.”

I took a picture of our brand and posted it on my status and asked that if anyone saw our calves they should call or message Jan, since I figured I’d be to busy to take calls.

And that’s when the unthinkable happened.

People started showing up on four-wheelers and pickups.  I was south of our place about ¾ of a mile working with a group of around 30, slowly edging them back to our place.  But then they spooked because of a loud four-wheeler coming by with a neighbor man on it moving a couple of ours back to our place.  They broke through a hot wire fence and got in our neighbor’s pasture.  I quickly cut juice to the fence and repaired it to hold them there for the time being.

There was a group of 40-50 farther south that a couple of guys were easing back our way and doing a fine job of it, when over the hill popped a guy in a truck that didn’t know of what was going on.  He was going at a good rate of speed and the resulting skid to slow down and quick move to the side of the road spooked the whole group into a field of standing corn.  There was no way of finding them in there.  We’d have to wait until they made their way out.

In ones and twos, sometimes threes, others were found here and there, the farthest being about two miles from the home corral and herded slowly back this way.

Things were getting to where it looked like I could break away to see about those in the neighbor’s pasture.  I eased my air filterless four-wheeler over there and saw that a few more of ours had joined, making it a group of about 40 of ours and 13 of the neighbors. 

There was a set of panels there, otherwise written about in a post called ‘Brahma Cowboying’, that I was familiar with.  But these girls were extremely edgy.  And it was a set of panels sort of out in the middle of 120 acres with really no wing setup up to ease them down and in.  And besides, it was just me out there.

I changed the position of a few of the panels to make a straight line on one side of a very small 10-foot opening into the main part of the panel corral.  The other side was more rounded.  I employed all the Bud Williams cattle moving savvy I had and started riding at a right angle to them in long sweeps back and forth, slowly moving in closer against them.

I prayed fervently.

They were jumpy, cagey, and in an unfamiliar pasture with an unfamiliar set of corrals. 

Every notion of common sense said it wouldn’t work.

I started them a little more to the rounded side of the approach and they began following it around to the opening.  I had to resist every urge within me to put a shove on them.  In fact, the closer they got to the opening, the farther away I started riding flank on them until I was far enough away, they really weren’t paying me any mind. 

I shut the four-wheeler off and waited. 

After about 5 minutes of sniffing and jostling around the opening, one or two ventured in.  A few had wandered on down the straight side of the panels, and I figured they were gone for the time being.  I knew if I tried to bring them back, I’d mess with the others.  But they saw their cronies moving in the opposite direction and turned around to join all the rest in the enclosure. 

I could hardly drive up to close the gate, I was shaking so bad.

But I knew one thing for sure.  It wasn’t me who had penned those cattle.  I’m sure the ringing in my ears from the high strain on my nerves prevented me from hearing the wings of those come to my aid out there in that lonely pasture.  But I know they were there, just the same.

After that, it was a simple matter of sorting off the neighbors’ heifers, loading ours out and trailering them back home.

It was becoming unmercifully hot.  By a little after noon, it looked like most that could be found had been, including quite a number of those that had spooked into the corn field.  The last ones coming in had ran hard and were foaming badly.  I told the guys that we needed to stop; we’d kill them if we kept driving them in this heat.

We gathered for lunch around two, a worn out, overheated, glazed-eye bunch.  Austin and his new bride were soon to arrive with a load of sod that had to be laid yet that day or it would perish without getting water on it.  Those younger than me recovered quickly and offered to go whack that job out.

Later that evening, we got a few more calls of ones and twos and by the time we had them back home, a final count showed us missing some 10-13 head out of the original 111.

The next day, we got a call with several more calves spotted about 7 miles from home.  I knew if we didn’t get them quickly, we’d be had, as they were moving south at a good clip.  Again, I was helpless to help.  I was on the truck hauling the first load of the runaways to the sale and a good 100 miles from home.  But the neighbors pitched in again and after roping and dragging a couple of them in managed to bring them back also.

This left 3 or 4 unaccounted for.  We knew where a couple were last seen and decided to see if they would show after a few days.  They did, in another neighbor’s pasture and he offered to let them run with his until he gathered his. 

In the end, one died due to heat exhaustion.  It was one of those they had to rope and drag in, so had we not caught it that way, we would have lost it anyways due to it leaving the country. 

The rest all brought a good price, and four of them are still on the place today with little calves by their sides; we were going to save some back anyways and they fit the description as well as any.  For quite a while they were rather jumpy, to say the least. 

Two things hang fire in my mind about that episode.

How can a person ever thank their neighbors sufficiently in a deal like that?

And I really wonder how the man who bought them at the sale the next day faired with them. 

Then again, maybe I don’t want to know the answer to that.

I looked back in my gallery to see if I still had the photo I took that morning to set on my status.  I see I do, and it looks like I took it over in the neighbor’s field.  I didn’t see until today, the silhouette of another of our calves standing near, on the flank of the first one. 

As I tell the boys, “It’s all about making memories.”

Although I would hope my neighbors don’t think I’m saying that flippantly.

A year ago, last month, we lost all but one, and in the end, found all but one.

Peace

You maybe didn’t know this.  But if you think about it a bit, you’ll come to agree with me.  There were more disciples than the twelve named. 

I was part of a group of seven men.  We all had the same thing in common.  Each of us had been healed by the Man who did miracles.  A couple of us were previous lepers, a couple had been lame. 

My name is Zichri, and I joined the last three as one who had been blind, but now could see.  Someday soon I want to tell you the story of my previous life and how I was healed.

I guess you could say we were sort of a subcommittee that had formed out of basic gratitude.  We often shared, in our frequent meetings, what new things we were seeing, doing, or being a part of that we hadn’t been able to do before we were healed.

We didn’t have the ways and means to be a part of the twelve disciples who left their jobs to follow Christ.  We kept our day jobs and between keeping up at work, keeping the home fires burning, (for some of us, you see, had new brides; a part of life we hadn’t had access to before) and doing what our group had set out to do, left us running pretty much all the time.

Our group of men were committed to furthering the cause of this Man who had recently come to live among us.

In whatever ways we could, we tried to make it possible for the bigger picture to continue.  Which meant, often times, that after work we scraped together what meager means we could and bought take out for the disciples and Christ.  Or, if transportation was needed, we rented a suitable vehicle or boat to transport the group to their next location.

In some ways, it was really disappointing not to be in that group of twelve and Christ.  But our group had an advantage they didn’t.  They were so close to the picture, every day, that tunnel vision was an ever present adversary. 

For us fellows, the fact of being healed and the resulting gratitude springing out of us towards Christ seemed to clear up some of the mystery surrounding Him.

Like the one day.  I heard a few of the twelve going back and forth on something Christ had said about being in the grave three days and rising again.  It was like they couldn’t get it.  They were so focused in on the present.  They kept wondering what would happen to the kingdom some of them heard He was going to set up here on earth. 

For me, though, it was clear.  I don’t know if part of Him came to me in my healing and helped me to see it or what.  My mind went back to those old words of prophesy from Isaiah and it snapped into focus immediately. 

This was the Christ.  I believed that without a shadow of doubt.  I also believed that if He died, He would come back.  There was nothing too hard for Him to do.  He had power over my blindness.  He had power over everything.

I could see so well what sort of kingdom He would install when he finished his work here.

At least I thought I could.

Evidently somewhere I lost my grip on things.  I didn’t even know I had at the time.  I guess I was so enthused about helping along and getting things done that I reverted back to the old way of doing things in a few of my dealings. 

The old way is such a basic thing to us humans. 

I didn’t show so much on the outside, but you can be sure I was seething on the inside when it felt like I had been taken advantage of.

And, Heaven help the poor folks whom I thought were interfering with Christ’s plan.  I took on the importance of righteous judgment in those times, and I know it had to show as the most nauseous piety there ever was.

The bad deal was, mixing the old and the new has its own reward system that closely resembled the new way Christ was teaching. 

There’s a certain grim satisfaction to be had when a person carries a self-imposed righteous mandate. 

And while that grim satisfaction doesn’t last for the long haul, and while it has its own baggage to maintain, it filled in for the time being the void I didn’t realize I was beginning to assume.

Our group all had this problem, to some extent or another.  We had exchanged the real thing inside for a counterfeit thing on the outside.  For us it took on the form of good works and good Christian living. 

We had become a living hypocrisy.

Until one day.

Christ approached me, and in that kind, unforgettable voice said, “Zichri, what is it?” 

“Why, what do you mean?” I asked.

“You are troubled.”

“Me?”

“Yes.  I see it in your drawn countenance and in the abrupt way you have come to treat people.”

“Well.”  I said a bit huffily. 

“Yes,” He said, so very kindly.  “Yes, it seems you have been going from one crisis to another.  And, I’m afraid some of those crises’ are of your own making.  It seems you have a heart that’s at war with life in general.”

“Well . . .”  I said, not so huffily this time.  “Maybe you have a point.  It seems like it’s been a while since I felt quiet and peaceful inside.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” He said.  “It seems you have taken to yourself things that are carnal.”

“What!? Carnal? That word is for those who live in sin.”

“So it is,” He said.  “It is also for those who take too much government and good works of what they think is my Kingdom upon themselves.  Because, once they take it from me, it is no longer pure, but becomes soiled with human interest and pursuits.”

We stood quietly, as this all soaked in.  Finally, I looked up, eyes brimming with tears. 

“No words are needed,” He said quietly. 

The sun was sinking, and it would soon be dark.  My head cleared as the night air cooled around me and suddenly, I got it. 

What had begun as an effortless, autonomous flow through me had, at some point, turned into a lot of hard work.

What had started as love became severity and judgement.

What once was joy turned into drudgery.

Where there had been peace now was war. 

“Peace, my brother,” He said, as he extended his hand.  “All you have to do is let me flow through you to others. 

“There’s really nothing else required,” He said.

School Daze #3

I read my friend Ciara’s post on her blog this morning about attending teacher prep, and all that goes with starting a teaching career.

I went back automatically to the evening before the first day of my first year in the school system.

I was uneasy. 

I had the goods, as far as data, school supplies, and enthusiasm.  But I had no experience.

Looking back now, from this vantage point, experience would have been extremely helpful in that first year.

It would have eased my mind as I drove to school late that evening before the first day.  It would have had me sit quietly in my chair (I did for a little bit) and look forward with settled anticipation and joy to those I would soon intertwine my life with. 

Neither would it have construed the lightning flashing as I left, much later, as a negative omen.  Because it wasn’t.  My teaching career was decidedly positive, both in what it gained me and in the memories it left.  If those first students of mine are able to say anything positive about it—but I think surely they can.

Experience would have held my speech that first morning to approximately 10 minutes, instead of two hours. (possible exaggeration) It would have told me that a human mind, no matter how sharp, can only absorb so much of any one thing.  It would have had me catch the first sign of the glimmer fading in their eyes as their attention began to wane. 

Experience would have had me go slower in jumping to conclusions, on a certain morning, when I was sure my students were out to purposely challenge me.

I had sent them out after devotions for five minutes of fresh air and sunshine. 

Five minutes came and went, and soon 10 ambled by. 

I peeked down the hall to the doors they would come in through and saw them all standing grouped together.  It looked like they were laughing and generally having a good time.  “Okay,” I said to myself, “let’s see how this thing goes.  I can wait for quite a while.  We’ll see them when they come in.”

Finally, as it got to be closer to 30 minutes, I went to the door, opened it and told them to come in. 

Experience would have had me communicate with them a bit better, when, a couple of hours later, I approached them as largely guilty in reminding them of their missteps earlier, and asked them all to write an essay stating of their feelings and their involvement in the matter.

Experience was gained in a moment when, one of the quieter girls told me, after all the essays were in and I had read them, that all the doors to school were locked.  That they couldn’t come in, that they had waited, wondering when I would come let them in.  (Experience also taught me later in life not to use the word that inconsiderately when writing.  Experience was purposefully disregarded in this paragraph.)

Experience would have saved me from the dumbfounded discovery during the last week of that first year, of finding the sum total of all speed drills minus the first one still in a file in my desk.

I would like to give what experience I gained in my teaching career to each of you new teachers this year. 

But the consequences of such a move would be dreadful. 

Because it is the process of gaining experience that will make each of you the unique teacher you need to be. 

And, it is the process of gaining experience that will endear you to those you work closely with this coming year.

When, 20 years from now you write your own memories down of what transpired during your teaching years, you will realize most of those memories are the result of gainful experiences lived.

So, Ciara, and to all the other new teachers this year, take the plunge.

Fearlessly.

Because, experience tells me that each you will be the better for it.

Lonesome Sounds

“Are you sentimental?” I asked my barber friend Jed as his clipper glided in measured movements around my head.

“Absolutely,” he replied.  “I have a whole chest full of things I’ve saved from previous days.  Things I go back and look at from time to time.  Things that maybe don’t mean so much of themselves, but for what they conjure up.

Are you?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, “because the more I think about it, the more forked the road of definition in my mind becomes.  What really is sentimentality? Is it different per person?  Is everyone sentimental in some area or another?  Or, are some not at all?  And are you sentimental just from certain times in your life, such as younger, more energetic times?” I wondered.

“Well,” he said, “My wife isn’t very sentimental.  She’s more of a minimalist.” 

A light switched on in my newly barbered head.  “Can someone be a sentimental minimalist?” I asked?

Because I was suspicious that if such a definition could be had, then maybe that would fit me. 

I ruminated on our conversation as I drove home.

When I sat down to the dinner table, I asked my good wife and sweet daughter, “Am I sentimental?”

A look passed between them.  That feminine thing of theirs got the question all hashed out and answered with nary a word said between them.

“Yep,” said the daughter. 

“Yeah, I think so,” said the wife.

“But,” I protested, “I just blew close to 10,000 files off my computer the other day.  Someone who is sentimental doesn’t do that!”  (That bit of info may alert some of you who hit me up for song copies as to your future success in such queries.)

“Yep.”  They both said it, almost in unison.  I knew the fight was over, and I have been left to my personal cogitations of it since.

Deleting those files made me feel as though I had just swallowed some powerful, cathartic drug.  And yet, I look at the worn spacebar that my right thumb has swatted innumerable times.  I see where the heel of my hands have rested, sweated, and sometimes shook below the keyboard in shiny spots that mark the pressure points.  I look at the worn area on the mousepad and think grimly that lately it has made me hit it fairly aggressively to get my demands. 

I think of all the journeys that this machine and I have made together, think of the different countries, cities, and locales we have visited together.  I don’t like to think of changing over to the new machine that is supposed to arrive here in a couple of days, and yet I look forward to the new machine.

I have this old backpack.  Every time I hoist its pleasant weight up on my right shoulder, or both, if it’s a long haul, I know I’m with an old chum.  Back in the day when I first purchased it, backpacks were a new thing to me, yet quite old by then to the world at large.  It has a buckle that got itself slammed in a door in Toronto.  It carries the faint, still familiar smell of McDonalds French fries purchased in Germany and portaged some 2 miles back to the hospital where my good wife awaited them.  Okay, it doesn’t still carry that smell for you if you pushed your nose into it, but it does for me.  It leans in to Indian food, anytime we are around it, because it was there, on site, when the real stuff was placed in front of us in that country itself.  It’s been stained with my sweat and tears both, and kept pace with me as I raced to a flight that hardly had the patience to wait for me.

It has a pocket where I know my wallet will be, and a place especially for my sunglasses.  This computer has kept it company in its rearmost pocket for about as long as I’ve had it.  If anything is missing from any of the pockets, a small bit of panic ensues, at least in my wife.  That all being said, though, I sometimes look at new backpacks.

But I’m not sure any of this defines sentimentality. 

Maybe it’s nostalgia I’m actually trying to define.

Recently, one of my friends who lives in Kentucky left me message. 

And I heard it, ever so faintly while he was talking.  A train horn.  It stopped me right there.

Another time, I was driving in central Kansas, and saw smoke up ahead.  I recognized it for what it was and had the A/C turned to outside air before we got there.  I inhaled deeply, for as long as it lasted.  It smelled just like it used to here in western Kansas.  You never forget a stubble fire smell.

An old friend of mine, I called him Uncle Alan, although he really wasn’t my Uncle, said the most lonesome sound for him was the sound of the table being set for a meal, and being sick in bed.  I dreamt about that sound as I fell asleep while sitting in ICU beside my wife in the wee hours of the morning.  It provided a sense of normalcy in an otherwise very unnormal time. 

I suspicion I don’t have anything definable or tangible to relate sentimentality to like my friend Jed, but maybe, just maybe, the womenfolk have a point.

Perhaps it’s like a phrase from an old poem that,

‘Somehow, I’ve learned how to listen

For a sound like the sun going down.’

And I realize the sun doesn’t make a sound when it goes down, yet the feeling it gives makes a sound to my soul that is peculiar and mysterious only to me.

Startling in their clarity and exquisitely beautiful are the charms of certain moments.

Three Cups

Pratt Kansas.  McDonalds.

At first, I saw very little.  Austin, Lindsey, Lexi, and I had finished up a lengthy round of Disc golf at the park in the northwest corner of town, tucked down behind the railroad tracks. 

That park is pretty enough and the course neat enough that I’ll go back sometime soon to play it again.

I think Austin finished best on score, and I came in close to the worst, but no matter.  When you can spend a good day with family, score on disc golf doesn’t figure. 

The day was hot, we were overheated, and the McDonalds building didn’t seem overly submitted to the A/C.

I began to pick up bits and pieces of the visual around me as I cooled down and the food and liquid started working.

I picked up on a family seated just to my right.  Grandpa, Grandma, Son, his wife who would bring their fourth child into this world within the week, and three children.

They were, if I were Sean Dietrick writing, your quintessential American family.

They were finishing up their dinner, Grandpa was stretched back in his chair, at ease with life and his family.  Grandma and daughter-in-law chit chatted about the latest things that the family had been involved in.  Son was sitting in the midst of it all, finishing up some of the lunch that his children hadn’t eaten. 

Their little girl, so happy with life and herself, got up from her chair and started meandering around the table in a random sort of way.  I’m pretty sure if I had been near enough and leaned over to her level, I would have heard her humming a tune.

She reached up to the table, took Grandpa’s empty cup, pulled the lid off, and set it on the empty table next to them.  Next, she got her brother’s cup and set it beside the first one on the table.  Lastly, she got her dad’s cup and set it up next to the other two. 

Three cups, all in a row, near the edge of the table, with the lids off.

Her Dad had been watching all along, and when she turned her twinkling eyes to him, the unspoken challenge was easily understood.

“Think I can make a basket,” he asked?

She nodded eagerly.

Wadding up a sandwich wrapper, he gave a toss.

“Aww, missed.”

“Try again.”

Another sandwich wrapper.  The first one had bounced to the floor.

“Aww, missed again.”  It joined the first wrapper on the floor.

Brother tried once and missed. 

Little Miss Twinkle Eyes fetched the wrappers from the floor without being told to and put them back on the tray.

The family resumed their easy conversation as the little girl happily resumed her seat and place among them. 

She belonged.  She added value to the family unit. 

She knew this, because someone took the time to play her little, insignificant game with her.   

Life needs to be like them. 

It’s not in the big showy things which cost a lot of money that we do for or give our children which make the difference.

No.

It’s the little specks of everyday living that fill the barrel of happiness and contentment to the brim. 

And while all those little specks seem so insignificant at the time, they count as worth millions in the long run of things, because, at the end of a good life one looks at his heaping barrel of happiness and marvels at such bounty.

Stop a little, today.  Find some twinkling eyes looking up at you and play their trivial game, even if you must sacrifice some pride in how you look while you do it.  Even if the restaurant floor needs to be cleaned up after you are done. 

Grandma and I met at the soft drink dispenser.

“You have a very nice family,” I said.

“I’ve been noticing yours,” she said.

And, God help me, I hope it was for the same reason I was noticing hers.

A Man’s Wallet, and Other Such

To begin on this subject begs for certain accusations from the gentler sex.

Because, a man in his right mind never tells a woman what to do; if he needs a change in what is going on, it is in his best interest to work the needed change into a suggestion that actually makes it appear like they thought of it themselves.

I’m definitely not savvy enough with psychology to know how to get that done in this subject.

But, seeing’s as how the sweet daughter plans to leave in about a month, and if all goes well will be gone for 9 extremely long months at a distance that takes 23 hours to drive, and seeing’s as how she suggested this subject, I’ll put this one on for her. 

She and I do fairly well in resolving arguments; I may be safe if nothing worse happens.

Perhaps we could say this is the sequel to a previous shot called ‘A Woman’s Purse, etc.’

Don’t—

Clean my wallet completely out.  But, to be right honest with you, it does make me feel pretty good when I see you’ve been in there, getting what you need.  Makes me feel important and necessary.  Just leave a little in there for when I’m really hot and I need a Mountain Dew asap.  It strains me a bit when I get to the counter and see I’m empty. 

Please don’t nag.  If I haven’t gotten done what you want done and you’ve asked a couple of times, it’s either because, 1. I forgot, 2. I procrastinated, or 3. I have something else that interferes, whether rightly or not.  Regardless of which reason it is, I need help with it.  Help me see what is getting in the way of getting your thing done by asking me questions that direct my mind into that channel.  Don’t forget that my mind works with one process at a time, two max, as compared to your mind being able to have 5 process’s going at once and all of them brought to a successful finish.  If you nag too much, my mind will automatically shut off the hearing sector (which happens to be super sensitive in males in nagging detection) in order to preserve the process already in place.

Don’t keep talking to me on the phone for any length of time if you sense I’m smoking to go.  I want to talk to you, but there are likely 57 other things in the picture, including a customer standing two feet away from me that I really can’t tell you about, or my hands are caked in mud and it’s smearing all over my phone, or, sweat is running freely about, temporarily closing off my ear canals and hindering my understanding of anything you say, to name a few.  If I’m the man I want to be, I’ll call you back when things have cooled a bit and we’ll chat for as long as you wish.  Just try to get over your tiff with me before I call back.   

Don’t flirt.  Unless you want to appear cheap, indecisive, and mildly disgusting. I know it looks like that is what the cool dudes like, but really, deep down, they don’t.

Don’t expect me to automatically cave in when you use the waterworks to get what you want.  (Because most of the time I automatically do cave in.)

If you are a youth girl, don’t snark at me first thing in the morning if you had a late night the evening before with your friends.  I don’t like to be a target for your inability to deal with lack of sleep.    

Don’t find fault with other people in front of our children; Don’t let me do that either.

Don’t let the house run down.  I’m talking within reason here.  But it does brighten my mood considerably when I step into a clean, tidy house.  I’ll understand immediately if it’s been one of ‘those days’ with the children or other things and it couldn’t be done.  I’m not talking about keeping it clean on those days.

Don’t spend ‘our’ money lavishly.  On the other hand, don’t be so fearful each time you go to Walmart.  The essentials will always need to be bought.  You don’t need to bear the onus of where the end of the month will find us.  That’s mine to worry about if you have been careful otherwise.

Don’t feel bad about stealing my food from my plate.  It tells me you approve of my choice, which is ego inflating.

Do—

Pick the lint off my suit.  On the way to church.  It proves to me I made the perfect choice for a partner.  I’m taken care of.  Pick it off in church and I feel like my mom just told me my ears were still dirty. 

Become interested in what I’m working with or doing.  Sure, it may be incomprehensible to you.  That’s okay.  They say a man naturally selects whom he thinks is the prettiest woman and endeavors to gain her approval.  You are my prettiest woman.  Even if you don’t have clue what I’m doing, find something you like about it and tell me.  It doesn’t have to be the same thing I like or the thing you think I want you to like.  What you like about it immediately becomes what I like about it when you say so.  Because . . . you are my prettiest woman when you say those things.  (That is, if you happen to be my good wife or one of my sweet daughters.)

Do tell me you believe in me.  Okay. I know I tried to be the macho guy back when we were young.  Every guy tries to be in some way or another.  But I was walking a thin string back then, and I still do today.  They say a man’s ego is the most fragile thing out there.  I’ll endorse that thought.  So, if I don’t hear your approval, I may start putting on a tough front.  But in reality, my macho front isn’t even skin deep.  It’s a paradox.  A man hides the very thing he needs most with the very thing he isn’t.  We’re crazy that way. 

Make my favorite meal.  But not too often that it becomes less than special to me.  You know the old saying, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?”  Yeah, well, think twice about making that stomach too expansive or it may become a heart all of its own that is rarely satisfied.

Let me protect you by being dependent on me.

Laugh at me when I act stupid, even if you’d rather be embarrassed.   Unless I’m being stupid for the wrong reason.  (God bless you with wisdom to know the difference)

Go with me, just ‘cause you want to, even if your work has stacked up.  I’d really hate to write in your obituary, “She always got all her work done,” and not be able to write about our fun little trips together.

Refrain from chastising me the moment I lose my temper or some other dastardly thing men are known for.  We know we’re scuzzy already.  Come to me later and ask if I want to talk about it.  If I don’t talk to you, then I’m not a true man.

Tell me it’s okay to take a day off, even if I insist that I think it is necessary for the budget to keep going.  Otherwise, I may self-destruct with work.

Let me tease you, but not too much.  Know how to draw the line so that we both can laugh at the end.

Do, if you are a youth girl, behave yourself wisely.  You’ll be convinced you will be the most unpopular girl out there, but every lasting youth guy will notice you more with that behavior than the other kind.

Do, consider most of what you just read as nonsensical, having very little applicable value.

One Year

There is a folder in my Dropbox with the name, ‘It’s a Joke.’  Inside it are subfolders.  One is called, ‘Files published.  Another is called, ‘Guest Post,’ and the last one is called ‘Not finished.’

When I sorted the files in the ‘Files published’ folder by date, some had a date stamp of over a year ago.  One had a date stamp of 4 days ago. 

And I got a notice a while ago that a certain website was automatically renewing, which seemed to be the same website you are reading this on right now.

I never really figured I’d go a year.  I really didn’t think I had material or inspiration to last that long. 

Admittedly some may agree that I didn’t. 

What started as a hobby and with certain reasons to keep my mind active has exceeded my expectations.

I’ve learned a little bit along the way.  I’ve learned that just because I get the grins and giggles when I write it doesn’t mean anyone else will.

I’ve been surprised to find something that I wrote in a hurry in an Airbnb with very little editing seemed to be well liked.

As near as I can tell, there is no rhyme or reason to what goes and what doesn’t.

I’ve learned a bit more about the English language and how it is supposed to fit together, according to spell and grammar check in Microsoft Word.

One gal, who lives in Pecos Texas, commented on one of my shots.  She gave it a fancy name saying she liked my alliteration.  I confess I had to go look that word up to see what it meant, and I must confess further that after I realized what it meant, I had never meant to do what it says I did.  But I think she is more into the major authors, being one of them herself, and so she knows exactly what that word means and knows how to use it in her writing, I daresay. 

I suppose writing is sort of not considered Real Man’s Work.  I’m okay with that on most days.  Some days I cringe as I think what the average 46-year-old fellow must think as he studies his peer that throws nonsense and futility into the fiber optic line and then watches as it gets spread about the globe and lands in random places.  Does he feel sorry for one like me, I wonder?  Does he hope that someday I’ll grow up? 

It might be that this will keep going a while, and then again, it may not.  I don’t have any goals for it.

Neither do I feel like I have to churn something out each week.  I only write when I’m enthused about what I’m writing and have the time for it.

For now, though, this is something I like to do.

Runny or Not (here i come)

When I told my good wife the title of this and what it might be about, I got THE LOOK.

I’m still undecided what the full meaning of that look was, although I am quite sure as to part of it.

And if the unknowns of her look are what I suspicion they might could be, then this easily may be the shortest blog I have ever written.

Because it should stop right here if the rest of that look says what I think it says.

I’ll press on, though, and should what comes next become a defining point of separation in our marriage, at least it has been publicly noted and witnessed, thereby making it possible for marriage experts to trace the trail back factually, thus enabling them to write better marriage counseling lessons for future generations to come.

*****

There is a mysterious ingredient that cooks the world over have been trying to find, perhaps for years now.  Culinary experts, such as my good wife, and my sweet daughters, have known there is something that makes all the difference in a perfectly cooked dish.

But they are left with their hands in the air when it comes to determining exactly what that something is. 

I’m suspicious the reason I got the look is that my good wife sensed I had discovered that something, and it sort of stuck her wrong because it should have been a woman who discovered it. 

So, it seems I’m betwixt the frying pan and the fire.  If I divulge this information, as I feel I unselfishly must, the ladies will have their way with me and in the end . . . well, maybe the end is too sorrowful to contemplate.

The secret to whether your dish of food is raved about or not is all in how runny it is.

There.  Even if I say no more, with that bit of info your reviews should start picking up, although not as much as if I give some more detail.

I’ll list some specific foods to get you started, and then, should you realize the benefits of that list and want to add to it, and want to share it with me, would be great.

Green beans—

Cooked in water with onion and bacon—too runny

Cooked in water with onion, water drained off and cream added—perfect.

Cooked in water with onion, water drained off and cheese melted in, nah.  Too thick.  For sure when they get cold.

Chocolate sauce—

Runny.

Cooked and boiled too long so that it gets hard when you pour it on your ice cream—nope.

It needs to stay runny so that it quickly melts past your ice cream and forms a large pool hidden from view underneath the melted ice cream.  That way you can keep pouring for a little longer before the sweet daughter quips—”Having chocolate sauce with your ice cream or ice cream with your chocolate sauce?”

Steaks—

Runny is best.  No ands ifs or buts.

They can’t juice out if you intend to cure them well enough should you need some patches for your shoes.

Take them off at 135 degrees.  125 is better.  And that juice in the pan?  It’s meat juice, not blood.  Okay?

Meat loaf—

Not runny.

Resist every urge to take it out when the sauce is still red.  Let it go longer until it turns brown all the way around the edge of the pan.  Maybe even a bit on the black side.  This assures the center and all parts of it are done perfectly and have substance to them.

Casserole—

Not runny.  Almost 98% of all casseroles out there need to be baked, taken out of the oven, cooled, and then reheated for a meal later on.  This gives great consistency and helps dry out any remaining pools that are hard to consume by themselves.

Soup—

Runny.  You might say that is sort of a duh point.  But actually, it’s not.  Chowders are horrible when they start cooling down and congealing.  Unless you have done them right and they stay runny all the time, don’t expect folks to be asking for your recipe.  Chili soup, whether white or red, is some of the best soup out there.  Keep the solids/liquids at a low ratio and you’ll do just fine.  Add too many solids, and you might have an improperly done casserole on your hands.

Pecan pie—

Runny.  It is so disappointing to cut into a perfectly looking pecan pie only to find it stiff and unyielding.  Take it out of the oven when it still jiggles, a lot, and it will ooze out on your plate in the most delectable manner.  I have a saying about pecan pie, but I get THE LOOK each time I say it.  It has to do with the jiggles part, but I’ll stop right there.

Beef stew—

Runny and with lots of pepper.  Pepper and runny are similar in their ability to become that mysterious ingredient.  Keep your beef stew runny and kicking with pepper, and you might as well open a restaurant.  Folks will keep coming back and begging for more.

Chocolate chip cookies—

Runny.  By all means runny.  Take them out when they aren’t quite done and within 20 seconds of taking them out, drop the pan two or three times on the counter before transferring it to the cooling rack.  The benefits of this twofold process are enormous.  It brings all the chocolate chips up to the top and makes them visible.  If you can’t figure out what the benefit of that is, then don’t worry about it.  

While I could go on for a while yet, perhaps this will suffice to open your thought process on the matter. 

I’ll be hiding out somewhere for a while now until I know the coast is clear on the home front.

A Woman’s Purse, and Other Such

Allow me to open my mouth, and perhaps regret it.

In fact, I know very little, if anything, about what comes next.

But, for the sake of employing my fingers, and perhaps with a remote possibility that it could benefit or cause looks of scorn and disgust, I’ll continue.

There are some things that a man needs to know, and if he doesn’t know them, life in that situation can become stormy. 

I’ll endeavor to write some of them down, based on what I have learned in the storm, and what I may have been taught.

DON’T—

Ever rifle through a woman’s purse.  Even if she is your wife.  Well, I suppose most wives would let their men look in their purse to find something they need.  But don’t look through it greedily, as some archeologist expecting to find treasure and hidden secret.  If you want to maintain the friendship you have with her, then consider a woman’s purse off limits.

Her phone falls into the same category.  And if you want to make it even worse?  Act stupid and dumb and weird while you are trying to scroll through her contacts and messages, or, for that matter, try to unlock it in the first place.  More than likely, any woman’s phone out there contains less objectionable or secret material than any man’s, but it puts a severe threat up against them if it looks like you may be snooping around on it. 

The same holds true for her bathroom, if she has one to herself.

Don’t ever play unfair jokes on a woman.  Unfair may need to be explained here.  Fair by a man’s standard is automatically unfair to a woman.  No ands, ifs, or buts.  Fair by a man’s standard says a half to full cup of ice water can be tossed against another man with no serious offense.  Not so for a woman.  Remember, since it’s fair that you can toss a half to full cup on another man, then that makes it okay for a woman to toss a like amount of ice water on you.  But if you are tossing water on a woman, 3 to 4 drops better be the max.  And don’t ever think you can toss even the smallest amount of water, say fairly cold water, over the shower onto a woman taking a shower.  Even though, just very recently, the sweet daughter had, not a half cup, or even a full cup, but almost a pitcher full of water and jagged, sharp ice cubes that she dumped over the shower, altogether with the blessing of her mother, upon a certain pudgy man taking a shower.  That was perfectly fair, it seemed.

Don’t make a woman always pick where to eat when you both are in town.  It’s true, we men think doing so is a favor, and it might be occasionally.  But if you always make her pick, she views you as lazy, shirking your place, not a man.

Don’t EVER tease her in public.  She can tease you; it’s her way of being coy, sassy, and genuinely woman.  But if you tease her, it makes for an unfair advantage you are employing against her, besides assaulting the gentle nature you love so much about her.

If you are a youth guy, don’t think you have done your duty by asking if the ladies have enough room in the back seat and hitching your seat way too far forward as a show of macho manliness.  If you have my sweet daughter in your ride, then don’t think you can impress her with fast, dangerous driving.  Don’t.  It won’t impress her or me both; it will derate your standing in any woman’s eyes when you try to impress them with your driving.  They aren’t impressed with good driving either, for that matter.  It’s a nonissue with them, but bad driving will kill your chances quicker than some other things.

Don’t try to make a woman with a less than happy attitude happy by excessive happy comments and quirky humor.  Unless you want to see a rolling pin headed your way.

Don’t give advice when a woman is telling you, whether dramatically, hysterically, or very emotionally, the story of her day.  Hold your tongue.

Don’t try to outwalk her on a walk. 

Don’t throw frogs, even if very gently, towards a woman.

Or mice.

Or snakes.

Or spiders.

Don’t buy her the most expensive gift every time.

Don’t forget her birthday, or the anniversary you share with her.

Above all, don’t order flowers for her, and tell the florist, “Just pick something out you think a woman would like.”

Don’t talk in too friendly of a way with another woman.

Don’t walk in front of, or behind her on your way from the car to the church building. 

Don’t make a scene out of it if she makes a mistake, or scratches your vehicle.  Even if it’s just the two of you, don’t permit yourself any unkind words. 

*****

DO—

Become interested in stores that have home styles and décor in them.

Express an honest opinion on which baby clothes you think look the nicest.

Play Scrabble, or the game of her choice with her, even if you lose every lasting time.

Take walks with her. 

Listen to her, even if it seems like she is going on and on about something that seems trite to you.  It isn’t to her. 

Give advice, but only when she starts asking questions about what all she has just told you, whether it was told dramatically, hysterically, or emotionally.

Hold her. 

Do something, such as fix the bed or something else that is normally her job, on the same day each week.  It gives her a needed, expected break.  Doing one of her tasks unexpectedly is great, but the time between the unexpected’s can get longer than you think.

Take her or the family out for a meal at least once a month.  She deserves a break.  If your finances can’t handle eating out, make the meal for her.  Yes.  You can do it.  And she will be fine with it even if it doesn’t turn out. 

Do have the boys, (if you have some) do the dishes on a regular day of the week.

Do buy her flowers; pick them out yourself and sign the card in front of the good smelling, hand covering her mouth to hide her smile, clerk.  (It is always wise to get the spelling and the message you plan to write figured out before you go into the store.)

Do pick out a piece of material for her, all by yourself.  The room will constrict around you, the temperature will feel like it’s soaring to mid triple digits, and you will be unsteady on your feet for some hours afterwards. 

Do tell her she is beautiful.

Do hold the door open for her, or any other woman you may chance to meet at the door.

Do keep a sharp eye on the hem of her dress.  She’ll be very glad if you tell her, her slip is showing before you ever leave the house.

Do walk on the sidewalk closest to the curb, sheltering her on the inside of the walk, in case something on the street should come undone.

Do spend the unexciting days with her rather than going off on some high-octane trip by yourself.

Do surprise her with a gift every now and again.

Do change the baby’s diaper on a regular basis. 

Do admit you are sick.

Do admit you need her help.

Do say sorry, and that it is your fault, even if you are quite sure she is the one to blame.

Do buy flowers for her after she has delivered each child she has carried for you.  It’s the least you can do.

Do take her shopping, once in a while, for as long as she wants to shop.  (She won’t spend rapaciously, contrary to what you think.)

Oh, and if you are a youth guy—

Give any girl, not just the sweet daughter, polite, and kind remarks.  They notice it, even if it seems like so small of a gesture.

*****

I suppose the list could go on, and I suppose if you were writing it, it would have different things, just as important or more so, in it.

Anyway, maybe enough is enough.