India #4

Having flown into Germany a couple years previous, I was interested to see if Amsterdam compared in any way. 

It did in a number of ways, although the food was a bit blander, if not much the same base.

I was so tired by that point, though, that it was hard to comprehend anything.  I offered to the ladies that I would watch the luggage and they gallivanted away, not to be seen again for at least an hour.  When they returned, they brought some food with them, which was great.  My Coke and chocolate shake diet had my stomach a bit sluggish by that point.  I put away both a warm and a cold version of a low country sandwich that tasted quite good; the pickle that seemed plenty strong. 

But then, I don’t eat pickles.  You wonder why?  They don’t have any food value in them.  You might want to reconsider your own fetish of them in that light.

The 500 plus line was forming to board, and we joined up.  Luckily, for us, we were right behind a sharp looking Indian businesswoman who lived in Chicago and was headed back home for a visit.  She was quite conversational, asking where we were from and was suitably impressed when we told her and the reason for our trip. 

At one point, we both commented on how slowly the line was moving; she glanced ahead and said, “Ah yes, we are getting close to India.  When in India you have to do it their way.”

“Okay,” I thought, “the same could be said about the U.S.” 

But it wasn’t until a few minutes later, I noticed exactly what I had missed in her veiled words.

For the line was moving right along.  Certain folks, mostly some who wore turbans (many of them in fact) and who didn’t believe in getting haircuts or beardcuts, and who seemed of a very religious sort, kept moving along towards the front of the line, whilst we stayed planted where we were.

In fact, they began to board even before the lady at the desk had announced that boarding was beginning. 

I stood there dumbfounded for some minutes.  I began to look closely for clues and couldn’t obtain any; but then I detected a movement at my side.  

There was a turban there, briefcase in hand.  It was then I began to catch on.  For beside the line to board, was another, almost indistinguishable single file line. 

Mostly turbans.

They moved slow enough not to arouse suspicion.  I studied the turban beside me closely.  I had every opportunity to, because one of the clues of the on-the-move turbans was never to make eye contact with anyone, including the lady at the boarding desk now gone crazy with the swarm of turbans around her.

For about as long as it took to type that last paragraph is how long my turban friend stood beside me.  Then he eased forward and into the main line a bit in front of me.  In another same amount of time, I saw him ease out of line and up beside again.  Soon he was gone, out of sight, and down the jetway as the lady at the desk screamed, “Please respect the boundaries of the boarding lanes and do NOT board until I announce it is time to board!  This is a safety issue!”

Many, many turbans eased on by and down the jet bridge before we were officially invited to board the plane.

*****

That flight, from Amsterdam to New Delhi, was one of the most miserable I’ve been on to date. 

The plane was old and very loud.

The temperature seemed to hover in the mid fifties the whole nine hours.

It had been dark for the whole flight from Detroit to Amsterdam; our layover in Amsterdam was 3 hours and shortly after takeoff, it got dark again. 

It was like a 3-hour day and 20 hours of darkness. 

I slept for 45 minutes, and that was it. 

Along about 7 hours into the flight they came by with food that was decidedly of another culture.  I think they were trying to acclimate us for where we were going to land. 

I looked forward to trying this food, because Bryce had told us in such raving reviews how good the food was over there. 

Something was wrong though.  My first bite had a personality to it I wasn’t used to, and commenced to argue against the command I had given it to be swallowed.  Each time I tried to swallow, it rose up against my wishes.  An argument of half chewed food against swallow commands at the back of one’s throat has serious potential to do harm. 

I hurriedly came on the scene and told those squabbling two to stop or else.  The food didn’t give up then, though, for as soon as it landed in the lake of Coke and chocolate shakes, it commenced to speak for itself again. 

Several more visits and finally a time out had to be imposed on it or things could have turned sour in a hurry. 

Oh, and the turbans. 

They kept using the bathroom.  Sometimes as many as five were standing there waiting.  I passed it off as prayer time for them, but finally decided the urgency seemed great enough with them that they were passing their time in there in other things than prayers.

I was deeply disappointed in the food.  I couldn’t imagine how I was going to spend the next several days existing on that stuff, but I tried to block it out as much as possible at that point, and besides, they had just announced we had 30 minutes to prepare for a 1 a.m. New Delhi time landing. 

I sure wondered where I’d first see Bryce, and what he would look like.

Vacuuming

The other morning, I vacuumed the house. 

I realized several things in the process. 

One, vacuum must not be my favorite word, because its muscle memory hasn’t been engraved into my fingers; it doesn’t type easily like some other words that one of my niece’s keeps a sharp lookout for.

Two, well, I might as well quit numbering them right now, because there a number of things I realized.

I realized I have vacuuming down to a fine art.  It’s taken a few years of hit and miss and different vacuum sweepers to get here. 

I use a plug in that is central to every area that needs to be vacuumed. 

I have also learned on which side of the room to start in order to prevent cord problems. 

I like to start by the entry way and work over into the living room.  This gives only one dead pass when I have to move into the dining area.

Some folks, including certain women I live with, say my next action is uncalled for.  As soon as I get to the dining area, I stop the sweeper (vacuum is too hard to type) and remove all the chairs from the table and carry them to the kitchen. 

The womenfolk don’t do this.  They pull each chair out with one hand while trying to maneuver the sweeper with the other hand, attempting to sweep under the table with quick little darts of the sweeper.  They do quite well in balance and making it look graceful and all, but there are a lot of wasted motions in the process. 

Once I have the chairs moved out, I’ll vacuum along one side of the table, then I’ll shut down again and push the whole table over and vacuum along the other side.  I feel vindicated in this process; it is effective, efficient, and enjoyable.

There are no crumbs or bits of thread that can escape this approach.

But I realized something else the other morning.  And the realization, made during the last 10 years’ time, became a certainty this morning.

There is one more room furnishing that I move from the dining room each time I vacuum. 

For years I have questioned the legitimacy of this piece of furniture each time I move it.

The other morning my questions were put to rest.

Because I’m sure if it were not in its usual place, I would be off kilter each time I enter the room. 

Because it gives a sense of time and place, even wellbeing, if you will.

*****

When we built this house, I had a moment of epiphany.  In fact, you might say I sort of designed the whole utility around it.  Now to be clear, my wife designed this house, because when it came to getting it all down on paper, I completely fizzled out. 

But, for some reason, I had the utility in my mind’s eye.  I would have it a large utility.  This was easily accomplished by using up the extra space from the angle that our house sits on to the garage. 

I wanted lots of light.  Not for myself, no.  I had a plan in mind for someone else.  The light issue was settled.  We put 6 cans in the perimeter and one flushmount in the center of the room.  That together with two windows on the west wall to let sunlight in did the trick.

It needed a deep sink.  Deep enough to get my elbows down in to scrub without dislocating too much water to other areas and without dislocating an elbow by hitting the side of a too small, too shallow sink.  Deep enough to do small loads of laundry in by hand.  Deep enough to brine a turkey in the night before Thanksgiving.  I talked the sink idea around with the plumbing place I normally buy from.  They thought they had heard of such, but it took them a while to find one like I was thinking and the color my good wife wanted.  I situated it on the west counter, clear on the left-hand side. 

Next, and to the right of the sink would be counter space where garments that needed extra scrubbing after the sink soak could be scrubbed.

That followed by the washing machine, on down to the right.  So far, the motion would all make sense; sink, scrub, washing machine.

The dryer fell into place neatly beside and to the right of, the washing machine.

The next item took some doing.  I knew about them but hadn’t really seen them.  And when I found out the cost, it took some real bravery to pursue my idea.  But I pushed through with it, because it seemed like a nice idea, especially for the love of the one I was doing it for.

I found what I was looking for at Lowes.  But since we don’t have a Lowes close by, I had to have it shipped in.  It was the neatest ironing board combo that fit into the wall.  It had a wood door that we stained the same color as our trim.  When opened, the ironing board folded out and down, and a light switched on to brightly illuminate the work area.  It had a safe storage area to put your hot iron when you were done, and a timer for the light.  I built this ironing board into the wall to the right and at a right angle to the counter previously described. This way, when the clothes came out of the dryer, they went to the ironing board for ironing, and then on around the circle to the right to a closet with a hanger bar in to hang newly laundered and ironed clothes. 

That whole room seemed like the neatest thing since ice cream.

I think . . . the ironing board built into the wall has been used . . . maybe ten times. 

It doesn’t stand a chance.

Because the piece of furniture that sits over in the dining room, the same piece of furniture that I move each time I vacuum, is an ironing board, and on it sits an iron, 24/7, pretty much 360 days of the year.  It even stays there when we have company over.

But like I say, something wouldn’t be right if it wasn’t there.  It gives a sense of wellbeing, if you will.

India #3

If I ever have any extra time in Atlanta airport, it seems I end up in a little corner of it, off to one side. 

I say I’m largely unresponsible for this.  My feet seem to get me there by their own design.  They must pick up a little extra vibration in the floor and make up their mind to go check it out. 

And just like that, there will be a black boy sitting at the piano in the far end of that narrow café.  He’ll be wearing a light tan suit, with a perfectly matched kerchief in the pocket, and a dough hat.  His slacks, on the leg working the pedal tone, will be hiked up a bit and I’ll see that his socks match up with the rest of his outfit. 

Except I don’t do well with those kind of thin excuses for socks; I’ve tried them, and they always end up lower than I’d like in a couple of hours.  They sort of turn into an ankle sock when they shouldn’t be.  And so I’ll stand there for a few minutes, and marvel at his socks.  Because while his right foot works the pedal tone, his left foot works out the tempo in such a crazy, happy-go-lucky tango.  Sometimes his heel taps it, sometimes his toe taps it, sometimes his whole foot runs flat footed up and down. 

And his socks stay right where they are supposed to stay. 

And his music is fantastic.  But then, I don’t know what piano music is really supposed to sound like, so who knows?

I may have stayed there longer if I hadn’t received an urgent message on my phone from my good wife.

It seems she thought our trip was in tatters.  Although we were in Atlanta airport, with tickets on through to right up against the Himalayas, she seemed to think it was a no go.  Perhaps with good reason.  For, while she and her sweet daughter were killing time by walking to and fro upon the face of the dirty carpet and linoleum, and in conversation as women usually are when walking to and fro, one had thought to take her sweater off and handed her passport the other one.  And evidently the conversation was of such nature that neither remembered what actions were taken after that, and now the passport was missing.

The immediate panicked decision from one of them was to retrace their course and look on the floor for it.  But then one of them said it would probably already be stolen and the other said they couldn’t remember where they had walked. 

As a good stalwart husband and father ought to do in such situations, I did nothing.  I was sure my quiet attitude would calm down the frazzles, and sooner, rather than later, rational thought would return to one of them.  (Because it had departed me a few minutes ago.)

And it did.  One of them suggested they look through all their stuff again, and there it was, down in the bottom of the purse, smiling smugly up at them when they opened it. 

*****

We met some folks in Detroit airport, just before we boarded to skip over the pond, that we knew. 

I totally forgot about them ten minutes after we boarded.  If I had remembered, maybe it would have tempered my actions. 

Then again, maybe not.

Because stuff happens on a plane when it’s dark.  Especially when you have hours left to go and it seems like you’ve been couped up in the middle of the middle row of seats, and the guy beside you is gently snoring. 

It worked out to be about 3 in the morning, Kansas time when it started happening.  I hadn’t slept a wink yet; my sweet daughter had caught a couple of snoozes on the other side of my good wife who lounged up against me, sleeping the blissful sleep of a matronly woman such as her. 

There was a show on the screens on the back of the seats in front of us.  I wish I could remember the name of it, but maybe it is better I don’t.  Because if I did, I’d probably go watch it and every rerun there was.  It had something to do with three guys who set up challenges for each other involving cars, time limits, and terrain limits.  It all seemed innocuous enough.  Until they started handing out punishments to each other when they failed to make the goal. 

One scenario was in Africa, in desperately hot temperatures.  One guy’s car failed and he worked frantically to get it going.  Of course, since it was a show, I’m sure he doozied it up on purpose, especially with folks on airplanes at 3 in the morning in mind.  His punishment for loosing the race was that he had to where a turtleneck sweater for the rest of the day in his unairconditioned car in Africa.  For some reason, the recording camera was in his car the rest of the day and we were privy to every one of his groans and absurd comments.

I started to laugh.  At three in the morning though, it’s mostly an insane giggle that shakes and bakes and morphs into outright guffaws, tears, and sniffles, interrupted by the occasional aftershock chortle.  The sweet daughter woke up and stared at her old man incredulously. 

Until she saw the screen.

Pretty soon she was doing the woman’s version of what I was doing. 

The matronly woman who lounged up against me stirred herself.

She awakened enough to see part of what was going on and then quickly convinced herself to go back to sleep. 

But with the daughter and I on each side of her carrying on, as she later said, sleep seemed impossible. 

And she soon got a little grouchy at us.  Because the thing kept circling on us.  We’d just have it under control, sweat and tears wiped away, and we’d have to give it another go.  She later told us there was a lady across the aisle that had watched us and finally gave a look that said we were all but gonners. 

I suppose we were mostly gone. 

And I seriously wonder where those folks we met back in Detroit were seated in that plane.  I hope at least 31 rows either front or back of us. 

I never did see them again, which may be proof they witnessed our debacle and didn’t want anything to do with us after that.

Blood and Tears

Or maybe the title should be, Blood, Tears, and Smiles.

(The daughter keeps badgering me about this one . . . I tell her each time that I’m not ready to yet, ‘cause I’m a sentimental mush about it, and it seems impossible to get the whole feeling that was involved onto a piece of paper. But anyways, here is a try at it.)

It happened upon a day, that the sweet daughter approached her parents and mentioned casually that she was interested in getting a male and a female dog and raising pups to sell.

And, it happened upon the same day, that the good wife readily consented to the idea presented by the sweet daughter.

It was left then, to the pudgy man who lived with them, to agree or disagree with them. 

And so, with very little ado, the decision was made.  Whether or not the pudgy man actually had a say in the matter remains a question to this day.

Needless to say, his abilities were put to use almost immediately in construction of a pen, and later, a glorified doghouse that measured 12’x16’, decorative fascia, air conditioning, and all. 

Of course, the doghouse was justified, for, as the sweet daughter explained, part of it would also serve as a repository for stuff other than dogs if the pudgy man would pay for 2/3 of the doghouse himself.  Said offer made most graciously by the sweet daughter.  

And then, it happened upon a day, that the sweet daughter asked of the man to accompany her to the casino parking lot, on a Sunday morning, to pick up a 2-year-old Alaskan malamute named Aurora. 

Of course, once the man laid eyes upon her, she became his dog, much to the daughter’s disgust. 

Although one could say the loyalty was short lived; as soon as the man and his daughter reached home and opened the trunk, that fine princess departed and headed back east towards Missouri, from whence she had traveled in the last 24 hours.

It made for a class action pursuit through hill and bales until she was finally reported safe back to her new home. 

The savory meat that had been placed on the grill before leaving for the casino was decidedly dry and unsavory by the time all had partaken of it.

And, shortly thereafter, upon another day, the sweet daughter asked of the man to accompany her 2 ¾ hours eastward towards the city of Wichita to receive a male puppy, of the same purebred breed, that was even then winging his way westwards from the state of Indiana.

Of course, the pup saw some of the same likable attributes in the man that the female had seen, and made a complete nuisance of himself by crawling squarely onto his lap and chest as he attempted to chauffer themselves homeward.

Now the female dog seemed to feel somewhat responsible to live up to her proper name and began to manifest characteristics of such.  Namely, she terrorized the boys in this house with feinting, and not so feinting attacks upon their persons. 

She was such a beautiful dog and had such a mournful howl that one could hardly believe it of her.  But the torn jeans bore mute testimony to a darker side of her that we did not know existed.

But it wasn’t all concentrated on the boys.  Although what I say next wasn’t necessarily an afront against the daughter, she was the one who got the brunt of it. 

We were eating dinner when a vicious three-way fight started right outside our patio door between her, the male we had picked up from the airport, and my faithful Boola.  I’m not sure what the daughter was thinking, or maybe not thinking, when she opened the door with the intention of diffusing the fight.  If she had a protective streak towards my Boola, I could understand it, because he was getting a fairly rough working over.  But I don’t think she did.  She went to the aid of the female, in sort of, you know, ‘stand by your own kind’ type of gesture.

But the female was crazed with the fight and turned on the sweet daughter. 

Things got serious in a short hurry then for the pudgy man and the daughter’s older brother.  We both leaped out of our chairs and ran out.  Austin grabbed the dog, and I had a peripheral snapshot of that sweet dog flying laterally though the air, some six feet up and twenty feet out from where we were situated.  Meanwhile, I had grabbed the sweet daughter, who was also crazed with the fight, and while I didn’t launch her quite as bodily as Austin did the dog, I did manage to get her back inside, but only after a wound had appeared on her wrist which we eventually had to have x-rayed, because we thought it must be broken from all the pain she was enduring.  Turned out she was okay, if not for a bruised bone to finished healing up.

One night, the good wife and I had been gone for the evening, and, upon returning, heard a very distressed call for help from the eldest son.  (By this time the female dog had a litter of new little pups and was quite protective of them.)

We followed our ears until we found him, standing rather hunched over in the garage, directly above a very large pool of blood that seemed to have come from his face, in fact, from his upper lip. 

We were told, (later) that without sound or warning, the sweet Aurora, for by now she was that to all of us, had leaped up and got his face, neatly severing his top lip with two fang marks about 3/8 inch long and all the way through to the inside. 

He and I got home around 2 the next morning after he was stitched up by a very kind and knowledgeable PA at the neighboring hospital.  And in spite of the neat job done in stitching, he still wears her mark, and probably will the rest of his life.

We loved that girl, though. 

All of us.

It seemed to us that she must have been somewhat abused in the last home she had, because when she came, she was very defensive and cowering.  But we kept at it with her, and the more love we gave her, the more she loved to soak it up.  It was a forgivable action on her part to defend her newborn pups when a fellow she hadn’t been with much was in that confined space with her.  I say that because, ever after that she had a soft place in her heart for Austin. 

It was so plainly evident.  If she came in the house, she would make a beeline straight for him and lay her head in his lap and gaze up at him with sort of a soft, sad look in her eyes.  I’m convinced she was trying to make it up to him for what had happened out there in her pen. 

And, as one by one her pups were sold, the dent in her happiness for a day or so was evident to all.  But then, maybe she was wearing the same dent the rest of us wore at those times.  It was hard to let those little tykes go, even though we knew it would be impossible to keep them all.   

All told, she gave the sweet daughter 24 pups, 21 of which lived and are now scattered throughout most of the western half and a bit of the eastern U.S.

She was a good mother to her pups and worked hard to make sure they all were fed and kept clean. 

I suppose that and the fact that she gave her allegiance to us so completely once she learned to trust us makes this next part a bit difficult to write. 

I feel like in a lot of ways, I was the one to blame for what happened.

She was expecting her fourth litter of pups.  We hadn’t planned this.  We thought she needed a break after three litters back-to-back. 

We knew her due date was close and had been keeping a sharp eye on her.  With each litter following the first one, her destructiveness lessened dramatically in the time before she gave birth.  Before that first litter, she had her pen torn halfway down, chewed through wires holding the gate and tore open 4 or 5 bags of dog food that was stored outside of her pen. 

Finally, on the day she started giving birth of her first litter, she dug a tunnel deep under her house and then closed off the entrance, so we couldn’t get her out.  I had to scoop out dirt and debris for a long time, burrow myself partially under the house and finally drag her out, much to her disgust.

But something was different about this fourth time.  She seemed a lot more subdued. 

Dogs are very punctual on their due dates.  It’s because their gestation time is so short, and the pups grow so rapidly during that time.  Too soon, and you have a very premature pup.  Too long, and the pups are too big to be born. 

We knew what day to expect the pups, but she went past.  At first, we thought maybe we had miscalculated.  But as she became more lethargic and the spark went out of her eyes, we knew something was wrong.

The other thing against us—it was Saturday, and no vet would take us on.

I found her in some weeds, out in the hot, torturous sun, softly moaning to herself.  I got her up on her feet and we made our way, very unsteadily, she and I both, to the air conditioned room she normally birthed in. 

She lay there, crying.  The ladies joined us, and they were crying.  I quickly checked her gums and saw she had no blood pressure.  I did an exam . . . and found one breeched.  The birthing canal was fiercely hot; I’m guessing she must have been running an extreme temp by that time. 

And then she died. 

Even now it’s hard for me.  She had worked so hard for us, been a friend in so many ways, and an enemy in some too. 

The sweet daughter and I loaded her in the bucket of the skid steer and both of them rode in it out to a hole I had dug.  We laid her down gently in the bottom of that hole, folded her legs in a comfortable position and closed her eyes. 

And then . . . then my daughter and I stood there, holding hands, and crying. 

I know, some of you that read my stuff have recently laid your family to rest.  You will probably be angry at me for crying over a dog, and that’s okay.  You have gone through a profound loss.

That dog taught us a lot of things and gave us a lot of good memories.

So, here it is, my daughter.  I hope it doesn’t pain you as much as it does me yet.

India #2

I’ve taken the flight from Garden City to Dallas a dozen times by now.  You need to get there early, because the same gal who checks you in also helps with security and may even help fuel the plane.  It’s always one of those little pencil jets that has me hit my head when I enter it.

It’s also a jet filled with local folks, usually.  They are noisy jets, and once, when the lady across the aisle shouted, “So which religion are you?”, all the folks leaned in to hear what I had to say on the matter.  I’m suspicious the pilot had to put in a fair bit of counter roll measure on his controls during that conversation.

I didn’t have a lot of expectations on that first leg of the trip, from Garden City to Dallas, but I was pleasantly surprised when we flew smack over and a little to the west of our place.  I was finally able to settle the question that had nagged at me for years, had we gotten our corrals laid out square to the road and square to east and west?  They looked nice from where I sat.  And as nearly as I could tell, they were square with the world.  Not that it really matters to you, I suspicion.  The only other thing remarkable about that ride was all the ups and downs.  I have never been in a flight where it seemed we had so many hills and valleys to go through.  It irritated me, because I like to try to predict what the pilot’s next move will be whenever I think I know what it is.  Nothing doing on this jag.  And even after we got done with all the ups and downs, there was still a circling exercise we had to go through on and anon over Dallas.  I began to wonder if we had a student pilot on board and he/she was working in some extra hours for credit.

I need to be clear on a point.  The day we left Kansas was a very cold, blustery day.  That’s a description of the weather, although it could have been applicable to the friendship my wife and I had for a few moments, once, before we ever left our house, and once in Atlanta.

You would think that on a trip the size of which we thought to undertake, we, make that I, would have worked out as many details as far ahead of time as possible.  But I seemed to have missed quite a number of details, thus the frosty atmosphere. 

One was an exact 2 x 2-inch photo, besides the one on my passport, that the country of India required.  A quick search of the Playstore showed numerous apps that offered such services.  But every app I downloaded was either bugged or didn’t care to deliver the goods on such short notice.  I became more and more ticked off, and my good, sweet wife became more and more, ahem, chilly.

I felt somewhat vindicated, though, when I had to go back home, twice in fact, to find things that my lovely womenfolk had forgotten to bring along, although going back home did in fact run us a bit close on time in Garden City.

But we made it on time, into the plane, and it was there that my good wife said, “Well, now that we made it this far, we can sit back and relax.  We have a whole evening and night in Atlanta; from here on we’re just along for the ride.”

I’m pretty sure that is what she said. 

Except when we landed in Atlanta, the airport was chaos.  They were remodeling, and we looked in vain for our shuttle car that was to take us to the motel we had booked. 

I reflected that it wasn’t such a big deal, we were just along for the ride, and if we missed this shuttle bus, the next one would be by in 30 minutes. 

It seemed the nice warm Georgia air chilled just a wee bit when I said that.

My wife spotted the shuttle, just as it was leaving, and I told myself I had been right that another 30 minutes would be okay.  But she went running after it, even shouting at it. 

I’m quite sure the driver didn’t hear but he must have spotted my woman on her mission and, unlike me, knew when to stop, and we had our ride.

I don’t mind McDonalds.  Some folks do.  However, that McDonalds on the corner, a block or two from our hotel, didn’t rate the highest.  It was definitely nestled in the ‘hood, and I had to keep my toes curled up tight when I walked around in there, the floor was so slick.  I expected us all to be sick by midnight from the stuff we ate there, but we actually made the night okay.

Algebra

My niece failed her college algebra test.

When I first heard about it, I was mad clean through.

Because I knew it wasn’t true.

I love that girl like I do my own daughter.  If any of my other nieces read this, you can bet she ain’t the only niece I love that way.

My niece has been on a journey that I can’t comprehend.  If I were to take several years of nursing school and still expect to have a stomach left, it wouldn’t happen.  Plus, I’d freak out when it came time to offer my arm for other newbies to poke on. 

There’s a reason they eat grits in the south where she lives . . . you gotta have them to make it.

Like I said, she’s been on a journey, and it’s made me proud to say I’m her relation. 

So, when she told me she was taking algebra now, I said to myself, “she’ll be okay.”

And that’s why, when I heard she had failed, I knew something wasn’t right.

Because she knows her stuff.

I told her she needed to talk to her professor and see what ever happened.  I didn’t tell her, that if she didn’t, I was going to for her.

Turns out, she passed her test.  At least that’s what the professor told her.  She just hadn’t included the paper showing her work and how she had solved the problems. 

And I’m like, duh.  Doesn’t algebra work with unknown variables? 

Maybe that was part of the equation. 

I’m wondering if that professor shouldn’t do a little algebra herself with unknown variables. 

I bet one of those unknown variables would turn up the sheet my niece failed to hand in and then she’d be good to go. 

When I heard that she actually hadn’t failed, I wanted to go eat some ice-cream with her to celebrate.

Because, in my estimation, she never did fail.

If you read this and realize you didn’t get a notification, you are right. I posted it right after another post and didn’t want to clog people’s inboxes. Sometimes a person has to vent a little to get it out of their system.

Windmillin’ Swimmin’

Everyone needs to learn how to swim.  I’m quite sure it is good to learn how to swim, just for the swimming sake of it all, but the benefits beyond that seem to surpass the previous one mentioned by far.

My swimming journey didn’t begin swimmingly.  It began in the humblest of ways and progressed from there.  Of course, we probably all started out in those little plastic wading pools that give you a total of 8 inches of water to try to submerse yourself in.  You can fool yourself into thinking you can swim when you are in that state of your swimming journey, but that ain’t real swimming.  In fact, real swimming doesn’t really involve swimming at all.  But more on that later.

The next stage of swimming for most folks who live in southwest Kansas was/is your typical stock tank.  We thundered with importance when we came in from swimming in these.  All of 10 feet across and a total depth two feet off water.  We swam these ponds for hours at a time.  So much so that the bottom of our toes were worn raw from the repeated contact they made with the rough steel surface on the floor of these tanks.  Of course, we swam.  We regaled anyone who would listen to our tales of daring and exploration.  Consideration also had to be given to when the calves grazing out on the pasture came in to drink.  The water always turned a bit greenish after that and smelled a bit different for a while.

Stock tanks quickly lost their allure when rumors of tail water pits started trickling down to us still wet behind the ears farm boys.  A tail water pit is a pit dug in the earth for the sole purpose of collecting runoff water that had run a half mile or so through the fields, down furrows, and made it to the end of the field.  A shallow trench was constructed across the end of the furrows and diverted the water into the pit.  The water from this pit was sometimes then pumped back up to the top of the field to be used for the next go through the field.  These pits were generally in the 4 to 6 feet deep range, depending on how full they were.  Sure, there had been chemicals applied to the crops, and I’m guessing some of those chemicals made it to the pit that we chose to swim in.  And since the water had run down a half mile or so of furrow, it was rather difficult to see much more than six inches down into it, if even that far.  There was nothing clean about these pits.  The bottom was slick, slimy mud, and the water an incorrigible brown.  Bits and pieces of last year’s crop floated here and there on the top of the water.  It was deep water too.  At least deep compared to what we had been swimming in.  I suppose, if we were to look at it squarely, it was here we learned to swim, and probably also learned to drown somewhat too.  Maybe we learned how to swim properly, such as dog paddling, back stroke, and how to kick your feet just right (at least if you asked at that time, we could have filled you in in great detail) but, in my mind, it still wasn’t swimming.

One of my friends told me, sometime during this time, that they had gone swimming at Paul’s Pond.  Now this was news.  First of all, I didn’t know what or where Paul’s Pond even was.  I tried to act nonchalant as I queried, where or what this was.  Turns out, Paul’s Pond was only 8 miles or so away, had been in existence for close to 15 years already, and had equipment that I had never even tried before. 

It was approximately forty feet across by sixty feet wide.  On one side was a two-inch pvc pipe jutting out of the bank that flowed continuously with water diverted from a well that was pumping water for the nearby center pivot irrigation used to water crops.  If you happened over to that side of the pond, you didn’t stay long; the water was decidedly colder, hanging around the mid 50-degree mark much like it was since it had been pulled up from the dark depths of two hundred some feet down in the earth.  The reason for this pipe was to keep the water level consistent during the hot summer months.  It made for a refreshing swim to dive into chilled water when the outside temperature was in the low 100’s, humidity in the single digits and the wind blowing like a blast furnace out of the southwest.

Paul’s Pond, name thusly because of whose land it was situated on, was a vast improvement over what we had been swimming in up to this point.  It featured a dock that ran out into the water, and wonder of wonders, a real diving board.  Although the diving board was worn smooth of grip in the essential areas, it was a tremendous attraction to someone who had never even been within ten feet of one before.  The pond boasted a sand bottom, well, for about ten feet anyways, the rest being your slippery mud where you landed after a jump from the board.  Deep, sticky, oozy mud that one could easily sink to their knees in.  I’m not sure if any prayers were prayed while one was down on their knees in that situation, but I know that I came close to it a time or two, when the mud refused to yield its hold and I knew that above me was a good 15 feet of water that had to be traversed through if I was going to breathe again.  

It was here, at Paul’s Pond, that the proper swimming technique was learned.  This involved all manner of new and improved inventions on how to swim, dive and generally have a good time.  I never got my nerve up enough to dive through the inner tube that usually floated around the pond, having lost my courage when I saw guys who had dived through it come up with a bright red welt, sometimes as long as two feet, etched on their torso from the inward facing valve stem on that inner tube. 

Neither have I ever learned how to dive flat footed off a static surface.  For some reason, I skipped that entirely and went straight to learning how to spring dive.  I do believe I knocked all manner of crud loose, such as cholesterol deposits in my veins and pieces of muck from the surface of the pond, when I smacked into the water flat out in what some scornfully called a bellyflop.  It took quite a number of those bellyflops before I was able to hang, sometimes for long milliseconds, in sheer ecstasy, at the apex of my spring dive before arcing gracefully into the water with nary a splash.  I suppose there would be some, who swam with me in those days, who may debate the splash part, but I’m guessing their memory of such has faded somewhat.

You need to know what a spring dive is, so the next part makes sense.  For me, it involved starting at the back end of the board, jogging several paces until I was about four feet from the end, making a flying leap to the end of the board, landing with both feet right at the end, and with the accumulated momentum launch up and out into the deep.  Of course, all manner of failures were encountered, and others laughed uproariously at them, such as the belly flop, getting one’s jump miscalculated so that the end of the board with just barely ticked instead of landed on as one went in a sort of bumpy slide down, etc., etc.

Now it happened on a certain day, when there were 4 or 5 of us young dudes out there at Paul’s Pond, that inspiration struck.  We got to discussing how a person could “bounce” someone a on a trampoline by timing your jump just milliseconds before they came down to land from their jump, thus giving a double jump, if the one coming down had his legs braced and ready for it.

We figured there was a chance we could pull this off on this diving board, doing the spring dive.  So, a trial run was initiated.  We lined up at the back of the board, two of us, in step with each other, and ran in step and jumped in unison.

It didn’t work. 

Because the board was made of hard material, whereas trampolines were softer and more forgiving.  The lead fellow came down to a diving board coming up, and the result was heel pain that lasted well into the next week. 

But we were determined, and for several weeks you could spot those who had been trying this new diving method by the way they sort of hobbled around in church on Sunday morning.  

And then we found our step.  It worked and we started launching tremendous dives that seemed to have us hanging well up in the stratosphere and slinging past the sun going down in the west. 

Now it happened upon a certain time a few days later, that an idea was proposed.  If two guys ran out behind the one wishing to dive, and “bounced” him using the same technique, how good could it get? 

We got set up and made several practice runs, just the two bouncers at this point, and then made for the final push into unknown territory. 

All three of us made a perfect, in unison sprint.  The two bouncers made a perfect in unison launch just a wee bit after the diver.  And the one being bounced came down to a board deeply sunken and coiled with excessive energy. 

And upon my word, he was off, flying high and far. 

Except. 

The excess energy had all be transferred to him.  And the excess energy didn’t care which way it or direction it pushed him.

Our heroic diver went flipping and turning, spinning and windmilling, running and crawling all at once, and all at a high rate of speed through the air.  It all ended in a loud smack when his motions were slowed down somewhat by contact with the water, although I’m quite certain the motions did continue under the water.

They didn’t stop with us anyway.  For some reason we lost all our perfect in sync after the jump and the two of us bouncing went spilling off into the water.  The last I saw as I went below was one of my friends new Nike shoes go bouncing along the board and splash down some feet away from me.

It was on this day that we really learned how to swim, and everything that went with it.

But then, I’m guessing you all have done the same and know how to swim, and everything that goes with it by this time.

India #1

I was talking to my friend Dave this morning, and something about that series of messages sent my mind off to a little idea I had a while back.  When I shared that idea with my good wife, she seemed enthused with it.

Dave happened to spend some time in India, with our son Bryce.  And we happened to go visit Bryce in India, and we happened to have Indian food last night for supper . . .

So, bear with us as we have a little India reunion here on paper. 

I’ll do it in segments, with the title of India on each one.  That way, if you would rather not read about it, you can toss it off when you see the title.

*****

I was on my way to an Oklahoma cattle sale, going through the ups and downs where service for my cell was sketchy at best when I saw I had a call from Bryce.

I lost his call almost immediately, but he called back and told me the reason for his call.

Austin had been to L.A. for six months to give some volunteer time there and had just recently returned.  Bryce had talked off and on about giving some time; he usually said he was leaning a bit more to foreign, and I usually told him I was good with that. 

It seemed he had become aware of a need for help in Northern India and wondered if he should give his name to the person in charge of that area.

We talked it over; he told me he really had had Africa in mind.  I reminded him of how he got such bad headaches from the heat in summer and wondered how Africa would work in that respect. 

He said, yeah, but he didn’t really know anything about India.

And neither did I. 

We were nearing the end of our conversation, and I was nearing the dry Cimmaron Riverbed that was just on this side of the Oklahoma line. I knew dipping down into it would cut my connection again, so we signed off.

I don’t know for sure what happened next, except when I left the sale I got another call from Bryce, and it seemed that somehow, in that short amount of time, he had decided to go to India instead of Africa and the powers that be were working on getting a time frame for him to go.

I felt rather depleted and elated all at once.

And then, three quick months later, I was standing together with my family at the ticket counter in Garden City, as Bryce got his bags checked through the little one-gate airport we call home. 

I was planning on it taking a lot longer to get checked through than it did.  I figured a flight to the other side of the world would have some complications.  But it didn’t, and he had his bags checked through in less than 5 minutes. 

I was an emotional garbage basket.

Not so with Bryce.  I had helped him pack and weigh everything at home and he had been whistling and singing the whole time through. 

Me, crying. 

On the inside because I didn’t want to spoil his special day. 

Two years seemed like a long time, especially to a country that was known to be against any religion except Hindu and had a history of snatching and holding those they thought had crossed the line.

Almost from the day Bryce left, we started talking and making plans to go visit him. 

We settled on the halfway mark of his time there, and purchased tickets for the 11^th of November, flying from Garden City to Atlanta.  Overnighting at Atlanta and then Atlanta, Detroit, Amsterdam, New Delhi, overnighting there, and then New Delhi, Bagdogra, and then a 45 minute drive from there to where Bryce lived.

Total time to get there, minus the overnights, was in the 40-hour range.  Coming home was 52 hours.

I remember that vividly.

Mama

I’ve pondered on this subject for about a week now, and I’m not sure I’m enough of a romantic to do it justice.  In fact, I’m sure I’m not.

And when I use the word romantic, I’m referring to one of its synonyms that describe it as artistic.

I suppose it’s easy enough for the men who read this blog from time to time to invest in something on Valentine’s day.  Because, the repercussions of not investing are dangerous, and the repercussions of investing are decidedly generous.

But it seems a bit more difficult, for some anyway, to invest in something for Mother’s Day. 

Mother’s day is six days away, now, by my count. 

I haven’t invested yet, but I plan to.

It’s hard to describe the most important role of the human race. 

I see Mama’s every day; I see what they contribute to society, and I stand back in awe.

I saw Mama, years ago now, in my good wife when she measured out the chocolate chips according to the recipe.  And she always grabbed a few more in her hand after she poured the right amount in, and sprinkled them over the top.

I saw her, eyes terrified, when her son had a gashed-up chin and a tooth knocked completely out, in the doctor’s office.

I saw Mama when her little girl came around the corner with her mouth crammed full of dog food (once again) and discipline had to be meted out.

I saw her, partly sick herself, whenever any of her children were sick.  Sure, the rest of life carried on, but for all intents and purposes, it had drawn up in a tight circle with just her and her sick child in the center.

I saw Mama hold her tongue when her grown boys came in and tracked mud right down on her clean floor, and look at them through eyes that saw them as when they were still young and innocent.

I see her pick up the pieces, when the grown sons and their dad aren’t getting along so well, and when all is said and done, peace is restored.

I see Mama today, when my niece’s little boy is hollering and crying, and none of the rest of us can shush him, but she can.

I see her in the Mama dog that just had pups here at our place and one was born dead.  Although weary from the birthing, she got up from where she was and made her way to the little one lying cold and still, pick it up gently in her mouth, and laid it among the other live ones.

I heard her in the Mama cow that bellowed at me when I got a little too close to her little black blurb; it didn’t take long for me to scramble out of the way.

I see Mama shining out happiness from the eyes of her little girl and boy when they come to my house, and even though I’m not really their Uncle, they call me that, because she has taught them to. 

I see Mama in my clean, neatly folded socks, and the dishes of food that are placed by my plate first.

Really, I see Mama everywhere, and I’m not very surprised, because she is that important and necessary to life.

To every Mama—

Happy Mother’s Day.

Good Men

I remember our first encounter plainly.

We were sitting on the lawn at Bethel Home, during Old Timer’s Week, eating ice cream and listening to the area youth sing.

He was a newly married young man; I had been married some years already.

I had heard a fair bit about him, and the mystique of it drew me to him.

Since he lived no more than 20 miles away from me, we knew each other by name, but not personally.

I sized him up, and decided I was good for go with what I intended to do.  His reaction would tell me what he was made of.

“So,” I asked, “When are you planning on having children.”

He started a bit, straightened up, and gave me the direct look I have come to know is synonymous with him and his brother. 

He evaded my question, and if I judged correctly, was a bit miffed.

I laughed.  I had scored, and I knew what I wanted to know.  I wanted to see what kind of personality and character he had.

We talked a bit more and went our separate ways.

A couple of years later, I was in his area, and stopped by the shop he and his brother operated out of the home place.  It wasn’t a pretentious shop, but it had the internals there to get the job done and done right.  I knew that I wouldn’t be disappointed if I ever needed some repair work done by them.

I did make a remark about his coffee, again baiting him just a bit to see if he still held in my estimation. 

He did.

And later, when I was working on a jobsite nearby, he brought me some coffee for break. 

Except it was extremely strong.  I thought, “Either this guy can’t taste very well, or he is giving me some of my own medicine back.”

I made another stop at his shop a year or two later, and became better acquainted with his brother, who I hadn’t known at all previously.  He made it back to the shop as I was leaving and asked if I had a 50-amp breaker on my truck.  I had one, and gave it to him.  He wanted to pay for it, but I wouldn’t let him.  He accepted it graciously, as I expected him to do.

Later, he called and said they were putting up a new shop and wondered if we be interested in wiring it for them. 

I met with him and his brother several times to go over the details, and eventually we were working in their new building. 

That project was a lot of fun.  It was nice sized, and involved enough complexity that we had to pray a few times about it.

Six weeks ago, I heard their dad wasn’t doing so well. 

Sounded like a brain tumor.

And tomorrow, they will lay their beloved father to rest.

I didn’t know their dad that well.  But in a way I do know him very well.

He died young, just a little over 60 years old.  But he was a very effective instructor, the way it seems.

And while it won’t be easy, Wes and Waylon, you have what it takes.

Because your dad taught you to be good men just like he was.

I know, because I caught it back there on the Bethel Home lawn.