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.

What to Write

Some years ago, almost in another lifetime, I taught school.

Those were some of the best years of my life, and quite possibly, the most traumatic for my students.

Someday, I may write a bit about those years.

But I do recall something I often told my students during creative writing; “When it feels right—write.

I’ve tried to endorse that same adage for when and what I write.

But sometimes I get derailed on what to write.  It feels right, but other factors float in, like, they won’t like this, or it’s too long, or it’s about such and such again, or . . . 

I don’t pay those floating thoughts too much mind though; seems like it often distills down to something I’m enthused about and want to get out of my system. 

Quite often, I end of writing with maybe one or two people in mind whom I hope will read what I have written, because it pertains to them. 

And if the rest who peek in at the blog get some enjoyment or distraction out of it, then that is good too.

All that for this.  I’m going to write about disc golf again.  Those not interested may go on merrily with their day now.  Because I’ve thought about this off and on and now it feels right to write about it.  Even though I don’t know why I write on this subject; my Udisc app shows I’ve played over 50 rounds, my score hasn’t improved much.

Morley Field

My good wife and I were in San Diego for several days to celebrate our 25^th anniversary.  And I had my disc’s along, just in case, although I was fairly determined to make it the case.

The weather for the end of our stay looked grim with rain and wind, so I chose what looked like the best day and planned accordingly. 

I didn’t realize how devasted I was about to become.

That was back when I was fairly confident in my disc golf game.  It may well be that the game I played on Morley field changed my confidence level indefinitely.

Because, I naively thought it would be a lot like home. 

Sure, you had to pay $5 to play, but that was okay; I was in California, by the way, where a nacho appetizer, shared by my good wife and I and our two drinks cost a nice $45.  Or where a soft drink ran you in the $7.90 range. 

But when my Uber finally got us there, I wasn’t so sure he had the wrong place.  This was Thursday morning, and the place was loaded with cars.  And people.

I sallied forth, still pumped in my own self confidence.  I had this.

We got to the first tee and were told by those standing there that they were waiting on the group in front of them who had a 10:00 tee time.  Okay, so I’m not in Kansas anymore.

Then, as the 10:00 teer’s teed off, an older fellow came striding up and asked, “Do you mind if I play through?  I got stuck in traffic and had a 10:00 tee time.  (Turns out he was a pro golfer)

I was getting the heebie-jeebies’ already.

There were two nice looking Spanish fellows following us and they said they had played the course a fair bit.  I invited them to join me, on the pretense of being friendly, but really because my nerves didn’t look to handle this alone.

Because, ahead, I saw many many trees.  And hills. And rocks. And people. 

I selected an old fried of a disc and spoke a few quiet words with him and let fly. 

He vacated for the parking lot, and almost creamed a few high-end California vehicles.

My bladder suddenly tried to empty itself.  Right there.

But I counselled with it and after a few hiccups, it submitted to me.

I hit a tree next, and finally bogeyed on hole 1.

I made par on hole 2, but things started going downhill, literally from there.  And it was at hole 2 that started noticing the benches.  There were two benches by each tee.  I began to realize more and more as my vision slowly morphed away from the tunnel it was in.  People were sitting on these benches.  Watching me.  People were at the next basket, watching me.  People were everywhere, watching me. 

Suddenly, it didn’t matter how I tried to set myself up to throw.  Everything went whacky.  Whacky the tree, whacky the rock, whacky hill, and whacky fence. 

The Spanish guys proved to be a good decision.  They acted as tour guides and coaches all at once. They also became psychological counselors when they saw how frayed at the edges I was getting. 

For sure at hole 9.  I threw into a thicket of brambles and thorns.  When I tried to toss out, it made it ten feet and stopped again.  When I tossed out the second time, I watched incredulously as it landed flat on the slope in front of me, and slid down, flat, not rolling, for a good ten feet back to me.  The hill was that steep. 

The Spanish guys were hanging around par.  At least that is what they claimed, but they told me that if the other one didn’t catch them cheating then it was okay. 

I was done.  I tried to convince my good wife we needed to quit, the wind was coming up and everything else.  She said if we had come this far, we needed to finish.  It seemed she was enjoying this for various reasons and was intent on keeping it going for those reason’s sake. 

And so I threw, gamely, high up, and smack into the trees.  And there it stayed.  The Spanish guys told me there were some pipes there for problems like that by the clubhouse.  I slinked and crouched behind every available grove of trees on my way over there, and even more so on the way back with the blazing white pipe in my hands.  But it worked, and I eventually finished the course, not necessarily having fought a good fight. 

We waited, for the first time during our trip, a long time on Uber to get there.

My score was 20 something more than the Spanish guys.

I bet, if I knew where to look, I’d find some pro disc golfer’s blog about that day and a certain white bearded guy that he watched trying to play in a most frantic sort of way. 

That is, if he could type while laughing so hard.

She

I asked, without any preamble whatsoever, which part of India she was from. 

Our acquaintance wasn’t 30 seconds old when I asked, either.

And she answered, without any preamble whatsoever, that she was from New Delhi.

I told her in rapidspeak, while firing off a couple questions about the menu to her son, that we had flown into New Delhi and then on to Bagdogra.  I saw a bit of a blank in her eyes, so I amended it to Siliguri, and the blank was quickly filled in. 

“Did you like India?” a question I find common in those whose country I have visited.

“Absolutely.” I said,  “That’s why I’m here today, to go back just a bit by eating your food.”

I had to move, because other customers were joining the line behind me, so I made my way over to the buffet line and loaded my plate with butter naan, chicken tikka masala, and aloo chili. 

I happened to look up a bit later, when my plate was about half done, to see that she had left the till and was seated, directly across the room from me in a booth.  She sat sideways in the booth, so she faced me front on, back straight, hands folded in her lap, and watched me eat my food.  Nor did she move when I went to get a second plate and looked right at her.

For some reason, her two sons kept stopping at my booth and courteously asking if I needed anything and then took my plates away as I used them.  I noticed they waited for all the other customers to finish their meal before taking their plates away.

“This is so good,” I quietly told one of them.

His eyes shone.

She watched my whole meal, and when I got up to pay, she got up to check me out, even though she hadn’t the previous customers.

“Did you like your food?” she asked.

“Yes, it was everything I remembered,” I told her.  “I have been looking for the aloo chili ever since I came back and finally found it here.”

She smiled in a quiet, satisfied way. 

She told me she had moved to the states in ’76 but goes back often to her homeland, the latest being just before the pandemic. 

“I want to go again as soon as I can.”

Her two sons flanked her as we spoke quickly, because the line was building up behind us again.

I thanked her for the meal and her sons for their service and left.

But a part of me wishes I could go back, and eat again, without silverware and just with my fingers, of her delicious food.

Because I think eating her food with my fingers gave me away to her.

Rules of Marriage

(from an air conditioner man)

I didn’t know my friend Daniel existed until 12 years ago.  It would have been better for me if I had known him before that, although I can’t speak for him.

I became acquainted with him while he was installing an A/C unit at a project we both happened to be working on. 

When I heard he was from Cimarron area, I asked if he happened to know any of my relation; and I think that question is sort of what got it started between us. 

Come to find out, his dad had died quite unexpectedly.  It was a shock to the community, and unfathomable to the family.  He told me then, and again now 12 years later, that my grandmother had been so kind to them during that time, bringing them food and staying for two days and nights with his mother right after the death.  And as far as I know, my grandmother was a stranger to the family, though I’m quite sure she didn’t remain a stranger.

All this was long before my time, but it felt like my grandmother’s kindness from way back then sort of binds us together, all these years later.

There were/are three things, no four, that I was immediately attracted to in Daniel.  And I hope that in some small measure I have been able to impress, at least the first three, into my boys.

Dan is particular, courteous, fair, and has a corny sense of humor.

Through the years, we’ve ranged on many different topics.  I’ve stopped by his shop and he has taken me to his hobby trailer where his restored car is.  We’ve talked about the President.  We’ve talked about his hired help.  We’ve talked about the church he goes to and the church I go to.

But it was a conversational question I asked, rather on the spur of the moment ten years ago, that has evoked the most thought and same question, when I asked it just three months ago of him, that got the same answers.

Dan has been married three times.  His first wife divorced him.  His second wife died a terrible death from cancer, and I would agree with Dan that God probably brought him into her life to help her through that time.  He and his third wife live happily together, as long as she gets to drive his high- powered sports car once in a while.

“So Dan,” I said, while taking a break with him on the sunny side of our house one cold winter day, “you’ve been married three times.  Got any words of wisdom for me?”

“Yes I do,” was his immediate answer.  “There are three things you need to know that will keep your marriage intact.  You always say them in this order—”

“Yes, dear.”

“You’re right , dear.”

“I’ll do it right away dear.”

Very few of you know who my friend Dan is.  Doesn’t matter though.  I’ve been practicing his words of wisdom now for ten years, and it seems to be working, in a sort of, tongue in cheek way.

And I venture to say, (very respectfully, of course) if the other side of the house practices those same words of wisdom, we tend to get along famously. 

You know how it is for some folks when they get up in front of church to have a special number or something and they make a few nonsensical remarks before they get started?  I’m pretty sure they do that to ease their nerves and brace themselves up for what comes next.  Sort of lighten things up for themselves, maybe.

More than the words themselves, my friend Dan gave my wife and I, and maybe you too, a nice little way to ease the situation up a bit when things are a little tense by smiling and saying,

“Yes dear”

“You are right dear”

“I’ll do it right away dear”

(And we don’t always say them in that order either)

Golden Moment

Probably 15 or 20 years ago, I read a bit of a story that treated on this subject.

And since then, more or less consciously and sometimes subconsciously, I’ve done like that little boy did.

The little boy was settling in for night and his dad asked him, as he tucked him in, what his golden moment of that day was.  If I remember right, it had something to do with a sand eel.

Now I know some of you are thinking I’m going down the line of thankful therapy.  That definitely has its place.  But selecting your golden moment takes a bit longer and gets a fair bit more personal.  You can rattle off ten things you are thankful for in sort of a mad huff, if that’s how you are feeling right then, and be done with it.  You might have even picked several thankful things that really didn’t mean a lot to you, just to get it over with.

Some days, because of all that we scrape through, we might struggle to find a golden moment. 

But, if we are really honest, even on bad days there is usually at least one golden moment.

And that’s what makes it worth doing, for me.  Because then I have to go through and decide, really, really, what my golden moment was.

What actually meant the most to me, in the day I just came through, the trip I just took, or the hour I just lived?

The process the other day was decidedly difficult.

And I suppose by the time I tell you what my golden moment was, you will call me presumptuous.

Go ahead.  Because I know what I know.

The uncured bacon, sprinkled with freshly ground black pepper, fried up and paired with a couple of donuts was a real humdinger of a deal.  I didn’t need lunch at all after that breakfast, which may or may not indicate how much of that bacon I ate.

When Sir Bozar the Bull yielded all of his 1,400 pounds to me and let me scratch his ears, slap his huge neck, and gently pat him all around his eyes and tousle his forelock made for another moment.

Seeing 80 head of black calves splattered out across hock deep triticale for the first time came pretty close to topping the list.  Like my friend Glen and I say, it’s visual therapy.  (Seeing 15 head bust through the fence in total disregard to me and the fence, wasn’t so cheesy, but they came back soon enough.)

Stepping out of my car at the disc golf course and having Bryce hand me a cold Dew could have sealed this up, right then and there, but there was more day left.

Tossing what was my longest throw and watching it float on in total abandonment to care and worry left a nice impression.

Eating blackened Florida catfish, paired with grits and slaw, then finished off with pie needs to be reserved for a whole ‘nother post in itself.

Watching my faithful ole Boola get up and walk on an obviously smashed foot after getting stepped on the day before by a 6-weight calf was cause for great rejoicing.  I was afraid this one might take him out, with his age and all.

It was the 30 something year old dad with his kids in the park that made gold.

They had these big frisbee’s that his children, the oldest of which might have been in fourth grade, were trying to throw.

And they were trying, so kindly, to get out of our way so we could play.  We waited some on them, and at one of our throws I heard the dad say, “Let’s stand here and watch how they throw.”

Luckily, both Bryce and I had decent throws right there.  I tossed one of my discs to the fourth grader and said, “Try that for a throw.”

He did and was massively impressed with how easy it threw compared to what he had been throwing.  He trailed us at a respectful distance, watching all along, until we turned to work our way back to the 9^th hole.  Then the dad told his family it was time to go home. 

I tossed my putter to the fourth grader and said, “Take that home with you.” 

His incredulous look still puts a bit of a lump in my throat right now.  And his little 2-year-old sister’s sweet, “Me present, me present?” capped it off perfectly.