6,7,8 in SD

Hello there.

I wonder if it is as hot there today as it is here.   Our forecast calls for 101 yet and then it looks like we might get a break from the 100’s, at least for a little while.  Never can tell about this time of the year though.

I think I saw most of you, but now if I came back, I would be hard pressed to figure out who you are.  That’s the way it goes when you get older, or else I just wasn’t there long enough to let things soak in.

I would recognize your teacher, though, and if I were there, I’d probably take her to Sioux Falls, to a neat coffee shop we visited.  I think I’d order the affogato again, and this time, I’d probably take my computer in there and tap away on it.  I really liked their chairs in there.

Hey.  Maybe if we came back out there, we could sneak you all out of school and go to the shop together?

Anyways, if you haven’t caught on yet, I’m your teacher’s crusty old Dad.  I’m crusty on my ears, I know for sure, cause the last time I was in the Dr’s office he told me I needed to start wearing an old man hat to keep the sun off my ears or I might get skin cancer on the crusty spots. 

But I don’t like wearing caps, or hats, at all.  Do you?

I was nicely impressed with the place you live, and the folks you call your parents.  And I think the way your teacher has your room fixed up is rather nice also.  But I am a little biased towards her, seeing’s as she is one of my three daughters, and all of them are my favorite.

I have to tell you.  I got mad at Bozar the Bull today.  If you happen to thumb back one post, you’ll see what happened the last time I was out to pet him.

Today, he gets up and stares at me.  I couldn’t tell if it was a dare or not.  But he did have some cockleburs caught in his face, so I went over to him and started working them out.  I could tell it hurt him some, but he stood just as nice as you please the whole time, never once thinking about charging me like the other evening. 

All I can figure out, is the other evening I had your teacher along with me, and he felt like he had to show off in front of her.  I hope if you ever feel like you need to show off in front of her that you’ll do it in a nice way that you won’t be embarrassed about later on.

And.

We have this new puppy over here.  Okay, okay, I know your teacher is going to go on and on about how good Alaskan Malamutes are.  They are nice dogs, for sure her Taz is. 

But this new puppy is the only way to go with dogs.  She’s an English Mastiff. 

We’ve had two of them already.  Yes, they drool a lot, and yes, they sometimes get really big and weigh up to 200 pounds, and yes, they think they can be a lap dog and just plop themselves right down on your lap, making you grunt and squirm under all that weight.  I still say they are the way to go.

We got this one for your teacher’s mom’s birthday.  Her name is Bailey. She can’t seem to get house trained quite soon enough though, and keeps making messes in the most inopportune places, like right on top of the air conditioning vent.

I won’t bore you with anymore stuff.  Sounds like your classroom is getting right ready for you all to join it and have good times in it. 

And.

Be good to your teacher, cause I like her quite a lot.

From,

You know who

Memorable Evening

It had every potential to be a memorable evening.

Sure, it was the sweet daughter’s last evening at home, before she departed to the eastern part of South Dakota for the coming school year. 

Everyone seemed to be in a good mood.

Yes, my back had a terrible strain in it, and I could hardly walk, but no matter.

The boys were tossing their dry humor up and around, and their nice ladies dutifully rolled their eyes and groaned at the appropriate places.

Mama Jan outdid herself with chicken baked in cream, gourmet potatoes, bread and green beans.

And, if I do admit it, the homemade ice cream that yours truly made seemed par for the course.

The evening was young, and I decided I should probably go check the calves and, pet Bozar the bull, should he deign to permit it.

The sweet daughter put the gold in the evening when she saw me getting onto the four-wheeler and came running out to join me.   

We idled back along the field road, past the tail water pit, and then onto the lane that I had mowed earlier that wends it’s way past some cottonwoods and through towering eight foot tall sunflowers on either side.  The air cooled noticeably when we dipped into the dry drainage ditch.

I spotted the group a little off to the right of where we let the gate down and eased over towards them. 

When I was still a several hundred feet away from them, I started talking quietly to Bozar.  Cattle don’t have very good vision, but they have extremely good smell and hearing. 

“Hey stupid.”  He kicked his head up.

“Hey stupid.  You gonna let me pet you tonight?”  He swung around and looked in our direction, clearly hearing us.

“He stupid, I don’t want you charging me like you did the last time, you hear?”  He threw his head back and lashed out at some flies on his back.

By then, we were 20 feet away from him.  I shut the four wheeler off, and we sat looking at each other.

He blew at us and tossed his head straight up, eyes joking back at us.

I stood up to dismount the four-wheeler.  I noticed the grass where we were parked was at least two feet tall and all grown together.  I told myself to take it easy, my shoes weren’t tied, the grass being so tall, and with my back aching like it was, I wouldn’t have much get away speed if need be.

I walked up to Bozar.  “He stupid, how you doin’?” 

Two pats on his forehead were all I had time for before he lowered his head, and in one single motion, lunged and lifted his head, all in my direction.

I spun around, and in a vain attempt of speed scuffled myself out of there. 

I got to the other side of the four wheeler and looked back to see Bozar laughing fit to kill. 

In fact, I’m not so sure he ended up spitting his cud out, his mouth was gapping so wide.  He had traveled two feet and stopped; his bluff worked like a charm on me.

And, upon a second glance around, I saw the sweet daughter doubled over, completely helpless in the throes of mirth. 

Okay.  I admit it. 

I had to look somewhat strange as I tried to get myself to safety, high stepping over my shoestrings, alternately taking baby steps and leaps as I endeavored to clear the tall grass.  And the little bit of fear I felt didn’t lend grace to my actions, rather making it a herky jerky commotion of too much supper, ice cream and chocolate sauce that needed away from 1,600 black pounds headed in my direction.

But even if it did look that funny, I still don’t think I deserved the rippling, shimmering merriment that I saw dancing in those pretty brown eyes of the sweet daughter as we sat with the family for the rest of the evening.

Insight

Come along about this time of the year, I used to start making some pretty rash and crude statements to myself.

And, if you would have asked me then what I thought of my statements, I might not have told you out loud, but I would have said quietly to myself, that what I thought was insightful, maybe even something others could live by if they wanted to.

Because, about this time of the year is when everything that was normal up to this point starts shaking loose. 

It still does.

And I cynically chuckled at it. 

Because it seemed so needless.

One, or several girls would suddenly be packing like mad, making lesson plans in nothing short of a panic, and generally loading house and home into the car.

After which, they trundled off into the unknown, to strange places and unfamiliar faces.

Once arrived they sequestered themselves in newly painted classrooms and began the laborious process of hanging words (previously cut out of colored paper in the mad rush at home) on the wall, and setting plants and string lights here and there.

The plants and string lights, having been unable to fit into the car of the girl so recently quitting home, made the journey in the parent’s vehicle.  Said parents, of course being the supportive parents that they are, never complained about the upset in plans and life.

And then, once all had arrived in the new place, with the unfamiliar faces, word started floating up to us from home that the new teachers were arriving back home.

Word had it, that they arrived in cars so loaded down that the rearview mirror was scarcely and option.  And, from what I gathered, their own parents trailed in behind them with the leftover plants and string lights that didn’t fit into the first vehicle. 

And, upon more information gathering, I found that the girls arriving were very similar in age and temperament as those who so recently had uprooted themselves from home and family.

So. 

If you would have asked me, some years ago, as to my insightful meditations, I would have been quick to supply you with what I felt was the lacking piece in the puzzle.

I would have told you it all could have worked just fine without the fruit basket upset.

I would have said that, then.

But I wouldn’t say that, today.

Today, I would advocate for the fruit basket upset.

Even though it tears at this crusty old dad.

Even though it means the sweet daughter won’t be there in the evenings to have squirt water bottle fights with.  Or, if Mama J isn’t watching, a towel snap or two.

Even though it means that Mama J and I uproot ourselves and transport string lights and plants to foreign sounding places.

Because I see the value in it today. 

I see that life can be so much better lived, when one has more inputs to go by.

I see that folks, generally, are kindhearted and gentle, just like the folks are back at home, and I know the sweet daughter will be safe with them.

I know that if she needs it, she can find a dad and mom to fill in for the time being, even if they don’t have squirt water bottles. 

And while I know that the house will be a bit quieter; I also know when the daughter comes home, she’ll be that much the better for having found her place among these rolling corn fields and friendly South Dakota folk and the even friendlier South Dakota flies.

I also know that I need to get back home; because there are some new folks who just moved in who just may need a Dad and Mom to hang around with and help with the extra plants and string lights.

Same Person

She was standing at the passenger side of Mama Jan’s car, asking for any cash she could spare to help her get to her stepfather’s funeral tomorrow in Texas.

I had been in Walmart purchasing a few things and, as I rounded the corner of Mama Jan’s car, incidentally on the same side she was on, she looked up at me.

Leaving her hand extended to Mama Jan for whatever cash she was about to hand over, she began to tell me the same thing and started to ask me for cash.

But then she stopped, mid-sentence, and her gaze flicked between Mama Jan and me.

“Oh,” she said, “You are the same person.”

And I really liked that description of us.

Unfair Advantage

The rodeo is in full motion this evening in Dodge City.

Lights that haven’t shone all year are blindingly bright.

Bleachers, empty and dusty, have been dusted off and are filled to overflowing.

There is a sign, on a side street, that indicates parking for V.I.P.’s and contestants in the direction it points.  I see at least a hundred horse trailers and camper vans back there.

In the normal parking space, there are hundreds upon hundreds parked. 

Folks who don’t normally wear a Stetson have one perched proudly on their head. 

Guys and Gals, mostly on horses, some on four-wheeler’s, all dressed up in their glad rags, are regulating traffic and parking spots.

I hear the announcer’s voice booming out over the hot, humid air through my closed car window.

And I know what’s going on down at the bottom. 

Cowboys are waiting their turn to ride a nasty bull, or, in ones or as a team, to rope a panicked little calf that runs bawling out into the open, glaring light.

I know what rodeo’s stand for; they symbolize the old west and all this country used to be.  I’m not at all against keeping history alive, because without it, we lose a very necessary teacher.

And I’m not an animal rights activist, as far as I know; I think the Good Word says something about subduing the earth, and I take that to mean the animals, as needed, for the purpose of mankind.  And I don’t have a problem at all with the treatment those animals get, being much the same as the rodeo, out on the ranch for what it really is intended for.

But I get a little catch in my chest when I think about those animals there tonight, their fright and survival instinct on full display, and all so a few men can take home some glory. 

It seems like an unfair advantage and oppression with little regard for the animal.

I dunno.  Maybe I’m getting soft in my old age.

You

I was two thirds the way through my pulled pork, (leaning rather heavily into the spicy sauce) haystack onion straws, sweet beans, and dinner roll at an OKC Swadley’s when I chanced to glance up and saw you restocking the salad bar.

At first, I paid you very little mind; I had a flight to catch, and my time was limited.  They said this airport could be bad about time through security and I had never flown through it; I needed to be there soon.

I was nearing the end of my meal when I glanced up again, in your direction.  I took in how deftly you arranged the salad bar.  I had never seen someone take the pain and care you were taking to organize the meat into an attractive display and fluff up the lettuce so that it looked just as fresh as that morning.

Maybe it was the lights on the salad bar display that did it; maybe it was something else.  My eyes were drawn to your arms and hands as you worked. 

At first, I didn’t see what I was seeing.

But then, in a flash, I did.

I saw the compression dressing on your right arm first and thought maybe you were getting over a bout of tennis elbow, although it seemed the dressing was a little too far down your arm for that particular injury.

Next, I saw your left arm and my mind began to coalesce the facts in a sort of abstract way; I was still more concerned about catching my flight.

But then, it all suddenly made sense.

The skin on your left arm wasn’t the right color, and it wasn’t the lighting doing it either.

I looked closer, and saw your left arm wasn’t the right shape either. 

It was knobby and thin in places where it should have been filled out.

I saw the graft marks where the new skin had been stretched over the burned areas.  I saw the square imprint of skin more tanned than the scar tissue beneath it.

I looked back over to your right arm, and the compression dressing made complete sense now.  It was in the same area on your right arm as the new skin grafting was on your left.

I saw how nimbly you moved among the dishes and realized you had spent hundreds of hours, in excruciating pain, in physical therapy to get to where you are today.

*****

My meal was almost done, and I needed to be on my way.

You were still there at the salad bar, and I planned to walk by you on my way out.

But then, I realized my exit didn’t go by you.

And I was in a hurry by that time, and I knew the words I wanted to say couldn’t be hurried.

But if I could have stopped by and chatted a bit, I would have told you this.

I would have told you I thought you were amazingly brave.

I would have told you I respected you immensely.

I would have told you that some folks say not to let your scars define you, but I would have thanked you for letting them define who you are.

Because if you don’t let them define you, then who are you, and will you get the help you really need?

And your scars have made you into the new person you are. 

You will never be the person you were before, and the rest of us need to give you space and respect you for it and all you have done in the time sense.

Kudos to you, young lady.  I’m sorry I didn’t have the chance to visit with you. 

It would have been my privilege to do so.

When?

I stare at the dirty, white, linoleum square.

It’s late in the evening, and I should be thinking about getting my luggage and getting out of here.

But my thoughts veer off, down, and back.

And in a moment, I see into that linoleum square.

I see the likelihood that famous men have walked over this same square is decent.

I see the chance that billionaires have tread upon it.

I catch a glimpse of people of renown from other countries who have walked across it.

I see back farther.

I see back to a time when this linoleum square wasn’t there.

I see a dusty, asphalt street that wingtip Fords and Chevy’s drag up and down in the humid evenings, boys with their best girls beside them, out on the town.

I see this street stricken with silence when the news that one of its own was gunned down in another city.

I look past the asphalt street to when it was a muddy, bumpy road that horses and buggies traveled down. 

And, I see that forlorn day when a nine car train pulls out of the station, bearing, in one of the cars, its silent passage of grief. 

This street is packed with those come to see their fated champion off for the last time.

I listen now, because the street isn’t there yet. 

The world is a quieter place than it is today. 

I hear the gentle slap, slap, of the water wheel and the low growl of the grist mill as it grounds away at the day’s assignment.

I see men in while leggings and tricorn hats come to pick up the next months menu from the mill.

But I hear something else.  I hear the roar of musket fire and the agonized screams and moans from the lingering death those wounds cause. 

I see men, hit with cannon fire in the most basic of butchery and brutality possible.

I look harder; the evening is getting late, but I want to see all of it before I leave.

It is quiet now, and there is no street, and there are no houses, or great stone buildings. 

As the seasons come and go, I see Indians pass over this area, soft footed and sure in their direction. 

Katydids buzz, blackbirds chirp to their always there cousins, and at night, I hear a coyote calling, in that lonesome way they do.

I shake my head and rub my eyes, coming back to the present. 

I am looking at the white, dirty, linoleum square again. 

I make my way to the baggage claim and retrieve my luggage. 

In a couple of days, I’ll be back in this city after attending the wedding of a friend.

I’ll drive by the Washington monument, the White House, and the Capital itself. 

And then I’ll ask myself. 

Which age mattered the most? 

And whose footprints did I step in?

And will it make a difference, sometime, somewhere, when someone steps into my footprints?

Traveling

She asked if I was going to take my computer along.

I said, “Maybe I won’t this time.  It’s heavy, and I doubt I’ll need it anyway.”

She said I most definitely needed to take it along, ‘just in case.’

I said, “It’s going to be a busy weekend.”

She said it didn’t matter, that I should have it along.

And so, when I was about done packing, and I saw her slip my computer into my backpack, I let it be.

It hasn’t been too heavy this time, and there have been several things I have observed that have left deep impressions on me.

But what she doesn’t know, is that she left quite an impression, all by herself, when she asked me to go with her to Garden, to, ‘buy a few things and get a coffee,’ the day before we left.

And, I went with her.

And, I could see, once we got on our way, that our little outing was more about time together than getting coffee, although the coffee did taste quite nice.

So, I thought on it, while we were together, and I was hassling her about where we were going to eat dinner, and she was adamantly assuring me she was NOT picking this time, even though in the next breath she told me to give her options and she would kick some out and leave a couple left for me to decide.

And, I chuckled quietly to myself, when, after I had given her some options for lunch, she ended up saying she knew those pupusa’s had been calling her name, but she really felt like sushi.  Because I knew then, where we would eat lunch together.

I thought of the trip I was about to take, the one I’m on now, to a wedding in Pennsylvania.  I thought of what weddings are like; sort of really nice, but sort of really sad, for the families involved.

And I thought of the new home that will be started tomorrow, and of the adjustments that will come, because they do.

And I wondered, if maybe those adjustments might be just a little more seamless when the bride to be and her crusty old dad are able to have a few of those father/daughter trips and it just so happens she chooses where to eat for dinner.

30 Odd Years Ago #2

I’m standing beside Jared in the old city office turned fire department meeting room.

It’s gloomy in here.  The fluorescent light blinks its blueish light into the dusty corners.

In one corner is an ancient green steel four drawer filing cabinet left behind when the city moved to their new office.

I see some leftover city paperwork deemed unimportant enough to make the move still sitting on top of it, and there is a pack of those thin, red, plastic give away children’s fire helmets on top of that.

I hear a commotion in the front and turn to see our fire chief enter with a large suitcase under his arm.

I’m suspicious our evening’s activities are housed in that box.

The chief unpacks the contents with lots of bluster and nervous guffaws.

Soon, we have little Anne on the floor and, as per requirements, our CPR class begins.

I do not want to do this.

I’m not squeamish about it. 

It’s a pride thing. 

I don’t want to get down on my knees and fumble around the face of this plastic mannequin. 

I’ve taken CPR classes already.  I don’t have pleasant memories of those classes and this chortling-at-everything-and-every-mistake chief makes it hard for me to summon the courage.

But, like in so many other things, my friend Jared is no shirker and gets right down to work, literally.

We both kneel by Anne and shout in her ear, asking if she is okay.

She most definitely is NOT okay. 

She keeps staring vacantly at the ceiling and there is no auditory response from her partly open lips. 

We tilt her head back and grasp her lower jaw to check her airway for anything that might be blocking it.  It’s hard to see in the minimal light, so we swipe to the back of her mouth with a finger just to make sure.  

Next, I put my ear close to her mouth and listen for breath sounds. 

I don’t hear anything; I catch a faint smell of alcohol that still lingers on her lips from when we cleansed her mouth with an alcohol swab prior to starting.

 Finally, we check for a carotid pulse in her stiff, cold, leathery neck.

There is nothing. 

We don’t know what accident Anne suffered yet; our chief hasn’t told us.  I don’t know if he is holding out on us to trick us (something I find he does every once in a while) but at any rate, we need to start life saving measures immediately.

Jared puts his mouth over Anne’s and gives two breaths; I watch her chest rise and fall with each one.  Our chief calls out the sequence, verbally, but doesn’t deign to show us how, something we will find often in our acquaintance with him. 

I find the ‘v’ at the base of Anne’s sternum, move up a couple of ribs, and begin chest compressions, counting out as I go along, one, and two, and three . . . up to fifteen.

Jared gives two more breaths, and I continue compressions, feeling the spring inside her chest creak and crinkle, then bounce back.

We do four sets of breaths and compressions before our chief calls a halt and we try to acquire some sign of life.  There is none, so we start again, breathing for and pumping Anne’s heart.

After what seems a longer than necessary time on our knees in front of our chief, he calls a halt and tells us Anne doesn’t look like she is going to make it, and loudly guffaws. 

The evening is flickering out and there is no heat in the old city building.  It’s cold out, and Anne chills down before us as we wrap up our first session.

Our chief breaks into a great fanfare, and brings us our pagers.

These innocuous looking gray plastic boxes, about two inches wide, and three inches tall, with a volume spinner wheel on the left and button on the right that is tuned in to Gray Count Sherriff’s Office when depressed, don’t seem to have the power to reef me awake from sound sleep and send me shivering and skittering in an adrenalin high down the roads to future assignments.

But I just don’t know any of that yet. 

For now, I have my status symbol, earned on my knees on a cold, dirty gray carpet. 

Conversation in My Head

“I think I should hook up the mower and mow ditches while it’s cool this morning.

I wonder if I’ll need to oil the pto to get it to slide on.

Nope, slid right on. 

Hey.  There’s the fourwheeler and that reminds me I was going to run back out to see if that new calf has bedded down.  Maybe I can catch it while its mom is away and get it tagged.

I really hope its mom is quite a ways away.  She seemed so possessive earlier.

Hey.  There’s the mom and the calf isn’t with her.  Okay, now to find it.

Looks like mom and the rest are at least 300 feet away from where I last saw that calf, but with this tall grass . . .

C’mon, c’mon, where are you, little guy?

Guess I’ll start driving a gridwork to find it.  Hopefully, I don’t run over it in the process.

Ah.  There you are.

Oops.  I see you are on to my game.  Stop looking at me that way.

Here.  I’ll leave the fourwheeler running.  Maybe that will distract you.

Okay.  Get the eartag and the applicator. 

Maybe if I walk around on to its back, I can sneak up on it. 

Nope.  You rascal, turn the other way. 

I’m going to have to make a flying dive/leap/run on this deal.

Ready, here goes.

Wham!  I got you, you little freak.

Oh no you don’t.  Don’t even think you’ll get away.

Quick.  Get on top of it. 

Crazy thing is stronger than on ox.  How’d it wriggle out from under me?

Hey!  It’s getting away!  Grab the hind legs.  There, that’s better.  Can’t pull my 200 pounds around so easily when I’m laying full out on the ground can you. 

Great.  There’s a sticker plant right here.  No matter.  Get moving.  I hear the mama’s making a ruckus. 

Better sneak a peek to see how close they are.  Can’t be too close yet.  They have that water to cross, and it’s deep, and then a good 300 feet.

Oh for the love of Mike!  They are barreling towards me!

Cripes!  Get that eartag in and get out of here. 

Hey.  Where’s the eartag? 

There it is, under that sticker plant.  Now where’s the applicator? WHERE’S THE APPLICATOR? 

This calf is leaving again.  Get your knee on its side.  There, that’s better.  That’ll hold it.

WHERE’S THE APPLICATOR?

Hooboy, there it is.  Quick, is this calf a bull or heifer?

Lift its tail and see. 

I can’t see, and the mom is right behind me now!

Just call it a bull and run!

Okay, tag in the right ear for bull. 

Get off and away, man, and run for it.

Woah.  That was close.

Okay, for the record, I don’t know if 2110 is a bull or heifer; it’s tagged bull for those who need to know.”