Dear K1, K2, and K3

May 6, 2023.

It’s a normal day for some people.

It’s a sad day for some people.

And it’s a happy day for 3 girls who have successfully finished another year of school.

Perhaps even happier for you, K3, because you graduate from school.

If I were there, I’d give each of you a hug, even though I know one of you wouldn’t like it.

I would wish each of you the best, and, whatever else you say on last day of school programs and graduations.

I used to be a huge fan of graduation addresses. 

I saved little snippets from some of the ones I liked the best.

And some day, I figured, I’d give a graduation address that would include them.

And people would come up to me later and say what a wonderful graduation speech it was.

But you know what?

I still save the snippets.  But I don’t plan to ever use them in a graduation address.

You know why?

Because the ones who are graduating aren’t listening anyway. 

I sure wasn’t, when I graduated. I can’t begin to tell you what, or who, talked about. 

So, I’m not sure what graduation addresses are for, except maybe for folks like me who like to listen to them, for the little snippets I can store away and read again some later day.

But.

If I were there, and if I said anything, I’d say this.

I’d say, thank you.

For being kind to my daughter.

For serving so many good meals to her.

For being her friend.

For loving her.

I’d tell you what it meant to me, to be able to get to know you.

I’d tell you how much I enjoyed your letters; how I saved them and read them over again later.

I’d tell you how much I appreciated that time I got to be in Sunday School with you.  (Did I talk too much?)

I’d tell you that you will never go wrong to love animals the way you do.

Or that you will never stop seeing beautiful things, as long as you have a mind to look for them.

I’d go see the goats with you, one last time.

And, I’d like to be at your house for supper again.

Maybe, if I were lucky, your mom would make those wonderful beans she makes, and we’d have ice cream and chocolate sauce for desert. 

I wonder if you could send that chocolate sauce recipe home with Lexi?

And.  Now that it’s nicer weather, I’d take you to a park and show you how to play disc golf.

The last thing I would tell you is, I would make you promise to come to Kansas, to see me, of course, or Lexi, if you like her better, which I know you do.  (I like her better than me to.)

*****

Our lives will never be the same, will they, since our paths came together and ran parallel for a little while.

And I like to think that in a way, our paths won’t grow so far apart, even though lots of miles separate us. 

Anyways.

Maybe this is enough for now. 

Till next time . . .

No Post

My fingers slide over the keys and find their familiar places. 

I look to the lower left-hand corner of the computer screen and see I have enough battery to type for quite a while.

I realize this is the first time that, yesterday, I purposely did not finish a post called, “Energy Drinks,” or “What’s in a Prayer,” or begin on something titled differently.

Because, while I knew what I wanted to write in those posts, I didn’t find the same enthusiasm I normally do.

Does this mean the beginning of the end? 

I don’t know.  I wish not. 

I have thoroughly enjoyed thinking about, planning, as the week goes along, and then finally writing on concepts, ideas, or nonsense.

Anyway, wishing each of you a good day, filled with brightness and enough joy to keep a little tune running through your mind.

Good morning.

Quiet

She was antsy, and didn’t know what to do with herself.

She kept wringing her tail like they always do when they are nervous.

Her still wet, newborn little calf lay shaking at her feet, eyes blinking rapidly at what had to be the most blinding light.

She was a new mama, and I was standing by to see how things would go with her and her little one.

Every so often, she would lower her head and bellow right in her little baby’s ears.  Then she would rear up, a few inches off the ground and bounce her feet down, right by her little one. 

I figured she was trying to urge it to its feet, and, soon, that is what it tried to do. 

Slowly, and very shakily, it raised up on its hind legs, swaying from side to side as it made efforts to adapt to the strange new world all around it. 

But it was too weak, and it fell back to the ground.  In a few minutes it tried again, and this time, made it all the way up. 

Her mom cheered for her, or so I thought, with a huge bellow and prancing feet.  But then, she lowered her head and butted the poor little one right over. 

This might not have been so bad, had the little one been on level ground.  But it was on a side slope, and, in tall grass, and, in a small village of badger holes. 

It was on the second time up, and second time butted down, this time with one of its front legs fully down one of those holes, that I took matters into my own hands.

Literally. 

I jumped off my four-wheeler and ran to the little one, scooping her up in my arms.

My intention was to get her away from all those badger holes and on a more level surface so she could try again.

But I didn’t get that far.  Evidently my intervention was the catalyst that made the new mama, a mama for real, and she came, bellowing and at a very high rate of speed, to her little girl’s defense.

Whereupon, I decided we had made it far enough away from the badger town and quickly set the little one in my arms down, as gently as possible, and made a speedy exit. 

I checked back in on them later, and saw the thing that always amazes me. 

The little calf and her mom were now hundreds of yards from where it had been born, and now, like every other time, I saw her mom gently nuzzling it down into a tiny little black ball. 

It was in tall enough vegetation that if I hadn’t known it was there and was driving by, I more than likely would have missed it. 

I hung around to see if what I knew had happened other times would happen again. 

And it did. 

Mama, seeing that her little one was settled, left for a drink of water, which was a half mile away. 

I don’t know what those mama’s tell their little ones when they bed them down like that, but whatever it is, it sticks.

That little girl stayed put, exactly where her mom had told her to stay. 

She was nothing more than a tiny, little black blurb out there, where the wind was kicking along at better than 40 m.p.h.

I watched her nap a little, then wake up, and gaze serenely about, even though, by now, her mom was nowhere in sight.

I waited a bit until I saw, way off, mom coming back our way.  Our pasture ground is cut up with little zigs and zags in the fence line, and, we are currently grazing off some milo stocks just next to the pasture.

This little girl was in the milo stocks and dust; mom had missed her turn back at the start, and was on the other side of the fence, in the pasture, a good 300 feet from her little calf, once she pulled up even with us. 

Had the calf been older than just a day and a half, and the wind been less than a howling gale, I probably would have let mom call her over, and all would have been fine.  It might have been anyway. 

Instead, I got off my four-wheeler and walked right up to the little one.  I knew I could, because I knew whatever mom had told her before she left would keep the little one planted there, regardless. 

The little girl looked up at me as I approached, never flinching, never batting an eye.  She watched me all the way in and curled into my arms as I picked her up, and carried her the 300 feet to the fence. 

We were a long way downwind from mama, and I know a cow’s eyesight is second to their nose.  I could see her looking back and forth and not seeing what she wanted. 

But as she got closer, I put the little girl down and nudged her under the fence.  I was staying on my side this time; I didn’t want to put in a 100-yard dash yet this late in the day.

Mama caught sight, circled wide around and downwind of us, keeping her eye on us the whole time.  As soon as she caught her little one’s scent she rushed in and claimed her. 

*****

Today, that little one is several days old, and there is no way I can get close enough to pick her up anymore.  She’s not so helpless, and has enough stamina to stay up with the rest. 

It seems to me, somehow, that if we could do a little bit like that calf when we are in a situation that has all help out of sight, sort of sit quiet, if you will, having confidence that the one we can’t see, knows all about us and will be back momentarily, that in the meantime there are faithful ones standing by, keeping watch until he does, we might encounter a lot less stress and heartache.

Feeling For, Feeling With, Felt For

Part 2

If sympathy is like wildflowers along the side of the road, then empathy is like the sunset.

Empathy is communication that involves an exchange of emotion.

Everyone desires, and deserves, to be validated at their most vulnerable level.

Tears don’t mean I have connected.

Too much soap streaks the floor.

Never censor those who are experiencing loss. 

Blended snapshot.

*****

So how is that for a start?

And, the question that will be the most telling, will it all come together?

Probably not.  I realized when I started writing on this subject that I needed a lot more letters behind my name than what are currently there. 

I also realized, that to do it justice, it needs the space of several months to cogitate on, gather copious notes and references, and then, and only then, could one sit down and write with confidence. 

But, then I remembered the little thing I wrote when I started this blog a year and a half ago—‘Homemade, Homegrown, and a little Homespun,’ and I relaxed.

Because, basically, that’s all I am, so that’s all I can write.

Now, with all that out of the way, let’s look at each of the first seven lines individually.

*****

If sympathy is like wildflowers along the side of the road, then empathy is like the sunset.

You and I both know what it’s like to be traveling along and suddenly come upon a vibrant patch of wildflowers, either in the ditch, or up on the hills along the road.  We marvel at them as we whiz by, or, maybe we’ll slow down, pull to the side of the road, and get out to walk among them. 

Several things are certain about those wildflowers.  They fling their beauty upon us unconsciously, but, while we marvel at their intricacy, we also know that tomorrow, they will be past their prime and faded somewhat.  The jolt of happiness they give us is full currency, and, even though momentary, we bask in the memory of their beauty as we drive on.  (Me!  I can’t believe they thought of me!)  So it is with sympathy.  Don’t discredit it just because it comes in smaller or one-time doses, because, almost always, those small doses somehow happen upon us at just the right time. 

The sunset, on the other hand, yields much more than the wildflowers.  As I work around in the yard, I often glance towards it.  Each time I look, there is something different to see and absorb.  The many different facets stay there for a number of hours; it has deep quiet strength to it.  It is there every time I look up and towards it.  It lasts much longer than the wildflowers, and becomes a part of me and my evening.  It provides a sense of time and place.  It settles the disturbing things in my mind that I can’t come to grips with.  It somehow validates my existence and reason for living. 

I think it does all this because my emotions and that of the One who created the sunset come together in those hours. 

(I use sunset, because that is what touches me; you may use something else that is equal in your mind.)

Empathy is communication that involves an exchange of emotion.

It seems there is no other way to communicate on an empathic level.  We connect with what someone else is going through by experiencing a part of it ourselves.  The way we experience it is to allow our emotions to reach out to them.  If they are speaking in anger of what they feel, we let ourselves become angry with them.  We don’t urge them on to more anger, sadness, criticalness, grief, whatever they are expressing, with our own. 

We recognize that neutrality is a huge enemy of empathy and a real pushdown to the one we are with.  If we are so careful to be neutral, it may say several things about us.  It may point to fear within ourselves that we aren’t willing to address.  It may point to a certain form of pride where I wish to be seen as a healer/caregiver for the social advantage it gives me. 

Empathy often connects unseen and does its work quietly.  It bears the reproach of the one we are with.  It takes upon ourselves some of their emotion, because we allow our emotion to become involved. 

Some may worry that if they show too much of their own emotion together with the emotion shown by the grieving one, it will become a runaway train to destruction in the form of bad attitudes gendered, or habits encouraged or formed. 

Not so.  True empathy has a healing quality about it called confidence.  It gives enough confidence to the hurting one, by feeling with them, that they don’t wish to stay where they are.  It’s one of God’s miracles. 

Almost always, the emotions that seem the most truculent, find a place for themselves once the original grief or loss begins to heal.   

Everyone desires, and deserves, to be validated at their most vulnerable level.

I wonder, if statistics were to be found, how many violent acts, how much self-medicating, how much simmering anger and desperate despair all stem from a lack of validation.

Because it seems, that most heartaches, most failure, and any loss is not bearable by one person only. 

We are not made strong enough to be able to.   We never have been. 

Validation, more than just an ‘I’m sorry,’ comes in the form of listening the story out to the end.  It comes in the words, “I believe you, I can completely get it, even if I don’t understand it.”   It also means that I purposely reach back into my own life, to the troubles I have experienced, and, as distasteful as it is, I go through them again to see if there is something in them to hold out as help to the one I am listening to.  I become vulnerable with them in this way.

Validation gives the merest glimmer, or a giant ray of hope to someone who thought they were the only ones enduring what they were enduring. 

Minimizing, or mentally checking off the person telling their story is disastrous.  In many instances, it has taken every scrap of courage they had to start telling their story in the first place. 

Validation doesn’t seek revenge for the one wronged; but it stands in between that person and something that could ultimately be their end.

Tears don’t mean I have connected.

Please don’t make the same mistake I made.  It seemed I went through a time when I made efforts to listen to the stories of those who were hurting.  Somehow, I thought that once I saw tears flowing, we had reached a common ground. 

I am terribly dismayed to think back and realize that I was responsible, more often than not, for those tears.  I chose questions that led deeper into that person’s hurt. 

Of course, if the person we are visiting with wants to go deeper on their own, we should never try to steer them away. 

And, it is often tears will flow; just be careful and intuitive in listening, rather than prodding.

Too much soap streaks the floor.

At least it does at our house.  I can always tell when I have mixed in too much because when the floor dries, it leaves behind a filmy streak where I swished the mop.

Sometimes, because of the awkwardness of the situation, or, our own nervousness, we gush on and on about how bad it must be to have experienced the loss.  This is completely counterintuitive.  Really, we are serving no one but ourselves in that moment; our words do no good to the listener, but they leave us with a false sense of being an ‘encouragement’ albeit in a reverse sort of way.

Public services aren’t the only place to visit with those grieving.  In fact, a good visit can rarely be made to happen in such places.  The person grieving is a survivor.  They made it to that service, in some cases, by sheer grit, because it was the last thing they wanted to do.  A quiet encouragement as we pull up alongside the person, commending them on their presence there, or on how brave they are, will give enough time to feel them out as to whether they want to talk more or not. 

Empathy doesn’t seek public attention to prove its value, neither does it need to be overdone.

Never censor those who are experiencing loss. 

I remember very well, standing outside of the school building the evening before my eighth-grade student’s funeral, his death being only five or so days after graduation, and hearing his Grandpa say, “We never censor those who are going through a time of loss.” 

He went on to say that grief, or loss, affects us all differently.  It often brings about its own stress that bears down upon us.  Since each situation is different, we ourselves don’t know how we will respond to it. 

I’ve seen friends that have gone from non-singers to voracious singers during their time of healing. 

I’ve seen friends get extremely chatty at times when you didn’t expect it.

I’ve had friends go dark and reticent. 

I’ve seen friends who seemed to lose all hope.

I’ve had friends lose ground spiritually.

Whatever the situation, as my grandpa friend told me, this is never the time to tell them to ‘snap out of it,’ or add to their already seemingly heavy burden with concerns.

Blended snapshot.

One of the larger fears someone dealing with loss faces is, ‘I’ll be left behind; they will forget my loved one, or whatever loss it is I am facing.’

One of the main jobs of an empathizer is to take a figurative snapshot of where our friend who is dealing with loss is now, and take another figurative snapshot of where we see them when they have come through the worst of their hard time. 

We take those two snapshots and blend them into one.  The blended picture is far more likely to be the real picture when the worst is past. 

It is our job to hold that blended picture up to our friend.  Not as an assignment, nor as a challenge, but as reality. 

It is also our job to stand by, during the long hours and days that follow as our friend works through their hard time. 

We stand by consistently.  Doing so assures them that we have not forgotten about them or their loss; that the memory of their loss is important, not only to them, but to us also. 

We don’t do the work for them; this encourages stunted growth.  Neither do we make too much of their situation.  Our constant acquaintance with the situation is often care enough, and validates to the suffering one that they are truly experiencing a loss, and, they truly have a friend.

It’s okay to set a schedule on your calendar for checking in.  It’s also okay to create a prayer list.  Both are not as academic as they seem.  The damage of letting time slip by, and it does in our busy world, is great to the one enduring a slower pace of life due to their loss.

Like the sunset, we linger nearby with a gentle influence of better things over the course time we spend together.

*****

I’m sorry this got so long.  I considered splitting it, but finally decided it might digest better as one rather than two. 

There is a little something I may write yet, on the Felt For part, we’ll see.

Feeling For, Feeling With, Felt For

All are good, even necessary.

All can detract, if not practiced thoughtfully.

(General disclaimer.  I’ve tried to write on this subject at least twice in the past few years.  None of it ever felt like it got finished, and, I don’t claim any knowledge of this subject, having done very little if any research on it.)

Let’s start with Feeling For.

The proper name for this is sympathy. 

Sympathy is a very useful communicator of our feelings; it is often used long distance, or, if I am not intimately acquainted with you. 

I hear about your tragedy, or grief.  I sigh a prayer.  I see a GoFundMe account with your name on it.  I donate.  Or, I look for a card the next time I’m in town, buy it, sign it with a general condolence, and send it your way.  I feel for you, and I wish to express it, probably for your sake, but maybe just as much for mine. 

Because there is something about responding to grief and sorrow, even when we are not closely related, that heals our own self and helps us understand better the baggage we ourselves may carry.

Sympathy, thoughtfully expressed, is a little ray of light in darkness for those currently living there.  It comes in on a whisper, stays a little while, does it’s work, and just as quietly steals away to help someone else.

Are there ways that we make sympathy less effective or more effective?

I think so.

Don’t—

Buy a card on a whim because everyone else is doing it.  Such is sympathy, but shallow.

Send a message in the immediate hours following a loss.  The recipient won’t read it until later anyhow, or maybe not at all. 

Don’t include in your message, “If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”  That is empathy’s (feeling with) job.

Don’t avoid someone you meet face to face that is enduring sorrow.

Don’t gauge tears as a bad thing, and awkwardly say, “Well, guess I better get on with my day.”

Don’t, once the tears have stopped, keep standing around in silence or repeatedly asking, “Is there something I can do?” 

Do—

Think about your message.  Maybe all that comes to mind is the overused ‘Thinking of you.’  But, is there anything personal with that message?  How about, ‘I heard about your sorrow today.  I am so sad.’  (This mixes a little empathy with your sympathy, which is good.)  If your message seems like it isn’t put together very well, or seems clumsy, there is all the more likelihood it will be received and do what it is supposed to do more than one that is polished.

Stand by while the tears flow.

Tears aren’t a bad thing, nor are they something to be afraid of. 

Tears are communication.  Not necessarily with us, rather, often not.  They communicate an inner state of flux.  Stay around if tears start falling from the one you are talking with.  There is no need to feel awkward about them.  Once they have stopped, ask if there is something they want to talk about.  It may be they will, and just as likely they won’t.  It is perfectly fine if they don’t want to.  In which case, you did what sympathy was supposed to do by feeling for them during their cry session.  (At least I hope you felt for them.)

Now, it appears that I bit off more than I could chew, because this got longer than I expected, and I have one more thing I want to say yet. 

I personally don’t know of something more pleasant to receive, than when I find out someone thought about me.  Have you ever been at a funeral, and, as you watch the viewing line go past, you catch your breath and say to yourself, “I can’t believe they are here!”

And you try to decide why they really are there, and, finally, you realize they must have come for you.  Something like this means so much to me, and it doesn’t have to be realized only at funerals. 

Now, switch to GoFundMe.  It’s a nice way to show sympathy, show you feel for the person named. 

Why then, if your donation is average sized, do so many people give anonymously?  Giving anonymously seems about the same as if you were going through the funeral viewing line and held up a 2 foot square piece of paper to the side of your face so no one could see who you are.

I think I understand, maybe, why people give anonymously.  Fake humility comes to mind, but I’ll try not to go there. 

But, I ask, why, by giving anonymously, would you deprive someone of that most basic care that says, “They thought of me.  Me!”

A little empathy should always be mixed with sympathy, just as a little sympathy should always be mixed with empathy.   

To summarize, Sympathy can be reserved for long distance, or a onetime little care packet of relief for the hurting one to discover and claim. 

*****

I dunno, this all seems more like a hodge podge toss salad and replete with stuff that shouldn’t have been said. 

If I don’t burn to deeply with ignominy, I’ll try to do the other parts of the title in another post(s).

Something about a Woman

It generally happened somewhere midway through the school year, that my students would become curious about a certain subject.

I suppose, if we were to be real here, they had been curious about it for some time already, and maybe the school room gave enough space, laterally so to speak, to broach the subject without fearing too many recriminations.

It always started with something like, “Well, this is how I see it, but I’m just a guy, and, er, well, I don’t know how girls think, really.”  Meanwhile, a few glances would get exchanged across the aisle, tentatively, of course.

Whereupon, I would usually stop the class we were in for the time being, go to the white board, and, in my characteristic lack of artistic ability, draw the diagram that explains life.  Otherwise known as a gendometer, short for gender meter.

It generally looked something like this . . .

I usually took time to explain the subtle nuances of my rather complex piece of art, pointing out that on the manpiece, it was either on or off, really no questions asked, and on the womanpiece, well, there really wasn’t an on or off.

Or, maybe today there is, but tomorrow there isn’t. 

Or, what worked yesterday, by flipping a rather innocuous looking switch, may cause minor explosions today.

Or, today the gauge may read entirely backwards of what it did yesterday, with, supposedly, the same interpretation as yesterday. 

I stressed two points in this little life lesson.

There was nothing to be taken personally, by the female gender in the room. 

And, there was nothing to be taken personally, by the male gender, when the switch thrown yielded different results than expected.

A person would think then, that if I had so much wisdom in this area back then, that it could follow one through life, smoothing the rocky places, and routing around the stumble points.

*****

My goodbye to the sweet daughter this last time was hard. 

Then our first flight was delayed, due to a computer reboot that involved shutting down the whole plane.  Which dominoed down to a brisk half mile walk in Chicago, and really no time for supper.

I was weary, already, but my good wife not so much, (a common occurrence) and the 3-hour drive home from Wichita, starting sometime after eleven that evening, looked daunting.

She wanted to drive it on home; I wanted to grab a motel. 

She saw my weariness, and, in the perennial goodness of her true self, booked a motel.

And it was good she did, for, as we approached our vehicle in the slightly damp parking lot, dimensions of perpendicularity didn’t reach the desired sum total, and the culprit was an entirely flat tire.

Being late and all, the situation had the tendency to become somewhat emotionally charged. 

Should we call an Uber, get to our now most inviting motel, and deal with it in the morning?  Two Uber fees plus airport parking . . . I saw the gauges and dials on my good wife’s gendometer flicker to life, and I got me out of the general vicinity while they were booting up.  Because, well, once booted up, what might they indicate?

The spare had never been used; never even brought down from its storage.  Would it descend?  Would it have sufficient air in it?  These were yes/no questions that I could deal with, and I did. 

Although, truth be told, once the spare was installed, some 30 minutes later, air volume was decidedly lacking. 

Gendometer gauges twitched, first one way, and then the other as I alerted my good wife to the problem.

 A nearby Sam’s was suggested. 

I said, no, Sam’s never has air, but we circled the lot nonetheless, making me fear a blowout was eminent. 

A half mile farther on, and, as it happened within two blocks of our motel, air was found, and peace of mind was restored on the part of the man.

And then, the issue of the missed supper was raised, regardless of the fact that it was now close to midnight. 

A McDonald’s was spotted, and, I decided now might be the opportune time to bestow a little advice about drive through manners.  Of course, opportune, in this case, completely inopportune. 

Here’s how it goes when we get into a drive through lane.  My mentality knows what the options are; they haven’t changed much in the last few years, and, I know I like most everything on there.  So, before I get very close to the ordering point, I toggle my inner switch to ‘on’ for such and such menu this time. 

Done.  A crisply decided decision.

So, as we approached the drive through, I got my speech ready. 

‘Just get decided ahead of time what you want.  It doesn’t matter in the long run anyway, what we might have at midnight after a flat tire has been changed, etc.,’ I was about to say.

And then, my ‘on’ switch clicked off without my consent.

And, this little teaching episode I am about to give comes to a sliding halt, as I remember another teaching episode almost 20 years ago now, in the classroom, involving gender differences.

And, as I think, “Men’s brains are like waffles, women’s like spaghetti,” I feel things hum to life in the neighborhood of my right side. 

Gauges that haven’t been known to give a reading fizz to life with frightening rapidity. 

Blinking lights segue into sounding alarms.

The result is, once my crisply spoken order has been given, the one near my right side says,

“I’ll take number two.

Wait, does that come with fries?”

“Yes, they all come with fries.”

“Well, I’m not sure I want fries tonight.”

(Long, inwardly suppressed sigh on my part.)

“Is that all you want?” the cashier asks?

“No, give us a little time.”

“Okay,” the one near my right says, “I’ll have number six without fries.”

“What to drink?”

“A Diet.”

“Diet what?”

“Just a Diet.”

And then, it’s our luck that they are out of number six.

*****

So, I sat there, and watched and listened with keen interest, as the buzzing and flashing activity of the gendometer flurried this way, and then another way. 

And, I smiled, even though our order got ordered three different ways, and the man at the window and I both apologized to each other for getting things mixed up.

And I realized, more acutely than ever before, that the blips, blinks, and signals that are so inscrutable to a man are not a mimicry, but a wonderfully choreographed thinking process that sees much more of the whole picture and its different outcomes than I ever could.

Because, there’s something about a woman. 

Bygones

(Warning.  This post has the potential to go nowhere.)

If I step out my back door, and walk to the edge of the tree row that surrounds this place, I can take in a view that always amazes me.

On a clear day, I can see 11 miles to the west, an easy 12-13 to the southwest, 8 to the south, 3-4 to the east, and 3 to the north.

And if there is a mirage on, the visual potpourri from our place is stunning.  Because then, I’ve seen as far as 45 miles in the south/southwest directions, and 20-25 miles in the east/northeast directions. 

I remember one night.  I was driving home and was still 8 to 10 miles southwest of our place.  The mirage easily showed me Liberal’s lights, Holcomb power plant lights, and, closer in, Garden city lights, Cimarron lights, and Dodge city lights.

From my position that night, all lights would have been roughly an equal radius of 45 miles. 

I often ponder what other eyes have looked upon these scenes in bygone days.  Maybe, then, the gal on the plane wasn’t so far off, even though she startled me when she said, after only 2 minutes acquaintance, “You strike me as sort of the history buff kind.”

I had never really thought of myself that way.  In my mind, a history buff pores over his books and data endlessly, researching, ever and anon.  I tend to make foray’s into the past that tell me mostly what I wish to know, and then I leave for the time being.

According to one google estimate, Indians were established in the Americas for 20 some thousand years by the time Christopher Columbus set foot on this soil.  I wonder if they didn’t get a little carried away with the zero’s they attached to that number.  It wouldn’t stretch me to think of the Native American Indian having called this home for 2,000 years, perhaps even longer when Christopher landed here. 

Towards the eastern part of this state, one happens upon fairly regular regions of water, both flowing and in lake form.  But here in the southwest, water has always been a high priced commodity.  It looks like, back in the day, there were three sources of water that were fairly constant.  To the north of us is the Arkansas river.  (Today it is dry.)  A few miles to the south of us is Crooked Creek.  (Today it is dry.)  And, farther south and west, is the Cimarron river.  (Today also dry.)

If those three water sources were viable back then, and most likely they were, and buffalo hadn’t been hunted to extinction, and it hadn’t, this area could possibly have been quite regularly populated.  And, linked together with the fact that in a few places like ours, one can see for miles in all directions, insuring an early sighting of any enemy activity.

An early map of the state and tribe location shows the Comanche tribe in possession of the deep southwest corner of the state.  Their boundary most likely was the Cimmaron river. 

To the north, the Arapahoe lived, and to the east, the Kiowa lived.  The general area in which us western Kansas folks call home, could have been an intersecting point of boundaries for these three tribes. 

It seems it was.  I remember, as a child, finding arrowheads, or pieces of them quite often.  Most of the time, it was after a heavy spring rain, that they came to the surface.  Sadly, a day came when an arrowhead buyer showed up at the doorstep, and, not knowing the treasure trove we had, we let them go. 

But since then, I have kept my eyes open, knowing that as we develop more ground and spread gravel, or plant grass, the likelihood of finding such is rare.

Until yesterday.  I don’t know who all reads this stuff I write, or where you are located.  But if you aren’t located anywhere near here, you won’t know that we have endured some ravaging winds in the last year and a half.  It used to be, 60 m.p.h. gusts were not so common. 

Today, we try to work through them, and sometimes even higher gusts, on a somewhat normal basis.

The ground is scoured clean in some places.  I see fields where farmers have gouged out deep furrows to prevent land from leaving in the wind.  I see some of those same fields where the plow is going into use a second time, as the first round of furrows have all blown shut already.

Yesterday, I took my walk along the trail I normally walk.  It was windy, as it is today, and as it is forecast to be for the next few days. 

The trail looked Martian.  Little, blasted ridges of crusty dirt that held tenaciously were still in place; but there were whole areas that have been swept, robbed of its precious topsoil.

And then, there it was.  First, a rusty, old bailing tine from what could have been a hundred years ago.

And then, on my return, a piece of flint that appears to bear the marks from human hands shaping it into what could have been the off side of an arrowhead, some 200 years or more ago. 

My history heart was enthused, and I have added each artifact to my little museum that also has a pair of eyeglasses, a diary, and an old pocket watch from my grandfather. 

No, I wouldn’t say I’m a history buff, like the Tanzanian girl turned U.S. real estate agent said.  But I do like to think on things like this once in a while. 

And I thought I could write something about what those folks said to one another, in their teepees, here in this place, or what the farmer said to his son, as they put up the first cutting of hay. 

And maybe, someday I will, but for now, this is where I stop. 

As promised in the beginning, it really accomplished very little as far as writing goes.

Interested

“Did you notice the look on your niece’s face yesterday?”

“When.”

“When you had her little boy on your lap.”

“Oh, you mean when I was reading the book to him?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you talking about when he started pointing out the pictures correctly?”

“Yeah.  Did you notice her face then?”

“I did.  It was like she was so excited and enthused about her little man.”

“Did you notice how she kept hanging around, soaking it all up?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Her face shone, didn’t it.”

“I saw that, yes.”

“Mine does too, because I’m right there, when I see you doing something for the first time, and, you don’t know how it will turn out.  And even if you think it doesn’t turn out, my face still shines with pleasure and pride in you.”

“Really.”

“Yes.  I’m just as interested in you as she was in her son.  Even more so.”

“Oh.”

Whether to Laugh or Cry

I see three of them.

Sitting in a booth at Pizza Hut.

They are friends; they are in a good mood.

They eat their pizza, and they talk lots. 

And every little bit, they break into a chuckle, sometimes a guffaw of laughter.

They must a have lot of shared jokes, I think to myself, to carry on for so long.

Then they say they should probably get on with their day.

But not before one more funny ditty is told.

They all laugh again, and he gets up to leave.

He’s still chuckling as he gets up, but as soon as he turns away from them, his face goes slack.

The smile wiped from his face as effectively as if someone had dropped the shade on a sunny window.

And I see then, that all the chuckles and belly laughter have been a sham.

And it’s not something new to me; I’ve seen it, off and on now, for the last several years.

*****

Look at any advertisement from any sizable company.  They will always be happy, smiling, or laughing.

They will always be in a place where there is golden sunshine.  (Or lighting effects)

They will always be young, and good looking.

They will always be clean and well to do.

Because it seems they, and we, are more concerned with the ‘look’ we present these days, rather than how we actually feel. 

Laughing, mostly fake, has become the accepted norm.

But when we get up to leave, we feel our face go slack, and we know there is a real life to live back home.

I’m okay with being positive.  I think it’s a good thing to practice.

I also think that being positive when you don’t feel it can sometimes get a person out of the negativity they are in.

The question, though, of whether to laugh or cry, seems often answered that to laugh is more socially acceptable. 

That it is fashionable and normal.

Or so we think.

Gold

It was supposed to be a fun last day together.

And it was.

First, we traipsed through the hills, taking in the last of some of the most splendid views.

The creek, with its myriad flows and waterfalls came next, and, then finally, the city.

And, somewhere within the city, an airport.

But first, there was a large shopping mall.

And then they said they were hungry for dinner.

And, she ordered a lettuce salad, that appeared to have taken almost a half head of lettuce in the making thereof.

I poked fun at it, and she poked fun at my cheesy tater tot dinner, mainly, I suppose, because she thinks I act cheesy and resemble a tater tot.

And she tried to snitch some of my chocolate shake, but I didn’t let her have any of it.  (Later I wished I had.)

Because, maybe if I had, she would have felt too full, and her mini golf score wouldn’t have looked quite so nice compared to mine.

Or, she wouldn’t have been able to belly laugh quite so easily when my golf ball bounded clear past the putting board and skittered back towards the receptionist lady, who took shelter behind her till as I scampered after it.

But finally, we all were a bit tired, so we found some chairs and sat, quietly, hearts connected in phrases, and sometimes who paragraphs, even though no words were spoken out loud.

And then it was time to find the airport. 

And the bags seemed terribly heavy.

And the walk seemed ever so long.

And, then, goodbye.

And I thought it might be easier this time, since it wasn’t the first time. 

But it was harder.

And I started to cry a little, because she was, but I held it in mostly.

Until I saw her so far away, walking all alone, and waving me.

And then I found a bench, sat down on it, and let myself cry.  And I didn’t care what the people thought when they walked by.

And I still had the sniffles when we boarded the plane, and I looked dully out at the grey and dirty snow colored landscape.

But then we took off, and in a few minutes, we punched through the clouds.

And, just at that instant, the setting sun was level with the clouds, and turned them into a blanket of shining gold for as far as I could see.

Smooth, clean, clear, scintillating gold.

It seemed a beautiful goodbye then, and the beauty of it lasted all the way through, even until when we got to our car, and it had a flat tire, there in the airport parking lot and it was changed, even at that late hour. 

Because a life given in service is as shining gold to look upon and worth many hundreds of rubies.