School Daze #4

School Devotions.

He talked about coyotes and the Big Dipper.

First, he told us how the animal kingdom has a very distinct pattern and regularity to it. 

He said that coyotes will always take the same trail at the same time each night. 

He told us that when the coyote is taking his trail, it will put its feet into the same footprints it made the first time it walked the trail.

He said you can set your time by when a coyote takes to the trail.  (I know he’s right, because sometime later, for about three months during the wintertime, our dog would light up at 1:20 a.m. exactly every night.  I never looked, but the way he barked told me it had to be a coyote crossing the yard.)

He talked about the stars and explained where some of them were.  He talked about how you could tell seasons by certain constellations; like when Orion starts to become visible, fall and winter are coming on. 

Next, he talked about the north star, Polaris, and about the two stars on the cup side of the big dipper that isn’t attached to the handle.

He told us if you lay a long ruler or straight edge along those two stars, the line will land in the North star.

He told us it’s like that line is anchored in the North star, and the big dipper rotates counterclockwise one time around the North star every twenty-four hours.  He said if we imagined a huge clock face out there in the sky, that we could tell approximately what time it was by where the big dipper was on the clock face.  The big dipper’s handle, he said, would be like the hour hand on a clock.  

He told us if the animal kingdom and the stars were so orderly and on time, then surely, we humans could be as well.

*****

He asked how many of them liked to play softball.

At least half or more did.

They talked about what they liked and didn’t like about it. 

He said he didn’t like it when people roamed way out past the baseline when they ran the bases.

Someone else said they didn’t like it when the runner tried to steal and the baseman threw to the next base, and then the runner turned back and they threw back, and how sometimes it would go on and on, back and forth, and waste everybody’s time.

They talked about the rules and how much fun it was to catch a flyball. 

Then he suggested they play softball, right there, for devotions.

(He had talked to a few of the adults previously telling them his game plan.)

The students looked at him incredulously, especially one young girl with big blue eyes and straw-colored hair. 

He showed them he had the bases there, a couple of bats, and a few gloves. 

He had them move their chairs out to the sides of the room so that the podium where he was standing would be home base, and right out in front, and right beside the young girl with blue eyes and straw colored hair, who, incidentally, was so disbelieving as to what was taking place that she completely forgot to move herself or her chair, pitcher’s mound would be.  So, the pitcher had company, she was sitting just to the right of, and securely on pitcher’s mound the entire time.

His nephew was visiting; he is the big, burly type.  He was named pitcher.  She looked up a long way from where she sat and her eyes darted from him to home plate where a motely team comprising a few students, himself, the cook, and a couple of school board members was assembling.

The outfield formed up once the bases were in place, and the game was on.

Except there was no ball. 

That was the point, he told them.  They would play without a ball.

“How will we know where it is?” someone asked.

He told them it was wherever anyone’s imagination placed it. 

“So, then it can be anywhere or everywhere?” they asked.

“That’s right.  That’s the whole point of our devotions,” he said.

The pitcher flexed a few times.  The batter up to bat taunted him. 

He let fly with the ball, and the batter swung and took off.

“NO WAY,” shouted the ump.  “You missed.  That was a strike!”

“Huh uh,” shouted the runner, rounding 1^st, “It’s clear in the grandstands.  You missed it.”

The pitcher allowed a couple more runs and then the cook was up.

She’s a spicey one, that cook, and with brow set and bottom lip clenched between her teeth she took careful stock of each pitch, finally swinging with tremendous force upon one of her liking. 

She was off, oblivious of the hullabaloo and pandemonium surrounding her hotly contested hit.  When she finally pulled up to a stop on third, everyone was arguing about everything.  She, not to be outdone, shook her finger at the whole world and told them to all calm down, she knew exactly where the ball was, and she was on third fair and square.  The ump tried to tell her differently, but one glare from her and it was all over.

By this time, the blue eyed, straw-colored hair girl was looking quite disconcerted with all the action swirling around her, so he called the game to a halt, and everyone moved their chairs back into their respective places.

He said that the ball is like respect, and when we lose it, or don’t feel like sharing it with others, or respecting another’s opinion, nothing goes right.

Common Decency Picture

I “saw” this place for the first time about two years ago. 

Even though I have driven by it for forty some years, I had never noticed it.

The morning I saw it, I was travelling eastward into a sunrise that was still a few minutes away.

I suppose the mute lighting and the fact that I was alone played into my impression somewhat. 

Since then, I look at it every time I go by.  I imagine it to be close to 100 years old, but who knows?  I’m guessing I’d have to interview quite a number of old timers to get to the bottom of its story. 

And more than likely, its story isn’t anything outstanding. 

But to me, it has two stories.

If you look southward, it is juxtaposed by the towering new windmills that run day and night to bring electricity to this country and the broken down windmill is partially hidden behind the tree.  A whole ‘nuther story could be written about that view.

If you look northward, you see prairie land that stretches on into infinity.

It is the northward view that you see in that picture. 

I strikes me, then, that common decency is a lot like this place.  We may not remember so well the details of what someone did for us, but, like this old place, the ghost of it remains long beyond the life of the person and that moment when their life intersected with ours. 

I don’t know that there is any right or wrong answer to my question of correlation.  And I’m not sure how much a person should wig out trying to find clues and metaphors to everything we see in life.  But sometimes, we see something for the first time, and it has meaning to it.

Oh, and for those who don’t live in this area, here is the southward view.

Common Decency

Indulge me if you will, and allow me to open my dark saying upon this electronic harp.  And while it may not be the same kind of harp as a man by the name of David used some years ago, nevertheless I think it will suffice to convey the tone of my meditation.

Not all shopping cart stories are created equal.  Realizing that, I think I can take permission and tell you mine, even though my friend Sarah did a very fine job of telling hers not so long ago on her blog. 

I was parked in row 12, waiting for my good wife to finish up a few odds and ends on her shopping list and decided I’d run in and quick grab a couple of things I needed.

It was a windy day.  Enough so that carts didn’t stay put, caps didn’t stay on, and car doors needed to be opened in a synchronized way or a) a small wind tunnel would ensue if both were opened at the same time, blowing all the stored contents out naked into the wind, or b) the person on the wrong side of the vehicle ran a good chance of getting their fingers mashed in the door as it came shut with extra force because of above said wind tunnel.

I was on my way into Walmart when I came even with him.  He wasn’t from a windy country originally, as both his skin color and actions with his cart told. 

He was a mere 30 feet from the front doors of the store, and a good 60 feet from the nearest cart corral.  The decision seemed easy to me; run that cart back in and be done. 

But no. 

There was a yellow steel post pylon right there.  He was trying to park his cart alongside it, rather, in the middle of nowhere, and the wind kept taking his cart as soon as he let go. 

He’d let go, and hope.  The cart would start leaving.  He’d catch it and bring it back to the post.  I could have told him if he’d park it broadside to the post, and broadside to the wind, he might have better luck than going alongside the post and with the wind, but, I didn’t.

Because by then I was angry. 

I have seen so many carts running AWOL in my day, eventually slamming with 40 m.p.h. force into the sides of cars and I sort of lost my cool that day. 

I stepped up to his cart, as he gave one last feeble attempt at parking it and grabbed it just as it was leaving.  I (okay, I’ll admit it) was angered more by the fact that he didn’t see me grab it in a not so kindly way.  I was pious, pompous, and mostly provoked all at once for a bit there, as I whisked that cart 30 feet up to the store and rolled it into the area where all forlorn shopping carts wait for their next dance partner.

*****

It was only a couple of days later that I was in town again, this time to pick up a trailer load of solar modules. 

After I was loaded and boomed down, I saw I had a low tire on my trailer.  Low enough that I didn’t want to travel all the way home; I knew with as much weight as I had on that it would blow.

The place where I had grabbed some air on a previous trip was packed full; I knew I could loop in there, but the exit strategy was left wanting.

I saw another place just a couple of blocks over.  I remembered this was the place that had all the nice sayings on the sign outside.  The last one had read, “If God has a refrigerator, your picture is on it.”  I figured the guys there must be decent, so I pulled up alongside.  The guy I met outside acted a little somehow about airing up my tire.  He said he didn’t know if he could do it.  I didn’t know what he meant for sure; like, did he not have the mental acuity to?  So, I said, “Well, there’s your air hose, I’ll just run it out myself and air up my tire.” 

He said no, I needed to ask another guy who was just then walking up.  I told him what I needed, and he said, “Sure, as soon as this car moves, we can air up your tire.  It will be $5.”

$5

To air up a tire.

I’m still surprised and happy to say I didn’t blow my own tires at his remark, although I had to counsel quite sternly with myself to keep it from happening. 

*****

Since when, I’d like to ask, has it been okay to charge for common decency?

And who, I’d like to know, said it was okay to depart from an age-old command to ‘treat others like you want to be treated?’

I’m guessing no one person is responsible for the answer to either of those questions.

I’m thinking this attitude and behavior has been lurking around ever since a man and his sweetheart, whom, as I recall, where living in a garden at the time, had a little contention on what they should have for supper.

It looks like, in a sense, covid 19 had a way of exposing this despicable trait in the human race.  Multitudes, it seems, townsfolk who we thought were good hearted and decent, have succumbed to the easy way, the selfish way.

Just the other day, we got a freq drive that we had ordered.  It had no screen readout when we booted it up.  When we called about it, the guy acted terribly concerned, saying there were only two in the U.S. and how it was so hard to keep them around, and yet he never offered a helping hand even though he had sold it to us.  It was up to us to source a fix.

Okay.  I’ll stop harping on this. 

There’s a little saying that I remember reading when I was a wee lad.  It talked about being quiet enough in my mind to accept the things I couldn’t change, change the things I could, and having wisdom to know the difference in the two.

I challenge myself then, to look for areas that I can change.  Even in the smallest things.  Like my attitude about the guy with cart.  Perhaps that’s a good place to start.  I can’t change the folks intent on leaving their carts where they wish, but if my attitude is in the right place, who knows what opportunities will present themselves to me.

And. 

If you ever happen by my place with a low tire, I’d be most pleased to air it up for you. 

I’m quite sure I’ll be happier than you when you leave.

Because that’s how common decency works.

I Saw it All

She is eight years old. 

Her blonde hair is neatly combed back with a braid starting just in front of and above her right ear.  It swoops elegantly back, down, and then back up to her left ear where it terminates in a fashion that only her mother could know how to do.

She sits with her legs crossed and scans the room demurely, with the poise of a lady.

*****

He is 22.

He glances around and back, and their eyes meet.

She knows she doesn’t have a chance with him, but his dark hair and who he is overrides that question.

“Hey,” she says.

“What’s going on?”

“Not much, when did you get your haircut?”

“Yesterday.”

“It’s so short!”

“Nah, I like it that way.  Worn it like this ever since I’ve been back from India.  It’s how they cut it over there.”

“Whatever.  What did you think of our skit at school the other evening?”

“It was good.  I liked it.  Just can’t remember if you were in the house where everyone got killed or in the other one.”

“You should come to my place sometime.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know, just should.”

“Okay.  Maybe.  But I’m busy almost all the time so it might be a while.”

“Why?”

“Cause.”

“Whatever.” (very affected eyeroll)

And then she happened to look over and a bit back and saw me, his Dad, and realized I had seen it all.

And she saw I was laughing so hard that tears were beginning to form at the edges of my eyes.

And then she realized how it all must have looked and started laughing too.

And then her Mom caught a vibe from her, even though someone was sitting in between them.  Her Mom kept looking at her, trying to pick up what was going on, but she played dumb, which made me laugh even harder.

So, I covered the grin that I had been trying so hard to keep from splitting into an outright earsplitting smile, and tried to control myself.

And I told her, that this was church after all, it was Sunday morning in fact, and it was her Grandpa, no less, who was preaching right then and we should pay attention to him.

Of course, all three of us were at least 20 feet apart, and no actual words were spoken out loud.

Just eye language and thirty seconds.

Dear K1, K2, and K3

I was gone this morning, taking booster cables and the battery charger to Bryce, who was working about ten miles away.  He couldn’t keep the trencher running; when I left, we had it going, and he was back to work.  (More on that place and what happened there yesterday later.)

Made another stop that took about an hour and finally neared home.  Figured I should pick the mail up if Mama J hadn’t already.  I could see by the tracks that the mailman had been there, so pulled up and . . . Hooboy!

There were a number of checks for work we had done in there, a couple of bills, and two other pieces.  One from Little Falls, N.Y., and the other from Michigan. 

I knew right away what was in each one.

And I knew right away which one I was going to open first, except I didn’t want to right away, ‘cause I wanted to keep it for as long as I could.

The package from Little Falls was addressed to me. 

Me personally. 

So was the package from Michigan. 

The package from Little Falls looked like it could possibly be a correspondence from some nice young ladies I got acquainted with about 3 years ago.  (At least it seems that long to me, since we last were together.)

The package from Michigan was a disc, by the way it looked and felt.  I lost my most favorite disc the last time I played.  For some reason, I threw high (Has Lex taught you how to play yet?) and with a thing we have out here called wind, which you don’t have so much of, it lofted high and hard over to the right.  The last I saw it was clipping through the top of a 35-foot-tall pine tree, and after that, it was lost from sight indefinitely.  My game went hard right after that; So did my score.

I was really looking forward to getting that disc, obviously.  But it wasn’t the package I opened first.

First, I turned the lights on.  Then, even though I really don’t need them, I went on a search for my reading glasses.  I looked all over and couldn’t find them.  Turns out they were right there by those two packages all the time.

Next, I opened the Little Falls package.  I glanced at the handwriting first, as on old schoolteacher always must do, to see if it was neat enough.  It passed my inspection.

I got my reading glasses adjusted correctly on my nose and proceeded to read with great satisfaction.  It appears all is well in your lives, even if you have to chase the cats to catch them.  That’s normal you know, because a cat never will let you know it likes you and always has to run away a little bit to try to make it look like it doesn’t like you.  Cats and girls are a lot alike, just like dogs and guys are a lot alike.

Except.  To be totally honest, I was a little disappointed to read that your cat ate the hind legs and tail first of the rat it had caught.  Because, as you surely must know, any good cat will eat the headfirst, and only the head, leaving headless bodies to liter the yard as a way of thumbing its nose up at anything else in the world. 

You might work at training your cat in that regard.

I hope someday in the future I will get another package from Little Falls, but I don’t want to be too selfish or anything.

Lastly, I opened the package with my new disc and went outside to try it out.  It flew famously. It’s orangish in color, which may make it hard to find if the light isn’t so good, but maybe I’ll just have to be more careful with it than my other lime green one that I lost.

But I have to tell you about Bryce and Josh and yesterday. 

They were tapping into the water well system so they could get water for the sprinkler system they were installing.  Okay, so when they cut the pipes to put a tee in, the water wouldn’t stop dripping, even though they had the water shut off.  And anybody knows that if you want your glue to hold when you glue that tee in that you can’t have water dripping, or if you do, not very much.

They tried to glue it once, and it didn’t hold because of the water.  It was about then that Mama J and I stopped by to see how things were going and Bryce showed me his problem. 

“We need some bread,” he said.

I knew he did.  You probably don’t know this, but bread is a plumber’s best friend.  Stick a piece or several in the pipe that keeps dripping and it will sog up that water just long enough to quick glue what you need to, then it dissolves a bit later and all is well and your pipe isn’t plugged.  (Just be sure to flush that pipe out immediately, and not a week later, or when you flush it out a week later, you’ll puke your guts out from the smell.

I could see some bread on the table inside the house, and thought of snitching some, but what if the lady had it especially counted out for something? 

So, we ran to a nearby store that sold material and bulk food.  I walked in and said, “I need some bread.” 

They looked at me like I had lost it, because they didn’t have any bread there, and I knew it was a long shot as to whether they would have any or not.

But the funniest thing hadn’t happened yet.

We went a couple minutes uptown to a café to buy some.  By then I was on the phone so Mama J went inside to see if she could get some. 

Well, the waitresses were busy, and there was a family eating lunch there that she knew, and lo, and behold!  They had one bun left in the breadbasket on their table. 

Now think how this would sound to you if you were eating at a café and someone you knew a bit walked right up to your table and said, “Um, are you going to eat that bun?”

They looked at Mama Jan and started laughed, and then I think she realized how it sounded and she started laughing. 

I don’t think they thought she was serious, so they said, “Sure, that’s one of our boys’ bun, do you want it?  He doesn’t by the looks of things.”

Mama J said, “Sure, I’ll take it.  My boys need it to plug a pipe.”

And how do you think that sounded to someone who doesn’t know how you can use bread to stop a leak? 

The last she saw of them, they were laughing so hard they couldn’t eat.

Till next time, and know that I miss you, and Lexi–

Nameless in Tennessee

Her young face wore a perpetual look of disappointment and longing.

Six of her fingers wore rings.

Her hair wore the most current bleach and was slapped back in a no-care, disdainful look.

Her skin was as smooth as money could buy.

Her eyelashes were the kind you needed a tweezers and glue to maintain.

Her glasses were this new style, oversized, and down low on her nose; I sometimes wonder if they are supposed the make the wearer look sort of like the proverbial damsel in distress.

If I wasn’t mistaken, at her 18 young years, she had already been under the knife to enhance her beauty.

She wore an affected weariness that was supposed to presage the extreme responsibility of being chic.

She and her mom communicated in short mumbles between screen blips on their phones.  Her mom asked her what she was going to order.

“I think I’ll go with the Philly Steak sandwich.  I feel like I need to expand my horizons more than just hamburgers.”

Then she rested her head on the table in sheer exhaustion, or disinterest in her mundane surroundings, until her next message beeped on her phone.

When her sandwich arrived, she picked at it, pulled most of the onions off and put them on her mom’s tray, and then asked her mom to get the wait staff to bring her a fork. 

She didn’t use the fork; rather took the bun off and fingered the meat into little blobs and boredly ate it. (I pondered long on how she would get the smell and grease from that meat out from under the fingernail extensions she wore.)

Her mom finished her own sandwich, and, using the unused fork, ate the rest of the meat that her daughter’s five bites had left untouched.  

They got up and moved away, she in her black sweats and tank top, her mom in her pajama sweats and tee shirt.

It was getting on to 4 in the afternoon and we needed to get to the airport; I saw them drift off to my right and then, as they mingled with the mighty crowd of humanity there that day, they sank out of sight.

My heart pained for them.  

*****

He was an average looking Dad.

His tee shirt draped over large shoulders and a barrel chest; Muscular legs bulged from his short pants. 

His hair was neatly combed; his beard neatly trimmed.

Each of his boys had matching close up haircuts with a neat part in the side.

His wife, her sister, and her mom all wore matching fall colors. 

They made an attractive family.

I heard his dad-in-law tell him of the original pair of Levi jeans recently discovered that had sold for nearly $87,000 to a couple of young blokes.  I saw him listen attentively and make a kind remark in reply.

I watched as he held his youngest child at the breakfast table.  The little boy flipped the straw out of his cup and water splashed all over his face.  I tensed.  Was he going to be angry with his son?  But no.  He smiled down at his little one, water still dripping from his face.

He took time for all his boys, because, well, that’s what good dads do, I guess.

I happened by their table about the time they were getting ready to leave.

I eased up beside him and told him, “You make a good Dad.”

“Oh, well, I really don’t know.  Some days you wonder,” he said.

His wife looked at him with liquid eyes and then looked at me and nodded in agreement to my remark.

“Yeah,” I said, as I gave his shoulder a thump, “You make a good Dad.  I could see it from a long way away.”

For some reason, later that day, I felt like I should pray for him.

So, I did.

To Kill a Cat

No, it’s not meant to be an imitation of Harper Lee’s classic, “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

Not even close.

So, now that we have that out of the way, let’s carry on.

The other morning, Mama Jan opened the patio door like she or I often do in the morning to let the cat in. 

This is the same cat otherwise written about in a blog titled Toad, aka Cricket.

I noticed when he came over to the chair I was sitting on in our closet that his meow sounded sort of weird, and it seemed like he was breathing loudly.

I got on with my morning routine, and it was sometime later that Mama J called me to where she was sitting with this cat on her lap.

“This cat has been in a terrible fight,” she said.  “See?”

And I did see then.  Blood soaked and ran down from its mouth, onto his chest and all the way down his front legs.  His mouth was skewed off at a grotesque angle, and hung loosely open.  His eyes looked up at us pathetically.

“All of his front teeth are gone, he’ll never be able to eat,” said my good wife.

“He’ll need to be put down,” I said, “But I don’t feel like shooting a cat this morning.  I’ll call the vet to see if they can put him down.”

The secretary at the vet said to drop him by, since the vet was still in surgery and when she was out she’d take a look at him and put him down if it looked like that was the best option, or, if there was any hope then they’d call and we’d discuss our options.

Mama J dropped him off, turned around and began her 25 minute journey home. 

She wasn’t two minutes away when the vet called and said she could come pick up her cat.

It seems that as this rather obese cat was grooming himself sometime during the night, licking the thick fur under his chin, that his bottom fang snagged an excess fold of loose skin and when he lifted his head, his fang imbedded into that skin. 

He was effectively trapped by his own body.

Evidently when a cat’s mouth is thus detained, he drools rapaciously. 

And evidently when he drools like that for several hours, and paces about in desperation, dirt gathers onto the drool, and it looks like blood.

And, evidently when a flap of skin is caught on the teeth of the bottom jaw of a cat you can’t see any teeth and it appears like it has been in a terrible fight.

Evidently. 

Loaded for Bear

I heard that statement five or six years ago, and didn’t have a clue what it meant or what context it was supposed to be used in. 

Until the guy using it finished telling his story. 

He was talking about an issue the schoolteacher had regarding his son and certain escapades in school.  He went on to say that when his son came out the door after arriving home from school, he walked up to his son with every intention of setting the matter straight.

“I was loaded for bear and was all set to read the riot act the minute I saw my son,” he said.

That’s when I sort of got an understanding about what ‘loaded for bear’ meant. 

Turns out, I’ve ran into that phrase a fair bit since then, mostly in my own language and thought process.

Take the other morning. 

Our flight boarded at 5:30 a.m. and since it is such a small airport, it’s a good idea to be there 45 minutes before boarding time.

Which means getting there at 4:45. 

Which means leaving the house no later than 4 a.m.

I had looked at the tires on the car the day before, because with our dry weather and all, nails come to the surface of the road quite readily.  Everything looked good.

As I backed out of the garage at 4:03, the low tire pressure light flicked on. 

By the time I had hastily aired up the tire and driven to the airport, it was 4:45, maybe even 4:46.  I didn’t know if we were going to get that flight or not. 

I dropped Mama Jan off at the door, screeched into a parking spot nearby, and ran in to see if all had turned out okay.

The whole process had the beginnings of loading me for bear.

Got to security and landed up behind a nice lady who evidently hadn’t flown recently.  And I’m guessing she was the type who didn’t feel the need to expand her world for others.  She took one thing out and tried to send her bag through. 

Didn’t work. 

Took another thing out and tried to send her bag through.

Didn’t work. 

After five more didn’t works, she was able to get through; but she never looked back once at us or offered we could go.  Just her and herself alone there in that security line.

I was strapping on the essentials for bear by that time.

I watched a man across the way try to lift the handle on his suitcase and then it got stuck.  Saw him frantically try to work it down, fling his hands out in despair, finally got it, and less than five minutes later went through the whole process again.  I wanted to shout, “Dude, it’s okay!  Just leave it one way or the other!”

I knew it wouldn’t have bothered me if I hadn’t been loaded for bear already.

My kidneys seem to function in a fairly predictable manner.  No, I wouldn’t set a clock by them, but neither do they send out unnecessary alarms. 

That is, until our group was called to board the next flight in Dallas.  Suddenly, like a very onery and impudent child, they alarmed.  I thought maybe it was a false alarm and the line to board was moving right along, so I disregarded them and got on the flight. 

Within short order, they came by with drinks, and I knew I’d need liquid since the only thing I’d had was coffee. 

I chose Coca Cola. 

She gave me a whole can. 

I drank all of it.

And then the restroom got really busy with other people who must have also had lots of coffee and Coca Cola also.

If I hadn’t been so loaded for bear already, I might have been able to disregard all signals.  But being loaded up as I was now only made the new load I was asked to bear almost impossible.

About this time, my good wife awakened from the nap she was taking and noticed her glasses were no longer on her lap.  Being in that in between world of sleep and wakefulness, she nigh well panicked.  Into my hands and lap were thrust her jacket, a Coke she had just asked for, her cup of ice, two books, a napkin and her purse. 

My tray table was down, and on it was my napkin, Coke and ice.  She asked me to move over to the empty seat beside me with all those things she had just handed me and mine, so she could lean over to better look for her glasses. 

She reached blindly, and she muttered that she couldn’t see anything without her glasses.

I swallowed, and gave up meekly to what was playing out in such high drama.

*****

We traveled serenely in our rented vehicle for the next 3 hours and arrived at our cabin in the Smoky Mountains.

It was quite cold, so I turned up the heat, got the fake fireplace flickering and adjusted the thermostats on the other levels accordingly. 

I was climbing the stairs from the basement when I heard my good wife shriek my name from somewhere up on the third floor. 

After 26 years of marriage with that good lady, I know of mainly two things that make her shriek; mice, and when the airplane we are in plummets unexpectedly.  (There are other things that make her shriek, some involving cold water, and some involving swerving near a sheer drop off on the edge of the road, but I have learned, the hard way it seems, not to invoke those kinds of shrieks.)

But since I had just adjusted the heat, I must have automatically cast out the mice and airplane idea and immediately assumed that we had a fire somewhere.

Turns out I was LOADED with bear.

Literally.

I came around the corner to see a Mama in the front seats, and one of her cubs in the back seat and the second cub just climbing into the rented Toyota Camry we were driving.

I forgot for a moment that I was dealing with bears and not dogs and began to shush them away like I would a dog. 

As I approached the littlest one, it got frightened and swiveled around to face me; I continued my affront and that’s when Mama got concerned and started shushing me. 

I got me out of there.

Luckily, they got the message and all unloaded.  After a rather tense standoff in which Mama told me in no uncertain language what lineage she was sure I came from, who she was and what she would do if I ever messed with her cubs again, they all took to the hills nearby.

I looked and could see where Mama had nudged her nose under the left rear door and got it unlatched. 

After that it was a simple matter for her to find the leftover Freddie’s chicken that was her choice of fast food for the day. 

One of them had painstakingly opened the barbeque sauce packet thinking it was probably just the thing that chicken needed.

The bag with the pills, or the ‘onsite pharmacy,’ as the sweet daughter calls it, had been razed, but fortunately, whether for the bears or us I don’t know, nothing was taken.  Although it might be amusing to see just how a water pill affects a bear. . .

It was only after the bears had unloaded that I realized the whole process had a wonderful moderating effect and the thought occurred to me that I wasn’t loaded for bear anymore myself. 

Don’t Slide It

I suppose you could say Mama Jan and I are empty nesters.

But not officially.

For the first time in a long while, I hear sounds that life had me forget somehow.

I hear the clock ticking. 

I hear the refrigerator’s gentle hum.

I hear the sound of the house cooling down after a warm summer day.

Sounds that have been there all along but were crowded out with the joyful sounds of living and doing. 

First it was the sound of a newly minted Dad trying to get the onesie on and all the snaps snapped in the proper sequence.  You don’t hear much when you are focused in like that and the little one before you has every intent of escape and mutiny in mind.

Soon it was the sound of drinking glasses tipping over and the cascade of tea to the carpet below.  (Hint, always laugh at it.)

Then came the scraping sound of pencil and paper as homework was finished up, or a newly colored picture by the sweet daughter.

It wasn’t long, and skates, basketballs, and even a baseball got used within the confine of these four walls. 

Sobering visits filled in the space; good visits, though sometimes with a few tears.

The hilarious shouts of young people filled the room.  Charades were acted out at random times and this old man nearly passed out with laughter.

Songs and more songs, singing until one in the morning sometimes.

But, for now, all those sounds are gone, and it’s quiet in the house.

One could say that the good years have been lived.

Not so.

Because the good years, and what makes them, are, I think, woven together with a certain simple detail that doesn’t concern itself with time, place, or number of folks present. 

*****

“We need to do better at passing the food at the table,” said my good wife one day when all the children were still at home.  “Lately, all we have been doing is sliding it to each other.”

I sat back in amazement.

This soft-spoken gentlewoman speaking in such tones left me speechless.

“Well for one thing,” I thought to myself, “what difference does it make?” 

“And for that matter,” I told myself, “I know I always pass it.”

But it wasn’t long before I seemed to notice that it was quite often that I got food shoved at me, and I in turn shoved it on its way to the sweet one who always sits at my left.

“Really, we’re all busy, and at least the food is getting passed,” I continued in my muttered defense, “I mean, some families don’t do this well as us in this area.  I’ve seen big hairy arms reaching clear across the table or directly across the plate of the one they are sitting by to fetch what their rumination tells them too.  At least that isn’t happening here.  We aren’t barbarians, for goodness’ sake!”

Like it is with so many of the things that sweet lady I live with says, this one proved to be worth listening to. 

More than ever now that it’s just the two of us.

Because it’s when I lift the food, and hand it to the one I love, that life really happens.

We have every chance to arrange the food in such a way that we don’t need to pass it to each other. 

Slide it if you will.

But I’m really glad we don’t. 

Life, during the years when all the children were home, was extremely good.  It was so busy though, with the onesies and all, that reaching out purposefully to each other got lost in the blur of everything.  I know it happened.  I remember times when it did.  But it couldn’t be savored. 

And for those who find themselves in similar circumstances with little ones by your side, you needn’t worry.

Love gets through even when it can’t be purposely thought out.

I’m liking this empty nester thing. 

It gives me time to think, and the chance to lift the food and pass it, even though we could just as easily slide it.



Service rendered in love, whatever it may be, elevates a regular minute from mundane to divine.   

Work

A few stray wisps of Tanzania Peaberry waft across where I sit.  My cup is empty, but no matter.  Sometimes I think the aroma left behind is just as good, if not better than the draft itself. 

I get the urge to write sometimes, when I know that really it might be better to let what has briefly crossed my mind sit a while. 

This morning is one of those mornings.

***** 

Is it ever okay to be lazy?

When does lazy cross over to being a sluggard, or are they one in the same?

There is bindweed that could be sprayed, a fence taken up, grass to be mowed, and a plethora of other things vying for attention.  (I considered writing on the word plethora earlier; now that I used it here maybe you’ll be spared of it.)

When it came to selecting something to write on this morning, a status that my friend Dean had set ruled over the rest of options. 

His status, quoted from a Shane Parrish said “Ninety percent of success can be boiled down to consistently doing the obvious thing for an uncommonly long period of time without convincing yourself that you’re smarter than you are.”

For some reason, my mind trekked back immediately to a certain evening about ten years ago.  We sported the new title of Youth Leaders, had carried said title for two whole days already, and were invited to join the youth and their current Youth Leaders to help get Christmas candy made for the upcoming Christmas activities.

I was enthusiastic about joining them but came home from that evening totally depressed. 

It was unmitigated chaos.

Guys were using the tubes from wrapping paper to play baseball right there in the church fellowship hall.

Girls were shrieking at the antics of the guys and generally flirting instead of working. 

(Okay, I used some hyperbole in those previous two sentences.)

(And no, you don’t say it hyper bowl, like I have for years, but you’ll have to google it to find out how it’s pronounced.)

Eventually the gifts that needed to be wrapped, and the food that needed to be made, got finished by the youth leaders and all the youth went home extremely happy and fulfilled.

I told Mama Jan on the way home that there was no way I was surviving this for the next two years. 

I don’t remember what she said, but it must have had wisdom in it, because not only did I survive the next two years, but I supremely enjoyed them, and to this day, I will take a stand for what the young people do in our lives.

I think one key takeaway is that I determined, from that evening on, to name at least one thing as a bright spot in each time we were together. 

I hated English in school.  Except I loved to diagram the sentences.  You know what I liked about diagraming? 

I got to use a ruler, and act like I was actually doing math, precisely measuring each line of the rocket and all the appending lines, making it as perfect as possible in a way only numbers can. 

I hated teaching English when I was a schoolteacher.  Except I loved the last half of English class because I had made them a deal.  If they could get their English lesson done in half the time it normally took, and their grades didn’t blip, then we would spend the last half of English class singing.

I don’t know if this thought process holds together or not. 

Did I follow my friend Dean’s advice in each of those scenarios?  It really didn’t seem like work, and it really didn’t seem like such a long time.  Was I a success at any of them?  I hardly feel like it. 

I still don’t feel like I succeed when I try to write something, so I guess you could say I failed at English in a way.  And yet my good wife will tell you, with frustration curling at the edge of her voice, of how often I’ll stop a book I’m listening to and say, “Hear how they wrote that?  It’s perfect!”  And I’ll replay it enough times until her frustration begins to smolder into wisps of flame. 

I think what I recognize in those perfectly framed sentences I replay must be the result of something called work, done in an earlier day. 

I had hoped this would turn out to be something useful for the younger generation as they grappled with the thing they called work. 

I think it turned into a Saturday morning lazy kind of thing that sort of blathers.