Easy

Seems like everywhere you look, some old person is shaking their head and saying with that sage tone, “you don’t know how easy you have it.” But I yell inwardly, I don’t have it so easy. Nothing is easy. It seems like every aspect of life can be plagued with difficulty.  Decisions, problems, trouble, is at every turn. Far from easy right? Ah yes, far from easy indeed, as I type this in my own bedroom comfortable after a great supper, a relaxed evening in a climate-controlled house. A vehicle sits in the garage and if I decide to go somewhere, I can leave in less than two minutes. I have a rough idea of what tomorrow will hold, for sure that the bare necessities will be more than supplied. I know that on Sunday I will be in church, safe, which is a luxury I rarely stop to think about. Easy? I am beginning to think that perhaps I do have it easy. Maybe I’ll break the mold and not wait till I am old and gray to shake my head, chuckle a little, and say, “you don’t know how easy we have it.” So where does difficult become easy? How easy does something have to be before it can be said, “now that is easy.” A family comes to mind. Actually, they were already on my mind probably because they just left my house a half hour ago. This family, especially the parents could teach me something about easy. In many ways they are a normal family. There is the mom, the dad, three girls, and two boys. I do not know the ages of any of them, but I would guess the oldest child to be maybe 12. Is that 6^th grade? I do not know. Anyways, age is irrelevant in this rambling monologue, so we will leave it to rest. They have lived in this part of the USA for six or seven months now and seem to be fitting in quite nicely. Easy, right? Well maybe, but let’s take a closer look. They moved here from out west. California I think although it may have been Nevada. The dad had a number of different jobs out there. He delivered appliances, worked for FedEx, and for about a year was in a luxury hotel in Las Vegas as a manager of sorts. Easy? I’m beginning to think less so. But let’s take a step further back. What about the time before California and the western United States? That takes us to a different country on a different continent. Belgium. Brussels, Belgium to be exact. That is where the dad lived most of his life pre-U.S. That is where he met his wife, and it is where a lot of their story begins. I don’t know how long they lived there. I don’t know a lot of details about them, although I hope to discover more as their story unfolds. He grew up Muslim, and long story short, converted to Christianity around twenty years old. As we know this is very serious in the Muslim religion. Long story short again, he and his wife were forced to flee. To stay would have meant death. Easy? Far from it. As far from it as one can get. For them, it was what they had to do. Leave home in Belgium and move to America to save their own lives. Bounce around the western United States trying to find a better life and good home for their children. Settling in our corner of the world and now so very thankful for a Christian church, new friends, and a good school for their children. Would they say it’s been easy? I doubt it. Worth it? I think so. I hope I can have just a little piece of their courage, even though I will never face the challenges they have. It’s okay if it’s not easy, just make sure it is right.

Guest Post

Finally

Sunday afternoon is when it happened.

I have tried for years to make Dominican coffee.

Each time I go to my friend Travis’s place, I secretly hope he’ll have some made.

And then I go home and try to replicate it.

But it never tastes right.

For a while, I tried it with drip coffee and experimental amounts of sugar.

I almost caught myself gagging once during that saga.

Then I tried it with an Americana.

This was closer, but still a far cry from the real deal.

And besides, it seemed I was gaining weight.

Lastly, I tried it with pour over as my base, but this was gibberish.

I tried different beans, but to no avail.

So, Sunday I was at Travis’s house.

And besides a super dinner of roast and ham, potatoes, lettuce salad and fresh buns of which I discreetly had three, I looked for the coffee when dessert rolled around.

But I was in for a disappointment.

Of course, the coffee they served was excellent; it just wasn’t Dominican.

I ventured to ask how they made it.

They brought out a special coffee pot they had from the Dominican and showed me how it was done.

I realized that although I didn’t have the coffee vessel they had, I had a Hario Technica Glass Syphon coffee maker that my family had given me for a special occasion that did the exact same thing as their thing.

I got myself home as soon as seemed politely possible.

I found all the equipment, including the dried-out filter that was still in the refrigerator where it was supposed to be in water so it would seal off decently. 

I got the Bunsen burner filled with alcohol, let the wick soak in it a bit and started heating my water in the electric pitcher we have.  (It would have taken too long to heat a cup and a half of water with that little burner and plus, I was anxious to see how things turned out, so I gave it a jump start in that pitcher.)

Next, I ground some Guatemala beans that my friend Emery had roasted to a fine perfection.  Even he admitted himself that they were good, and I’ll vouch for him.

I fired up the Bunsen burner and placed it under the bottom chamber.

I put a fourth cup of coffee grinds into the top of the rig and waited for the water in the bottom to come to a boil, whence it would be forced up the glass tube, through the grinds, and into the upper chamber.

After a minute, once all the water was on top and stirring it, I snuffed the fire.  In a few seconds all the water came back down through the grounds into the bottom chamber. 

I quickly found a glass pitcher, put a fourth cup of brown sugar (one of the missing details in all my earlier trials, and poured my brew on top and stirred it in. 

It was so good I told Travis’s boy Lane I could get drunk on it.

And the proof was the next morning. 

My coffee cup was stuck to the counter.

Who cares about gaining weight anyway when coffee is that good.

Blessed are the Children

I noticed it right away, but it didn’t dawn on me until later.

I noticed it when I was giving her a back massage.

I felt it in the muscle that ran from her neck down to her shoulders.

I felt it in the muscle of her upper back.

Each of those muscles were thick; much more so than a normal woman’s muscle.

And, then as I looked at her husband, I saw the same thing in his muscles.  (I doubt he would consent to a back massage from me.)

But the truth of it didn’t cross my mind until later.

Later, it all clicked.

Their daughter has a condition called hypermobility.

She was born with it.

Hypermobility is characterized by being double jointed.

Their daughter can’t do a lot of the normal motor skills that her age can do, because her joints are so extremely flexible.

When she tries to walk, for instance, her feet go sideways and her sole faces outwards from her legs.

She literally walks on the sides of her feet with no compunction whatsoever.

She used to sit for hours and played happily, one leg splayed out behind and the other out in front, both flat on the floor.

All of which means she is a two-year-old who is just now learning to walk on the soles of her feet. 

Little by little she gains and little by little she walks a little farther.

In the meantime, her parents carry her.

She’s the sweetest thing; I like to be with her, and carry her for as long as I can, but I can’t nearly as long as her parents can.

Because they have that extra muscle.

Muscle built by hours of care, and enduring love.

I’m proud of her parents.

But more than that, I’m proud, and feel it an honor to visit with any parents whose children have special needs.

It’s even better if I can make a connection with their children, whatever that connection may be.

Like the 13-year-old boy with autism.

He was being shadowed by his grandpa at the wedding I attended this last weekend.

Some might have called him a crowd liability.

It’s true, he did need more supervision than some.

And he was just hyper enough and hard enough to understand that I reckon a lot of folks steered clear, just to be on the safe side.

His Grandpa knew that, and was for steering him past me as he and I interreacted a bit.

But I wanted to talk to his grandson, so I placed my hand on his shoulder and eased up beside him.

He was hard to understand, and I knew I wouldn’t have long with him, based on my experience with autistic people, so I did what I could to set him at ease.

And almost immediately he calmed down, and, in his own way started communicating with me.

Our moment was soon gone, but it remains special to me.

Today I give a shout out to all those parents who have developed extra muscle, whether real or in the form of patience and a strong mind to continue in the trying circumstances that their special needs children place them in.

They have something I don’t have, and each time I am around them, I feel privileged.

Blessed are those children, and their parents.

Written in Red Beard

Belonging

I recently realized I had joined a club.

Not that there was any grand inauguration or anything.

Seems like it happened sort of quiet like.

I had suspicions I was soon to be inducted, but I knew my credentials were somewhat lacking.

Turns out I needed a little more time.

I think I knew, more or less, that I was knocking at the door when I realized I had joined the snooty nose folks.

And I realized that on the most everyday moment of the most everyday afternoon.

The surprise of it still surprises me.

I was in the electrical wholesale store that we use most of the time.

We’ve used it long enough now that I am getting sort of a feel for where things are and when the counter staff or shorthanded, I help along by getting some things myself.

Which means I am back in the warehouse area instead of the front.

In my defense, the warehouse area is sort of dimly lit in certain areas.

And so it was, that I realized I had assumed stink bug posture with my neck craned at a most unpleasant angle while I tried hard to focus the lower part of my glasses on the small gibberish written on a load center, that was almost on floor level.

About then, Kaleb, a young skinny buck, who usually helps me, came around the corner, and I realized the humorous sketch I presented. 

Up to that point, it seemed the decision was still out to jury as to whether or not I wore these glasses for real or just as a fashion statement.

I guess it sort of dawned in me, there in the fading light of the end of the aisle, that I must have unconsciously decided to wear them full time somewhere along the way.

Elsewise, why would I assume such a ridiculous posture and hold it long enough for it to imprint itself in anybody’s mind?

But it seems the advantages have outpaced the disadvantages.

For one thing, the gallery on my phone is decidedly less voluminous than it used to be, mostly because there are very few pictures of other gibberish that was just too hard to read without snapping a pic of it and quickly blowing it up so I could read it.

It is kind of sad, though, not to be able to be free of sweat splashed glasses by merely not having to wear any at all.

On the other hand, the sweet daughter says these frames do make me look younger.

But she is too kind.

The thing that cemented my fellowship in this club happened the other day.

I was buying my third pair of jeans.

The other two must have been sewn with different measurements than I am used to.

The waistline acted like it measured 30 inches instead of 32.

Finally, though, on the third try it dawned on me that I would have to make provision for the different measuring process.

The solution seemed so simple.

Go up one inch.

And just like that, I was good to go. 

Well, they do seem a bit saggy by the end of the day, but I’m sure it is because the waistline has stretched with wearing and not that certain other elements have sagged a bit as the day wears on, forcing them lower and lower.

Even though, for some reason, I tend to see about 3 inches of jeans that have nowhere else to go other than under my feet. 

They must have changed the measurement process on the length of the leg also.

It’s frustrating; I stayed loyal to that waistline measurement for the better part of 20 years.

I think I’m a member of the club, albeit a junior one.

Written in Scooters and Dallas Ft. Worth Airport

Dreamin’

‘You can’t laugh if you haven’t already laughed.’

‘You can’t drive if you haven’t already driven.’

‘You can’t cry if you haven’t already cried.’

So said one of the characters in my dream early this morning.

At first glance, those statements seemed like a duh to me. 

And maybe they are. 

Maybe they are conflicting statements, as in, take the initiative and you can do anything.

But as I drove westward this morning to pick up a couple of delayed shipments, I thought of them some more.

I’ve always had kind of have a thing when someone tries to apply anything and everything to some aspect of life. 

Maybe I’m vindicated on this one though; I wasn’t purposely trying to apply it to life when it suddenly applied itself to me.

(And maybe to any man, for that matter.)

For some reason, we men have this thing called an ego that takes an over proportionate amount of space in our lives.

When it does, each one of those three points suffers.

*****

‘You can’t laugh if you haven’t already laughed.’

Sometimes life gets too sober for us. 

We feel the ponderous weight of responsibility as it weighs down on us. 

If our word is taken as the end conclusion on the committee we serve on, we soon tend to think our sage advice is what buoys up the rest of the members we work with, and we try to anticipate the next problem or conundrum so that we can have an answer at the ready.

Such men are very difficult to work together with.  There seems to be an inordinate amount of pressure perceived from them to take their instruction, because not doing so will result in unwanted frustration and unasked for problems that their lofty position has foreseen.  You dwell under a continual threatening cloud of “See, I told you so.”

Another thing that happens when life gets too sober, is that we lose our smile. 

We lose the propensity to notice the most innate things along the road we travel. 

Because they aren’t worth our time. 

But life isn’t made up of singularly placed quite noticeable things that make us smile.

No.

It’s made up of hundreds of small things—the smell of spring air, the smell of feedlots, the sound of irrigation engines faithfully doing their job, or, my favorite, the sound of a distant train whistle, the sight of contrails forming a crosshatch pattern overhead, or a dog’s tail showing her enjoymentof our presence.

And that doesn’t even begin to start on the unending humorous things that happen when a family gathers for a meal.  (Such as a whole gallon of tea spilled on a carpeted floor because the sweet daughter and her dad got into a tussle of sorts.)  Amazingly, Mama J even smiled as I was down on all fours, scrubbing for dear life.

*****

You can’t drive if you haven’t already driven.

Surprisingly, we men who are made to be protectors and leaders, find in this our greatest strength also our greatest weakness.

Because we can be extremely lazy.

And it is most gratifying to be served. (Think ego.)

And sometimes it is most embarrassing to take the initiative in a public situation.

It takes courage to force oneself to break out of our comfort zone of lethargy and into a zone of humble leadership.

Leadership, when properly executed, demands submission of our idea to all ideas on the table until a wise choice of direction makes itself known.  (This isn’t laziness in the least, because the whole time we are fighting an inward war that wants to make our wishes known.)

Leadership means backing up more often than seems necessary.

Leadership means taking the blame of those under you as your own.  (Seems like there was a certain centurion that got this right some 2,000 years ago.  (Mathew 8:5-9)

Leadership refuses to micromanage. 

Try driving your truck and don’t let your eyes travel any farther than ten feet in front of your vehicle and you’ll get the idea of how disastrous this negligible and dangerous approach is. 

Leadership looks a long way down the road.

And whether the way looks easy or tough leadership continues with a steady hand on the wheel so the rest of his ride can function without the added worry of trying to steer the course besides their own duties.   

Leadership is risky. 

That is why it is so easy to hide behind a subterfuge of supposed intentions that are never realized.

*****

You can’t cry if you haven’t already cried.

Ego, again.

It’s so easy to present a tough exterior. 

Why?

Because we are scared we might loose our position of command if we let a little bit of vulnerability show.

We think softness is for pansies, and we think pansies are for the birds.

Go ahead, call it what it is. 

That thought process is degrading and categorically part of a caste system that we hope will elevate us in our social setting.

But a stern look, or a dent proof exterior creates a shell that turns into a prison known only to ourselves. 

It’s lonely inside there, and awfully uninteresting. 

I should know.  I lived inside one of those shells for the better part of 30 years.                      

Not being able to cry alienates us from those nearest to us and forces them to take a position never meant for them.

Which often involves making them need to share their deepest hurts and feelings with someone else or not at all.

Real men show real feelings.

And they aren’t cowards when they do so.

They are a great spreading tree with a cool patch of grass underneath it for those weary along the journey of life.

To stay tough and unbending stunts growth of the tree we are supposed to be, and the branches are forced into lifeless limbs that are eventually pruned off, and then the grass finally dies.

But some men stay as that unyielding stump all their lives, believing somehow that what they offer is useful.

And who in their right mind finds reprieve by leaning against a thorny stump in an arid plain?

*****

In the end, you can’t be any of these things if you haven’t already let yourself become them.

Written in Patrick Dugans

Pssst.  Jane Goodall just stepped in.  If any of you happened to read a post back in November of 22 with a title involving her name, you’ll know what I’m talking about.

Except this is my third time meeting her here.  The second time I was unguarded enough to let my mouth get going before my mind did and I blurted out that I had written about her previously. 

Upon which she and I were both surprised, because we were still complete strangers. 

And then I committed an even greater crime against myself.  I offered to send her what I had written if she gave me her number, which she did.

But it never would send, and I felt bad about that, because I didn’t know where she lived or how to tell her it hadn’t sent.

In the end I thought maybe karma was saving me from my blunder and I was free of any obligation of sending anything.

Until today. 

I found out I had a 0 instead of an 8 in my phone number for her.

And her name is Kandy, not Jane.

93 Percent

They say we gather 93% of anything communicated to us through facial expressions.

The other 7% is gathered from what we hear them saying with their voice.

I admit, I was flabbergasted when I heard this.

Yes, I heard it; didn’t have the chance to see it.

I guess that is how a person would say it; the part about facial expressions, that is.

Reminds me of an old gentleman I really enjoyed visiting with.  He had a wealth of knowledge and even more of experience, but he was almost deaf. 

He would often say, “Turn the lights on so I can hear you.”

He probably had the jump on all of us when it came to communication.

Even though, looking on, we who heard probably called him somewhat handicapped.

It makes me wonder how it’s going to turn out for the future generations and who really is the handicapped one. 

Because I would hazard a guess that most of our communication today has a percentage just like we started out with.

Except it’s reversed.  We try to understand 93% of what is being told to us without seeing it.

And the remaining 7% we see, because we are actually in person, not hidden behind some digital device that we are relying on to do our communication for us.

Maybe this explains a little turn of events that occurred between my friend Jesse and me.

Now admittedly, I have several things against me when it comes to communication.

I don’t hear as well I used to. 

Well, wait.

I hear just fine.  It’s just that people tend to mumble so much more than they used to. 

I hear their mumbling just fine.

Another thing I have against me is that I seem to be scatterbrained at times.  For sure when there is a lot going on.

My wife will attest to this quite readily, but she’s too kind so you probably won’t hear her actually say it. 

(Or see it said.)

And the last thing that I can think of, is that I used to not be able to see all the letters in a text message and I had to always either be taking screenshots and blowing them up, or simply guessing. 

All of which is what I think happened the afternoon Jesse text me.

As far as afternoons go, it was a bit of a humdinger.

Some went so far as to call it the blizzard of the century.

I never heard if those saying that were older than me or younger. 

They might be right though, it was a nasty one, and life became all the more disrupted when the juice went off right before the storm hit.

So, in the midst of this seething storm and power outage, Jesse messaged me and, and as I read it at the time and guessed at what letters I couldn’t see, I was given to understand that he wanted one of those nice Generac generators that we sell installed on his property. 

I had a tiny reservation, because I knew he had been throwing a lot of money at getting started at a new place out in the country, (Sorry Jesse, I should err on the positive side not the negative,) so I messaged him back with ‘Serious’?

And he said, “Yep.” 

That much I got.

So, I ordered a genset. 

And when it arrived, I sent Josh and Bryce out to set it up for him.

It was a bit more of a complicated install, owing to the fact that we needed to turn on both his shop and house in case of a power outage, so the guys didn’t quite get it done on that first day. 

I planned to send them out the next day to finish.

But that evening, I got a voice message from Jesse, asking me to give him a call, and it seemed I could almost sense a bit of strain in his voice.

When I called him, the strain I suspected I heard seemed a bit more evident as he said, “I don’t know what happened, but it looks like we had a colossal misunderstanding.”

I liked his word colossal right off.

Turns out, he had correctly messaged me of his intentions, when I looked back at our messages, and took my time reading it, like I hadn’t during the storm.

All he wanted was a single switch that he could roll his portable generator out to and hook up during a power outage.

Obviously, the fault was all mine, and I have to hand it to Jesse, he had in him that courteous southern deference that I see so clearly in anyone who hails from the south. 

I sent the boys out the next day to retrieve that errant generator and install a switch instead. 

It’s like I tell the boys when things like this happen, ‘It’s all about making memories.’

And, this memory is a good one.

Because, you know what?

My wife is really pleased with the new generator she has to power her house now. 

And, if I dare say so, she was every bit the pleasant customer that Jesse is.

But of course, because she is from the south, afterall.

Written in Red Beard and KC window tinting

Pipestone

To be honest, my world is rather small when it comes to things I’m not particularly interested in.

Or maybe I’d like to be interested in them, but time doesn’t allow me to be.

Last Friday, I stepped out of my car on a windy, cold, but fairly sunshiny morning.

I was there I was for a walk, mostly.

I saw there was a visitor center but thought maybe I’d visit it on my way out, if I still felt like it.

I saw the path in front of me was paved and it said it was a ¾ mile in a loop back to the visitor center.

Perfect, I thought. 

I’d whip it up to a fast walk and be back and warmed from my walk before I got too cold out there in the wind.

What I didn’t know, as I set out on my walk, was that I was only one in hundreds, or more likely, thousands, who had walked that area, and although at first I figured it was for an entirely different reason than I, yet in the end, I wasn’t so sure.

I stepped up my gait and soon came to the first point if interest. 

It seems the area I had chosen for my walk had significance to it, going back some 1,200 years, or approximately 700 years after Christ left this earth. 

Some Native American Indian had noticed something while passing through the area, and, like we humans are, others noticed what he had and wanted one for themselves. 

I was slow in catching on to what this thing of interest was, because I was so absorbed in the scenery. 

What had begun for me as a walk on a prairie plain, much like the pasture behind our place back in Kansas, suddenly divulged into something much more rugged. 

Grass gave way to huge stones, and the huge stones led me into a sanctuary of sorts where the wind was muted by the cliff like walls that surrounded me on three sides, and water cascaded down before me; its gentle music calmed me and made me stop my walk for some minutes as I stood and let it all soak in.

I crossed over to the other side of the stream and stood high on a lookout above it all. 

Here the wind hit me in full force, but being a Kansas guy, I felt its same soothing power that I have felt over and over at home.

Even now, as I write this, I pause to remember and feel it. 

The setting had changed drastically since I started my walk.  To my left was the cataract cutting through stone walls, bounded farther on by waving prairie grass.

To my right stretched an unbroken plain where my vision stopped on a solitary tree.  I could see streamers were attached to it and waving in the breeze.

I continued my walk and came to a site of excavation. 

Sheer granite walls led down about 15 feet to an area I figured must hold what all the plains Indians had traveled, some of them hundreds of miles for, but my eye failed to see what it was.

Rather, my gaze arrested on large piles of broken rock, each piece no larger than 6 to 8 inches square. 

All hewed from that chasm by hand. 

All piled in those piles for several hundreds of centuries.

All chipped out and passed over for that prized possession that lay wedged between its layers.

I came to a plaque that showed a picture of multiple teepee’s that were pitched on the open prairie to the south and east of where I now stood. 

The plaque told me that all these nomads had come here for a malleable red stone that could be fashioned into peace pipes that were used as a ceremony in their peace councils.

I read that most of the warring tribes that met at this place, and while within its sanctums, were at peace with one another. 

It seemed to all fall into place then.

Each of them had come with the intent to find a treasure of great price. 

That treasure, I was to learn in the visitor center was only a two-inch-thick vein of rock down at the bottom of that 15 foot trench.

Everything had to stop; every normal activity was put on hold, as the people took turns chiseling their way down there.

The space at the bottom was hardly wider than one person’s width.

I seemed to see squaws standing on the rim of it, watching the progress, joined by squaws from another tribe. 

I saw them all become one people there, as warriors worked side by side and hand in hand in that country of peace.

I saw the worst of enemies meet, and, after a bit of hesitation, exchange the precious rock that they had worked so hard to get to.

I saw them, in the shades of evening, with twinkling fires here and there, break out the meat that they had carried with them all this way.

I saw as they shared it with each other.

I saw them smile and laugh. 

I saw them broker for more peaceful associations and borders that weren’t as closely guarded as before.

And what I saw, out there on that common plain, made very uncommon by what happened there, seemed to remind me so very much of another place, and another time.

Only then they met outside of a roughhewn tomb, and there too, all strife came to a standstill, and every heart was filled with joy because of treasure they had found.

Written in Red Beard and Scooters

Wrong

“It is the most wonderful thing to be able to be wrong,” I said.

“It is the most amazing gift,” she replied.

School

(A documentary/editorial on the subject thereof, not to be considered authoritative.)

According to a little research I’ve done, both with Uncle Google and in a tall book I own called Adams Syn Chronological Chart or Map of History, the first known education system started about 800 years after this world was created.

I guess I would have assumed that school and the knowledge that comes with it was handed down at the time of creation. 

But not so. 

It had to be discovered and learned.

The first school, so they say, was located in what is present day Iraq.

For interest sake—

The first school was very basic.  Numbers hadn’t been figured out yet, so it was mostly a school that offered ethical concepts and memorization of biblical and historical things.

Here is a hypothesis—

101 years after the flood, the building on the tower of Babel ended because of the confusion of tongues that God caused to fall upon mankind and the people were dispersed.  As was noted earlier, schools taught very basic things in those days. 

Peleg was born right at the time the people were dispersed.  We don’t know anything more about him other than that he is a history marker of sorts for, “In his days was the earth divided.”  If you wish to verify this fact, you’ll also find it in Genises 10:25 and later in I Chronicles 1:19.

The thought has been advanced in the scientific community that before this happened, the earth tilted at around 10 degrees instead of the 23 or so degrees it does today.  This would have made for a much broader Tropical band where folks could spread and live easier than today. 

Before the earth was divided, in Peleg’s days, it would have been easily possible to reach the Americas by land travel. 

Then the earth was divided, and besides being divided, it changed the balance point and the earth tilted to 23 degrees. 

This division of earth would have left the Americas marooned from the rest of the world and any new concepts of the basics of education.  Thus, it seems to make sense why the Indians were discovered with a very basic knowledge of education, being rather barbaric instead.  

If you look at a world map, the division of the earth left all of Asia and Europe a connected land mass. 

— End of hypothesis

After the flood, and the dispersal of humankind, each geological place developed their own systems, all of which fell back on the original platforms of thought developed in the Mesopotamian beginnings.

China developed its school that was also closely related their mythical beliefs, much of which stayed the same for several thousands of years.  It is thought they became somewhat familiar and able to predict astronomical events as early as 2155 B.C., or approximately 300 years after the tower of Babel was constructed.

Approximately 450 years after the tower of Babel dispersal all of Asia and Europe had been visited and colonies established in Africa, Spain, Ireland, Britian, Denmark, and Scottland. 

People were living in these places and developing their own history and education before Abraham was born, or some 450 years before Moses led the children of Israel out of Egypt.

India held the Verda’s, or textbooks that taught History, Philosophy, and Poetry, and the Sans script style of writing as early as 2000 B.C., or about the same time Abraham was departing for the land of Ur of the Chaldees.

Later, when the Ten Commandments were handed down to Moses, school expanded to include moral code and general hygiene.

The Chess game, which teaches strategy and forward thinking was devised around 680 B.C., by the Palamedes, during the same time Jeremiah was prophesying his lamentations.

The figures, made to work for mankind, came along around 560 B.C., or the same time Nebuchadnezzar was king.  This was the time when the 47^th problem was solved and out of that man got the multiplication tables, sine and cosine, or Pythagorean rule.

During much the same period, the Greeks founded what they called the four schools of science—Criticism, Mathematics, Astronomy, and Medicine.  A public library was instituted during this time to aid in learning.

This long line of history in education then, from about 800 years after the world was created until the time Christ was born, and which spans roughly 3,200 years still provides the basis for a lot of what is taught in our schools today.

You could almost say school is stamped in our DNA.

Any advancement in thought by mankind in the succeeding years has only been possible because its basics were couched in these original schools of thought.

Consider—

How could Einstein have developed the theory of relativity without the multiplication tables?

How could flight have been achieved without the basics of Science?

Computer programming, in its most basic form, consists of a simple string of 1’s and 0’s in a specific order.

Wars won or lost have been hinged upon how well those ordering them were able to anticipate the opposite side’s next move and calculation as to whether they have enough supply to carry their plan through.

Perhaps medicine embodies these schools of thought more than some; how lost would its surgeries be without knowing the number of units of blood, theory of circulation, and atomic behavior. 

And what about space travel?  Extremely precise measurements coupled timing make for a successful voyage, using known aspects of the universe as an aid to launch and land a man or machine robotically hundreds of thousands of miles away on the moon, or, even farther, millions of miles away on the red dusty planet we call Mars.

*****  

Has the general principal of school changed much since those bygone years?

Pertaining to the basics, no.

Pertaining to how the basics are learned, yes.

Obviously, modernization has played a large role in how the basics are learned.

One thing shouldn’t change, however.

But I’m pretty sure it has.

I gather that it has from a spell the word game I play on my phone.

The basics haven’t changed at all. 

Words are still spelled the same way, after all.

But this game has ‘study aids.’

These aids come in the form of points given to use against a free hint or hints, depending on how many points I’m awarded.

The only thing I need to do to get points awarded is open the game every day.

I don’t have to do any spelling whatsoever. 

If I skip opening the game for a day, I am penalized and don’t get as many points for a few days.

So, what is the game about? 

Spelling a word correctly?

Or a brief adrenaline rush as I estimate how many points I’ll get as I see the treasure chest flash with anticipation?

There are a lot of study aids that aren’t aids at all.

There are a lot of short cuts to the answer that don’t give knowledge at all.

In the end, the basics are learned the same way they always have been.

By applying ourselves and doing our best at discovering them, just like all the folks in the last several thousand years have done. 

Written in Red Beard, in the air between Denver and Sioux Falls, The Source, JJ’s, Cottonwood, and home.

It Takes a Village to Raise a Child

And evidently a small army to pour porch footers and stem walls.

Austin woke me out of a deep sleep on a rare nap to ask if I could come ‘stand by’ while he poured the footers and stem walls on his front porch.

I knew he had it all formed up already, so I didn’t figure it would take a whole lot to get done.

Arriving at Austin’s place, I scanned the porch stem walls he had formed up and noted that he had done a very good job of stabilizing and bracing everything.  I pushed here and there on the forms and they hardly wiggled as I remembered back to a hot Saturday morning over twenty years ago when I was about Austin’s age and had a similar front porch formed up and ready to pour.

Except my forms wiggled. 

Greatly. 

And the plywood I used was too thin.

The truck driver took one look at my setup and said, “It ain’t gonna hold.”

I said, “Well, let’s at least try.”

My forms didn’t hold, and we soon had all of us pushing and shoving, grunting and sweating, in one massive attempt to contain the soupy concrete that seemed determined to scale the walls and make some grotesque reptilian monster of itself in my front yard.

We managed to save it, although all four walls definitely leaned and were bowed out when I took the forms off.

But, looking over Austin’s setup, I was relieved to see we wouldn’t have that problem.

Other than that, he wanted to double check the square of things, and after a few minor adjustments in that area, we were looking towards town for the truck that was about 10 minutes late.

About then his phone rang, and it was the truck driver, wanting directions.

We spotted him sitting at Tim’s place, a half mile southwest of us. 

I was impressed with the driver.  He eased in slow and careful like, and, considering his 20 something years was surprised he was as careful as he was.

We discussed how to approach the porch and he was soon backed up and in place.

His ‘mud’, or concrete, seemed plenty dry, so we had the driver add some water.

Soon it looked right, and we started pouring in the back northeast corner. 

Austin wondered if the tin that comprised the skirting on his house would hold the back of it.  But I thought it would, since he had it foam insulated on the inside, and I knew that foam added a lot of strength.

I was in the middle of telling him as much when the whole thing shifted south about four inches. 

We went from square and sturdy to unsquared and squirrely in a blink of an instant as one of the boards spanning the top of the forms failed when the screw holding it in place pulled through. 

I thought we might be able to build a sort of pry bar system with a stake and a long length of 2×4 resting against the stake at the bottom and against the top of the form. 

It was easily built but offered nothing in the way of redemption.

Austin was quick thinking though and realizing that the outside wall was compromised only on the south side, cut a four-inch section out of the back wall that allowed us to push only one wall back in place rather than trying to move the whole form setup that was now partially filled with mud. 

Of course, this left the inside walls all askew.

But what did we care? 

They were going to get covered up anyway, and a little more mud would strengthen things.

Thus, we continued.

Until I happened back around to the north side of the forms.

A dirty deed had happened all on its lonely, it seemed.

The whole north wall had splayed out.  At least 10 inches. 

I was dumbfounded. 

Why were all these sturdy forms going to smash?

So, we stopped again.  (Thankfully, our truck driver seemed extremely longsuffering with us.)

I thought maybe if I got Austin’s pickup backed in there, we could put a 2×4 against his receiver hitch and back up, forcing that obstinate form back into place.

It took quite a while to get his truck in there, as I only had 15 feet to work with as I tried to move sideways and into place. 

Finally in place, we set things together and I put it into reverse.

And promptly spun out.

So, I put it into four-wheel drive low, and tried again.

And promptly spun out again.

About then, Austin asked, “Shall we break it all apart and start over some other day?”

But I couldn’t really see that, because then all that soupy mud would flow out into some grotesque reptilian creature that we would have to jack hammer into bits so it could be hauled off.

I was still pondering all this, sitting in the cab of Austin’s truck, when I saw a phantom appearance in my peripheral vision.

“Surely not,” I thought.

For what seemed to appear into real flesh was a whole army, armed with what at first in my exhausted vision seemed to be spears but latter turned out to be stakes and more stakes.

And men.  Battering ram tough men.

It was then I saw another wall had splayed.

Somehow, Both Tims, Seth, and Trenny, who were in the middle of putting on siding, on the other side of the garage, had sensed our quandary and just showed up.

Sledgehammers swung with immense force.

When the stakes they brought were used up they made better and bigger out of 2×4’s.

I heard a telehandler revving its engine, and in a small hurry it was positioned, instead, where I had been with Austin’s truck. 

Those sprawled out forms were no match for the hydraulic pressure applied against them and they straightened right back up.

Or mostly.

I sure wonder what that truck driver thought as he saw Tim’s crew and Austin, (I seemed to have bleared out) spring into action were action was so desperately wanting.

In ten minutes time, or maybe even less, all was good and the pour continued.

And as suddenly as they showed up, that capable army drifted back to their work.

Only one wall is a bit splayed.  Well, all of them are splayed into the inside, but that doesn’t matter.  And I think Austin will be able to fix that one wall easily enough by firring out some pieces of wood to take up the gap and then his stone can attach to that.

In retrospect, I wonder if we didn’t have that truckdriver get his mud a little too wet for what we were trying to do and the ponderous weight of all that liquid equally exerted in all directions, found every nook and cranny it could to exploit itself against us.

*****

It wasn’t the first time it happened to me. 

But it wasn’t lost on me either.

It seems when we humans get about so deep into misfortune, whatever type that may seem to be, that we sort of phase down to a primal level of living and not a whole lot of constructive living gets done.

And when help comes, it almost seems better to step back and let the help get the job done according to their criteria.

I sure hope Tim’s crew felt a blessing from their efforts.

I know I sure did.

Written in the air between Liberal and Denver