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

God Always Has a Meanwhile

This one has stuck with me for a while.

At first, I wasn’t sure if I liked it or not.

Because it was rather threatening in a way.

Like, if God always has a meanwhile, then are there days were I’m not His sole interest?

But it’s turned around for me.

And I actually take a lot of comfort in that statement.

I know that while God is busy in His Kingdom, ‘Forming worlds, and causing stars to shine,’ like some song says, that I am as important as those worlds, as powerful as each sun that bursts out in blinding light and energy.

Because, meanwhile, while he is doing all of that, He is with me, just as sure as the first day I started walking with Him.

I think I get it mixed up, somehow, on the days when I’m not doing so well.

I tend to think that God left off on his attentions to me, and someone else more important has claimed his attention.

So, I go about in a swarm of busyness and despair, on those days.

Busy, because I feel like I must find Him to make everything get back to normal.

And despair, because as the day wears on, I don’t find him, and I become convinced that the day will end before I find him again.

We humans are interesting that way.  Seems like the more stressed out we get, the more stress we take upon ourselves that is entirely not ours to carry.

We forget that on that dreadful day when we realized the sky would crash down upon us and consume us and our sins, should the end of the world arrive, that we did nothing to reach God.

All we did, was gave up; said we couldn’t do it, and, if we could still halfway think, we spoke his name into our night in one last desperate gesture of utter loneliness. 

And in that moment of total loneliness, our world became a little less dark, and a little less cold.

It was then, in that light that shined around us, light that we did not generate, that we saw His presence, and we realized that His presence had come a long way from some Kingdom much more glorious than we’ll ever know, and that His presence now leaned up against us, steadying, upholding, and sustaining.

And, thankfully, He found us; because we could never find him on our own.

And He found me, because He had a meanwhile.

And that meanwhile is what made it possible for Him to reach me at the same time as he reached so many others, and at the same time as he was flinging new stars against velvety blackness, and causing new worlds to shine.

Every Fourth Tie

I picked my way through the worst spots as I drove onto the yard.

It’s true, we had just had a good-sized blizzard and the melting snow was making everyone’s yard a travesty. 

But I’ll have to admit, theirs was the worst.

I opened my car door and stared straight down and out into puddles and soupy mud.

I noticed the water in the puddle directly under my door had an iridescent color to it, and it wasn’t long before I smelled the diesel fuel mixed in it.

I stepped out, trying to skip the worst of it, but evidently, I wasn’t successful; my shoe pulled off my foot and I had to stop and try to balance on one foot in slippery mud while I pulled my other shoe back on.

I entered what I supposed was the office.

Only a few of the lights worked.  The rest were burned out.

It looked like a modern office; the floor was contemporary, but it was mostly hidden under a trail of mud that led towards the back. 

I stood for a few moments, looking at the dust covered desks that were piled over with overcoats and mismatched gloves. 

Hearing a voice somewhere in the back that sounded like it was giving directions, I started picking my way back there. 

I entered a completely darkened break room, and then finally came to the room with the voice that was still speaking.

I saw a youngish man sitting sprawled in an office chair, clicking his mouse on what looked like a spread sheet of sorts.

He didn’t hear me, and after a bit I scuffed my shoe on the floor to make him look up and back at me.

His eyes looked at me without any reason to think anything more or say anything.

“Is this hallowed ground?” I asked.

“Do what?” It looked like he wasn’t used to that combination of words.

“Is it okay if I’m back here?” I asked.

“If you don’t do anything stupid,” he grunted.

I chuckled inwardly. 

I was his senior by as much as twenty some years, and the thought of who might do something stupid, whether it was him or me, amused me.

I told him my reason for being there, and he let me know with several oaths that explained his lack of understanding my opening statement sufficiently that the higher uppers were heading this way and I could talk to them when they got here.

I retired back to the front room with the musty smell and burned-out lights. 

After a while, an engineer entered.  (I was at the head office of our local railroad, by the way.)

He was a lot more civil and a much cleaner spoken person.

He told me a lot about where he lived and how he was a traveling engineer, just like the traveling nurses do at hospitals.

I asked him if he liked working for the railroad.

He said he did. 

I wondered why he did, when I noticed how slowly they operated on this track compared to one about 25 miles south.

“Oh,” he said, “It’s all in your mind.  This is a class 3 track which means top speed is only 10 m.p.h.  That one over there is a class 1 which means you can go up to 70.  You just change the way you think.  Takes me a full day to do 80 miles.  I can take in the scenery along the way.”

“The difference is,” he said, “is that track is a remedial track.  This one is reactive.  They have a crew on that other track that works full time on replacing every fourth tie.  Takes em’ a whole year.  They get back to the start and start replacing every fourth tie again, right in front of the tie they replaced last year.  That way, they have a new track every four years.

This track doesn’t do anything until something breaks.  Case in point, I just put two locomotives on the ground yesterday when the ties snapped beneath me, and the rails laid over to the side.”

“So that’s why you guys have as many derailments as you do,” I opined.

“Yep.”

*****

I thought on that for a while.  And I figure a lot of us are either the reactive or remedial category. 

I guess either way, you get to the point where you started out for. 

One way seems like it might have a little more up-front stress, and the other way seems like it might have quite a bit of backhand stress that you never expected and may have to deal with in the heat of the moment. 

A Stitch in Time, Saves Nine

I’ve known about this little phrase for most of my life.

I’ve presumed that it meant if you take time to take care of the small problems, they won’t become big problems.

And, whether my family agrees with me or not, I try to follow it, within reason of course.

I was a bit preoccupied with the cycle of events the other day. 

For one, I had told Mama J I would be home for lunch, albeit a bit late.

And really, nothing had thrust its unlikely head into my face to change that.

Other than a little late seemed to be stretching out in front of my grasp a little bit farther as the morning slipped along.

All I had to do was grab one of our trailers that had been scheduled in for new decals, run to the normal electrical supply store I used and pick up a few supplies that I had called in ahead of time.

It all seemed to be clipping along okay, other than the late dinner thing, and I was hurrying along, within reason, of course.

Sometimes though, the smallest impression alerts to the largest consequence.

I think that is what happened when, about ten miles into my journey home, I glanced in my side mirror as I changed lanes and saw the clearance lights twinkling along merrily at me.

Except I didn’t have my clearance lights on.

I didn’t have any lights on, for that matter.

So, I pulled off the road, walked back to the trailer, and stopped short.

Smoke was billowing out from under the trailer.

And a crackling, snapping noise could be heard, very distinctly.

A 100-m.p.h. glance showed me the trailer wiring harness had been dragging, evidently for the past ten miles or more.

And since we have a full-sized battery in the trailer for the jack and to help charge up hand tool batteries, cook dinner, etc., I figured I knew what might be going on.

Because we have that battery hooked up without a fuse.

And all the pretty little sparklies that my clearance lights were doing were going on within the wiring harness also.

I wasn’t sure what to do.  Plastic was dripping from where the greatest short to the trailer frame was occurring.  It looked too hot to handle with my bare hands.

I jumped into the trailer and grabbed a side cutter and tried to cut the offending part away.

But every time I tried to cut it, it showered me and the general vicinity with sparks and noise.

By now, the smoke had changed from a billow to a good-sized cloud, and I worried any of the passing traffic would call the fire department, and then I’d for sure have some crow to eat. 

Luckily, I was able to get the harness hacked in to after several tries, and most of the action died down to a small flicker, and then nothing.

Or so it seemed.

When I pulled the trailer up on the slab, the next day to repair, I saw that the energy hadn’t been completely eliminated.

Because as soon as I grabbed the harness to see what was what, it snapped at me loud enough that I let loose of it.

Bryce heard it, and came over to see what was going on.  He grabbed one of the wires and said, “You know this one’s still hot?”

Well, I knew something was hot, but until then, not what, exactly. 

So, I cut it out from the frame, and commenced on what I thought would be a leisurely hour of repairing the trailer harness. 

But karma was right there with me, and as I pulled on the harness, it completely disintegrated, and I could see it had melted way back into the frame.

Nine hours later, and many times up and down and working an unwieldy new harness through too small of holes and threading it back out of blindsided holes in the frame, I had the lights working again.

It seems I must have been in just enough of a hurry that I forgot to hook that harness up in the first place. 

My Americano is getting cold.  I need to get back to work.

Culture

‘Culture’, according to Seth Godin, ‘Is what happens when the community insists.’

And I would have to agree.

But just to make sure, I thought to put it to a test yesterday.

The afternoon was planned to make up some sausage with our children, and Taylors.

So, we got started cutting the bone out of the Boston Butts, and Jan got going on the beef, cutting the bone out of the chuck roasts.

For some reason, it fell to me to carve that bone out of the majority of the Boston’s.  Although I don’t think it had anything to do with culture.

Next, we began running the meat through the grinder for its first run, and from there to the dining table to be seasoned.

Once seasoned, it went through the grinder again, this time on a finer grind that left it looking as pretty as you see in the showcases in the store.

And I thought to myself.  “If culture is real, and what I think it is, I’ll hear it pretty soon.”

Sure enough, I heard the frying pans clinking even as I heard Bryce holler out from his place sealing up the bags, “Anybody going to fry some up?  We need to fry some up.”

Now I’ll ask, what good does frying some up at this point in the game?  Are we going to try to figure out what tastes off, (ask if we could) and doctor it up with something different?

No. 

It’s culture. 

Plain and simple. 

For as long as I can remember, whenever we have done sausage, we need to fry some up and, as like it was yesterday, Mama J carried her plate of neatly cut squares of fresh fried sausage around to the each of us, so we could get taste on it.

But about right here is where the culture thing started blurring the lines in my mind.

I looked at all the fat we had cut off, and saw small bits of meat left in it where it was too hard to trim it off perfectly.

I saw a fix and mix bowl full of bones that had even more meat on them.

And, I confess, I slipped it all away when no one was watching.

And, I sneaked downstairs and found the five gallon aluminum kettle we use for crawfish boils and whatever else, filled it with water about three fourths full, (which I quickly learned was about a pint too much) and once it got to boiling merrily along, I handed all those bones into it and snapped the lid on before anyone knew. 

But then Bryce came in a little later and said “Whoever is doing something with that pot in the garage, it’s boiling over.”

I was caught.

Almost red-handed.

However, I knew he didn’t know what I was doing, so I kept on with my game plan.

Because my game plan called for a taste of something long gone in the annals of culture.  

I let those bones boil along for close to five hours.

Then I pulled them out, and the meat fell right off of them.

I got a slotted spoon and fished the rest of the meat from the bottom of the kettle.

I saved a gallon or two of broth for later, and transferred all the meat mixture to my large skillet. 

I set it on a low simmer, and began stirring the meat, adding broth whenever it got too dry looking.

And about an hour or so later, my meat mixture had simmered off all the fat, and I had been knocking in even amounts of salt and pepper all along. 

It was time to pull it off and put it in Cool Whip dishes and then into the fridge. 

I smiled as I tasted what my culture calls ‘headcheese.’ 

Earlier, while those bones were cooking, I had the guys run the fat that I had snitched through the grinder on the fine grind and it went into the fridge for later.

Once the headcheese was done, I started dropping this fat into the skillet, again on a low simmer, and with the same dollops of salt and pepper.

It fried down to the most delectable little crispies of golden-brown meat, each with it’s own packet of salt and pepper inside. 

“Cracklins,” is what culture calls em’.

When I was all said and done, I pulled the chilled headcheese from the fridge and, using a sharp knife, sliced neat pieces, just like you would off of a loaf of cheese, and vacuum packed them individually to be fried up later and placed alongside a syrupy mess of pancakes, or eggs, or what have you.

In the end, from what we started with, all that was left was 3 cups of oil, a couple gallons of watery broth that I threw out, and the bones.

The bones I ground up and spread around the yard as fertilizer.  (At least that is what I think the dogs did with them.)

I won’t be surprised if I’m about the only one who eats the results of my work on the sneak, as it was mostly a younger generation with us, and I doubt their culture will insist on such.

Them

I saw them grouped up a little way away from me.

I realized that I had walked right by them once, without seeing them.

I slowed my pace and eased in near their group.

I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could tell they were all looking intently at something.

And, as I got closer, I realized they weren’t saying anything, actually.

What they were looking at was too much for words.

I couldn’t get in close enough for a bit to see what they were looking at, so I contented myself with them and their various attributes.

I saw one, a farmer, to be sure, by his stained clothing and work hardened, thick hands.

I saw his face softened and, at the corner of his eye, a little moisture.

I saw another, evidently a businessman of some type.  His posture was a little stiff and pensive, but I could tell he was moved by what he saw.

I saw a fellow there from the service, definitely soldier, to be sure.  I saw his pained expression; he seemed more moved than the rest for some reason.  It looked like he was trying to hide his emotions, but I could see them breaking out all over him.  I saw supreme remorse, sadness, and, if I looked closely, amazement.

I saw ladies there.

I saw a careworn mother, little child in tow.  I saw how gently she reached down and lifted her little one so he could see what she saw.

I saw a young maiden, still untouched by sorrow, or a life of responsibility.  I saw her eagerness; her vibrancy of life.  I saw how she took in the scene before her, and how though she came with zest for life, she left with quiet maturity.

I saw a factory worker, his family standing just a little back from him, in respectful deference to him; willing that he should have the time he needed.  I saw as he looked on, cataloguing each thing he saw, and I saw his eyes light up with that, “I knew it was true, I knew it was true!,” moment.

I saw folks I was amazed to see.

The town bum, for instance.  I never could figure out why folks called him a bum, though.  He always seemed nice enough to me, just a little eccentric was all.

And I saw her.  Her clothing told of her occupation.  A life of forced servitude to any man who would pay her master for her services. 

She looked so sad.  And I, looking on at her, felt her sadness descend upon myself as a burden almost too heavy to bear.  I knew she was trapped in her place in time; I knew what folks said about her.  I knew the scorn she lived with, the terrible plight that was her lot to have been captured as she was and indentured to the man who controlled her every minute.

But then I saw her visage change. 

She had seen something, I could tell.  And in a movement almost too quick to tell, she fell to her knees, sobbing and penitent. 

But somehow, her sobs weren’t the end, I could tell.  Because as I watched, her tears changed to tears of joy, joy lining out the path before her, until her life merged with it completely.

It was then the crowd parted a bit, and I saw what they were looking at.

Just a glimpse was all, but as I beheld them, I, too, felt the difference.

For there, before us all, and claimed by all, were two feet, each with a gaping wound, still freshly bleeding.

Freddy’s 

They were young. 

They had three children.  Two girls, and, I can’t remember if the baby was a boy or girl. 

His wife was loaded down with baby and backpack; he had the little girls’ hands in both of his as they approached the ordering counter. 

He glanced my way and our eyes met briefly. 

He and his wife discussed quietly what to order and, after ordering found their way to a booth near the southeast corner. 

He went to fetch condiments for their meal and, after bringing them to their table, went back for their drinks. 

When he got back to their table, his wife was just about finished settling the baby in, and his girls had let fall a several condiment packages under the table. 

He took it all in with a quick glance. 

So did I. 

And I saw that they had enough condiment packages on the table for their meal; they didn’t need those under the table. 

I don’t know if he thought about leaving them under their table or not.  I know I did for him. 

Another brief glance my way.  I’m not sure why our eyes met as often as they did.  Maybe I was staring?  But I don’t think so. 

He squatted down, reached under the table and retrieved the condiment packages. 

I half way expected him to let fly a bit at his family for their carelessness, but he didn’t. 

And then his wife looked up, and I knew what she was going to tell him, even though I couldn’t hear what she was saying. 

Because I have sat at the booth myself, and I know how cold the air is, pouring straight down from the air-conditioning vent overhead.  

He nodded, and started transferring napkins, car seat, little girls, drinks, and yes, condiment packages to the booth next where the air wasn’t so cold. 

And he did it all without murmur or complaint, not even a hardened look around the eyes for which I might have excused him. 

About the time they were situated, their food order was called; he went to fetch that and once back at the table parted out to each one what was theirs. 

And about that time Mama J and I were tossing our trash in the bin and she was pushing the door open to go to our car.  

I told her to go ahead, I’d be out in just a bit. 

And I glanced back to the table in the corner just in time to meet his gaze. 

I smiled and walked over.  

I told him he had a very nice family, and, that I felt he was training them up in a good way. 

I wish you could have seen his eyes; or could have heard his wife as she genuinely told me thank you for noticing.  

I wish I would have had time to sit down just opposite him and soaked up his family and, if the time seemed right, tell him a few of my thoughts. 

I would have told him how I saw myself in their little group, some twenty years ago. 

Although not at Freddy’s because, if you can believe it, Freddy’s wasn’t a thing yet, twenty some years ago. 

I would have told him I admired him for doing the things he was doing. 

Things that had an altogether different meaning than what it looked like to the casual observer. 

Things that it looked like he had a handle on that I’m quite sure I didn’t twenty some years ago. 

I would have told him that I’ve since learned how much it means to a lady to make herself look pretty. 

Even if it’s only for an hour, I would have told him how much a little outing, away from the daily grind means for a lady. 

I would have told him how, when he uncomplainingly changed to a warmer spot, that he was honoring and supporting the beauty of motherhood, and going, as we men can only go so far, into that realm of nurture of our little ones, and also acknowledging how his wife, or any woman for that matter, has intuition in these areas that we men don’t have. 

I would have told him how I learned that when my wife started telling me about her day and the different things, she encountered that she wasn’t seeking advice like I am wont to give; that all she really wants is me, just like his wife had him that day. 

I would have told him that I noticed he left his phone hooked to his belt for the entire time I observed them. And I would have told him how much it means to our lovely’s when we as men stand in solidarity against ourselves, providing a solid bulwark for our family to be secure in, without any fear or assumed responsibility for what is outside of that safe circle.  

I would have told him that if he kept on keeping on just like he was, that his little girls would grow up to love him deeply, but more than that, to look for the same qualities he had in their future husbands, further perpetuating the solid home that any country is so desperately in need of if it is to survive on a larger scale. 

In the end, I would have told him I knew he probably felt so insignificant and like such a basic thing as taking one’s family out, and the chaos that always goes along with it, is actually a huge thing in the whole scheme of things. 

I would have told him it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t remember it, or if his family doesn’t, because what really mattered was that he was there, present in every sense of the word.  

But in the end, all I said was that I liked what I saw, and I walked out feeling like I hadn’t said enough.  

But looking back at them from the door, I saw radiant smiles and happy eyes, and, maybe that is all that mattered.