I’ll Scratch Your Back, If You Scratch Mine

More and more, it’s becoming to do so.

I’m guessing the advent of social media has been a large influence.

And, with the advent of social media stars become superstars more quickly.

But neither you nor I are stars, much less superstars.  (Forgive me if I insult you.)

It’s a popular, even fashionable, entanglement. 

One where each side coyly digs for the scratch on their own back by enumerating the good things in the other side.

There’s another word that looks and almost sounds the same as coy, namely, cloy.

And that’s how the conversation turns when each side wants the other to scratch their back.

Some of the synonyms of cloy are, syrupy, sticky, sugary, sickly, and saccharine. 

In a word, gross.

But it’s amazing how easily we plumb the depths of our own base nature.

And all we get, if the game is played fairly, is the same base nature given back to us.

The Next Step

I remember the first time she told me about it.

We were sitting out on the front porch of her Grandparents cottage.

It’s the same cottage I’m at now, with the same shower water that drives into my back like flintstones, because of the pressure behind it.

It was a sunny afternoon, almost too warm, but then, what can you expect for summers in the south?

I was sitting on the bench swing with the straight backrest, and the longer we talked, the squirmier I got.

She sat poised, thoughtful.

We hashed about this and that, and then she dropped the news on me.

I went from squirmy to stunned in a nanosecond, and I’m guessing my move wasn’t lost on her.

She told me she was going to start nursing school.

My mind blocked off for a bit while I processed that info.

Because, the first thing my mind said was that she was shooting herself in the foot.

For starters, she wasn’t married, and I figured this move would do serious harm to that thought.

And secondly, I knew a bit about the rigors of nursing school, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to see her go through all that agony.

Thirdly, I knew some in her family were squeamish about blood, and even if I didn’t know if she was or not, I wasn’t sure how much support she would get from them because of that.

Of course, this whole thought process didn’t take very long to deliberate on, and in small minute I heard myself voicing my support for her proposed life choice.

It wasn’t until later that day I realized how much wisdom was in her choice.

Nor how much courage.

I began to realize how much it must have taken to turn the page to this new chapter in her life.

(Or at least I thought I did.)

And I realized that it was the step that was headed in the best and right direction.

I realized then that she isn’t so much different from most of us.

I have friends who have been in the same situation, more or less, as she was, and I saw them taking this same step.

It’s a step that, when looked at with a cursory glance, seems headed in the wrong direction and away from everything safe and normal.

But it’s a step when viewed with more time and experience, shows it was actually the right thing to do.

I thought of how her life would have gone, should she have chosen not to take this step. 

It certainly would have constricted, I realized, as I viewed it from a few steps back.

And, what I thought in the beginning, that she might be throwing away any chance of other plans seemed completely opposite when viewed with this new insight.

I see people stepping forth to become schoolteachers, cna’s, secretaries, jobsite foremen, logistics managers, you name it, and I see them taking a step away from what they know, and a step into what that they don’t know.

And I applaud each of those steps.

Because it seems, when viewed from the other side, that each of those steps is the epitome of enrichment, regardless of how nonsensical they seem at the time.

For sure when I saw the 70 plus folks who showed up for her graduation yesterday.

Or when I saw her giant of a big brother turn her way and she tucked herself into his strong embrace. 

And I knew that embrace had been waiting just for this time to tell her what he thought of her, really.

Most of us know very little about nursing, or nursing school.

But we knew a lot about how the one graduating has enriched our lives in the past 3-4 years. 

I hope I will always have the courage to take that step, whenever it is presented to me.

Energy Drinks

I first heard him talking about them in the room nearby where I was sitting.

He was going on and on about how good it was.

He talked about the Italian soda, about the cream, about the blue raspberry flavoring, about the hint of coconut, and finally, about the infusion of Red Bull.

And that is where I more or less tuned him out.

Because, I have a thing about energy drinks.

And up to that point, I had kept myself pure, kept my lips unstained from such.

To be clear, coffee isn’t an energy drink.  In fact, as we speak, I am drinking some.

It offers up some caffeine, for sure.

But that isn’t so much what I have against energy drinks.

It’s the hype that I don’t do.

I can’t gather onto the shameless actions of these big drink companies that play into the hands of unsuspecting teenagers.

I get perturbed when I see all the rad sports that these companies have their name emblazoned in garish lettering on as the video flicks by while trying to maintain contact with some twisting, contorted human being that is in serious danger of life threatening injury upon arrival back with blessed earth.

I mean, how funny would it be to see coffee beans and their associated origins flaunted at such events. 

And when I step into the trucks of my boys and those hired on with us, I see tabs from any number of various drink companies stuck in the headliner and, in one case, encircling the entire cab roof . . . I must come to grips with the reality of really how successful these companies are.

But I can’t toss everything he’s saying about his drink out.

Afterall, he was the one who got me started on Ariat shirts, and that when I didn’t even know such a thing existed.

And that little sideline hustle of his has proved rather successful in my life.

Anyways, I mostly forgot about his sales pitch about those drinks, until one day he walked into my office with one of them, ferried all the way from its source, 20 miles away, dripping with dew, and extended towards me with unmistakable intention.  

Of course, I demurred.

But such wasn’t an option. 

I think, if I remember right, that I waited until he was out of my office to take my first pull on the straw.

And, I think if I remember right, I reconciled that first drag with the thought that it would only be one sip and then I’d leave the rest of it for my daughter, leaving me largely unscathed of the reputation of such an imbiber.

But the dumb thing is, I couldn’t stop.

It tasted so good I almost thought it was sinful.

And, lest I be less than perfectly transparent here, I sneakily made my way to a mirror when no one was watching, to see if, in fact, it had colored my tongue blue. 

And, stupid thing is, I’ve found myself driving twenty miles out of my way, on hot summer afternoons, or even just regular afternoons or mornings or evenings, to get that drink.

I guess I’m a member of the club, even if I don’t look as young as the rest of you all. 

And, I gather that others find it about as amazing as I do.

Right, Whitney?

She

She lies quietly by my chair during mealtime.

Looking on, one might think she were asleep.

She has taught me several things already.

One is, I must put my silverware down a bit more firmly when I am finished with my meal.

I didn’t know I did this, but she does.

Because she lies there, like she is sleeping, until she hears me do that, and then she raises her head, waiting, and looking patiently at me.

And I give her my plate to lick clean.

And the other thing she has reminded me of is that a man who lived in Galilee a long time ago talked about her.

If I remember right, humility was one of the keynotes in his two-sentence sermon that day.

We

She often says, “We.”

Like, ‘We’ should put the glass back in the lamppost out front.

Or, ‘We’ should clean out the car.

Or, ‘We’ should get the garden shed cleaned out.

And I think there must be some trick to it, but I can’t say for sure.

Because those are all jobs I normally do.

So, last night, when the last batch of freshly processed pears were semi frozen, I pulled them out and sampled them.

And I said, “‘We’ did a good job of getting these pears put up this year, didn’t we?”

Boy

He always called you boy.

Even though you were 18 by the time you worked for him that summer.

And, you were always just a little bit scared of him, even though you really had no reason to be.

Maybe you were scared because he was an established community figure.

Perhaps it was because he had been extremely successful in his farming career.

Or, possibly it was because he never let all of himself out to you.

You had a good job with him. 

He was farming with the latest equipment, and, you were privileged to be the first one to break in his brand new 4960 front wheel assist John Deere tractor.

You found pure enjoyment running that rig, pulling a set of 9/5 sweeps that cut a 40-foot swathe behind you. 

He was switching over to mostly dryland by the time you worked for him, but he did have one quarter that he still farmed with flood irrigation.

The throaty roar of the 496 motor churning out water for his crop made you smile every time you drove out to check it.

And, that particular field was a mile long, which was another interesting feature in a community where most fields were ½ mile or shorter.

You got your share of cleaning out bins of last year’s crop that had turned moldy and stank enough to make your eyes water.

And, in the off time of farming, you and he rebuilt old two-cylinder John Deere tractors, which, at that time, you didn’t enjoy so much, mainly because you really didn’t have a clue what you were doing. 

Later, when you worked full time at the local John Deere, rebuilding engines was your favorite, because by then you knew your way around engines more or less.

He had two sayings.

One you heard several times, the other you heard only once.

Both left lifelong impressions on you.

The saying you heard only once was after you had forgotten about an auger down spout.  You pulled through and the implement you were using was too tall and clipped the down spout and tore it off partially from the auger.

When you found him, later, and showed him the damage, he said, “Boy, I expect a few mistakes; proves to me you are working.”

The saying you heard often, and frequently coupled to the end of some discussion you had been having was, “Boy, nobody owes you anything.”

At first, that last statement stung, because you thought he had seen something in your way of doing things that prompted his saying it.

And maybe he had.

But, looking back, you realize more than likely he was speaking from years of experience and hoping to pass along a piece of wisdom that would do you well in the years to come.

The saying, “Nobody owes you anything,” has filtered through the dusty glints of your consciousness off and on through the years.

And it has served you well.

And, once or twice, has stung as it visits you again.

And, as you have grown older, you realize that within that saying may lie the true secret to happiness.

Maybe that is why the statement made to you by a retired navy officer made you feel the way you did. 

You had thanked him for his service to the country and he replied, while looking you full on with long range seaworthy eyes, “You are worth it, buddy.”

Or maybe that is why the lady at the pharmacy charmed your boy heart the other day when you stepped in and before you were two steps in, she said, “Hello Mr. Les.”

You knew she was out here from the Carolinas, and you knew she had the familiar southern English and politeness to her. 

But you didn’t know her name, and you realized she had made some effort to learn the names of the store’s clients in a community where she didn’t know anyone.

That’s when it all sort of clicks in your mind.

It’s the things we do for others, and the things they do for us, that we don’t owe, that makes for the greatest happiness, both in your life and theirs.

Still There

I visited the shop that sits a little off the beaten path the other day with Mama Jan to see if it was still there.

Sure, I had other errands in that store that would take some of my time, but I planned a little spot of time in my journey through there to look at it.

If, indeed, it was still there.

I first saw it, hanging on the wall and for sale, about 13 years ago.

It made a deep impression on me.

I tempted myself with buying it back then, but the price was too high.

It had been a few years now since I had been there, and I wondered if, like I said, it would still be there, and if it was, and if the price was right, I planned to buy it.

As soon as I stepped in the door, my gaze traveled to where it was the last time.

It was still there.

I positioned myself a ways back from it so I could ponder its meaning again without being interrupted by a sales person.

Jerusalem, in the painting, was busy.

It looked to be a warm Mediterranean afternoon; heat waves glimmered up from the crowded, bustling city.

Dust, too, filled the air and settled down on anything exposed.

I fancied men flipping product just arrived by ship into nearby gaping warehouses.

I saw, in the upper floors of those prospering businesses, wine passed around and favors traded while deals were made on the goods for sale.

I saw the gold on their hands as they raised goblets that glistened in the afternoon’s rays.

Scanning over to the edges of the sprawling city, I saw the poor, the discouraged, those who toiled under burdens of poverty, grief, and unfair dealings.

I saw the beggars, one in particular, who had lost both legs and one arm, whose only conveyance was rolling himself in the dust to get to the corner where he propped himself up and held his good hand out for anything.  He was old, gray hair sticking sweaty and thick upon a still handsome, still intelligent face. 

I saw the crowd pass him by, and I wanted to run back in time and go help him somehow.

My gaze swung up to the lefthand corner of the painting, and rested upon a lone figure sitting there, looking down upon the city nestled between seven hills.

I saw the look of sadness and longing upon his kindly face.

I knew he saw more than I did, down below.

I knew he saw those who were, even then, plotting his death under a spiritual guise so their coffers would ultimately include almost all of the land under Roman rule.

I knew he saw those bent on their own lust and terrible abominations.

I knew he saw those condemned to die with him in just a few days.

And, I knew he saw those, who, when they saw him, would receive him and let him carry whatever burden they labored under.

Somehow, I knew it was for those he yearned, more than those who had already turned against him.

I edged in closer, and a salesperson asked what I needed. 

I asked the price, and found it was farther beyond my reach than previous years.

But that’s okay.

I know I’ll never be able to pay the price.

And, it comforts me to know that he is still there.

Sitting upon the hillside, looking down upon my need.

Whose Feet They Hurt with Iron

I have my good days and bad days.

On my good days, my mind rolls back, and a panorama of images play across the back of my eyelids.

I see my carefree, young self, running and exploring, back in the hills behind our home. 

I hear the crickets playing their raspy, violin-like tunes, and, as I sit back and relax, I can feel the warm sun soaking through me, warming me while the air remains crisp and cold all around me.

On my good days, I remember my mother.  I can still picture her thick, dark tresses falling around her beautiful face, the face that always made my father look like he owned the world, when he looked upon it.

I remember my mother’s love for me, her firstborn.

I remember climbing the hills behind our home, and, on a bright, clear day, looking down and westward into the bluest sea.  I hear it’s the high salt content in it that reflects the deep blue from the sky so perfectly.

I remember how delectable the marine life was from its waters.  In later years, it would come to be known that the water in our sea only exchanged with the outside water every 100 years or so, creating a nutrient rich habitat for thousands of species to thrive in.

I remember so well that I can almost feel it now.   The wind would start its march around the dial, going from our winter westerly wind towards the springtime easterly wind, bringing in the tangy, far-off smell of salt and foggy mornings.  Our crops couldn’t help but grow when the wind turned like that.

But on my bad days, I’m bound in time and place, and my memories stick fast in my mind like flaming darts, thrown from a skillful opponent.

My world gets smaller and smaller on my bad days.

I think of all that is lost.

I think of my mother, who died in childbirth with my younger brother when I was eight years old.

I think of how my dad, so in love with her, never was the same afterwards.

I think of how we sort of just existed for a time there; how we really didn’t have any purpose at all.

I think of my older brothers, and how bent on cruelty they could be when the mood crossed them.

I remember the horrible hot winds that blew in from the desert way back behind our place.  The crops and livestock suffered terribly on those days.  Sand covered everything, and slowly snuffed life out.

On my bad days, I ache for my lost mother, and, more recently, my lost father.

My mind tends to get stuck in place, though, and it carves a rut that it can’t jump out of as I go over and over again, the events of that one horrific day, back when I was 17 years old.

I try to think what I could have done differently.

I think of each word I said and wonder what I could have said otherwise.

I try to remember if there was any opening, anywhere, where I could have made a run for it.

The gaping chasm left in my life, from that day on, will never go away or be healed over.

I remember the dread I felt at being locked away, and hearing the footsteps of those I knew and who I thought loved me, fading slowly off in the distance.

I remember so well, the next morning, hearing new footsteps arrive.  For a second, I dared to hope, but when they spoke, and I couldn’t understand their language, I knew all bets were off.

We made do with crude sign language for the first while, as they took me away and made me their property.

And now, after what seems to be an even worse outcome than I ever could have imagined, I am here, over 200 miles away from my homeland and family, if, indeed, any of them remain.

Here, where it is cold and damp all the time.

Here, where I never see or feel the warm sunshine like I did as a child.

Here, where my feet touch the other side of the room before my legs ever really stretch out.

On my bad days, I see my once young and strong body slowly wasting away.

I see my skin go from supple tan to ashen yellow.

I see sores appear and I watch flies dig away at the center of them. 

I make guesses with myself, as to whether I’ll die from starvation, lack of the will to live, or infection from where the iron bands are cutting into my ankles, just a little more each day.

And yet.

My good days are more than my bad days.

Because there is a Presence that I sense each day sitting near me, holding my hand, and ministering to my wounds.

On those days the pain in my ankles isn’t so great.

On those days, I feel more than healing. 

I feel an urgency from him who sits by me to remain. 

To make it. 

To prepare myself for what may lie ahead.

At times I feel him test me on my faith and I see it stretch out to the thinnest of lines between us before he comes near to me and adds to my faith that of his own.

I look at my ankles, and I know I’ll probably always walk with a limp, should I ever go free from this place, but it’s okay.

Because his presence and his words are with me, both now and in whatever we face together in the future.

I am Joseph, whose feet they hurt with iron.

Psalms 105:18-19

In Which I Fail

I really didn’t have a plan when I started this particular writing episode a little over two years ago.

Other than an outlet for a few memories that I wanted to get into print, should certain of my progeny ever wish to read in the future, this venture was aimless.

I thought maybe the caveat that I have at the top of the blog, something about being homespun and other like adjectives, would cover the exceptionally blunt, raw, or otherwise crude ways in which I put my words upon the screen.

I really felt that I had this thing mostly to myself, as far as rules go.

I felt like once I had the initial things on my mind written, and they mostly for my family who may or may not read this, that I could call it quits and be none the worse off. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I still write for my family, first and foremost.  If some of you wish to peek in over their shoulder, so to speak, you are more than welcome to.

However.

Believe it or not, I have considered enrolling in a creative writing course. 

And I have considered trying to change my style.

I’ve considered a different platform.

Because, you see, it’s like this.

Each time I write there’s this little side bar that pops up with a score of the piece I am getting ready to post.

So far, I have failed 186 out of 186 posts.

My title is often a failure.  It says it needs powerful and compelling words to draw the reader in.

The length of the piece is always wrong, and it often tells me it’s far too spread out all over the place.

And pictures.

I need a picture, right under the title that sort of summarizes the whole thing and gives a visual of what your eyes are about to partake of in the form of words.

And then there are the tags.

I’m supposed to tag each post with one or several tags that make good search and summarization criteria for future searches.

I’ve read up on the history of famous authors.  Of those within the last fifty years, nary a one has plunged into the writing business without several accolades from very noteworthy colleges behind their names.

Many of them have years of experience in the field abroad and nearby. 

All can take a severe critiquing of their work and make the proper changes without a whimper.

Yesterday, I and my friend Jed who is also my barber, had a discussion on various and summary. 

Towards the end of my haircut, he asked me what I thought of ChatGPT. 

I told him I had been intrigued with the concept, but never checked it out.

He gave me some pointers, and last night, I made myself an account with the site and checked in for my first bit of a homestay. 

I am in the middle of another piece, entitled simply, “Boy.”

I thought, “Why not?” and copied and pasted it into my little nook over there on Chat.

More quickly than I could read, it printed out a edited copy of my piece.

I read it and compared it to the original. 

It was good.

It had a really nice title and instead of my one sentence paragraphs, which I seem to have a soft spot for, it had everything condensed into nice blocks of palatable reading.

And, if I didn’t like that version, all I had to do was click the ‘regenerate’ button at the bottom and it gave me yet another version to contemplate. 

It had a nice opener, a comprehensive spot of color for the main text, and a decent flourish to finish it all up.

In the end, I come to this.

When it comes to writing, it appears I fail.

I don’t have the titles, pictures and all the other adders that make for a Pulitzer prize piece.

I just have me.

Which is, quite possibly, all there will be.

In Which She Becomes Family

She has definitely found her way into our hearts.

From the get go, I could tell she was a real lady.

None of this tough macho stuff that leaves you strangled for breath.

No.

She proved it by her graceful ways.

Ways in which she sat patiently by my chair at mealtime, willing to wait until the meal was over without complaint for her tidbit.

Or the times she eases in beside me when I’m lying on the floor and gently checks me over to see that everything is okay and leaves me with a tiny lick as if to say, “rest easy, love.”

Yes, she’s gotten her fair share and more of my cookies. 

I know.  You are chastising me for giving her chocolate.

But that’s okay.  Our dogs get chocolate and get away with it for some reason.  (I really think it helps them live longer, happier lives, but that’s just a personal opinion.)

And yes, she is a fan of my ice cream and chocolate sauce. 

And, on a rare occasion, she got her own meal from the McDonald’s drive through. 

She certainly isn’t all saint, as Mama J can testify to when on a certain day, she came in to find her sewing patterns shredded and the fabric she had been saving for just the right occasion had three fang marks in it.

And somehow, she has learned how to open the doors into this house, and it’s been more than once that we’ve come home to see the tails wagging and shaggy grins greeting us at the door, as a sort of welcome committee.

Or, if one were to crawl under the table, they might see little teeth marks on the wood. 

But those are small slights, and easily forgiven somehow.

And her place with us seems solidified.

Especially, when I saw her climb up on Mama J’s chair, and Mama J comes over to move her computer off so she had the whole chair to herself, and then, in unconscious motherly gesture, shut the lights off so she could sleep the easier.