Looking For The Long Ride

Normally, living on top of the Blue Ridge Mountains in North Carolina is a pleasant adventure—we get all four seasons, mostly moderate winters, cool summer evenings and impressionist fall foliage. Spring on the other hand is always a little iffy—it sometimes doesn’t like to let go of winter and what often happens is you wake up one day and its summer—without a lot of what is supposed to be in between.

Sandi and I sort of “homesteaded” in 1978 and have been here since.

This past fall was one of our very best with Indian summer lasting well into mid-November—some of my best bike rides were in October and November.

However, with all that is fantastic about living along the Appalachian Blue Ridge, there are definitely some occasional drawbacks.

Like this past Christmas weekend.

Our local weather wizard Ray (Rays Weather dot com) forecast freezing rain to begin about 9pm Thursday evening and last into Christmas day with temperatures then rising to about 41 degrees. Icy accumulations were supposed to be in the quarter inch range and we stored up some water and went to bed that evening with not a lot happening weather-wise. Forecasting weather in these hills is often very difficult and we have seen the “storm watch” come and go many times with nary a whimper. So, when bad weather is forecast we take solace in the fact that it often doesn’t happen.

Such was not the case this time.

At about 3am we began to hear the snap, crackle and explosive pop of tree limbs breaking off under the weight of the freezing rain which seemed to come pouring all around at an even 32 degrees farenheit. As with strong winds, sleep is almost impossible at that point and after tumbling and turning for a couple of hours, both Sandi and I got up, made coffee, took showers and waited for our daughter Laura to get up for breakfast and Christmas morning.

Branches were breaking and falling out of our trees every few minutes or so and as Sandi and I watched the debris pile up, we wondered how long we had until our electricity went down. We would see a flicker every now and then and I ground a lot of coffee beans during this period, just in case. And I am glad that I did.

At about 9am, the lights flickered one last time and that was it for our power. I went downstairs and got the Aladdin lamps and prepared the Coleman stove and we waited until Laura awoke and had our present opening without electricity.

I did forget to tell you one thing—the previous Thursday and Friday, the high country had been the recipient of 14-20 inches of snow and I had been on a business trip that week leading into the weekend. I was able to fly into Greensboro airport just as the snow began and after visiting my daughter in the hospital in Winston-Salem, got a motel as the roads to my house and beyond had been closed due to heavy snow accumulations. All this to say, my Y2K generator was in the shed (now destroyed) and not where it should have been for it to be super useful when the power went off the following weekend.

Such is life! We had a pleasant Christmas day and got together with our neighbors for dinner they had prepared on their wood stove. Aladdin lamps produce a white light equal to a 60 watt bulb and Sandi and I read for a while after dinner and then went to bed early.

Then next morning, I got up to more broken branches and pulled the generator out of my busted shed and hooked up a couple of extension cords and we were then able to charge our phones. power the fridge and freezer and eventually watch a Netflix video that had come on the 24th. I heated water on the Coleman stove in the basement for coffee and we finally made it into town (the roads were clear except for lots of broken limbs) for more water, gas for the generator and a quick $15 shower at a local hotel.

The electric company told me that it might be Tuesday before we would have power and like it or not, we settled into having a good attitude about the whole thing.

Sunday morning, I got up, started the generator, heated water for coffee and dishes and was prepared to cook scrambled eggs on the Coleman when lo and behold, the lights came on and life slowly returned to what we now call normal. Just in case, we flushed the toilets and proceeded to get the house cleaned up and ready for another day—this day with power.

After breakfast, I fueled up the chainsaw and hit the front and side yards to cut away the tree limbs that littered our landscape.

At one point, the estimate was that 18 thousand people were without power and thanks to Blue Ridge Electric and all the other co-ops helping, that number is significantly smaller today.

It was an adventure and we made it through—and I might add with mostly good attitudes. I thought we had lots of damage but have heard of much more. It will take weeks to move all the debris out and I still have half a tree on part of my roof. I don’t think it did a lot of damage because there was still 12 inches of snow to break the fall. Maybe I will be able to get my son in law to come over latter today and we can cut it up and get it off the roof without doing any damage to to roof. I have taken lots of good pictures for the insurance and hopefully that won’t be a problem.

All in all, we are fortunate—we made it through and are ready for the next round of snow tonight and later in the week.

It has been an interesting ride and I am going to rest for awhile before doing any more.

Late November
and the crows are being noisy
as they fly from tree to barren tree
in groups of two or three
making their Caw / Caw / Caw sounds
to no one in particular

In my neighborhood – it is otherwise quiet
with everyone warm indoors
waiting for dinner to be served.

I smoke a Mote Cristo and
feel the weather turn quickly
from a long Indian summer to
the first days of wintery gloom.

The clouds overhead are heavy and gray—
with small patches of blue scattered in between.

My creativity has been lost for months in a blur of busyness—yet
I feel a thread of sentences forming on top of
my consciousness as I search for a pen and some
white paper to jot down these errant impressions.

It feels good—but I am afraid this burst of energy is brief.

I’ve spent the morning catching up—cleaning the dirty bird-feeders
in hopes of bringing them back to feed.
They are fun to watch but require lots of dedication and money—the late
summer left  them plenty to nibble.

Everything else around me is either dull green or shades of rusty iron.

A certain peace surrounds me in this moment of reflection— the crows
are still talking and dancing from bare limb to bare limb.

In contemplating my most recent post, I am acutely aware of the fact that any conversation based on creativity can take us on many different paths—some direct and to the point—others crooked and winding and through the woods we go.

For instance, to create or be creative doesn’t have to be something we do but can rather be something we are or strive to be.

Some people never produce anything that can be listened to or hung on the wall, but use their creativity to problem solve at their job or avocation.

I am reminded of the book “Practicing the Presence of God” by Brother Andrew. In it he talks about his connection with God and the fact that he felt closer (read “more alive”) to God in the kitchen peeling potatoes than in his 8 by 10 room on his knees during the required daily devotional times at his monastery. Herein lies the rub: perhaps living out our faith in a moment by moment scenario is the most creative we can ever be. To be fully aware of the moment we are in and choosing to live in that supernatural realm with God, our lives a sacrifice to Him and to all those around us, is perhaps the greatest dance that will ever be seen on the earth.

And really, isn’t this what we have always aspired to—something that transcends our very flesh and blood, seventy years on this earth, mortality. At least for those of us who have chosen the Christian path to walk.

In the recent Marhta Graham dance company performance I alluded to already, a single female dancer performed one of Martha’s early dance/theatre pieces from the late thirty’s. It was called Lamentation and the featured dancer was alone on the stage, sitting on a plain wooden bench, covered from head to toes in an elastic, tube like, body stocking. All we could see was the painted white face of the dancer and her feet and partially her toes and hands. Then, to the sounds of some minimalistic piano playing, the dancer moved to and fro within the stocking creating a sense of a caterpillar trying to figure out what he/she was doing inside of the cocoon.

Watching this “dance” take place gave me the feeling of being pushed and pulled through a life we barely understand. I also got the picture of a person trying to figure a way out of this mortal coil and all the bizarre movements we make throughout our lives in trying to figure things out. A picture was also painted for me mentally of a culture trying to move from primitive to modern—the birthing, in labor-like jerks and convolutions giving me a picture of us collectively straining to make something better of ourselves.

Having said all that, I must admit that I have never felt like I have lived up to my potential, Christian or otherwise. I still get angry at times and live a somewhat semi-disciplined life that always seems to be reaching for something just beyond my grasp. Living a life at its creative best is almost like never using a credit card and getting into a debt that has to be paid off in monthly increments. I can see the wisdom in not buying something before I can afford it, but the pull of the world to purchase is a very strong pull indeed. And in working to pay off the debt, we become a slave to a system that only seems to reward those who follow the rules, pay their bills on time and we end up losing the energy to be creative.

I have probably lost you at this point. What I am trying to convey is a thought—no, a state of being—wherein we always think the best of one another—where we exercise patience, and approach every situation that life brings to us with wisdom and humility—where we lend and never borrow and no matter what happens we can say like the apostle Paul, “I have learned to be content in all things”.

This is not better living through chemistry or some sort of hyped up transcendental meditation or prosperity doctrine thing I am talking about. This is about a life that we learn to live in the center of a very creative father who only has plans to prosper us and not leave us as orphans.

Even though I haven’t made it yet, I still believe that this creative state of being is possible—a place where if our cake doesn’t take, we eat pudding we have made instead. The glass is always half-full instead of the other way around.

It is interesting to note those times in our lives when we are full of creative ideas and yet have no earthly idea of how to express any of them—or even being aware of what is floating around inside and yet knowing that it to will be forgotten as easily as an early morning dream.

One thing that this social networking thing has going for it is the proliferation of information of all kinds up to and including books people are reading and music they are listening to.

I was checking out my Facebook home page a month or so ago and saw the name Imogene Heap mentioned in one or two posts. With my interest peaked I logged into my I tunes account and sampled her music and was so taken by her creative freshness (at least to me), I purchased my first album online. (Ellipse)

This was a major step for me: I am decidedly a hands on type of guy—I love to wander bookstores and the thought of a physical CD of music to open and touch is still my preference. It’s a social thing and what causes us/me to get out of our/my shells and participate in a real—not an imagined, virtual—life.

However I digress. Last night Sandi and I went to a dance performance featuring Martha Graham’s company. It was kind of a retrospective show and not one of the best I have seen but never-the-less set my mind to thinking about all the creativity that is loosed on the earth at this present time.

Martha (if I may be so familiar) was an individual who pushed dance into a creative, emotive, theatre-like dimension in the early 20th century and whose path, once opened, was copied somewhat by most of the dance company’s that were to follow. And in this creative stew she wasn’t always embraced by the powers that be—anyone who dares to challenge or change the status quo has this hurdle to leap.

As I was driving home from work tonight I had this thought: In the beginning, God “created” the earth. In this instance, the Hebrew word “create” means to: to shape, or to fashion. Based on James 1:17 (Every good thing given and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights…) I believe that God gave Martha Graham the creative ideas (gifts) that she then turned into dance theatre and the rest, as they say, is history. Whether she was aware of this supernatural transaction, I have no idea—it works in spite of what we know or believe—somewhat like gravity itself.

Expressing ourselves creatively, then, gives God a glory and a substance in the earth and in our lives that He alone deserves.

Yet I am most aware of the fact that the busyness of life often steals our creative expression and we find ourselves passed out in front of the latest episode of Monk or NCIS—wanting to redeem the time but somehow powerless to the grinding effect each day has hidden underneath its’ surface.

I am thrilled to find those people who have pressed through and found that place of freedom and release: Robert Burridge, Abigail Washburn, Sarah Jarosz, Mary Oliver, The Weepies, etc.

A common denominator among many of the artists that I gravitate towards is their acknowledgement of spiritual, godly things but also an awareness of the fact that as humans, we have a hard time making God our all in all—our beginning and our end. In other words, while we are looking to be fulfilled in the Creator, we are still earth bound and checking some things out. And in this attempt comes our music, our dance, our art and our poetry. The artistic urge seems to come from us not being completely comfortable in our skins and is formed/birthed in our desire to understand our purpose in the overall scheme of things.

So—maybe I have said a lot or a little—I have tried to express a thought that seems to keep forming in my mind.

And that too is a ride for another day.

It was one year ago today that my wife Sandi and I traveled into lower Manhattan via subway from Newark, New Jersey, where we were staying in a very nice Best Western Hotel. We had arrived the day before on the Amtrak train from Raleigh, North Carolina—we were well rested and more than ready to hit the city streets and have a wonderful few days of vacation adventure.

It was 9/11 and seven years after the twin towers had been attacked. The mood in Manhattan was a little less hectic than normal or so it seemed as we made our way out of the Path train tunnel underneath what used to be the Trade Center. People were already gathering for some of the day’s memorial events and we hung around for a few minutes and soaked in the energy that was building before we took Church street north and began our busy day.

It is hard to believe that took place one year ago—that 365 days have gone by since that moment in time. And how would I evaluate my year—and how would you look at yours.

This morning as I was getting ready for work, I noticed that our dog Bessie was more animated than usual looking out the living room window at the driveway. I went over to the window and in the middle of the drive stood a medium sized doe, looking this way and that and acting like she didn’t know which way to go. Sort of like I feel some days.

I guess the question I am dancing around is this: what do I have to show for this past year? Have i just lived out my days in quiet desperation like Eliot’s Prufrock measured out his life with coffee spoons—I am very much into coffee but after the first cup I am on to other things.

Even things that might at first glance seem quantifiable are not that easy to assess. Am I a better father, husband, friend than I was a year ago. I would like to think so but I am not really the one to ask. Have I left behind all my bad habits—not quite but am allowing myself to be helped by that “still small voice” of the Lord to give me the strength to complete what was begun in me many, many years ago.

I still like a good cigar, even though I haven’t had one in quite some time. It’s like this: why pay six or seven dollars for something that will burn itself up in a half an hour and then be left with bad breath and a cotton tongue.

If anything I have learned this past year it would be balance and a bit more acceptance and or patience towards those things I have no control over. I have also worked on my ability to accept myself and not look to other people for my validity. I have finally realized that if we wait for acceptance from others to feel good about ourselves, we might well be waiting into the next century. And the fact is that we all have our issues, blind spots and personality quirks. If we can’t be good to ourselves we can’t give anything but our need to those around us. I want to be a giver most of all and not always a taker—a person who builds up others in order that they can reach the heights they were destined for.

Since it has taken me several days from 9/11 to finish this post I will add a bit today before I wrap this thing up.

Yesterday, I went to a birthday party for a guy who works part-time at our local health food store. His name is Ray and he is now 85 and still working part time in order to keep busy. He is like the Walmart greeter type person—he welcomes you into the store with your name and is genuinely glad to see you. Anyway, the store’s owners set up the party to honor him and after looking at him, I can firmly say there is hope for all of us. Not that he hasn’t had his health issues but as he stood there yesterday, he looked happy and healthy and is still able to drive himself to and from work, etc.

Another person at the party asked my how my life has been lately and I was almost hesitant to tell her that it has been really good. I am more aware of this the past few days and reflected on some of this while having a glass of Merlot with my wife the other evening. As parents we often judge our life’s success on how well our kids do and while this line of reasoning has it’s obvious shortcomings, it is often very solid and affirming. At this point our four kids are happy, healthy and doing well. The first three are married and two are expecting babies in February. I guess most of all, what pleases me about them is that they really seem to appreciate Sandi and I and all that we did as a family as they were growing up. The two oldest live about three hours away in Raleigh, NC and we really enjoy getting together and hanging out and doing dinner as a family. My son even bought a nice bed for their spare room so Sandi and I can enjoy our stays with them a little more.

In addition to what I have already mentioned, my relationship with my wife is as good as it ever has been and my job and friendships have been very fulfilling the past several months.

So I guess in general, this past year has been one of adventure and forward movement. I don’t have anything less to say blog-wise, but the need to let it all hang out in cyberspace is not as acute as it once was. The time lag between posts has been almost comical but this too is a seasonal thing. Fall is coming to the mountains of North Carolina and we have some hardwood on the way. We are going to try growing wheat grass and juicing it and maybe in the late winter assemble a greenhouse and start some plants for sale and our garden. It is certainly an enjoyable ride and I am looking forward to what the new day brings.

When I began writing about my adventures and mental musings two and a half years ago, “Looking for the Long Ride” was really the only name that fit where I was at as a person or where I felt I fit in the overall scheme of things. Life to me at that point was more of a long wave type of thing—catch it way back and ride for awhile until you hit the beach.

This blog’s title actually came from a moment in time during the late sixties as I hitch-hiked through western Europe. Frustrated by people who would stop and pick me up only to take me a couple of miles down the road and leave me in a much worse place to hitch a ride, I began asking potential rides how far up the road they were actually going. Taking only the longest rides (barring pouring rain), made life a lot easier and less frustrating to me and that is how the concept of looking for the long ride developed.

However, it has recently come to my attention that a point in time exists where we stop “looking” and begin “riding” as it were.

Looking to me implies a searching or a seeking—looking to make a connection rather than an awareness of how we are currently “connected”. Living in a state of always looking almost implies a never finding what we are actually turning our attention to or seeking.

Sounds confusing—not really: it’s a matter of perspective.

Not that continuing to “look” or “seek” or cast our view towards something is inherently a bad thing. I think we have to keep learning and looking forward to what each day has to bring. However if looking keeps us from enjoying the moment, then that is where we need to re-evaluate our life and make adjustment.

So, with that said, I must now say that I am no longer in a state of constantly “looking for the long ride” but at age 60 have finally realized that I am on and in the long ride. No longer looking but a part of that which I always, in the back reaches of my mind, aspired to. Not that I am complete—not that I have attained the place of perfection or total satisfaction and achievement—but what I am in process of is realizing that what I have in my hand or what is currently my life, is much more profound than I had here-to-for realized.

I believe that I am not alone in this—that many of us have lived our lives without fully committing to what each day has for us. In not fully committing, we really can’t move forward and into that which the future holds for us.

I wish I could find the quote by John Maxwell that really speaks to what I am trying to evoke. What I remember about the quote is he said that at the moment that we commit to something a shift happens which opens up all kinds of possibilities that were there all along but not attainable until we committed.

That being said, I am now aware of the fact that I’m committed to where I am, at this very moment. This is where all of my actions and in-actions have led me. My life is as complete right this very minute as it ever has been—I don’t need to keep looking for something to happen to me in order to feel as full as I am right now in this moment.

Not that I won’t be tested in this, my new way of looking at life: I am sure there is one just around the corner. Nothing I think or feel fits within a nice convenient sized box that can be mailed anywhere in the world for one flat-rate price. I will have to refine and re-define what it is that I am reaching for or seeking.

However, at this very moment, I am more than blessed with a fantastic wife, great kids and a wonderful way to make a living. Even the garden is doing well—the beans are canned and waiting for a suitable dinner and the corn and tomatoes are just around the corner. My past has been interesting, to say the least, and I am sure that my future is one in which I am taking part in right this very moment.

Enjoy your ride today!

Many of my most treasured memories from childhood revolve around summer vacations with my grandparents who lived in Terre Haute, Indiana, about 400 miles away from our home in Port Huron, Michigan. My dad’s parents lived in our hometown and we would visit them on a more or less weekly basis, but my mother’s parents lived in the far away (for the late 50″s and early 60″s) Indiana.

I remember the long rides on the two lane roads in the old “51 Studebaker or late-model, Buick V8 my dad owned at the time. This was before Ipods, in-car DVD systems and all the other entertainment features kids have available today. We counted state license plates, made words out of road signs and sang songs or read comic books to pass the time on a long ride. I vaguely remember my hand and arm playing airplane out the open window and the Burma Shave signs that had cropped up all over the two-laned landscape of those days.

These memories were brought back to me in an rather round about way last week as I listened to a Levon Helm song entitled, “The Mountain” off his 2007 “Dirt Farmer” album. The first verse goes like this:

I was born on this mountain a long, long time ago
Before they knocked down the timber and a strip-mined all the coal
When you rose up in a mornin’ before it was daylight
To go down in that dark hole and come a back up at night

Helm was one of the members of “The Band” back in the day and has continued his plaintive, Americana-focused, story-telling since that group dissolved in the late 90’s.

In the late 50’s and early 60″s I often spent a couple of weeks by myself during summer vacations with my collective grandparents in Terre Haute, Indiana or briefly in Vandalia, Illinois. My mother’s dad Harry, worked for the Pennsylvania Railroad and my natural grandmother Mary, (divorced and remarried) worked for the Packard Shirt Co. Harry was in charge of a line and signal group and Mary sewed collars on fancy shirts for a living. When she remarried it was to a coal-miner named Harvey Smith and the house I remember staying in the most was really a trailer that got so hot in the summer the Wonder Bread almost turned to dough in the cabinet above the sink.

What partial memory the Levon Helm song stirred in me was my grandmother Mary driving late at night to pick my grandfather up from work in a coal mine several miles north of Terre Haute proper. I would be in the back seat asleep and would awaken to the sight of grandpa Harvey coming out of the mine with his white owl eyes, light hat propped on his head and nickel plated round lunch bucket swinging at his side. Everything but the area around his eyes was coal black and the smell that he brought into the car was something that had attached to him a mile or two underground. Musky and mysterious is all that I can recall at this moment.

He was a real gentleman and as I remember, loved listening to the radio and loved my grandma. In later years they would move almost a half a block away to a real house by a church and I don’t think it was as hot during my summertime stays. Most of my recollection is fairly fuzzy from that time but it seems that coal-miners worked long hours and he wasn’t around as much as my other grandfather who lived in an upscale suburban subdivision on the other side of town.

Suffice it to say, Harvey died several years later from what we now know was “black lung”. After his death, my grandmother visited us in Port Huron several times before finally moving in and taking care of us kids while my mother went back to work. She never remarried and the special bond that we had from those early years was never broken and never quite understood by me or my siblings. During my many rebellious phases, she would quietly remind me of my responsibilities and I would kick and scream and finally end up doing the “right” thing after I couldn’t tell her to go away anymore.

There’s a lot more I could write about those times and how special I felt in the midst of really being somewhat left alone and on my own. It is what it is as the saying goes. It was an interesting ride for that time and the memory of it certainly took me on a ride today—hope you enjoyed hanging on.

As i stomped my way through the briars and undergrowth today in order to get to the black raspberries beside the old homeplace, i wondered if they were glad to see me. I didn’t feel Euell Gibbons spirit or anything like that but the sense that I had was that these plants do their best every year to produce good fruit and many times it withers on the cane because no one takes the time to search them out. There they sit in the full sun waiting for some fearless pioneer to pass by and take an interest in them. One almost has to wonder where are the deer or the bear who are constantly on the prowl for a free meal.

I can almost hear each berry say “thank you”…”thank you”…”thank you” each time I release one of its fruits and the tight little branch it is attached to snaps back back and forth before finally coming to rest as my hand reaches through to another single berry or better yet a cluster of ripe goodness.

I remember one time years ago Sandi and I walked past a house that had just been torn down in order to make way for a new highway. In the front of the house there had been a glorious dry-stacked stone wall that had been almost totally covered by years of neglect. Sandi was into stone walls and I was into helping her do her thing and we came back with a truck and began to load what was left of those stones for transport back to our house and another rock walkway, patio or assemblage. It was almost as if it was our duty to the person who had diligently found and placed those rocks years before, to gather them up and reuse them—to continue the tradition that had begun in some field twenty or thirty years before our little afternoon walk.

The idea of letting that anxious bulldozer plow them under as if they were somehow deserving of that fate was much too much to contemplate. We would save those flat worn stones and incorporate them into our living space and enjoy them for as long as we could before we to, go the way of all flesh.

It seems like only the right way to think—we have to preserve what is good and fitting of our heritage or it will be lost forever. Not that we cling to things out of some desperate motive to prolong our days or give meaning to our time here on earth—but that we enter into the stream of history that flows past us sometimes like a torrent and other times is like looking at a landscape that hasn’t had rain in a while and all we see are the gaping cracks like veins running through our lives.

That such randomness can hold so much mystery amazes me. That a thirty minute piece of time picking berries can hold such interest and be filled with such poetry is a constant joy.

As the words and music inside our heads complete the soundtrack of our lives, let us rejoice in the peace that passes all understanding. That’s a good ride any day.

I was just about to get some ice cream out of the freezer when Sandi called me on my cellphone from the supermarket. Jessika, our oldest daughter, had been in a bad accident and had been taken to the trauma ward at the local hospital in Cary, North Carolina where she lives. It was our son, Joseph calling Sandi, and he didn’t have any more information for us but was heading over to the hospital and would call us as soon as he found out anything. As I struggled with my feelings about how hurt my daughter might be, I do remember taking time to pray for her and wondering why this had happened.

There was a brief moment when I felt guilty about even enjoying the rest of what was becoming a beautiful evening in the mountains. I guess that is where the ice cream came in. Would God hear my prayer if I did something enjoyable when Jessika could be in bad shape because of the accident. Within the context of all that was going through my mind at the time, I had a sense that she was going to be alright and that we would be getting a good report from my son—yet, at the same time I fully felt the soberness of the moment  and the hard reality that her ultimate condition was not in my hands but God’s.

Anyway, an hour or so later, I was talking with my daughter, who though banged up a bruised pretty severely, was being released to go home. This after CAT Scans and x-rays and so forth to eliminate any broken bones or internal injuries.

All this happened on June 20th. We had already scheduled a trip to visit the kids for the following weekend and so kept in touch with Jessika throughout the week to see if she was feeling up to us coming. By mid-week the trip was a go and we looked forward to having the whole family together on Saturday evening. Lydia, second to the youngest, was also planning on being in Cary that weekend as well.

All in all, we had a wonderful time with our family and consider ourselves fortunate that we still have Jessika with us. Several thoughts came to mind during this whole process which in turn led to me writing this.

First of all my son and daughter live within a mile or two of each other and Joseph took really good care of letting us know about Jessika and keeping us informed as well as running errands for her, etc. That type of stuff really makes a parent happy—you can’t manufacture closeness or caring and our kids have really come a long way in that respect.

Also, our family just seems to flow pretty well with one another when we are together. I am sure that would be tested if it was twenty-four-seven for an extended period of time—but overall, for a long weekend, we enjoy one another’s company. They tell us they get together every couple of weeks for a collective dinner or cookout as well.

If you had to write a script for life, this is the type of scene an author would no doubt include. What we do today builds memories for tomorrow. Then there come days when those self-same memories help us navigate through life’s sometimes choppy waters.

Family is important and Sandi and I look forward to our trips to see the kids. We are fortunate they are only 3-4 hours away. There is always a trip to Barnes and Noble and a few Starbuck’s stops along the way to break things up and make the trips there and back more interesting. Or at least that is the way the ride seems to be—and for that I am grateful.

When a project I have started takes a lot longer to complete than I had anticipated, I am reminded of an old movie I once saw about the artist Michelangelo painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. The Pope or some high ranking member of the church comes into the picture after the artist had been working on the fresco for far to long and exclaims: “Michelangelo, when will you make an end!” to which the artist replies, “When I am finished!” or something to that effect.

The ceiling did get painted and the rest, as they say, is history.

I felt much the same this year as the wet mountainous spring kept me from first getting my potatoes planted when I wanted to and then postponing the planting of my corn and beans until the first weekend of June. The good news is that everything is in the ground and growing by leaps and bounds due to the favorable weather we have experienced the past several weeks. A little rain followed by some 70 degree days does a lot for those small seeds: they germinate quickly and then grow really fast, actually catching up to those planted weeks earlier while the ground was still a bit cooler.

At least that has been my experience.

Gardening is something that I look forward to each year but as I get older, calendar-wise, the job does seem to get a little harder every year. This year, after hauling off last years stems and stocks (to wet to burn fully) I mowed down the weeds, tilled and raked then tilled and raked again. Then, after church on one Sunday, I tilled again, set up the row stakes and string, made my furrows, sowed the seed and covered them with peat and composted manure. This 30 row planting was a marathon session that took me almost 6 1/2 hours and several days to regain the energy I spent that afternoon.

Don’t get me wrong—I am glad to still have the energy to expend however it ends up getting spent. It is just that it takes longer to get back to normal than it did last year. In a perfect world I could have broken the six hours into several sessions but with our weather’s irregularity I just needed to get it done while the ground was still dry enough to work in.

It has been two or three weeks since the above took place and we are now hoping for a little moisture since the soil is drying out because of all these beautiful days we have had.

I had this thought while driving home from work tonight: the weather doesn’t really care what we care or what we wish for—it is what it is. It can’t really hear our thoughts and prayers and give us that perfect day because we are getting married outside or having people over for a cook out. If you get the perfect day, be thankful—but if you don’t, remember it is just the other side of the same coin. Sometimes you get heads and sometimes it is tails all the way.

I guess that is why they say: make hay while the sun shines.

Rainy or not—that’s the end of another not so long ride.