What a wonderful World

I'm sitting by the open patio door listening to the stiff southern breeze blow through our ash trees while gazing at the blue tinted mountains looming close on the horizon. 

Does anyone remember the words to that old song by Louie Armstrong "What a Wonderful World?"

Here they are, as inspirational to me as they were long ago. 

         What a Wonderful World

I see trees of green, red roses too. 

I see them bloom for me and you. 

And I think to myself

What a wonderful world. 

I see skies of blue and clouds of white. 

The bright blessed day,

the dark sacred night. 

And I think to myself what a wonderful world. 

The colors of the rainbow are pretty in the sky. 

Are also on the faces of people going by. 

I see friends shaking hands and saying how do you do. 

They're really saying I love you. 

I hear babies crying, watching them grow. 

They'll learn much more than I'll ever know. 

And I think to myself, what a wonderful world. 

Yes I think to myself, what a wonderful world. 

Autumn Reflections

The flaming red hills of October 

spark memories of rare days in June,

reminding me that the past summer

has hastened away much too soon. 

The passing of summer brings longings

that Autumn's crisp air congeals. 

Hence cometh the advent of winter, 

transforming the green colored hills. 

The longings I have won't destroy me. 

They steal o're my soul every fall. 

Just something that I've learned to live with, 

not serious in nature at all. 

I'm prone to sit back and ponder, 

Yes welcoming natures display. 

Preparing myself for the stillness 

brought on by a cold winters day. 

Years ago I sat down and in a fit of nostalgia, wrote this poem. For years I was plagued with melancholy as fall approached. Since we moved from California to Arizona, that fall sadness has, for the most part, left me. However, this year the same old feelings have, for some unknown reason, crept back into my consciousness. Maybe posting my thoughts in this blog will assuage that little imp that wants to come back and trouble me this time of year. 

What Independence Day means to me.

In our youth we spend the Fourth of July setting off fireworks and watching professionals display their pyrotechnics. We stand in awe as the rockets propel themselves upward, then burst into heart stopping displays of colorful stars and booming explosions and multi colored lights streaking through the night sky. When I was young dad would pack us up and we would trundle off to our little town and gather at the town square where it seems the whole town had come out to see an awesome display of good old patriotic fireworks. We would find a place on an untaken small patch of grass in the town park and impatiently wait till it was dark enough for the technicians to begin their magic. And magic it was. We would watch, awestruck, until too soon it was over. The same scenario played out in the small town in California, where we later moved. The same scene played out in many small towns across America. 

When I was young I didn't think much about the purpose of it all, except it meant getting together with friends and family, eating watermelon, grilling burgers, popping firecrackers and shooting off all types of fireworks. Oh and the homemade ice cream. I can taste that hand cranked delight to this day. 

Those were fun times. It was hot but when you are young you don't seem to notice. 

Later in my advanced teen years we still had fun with fireworks and grilling, but my mind was maturing and I started thinking about the real meaning of Independence Day. 

Before my oldest brother passed away, I had the privilege to accompany him on a trip to Philadelphia. We toured the museum, saw the liberty bell, but the place that was most impressive to me was the room where George Washington, Ben Franklin, James Madison, Thomas Jefferson and the others, hammered out the Declaration of Independence. 

In the heat of the summer they worked tirelessly until they came to a consensus and the constitution was born. They risked everything they had, including their lives, for that precious document.

As another Fourth of July comes around, in the midst of all the unthankfulness, turmoil and todays prevalent attitude of "me first", can we still, in our hearts, feel moved and exemplify a gracious spirit for what our Founding Fathers did for us. 

Can we set aside a part of the day and excuse ourselves from the celebratory activities and in quiet solitude take a moment and silently thank those who went on before, risking everything for the freedoms we have today?

That is what Independence Day means to me. Freedom. 

Father's Day

Today is Fathers Day and as the sun drops in the west, nearing the mountains, the thermometer hovers at 108 degrees, after a high of 112. 

I mention this because my father, whom I lost last July, was a lover of the desert, where I now live. He loved cool desert mornings, especially on trips from California to Kansas. 

We would start out from Livingston early in the morning, drive all day and stop for night in various desert towns along old U.S 66. He liked to leave the motel early so daybreak would find us in a small roadhouse eating pancakes as the sun rose on the beautiful desert he loved. Ah the memories. 

It's been lonely today, the first Fathers Day without him. 

Thoughts of him have been rolling along the picturesque highways of my mind all afternoon. 

My dad did not leave me material goods because he didn't have much to leave, but he left me with so many good memories. 

I believe one of his greatest pleasures in life was traveling, and travel we did. Mom, dad, Carlyle and I, riding the ribbon of highway in our '63 Falcon, exploring our own little world along U.S 66. Those are the memories I'm dealing with today. 

Why thoughts of traveling with my dad  are the ones I'm flooded with this Father's Day is beyond me, but so be it. I loved my dad and those are some of the beautiful recollections I'm having on this special day.  

Memorial Day 2016

May 30, 2016

It's 5 am on this beautiful Memorial Day morning. The first light of the day is beginning to glow over the eastern mountains. I'm reminded of when King David mused about the dayspring in his Psalms. 

What am I to remember today? Our fallen heroes? Yes I will remember them, although I knew very few of them personally. But yet I will remember their ultimate sacrifice and be thankful to move about and work and live my life conversing in my mother tongue. 

I will also remember, on this Memorial Day, my parents who are not with us anymore and whom I miss terribly. Even though they lived a full life, I so wish they could have stayed longer. 

I will remember my brother who was taken at a young age. Twenty four years passes so quickly. 

I will remember my older brother who has been gone seven years. It seems like yesterday we were planning a trip together each October. God allowed us two trips together, then He thought best to take him. I remember his quirks and his story telling and how we laughed until there was no laughter left. 

I remember my brother in law Harold who was taken eight years ago. He, Carlyle and I built so many good memories and laughed at each other and argued. I wouldn't trade those times for anything.

 Not many men left in our family. 

Most of my aunts and uncles are gone and I remember them. 

I remember both my grandpas and both my grandmas and the legacy they left remains close to my heart. I am so very blest because of the Faith to which they clung. The Faith once delivered to the Saints. 

And since no memory parameters have been set on memories today, I will remember Missouri and our family living on the little farm south of town. In my mind I see dad working around the yard, faithfully carrying out his duties and the frustration and discouragement that beset him many times. I also remember his sense of humor and his funny stories and the harlarious dreams he would relate to us in the morning. 

I remember my dear mother who worked so hard in the kitchen and the garden and sat for hours at the sewing machine to keep us fed and clothed. 

I remember the little church and the individual congregants and how happy we were there with our friends. 

I remember packing up the U-Haul and slowly pulling out the drive, heading west toward California. I remember that before we left, Carol Dirks, the future occupant of the house, tending the garden that mom had started. Mom, not knowing when she planted it she wouldn't be there to reap the harvest. 

I remember stopping east of Tucumcari at the old Benson farm, visiting Loretta and Harold and tasting tacos for the first time. 

I remember driving through the wide open spaces of the west, awestruck by the beauty of this foreign land. 

I remember the few short years living with my parents in California and how they are the foundational years to which I go back and thank them when I see other acquaintances of mine struggle with no footing on which to fall back. 

On this Memorial Day of 2016 I remember the dead who had a tremendous influence on my life. I also remember the living of those, my loved ones, who still have influence over me and think of me and pray for me. 

And as I remember, I pray for them too and the losses they have sustained and how they too are remembering today. 

Having Coffee in Chino Valley, Arizona

                                           Oct. 24, 2015, 5:30 a.m. Chino Valley

Sitting in a hole in the wall coffee shop in a little strip mall just off highway 89. 

I asked the barista about the function of the place, as I had read on Yelp they were a nonprofit to help occupy the church youth in the area. She confirmed what I had read on Yelp. 

I encouraged her in their efforts. 

Sat here a couple hours and read the news, relaxing and thinking about the wonderful world in which we live, nature wise anyway. 

Customers are waking up this beautiful Saturday morning and coming in for their coffee fix, so I guess I'll gather up my thoughts and head back to Mikes. 

Spring

Waves of green grass

caught by the breeze. 

The tall trees awesome

with fresh new leaves. 

As you walk on a pathway

you hear the new sounds

of creatures big an small

as they scurry on damp grounds. 

What it all equals up to

is the song that we sing

of the thing called enchantment

and a time called spring. 

Written by Marty

Last Trip Home

     On the plane again, heading east to Wichita. This particular pilgrimage to our late parents home may very well be my last. Our last hurrah in the old home, so to speak. We're cleaning out our parents' house where we, as a family, gathered countless times. 

     While we pick through items, an aura of finality seems to encompass us, knowing this important chapter in our lives will be closed forever, never to be resurrected again. 

     As we clean we find old items that haven't surfaced in years. We handle them and wonder. Where did this piece of history originate, and why did mom or dad keep it all these years. Some things we remember fondly and mentally place them in an era of our lives that usually harks back to a certain time of our youth. 

     We wonder too, what has become of our childhood. Where did it go so fast. We can relate with the poet who wrote, "life is swifter than a weavers shuttle". 

     Tomarrow we're planning a yard sale, or basement sale, or garage sale. Whatever we call it, we desperately need to rid ourselves of stuff. Judy, Loretta and I will make off with some of the items that prove to be useful, or have sentimental value, but we can take only so much. My sisters and I aren't lacking for household items, but the sentimental value in many things prevents us from discarding everything, so we will take things we can use and things that carry memories to which we want to cling. 

     Some things have a vivid history, originating way back to folks' early days in Kansas. Many were brought from Missouri to California, then back to Kansas again. 

     We're discovering memories attached to almost everything. How are we supposed to deal with that? We'll take what makes sense to take, sell much of what's left and give the rest away, I suppose. 

     We leave our parents' home with sadness, doing the best we can to assuage the emptiness we feel in our hearts. We are experiencing the circle of life. Mom and dad gone, taking the sheltering umbrella with them, leaving us with empty hearts, at the same time watching their progeny multiply and grow. Even as we work to tidy up the old family home for the next occupant, great grandchildren are coming into the world, and some day if time permits, the circle of life will be repeated, each in their own situation and under their unique circumstances. 

     It's the end of an era and with mixed feelings we will go on. We will look back often to those bucolic days in Missouri. We'll recall the trauma of change, moving west into the California sunshine, facing its strange culture and different ways. 

     We, as a family have come

A long way, building our own lives, scattering across this great nation and beyond. 

     The last six years or so, have been frustrating, tumultuous and at the same time flavored with a certain satisfaction, caring for our parents in their time of need. 

     So now we will go on, pondering the memories, wondering if we will ever come back to this little town on the prairie. We, as a family, are so used to gravitating to this spot. What will draw us now that our parents are no longer here? Our aunts and cousins and friends wonder the same thing. Will we ever come back? 

     I intend to. I left part of me here and I will come back and reacquaint myself with that part if my heart I left behind. 

Unbroken Bond

Tue. Sept. 8, 2018  4:30 AM

This morning at 3:50 AM my friend and loving companion, Spreckles, succumbed to injuries sustained from a coyote attack the night before. I found her early yesterday morning lying by the kitty door, bloody and too battered and broken to come in. I gently picked her up and carefully laid her on a towel in the kitchen. The situation did not look good 

Spreckles has been my companion for years and I hate terribly to see her go, but go she must. It's her time. 

I named her Spreckles because she is all black, except for a small white spot on her chest, which reminded me of a spoonful of sugar, hence the name.

Her quality of life has been deteriorating for a year or so. She has been completely blind for the last six months. That's probably why she was unable to defend herself. All day yesterday she lay on the floor, weak and unable to eat or function. When I got up at 3:45, she was breathing hard. I knew she was about gone, so I knelt down beside her and spoke soothingly to her and petted her like I have for years. 

Then she was gone.  I truly believe she waited untitled  I could tell her goodbye. She is no longer in pain. 

Such is life with pets. We learn to love them like family members, but too soon we have to let them go. 

Pets give us so much comfort and pleasure in time of need. They are always there ready to share their love, never judging us, always accepting us for who and what we are. 

I will miss the early mornings she jumped on my lap, wanting to be brushed and petted. 

I'll miss her sitting at my feet in the evenings. She just wanted to be close to me. 

Spreckles wandered into the shop 15 years ago, no more that a kitten. From where we'll never know. Each morning I walked into the shop and gently picked her up and held her cheek to mine. At first she resisted but after a few weeks she slowly gave in. Eventually she looked forward to me petting her every morning and when I would pick her up, she offered her cheek to rub against mine. We developed a bond. A bond that never was broken. 

Goodbye Spreckles. I'll miss you. 

Dads Gift

Years ago, when we as a family lived in California, my dad worked on a carpenter crew building poultry houses. His work took him to various parts of the Central Valley and beyond, consequently he was not home every night. It became a real burden to mom that dad was gone so much of the time. She had to assume the responsibility of training us children during his absence. However, I think dad enjoyed the adventure and camaraderie of the crew. It happened to be an ethnically diverse crew and was known as the "M&Ms". Mennonites and Mexicans. 

Dad was a friend to everyone he met. I believe it was a God given talent. My oldest brother inherited the same attribute. I wish more of that would have rubbed off on me. 

During the summer, when school was out, I occasionally went to work with dad and the crew on local jobs. 

My dad wanted to learn to speak Spanish but he never quite mastered the language, however he learned several gospel songs in Spanish and would sing them to his Mexican colleagues at work, much to their amusement. 

He was never bashful about witnessing for Christ at work, or anywhere else for that matter. 

My dad had a passion for poetry and throughout the day would recite Longfellow and Poe, among others. The crew was mesmerized by his talent for reciting poems in their entirety. 

As I write this my dad is entering his 102nd year of life

Dad had a good life, but in many respects he had a hard life too. 

He never accumulated much as far as material things go. That never was his end game. As far as I know, he owned only one new car his entire life. In 1957 he and mom went to the Ford dealership in Nevada, MO. and came home with a brand new 1957 Ford Custom. 

My dad knew how to discipline with love. And it was effective. 

He was prone to discouragement, yet he always moved forward and managed to pull through.

He experienced grief. The kind of grief only a parent that has lost a child can understand. In 1992 they buried my brother, just older than me. Then in 2009 we buried my oldest brother, their oldest child. That took a terrible toll on both my parents. 

I was in my thirties when I began to realize my parents were human like everyone else. Prior to that, I looked up to them as these two extraordinary humans with hardly a fault. As I matured, I begin to see their failures and the very human side of them. I believe that's when I realized I was not bound to follow in their exact footsteps, because they made mistakes from which I could learn, avoiding the pitfalls their humanness revealed to me. 

I think the one thing I appreciate most about my dad is the foundation he laid, and upon which he built his family. 

We live in a mixed up, convoluted, evil world. We see the narcissistic, selfcentered attitudes that has taken deep root in society. We that have been raised with Christian parents, have for the most part, been somewhat insulated from the perversions of the world. For that we should be thankful. I observe my friends and neighbors struggle with dysfunctional families. They search for footing on solid ground but there is none. Their vision is so impaired, they become intrinsically bound to fail. The children follow the way of least resistance and their lives are a horrid mess. I see it every day and am reminded of my dads unfailing love for me. A spiritual, unselfish love that surpassed his human instincts to follow the footsteps of least resistance.

Those of us who have been raised in homes where Christ reigns Supreme, are not always immune to the worldly influence pushing in, trying to disrupt our homes. To our dismay, it happens. 

When I drift away and abandon my fathers example, that voice of conscience deep inside me, planted there by his concern for my welfare, gently reminds me of my fortuitous upbringing and brings me back home. And even though I fail often, I never feel like a failure. I know I've been cradled by my fathers love and everything will be ok. I feel anchored because of the gift of a solid foundation my dear old dad built for me. 

May

Tell me a month as pleasant as May. 

As beautiful, as green, as glorious. 

Spring clings dearly but summer succeeds

In pulling the month her way. 

The empty house

What do you do with an empty house? 

A house that once was the epicenter of vibrant life, but now quietness reigns inside the walls. The clocks still tick away the minutes and hours. The refrigerator hums and the freezer freezes.

Yes, it's nice to walk in and sit down and relax and think. The furnishings are much the same as they have been for years. 

The occupants are gone.

So what do you do with an empty house?

Yesterdays worries

Picture if you will, sitting by the bedside of your father, who is propped up in bed, eyes closed, the soothing hum of a small fan running at the foot of the bed. A hundred and one birthdays my father has observed. I wonder if any one of those stand out in his mind and bring a peaceful recollection of a particular event that brings vivid images in his mind. Surely he remembers birthdays with mom with whom he was a life partner for seventy seven years.

I helped him while he ate a cupful of strawberry icecream. He does love icecream. He's sleeping peacefully now, in his own world. 

I wonder if he ever thinks about all those tough years in Missouri, trying desperately to eke out a living on our tiny farm and wondered how he would keep mom happy and feed us children.

 Does he think about the hard times in California working on the carpenter crew,    being gone all week, leaving mom alone, pretty much to fend for herself. 

He's had a lot to think about through his life, but I wonder, does he worry about yesterday. 

Best Place Ever

   It seems that many of us, at some point, are driven by a compulsion to convince others that, geographically, the place we live is simply the best place ever. However, deep down we know that we, or for that matter no one, can lay claim to living in the ideal location. Regrettably there are no Edens left. Although that's probably a good thing, for if there were, everyone would want to live there, and humans, being what they are, soon it would surely lose its distinction of paradise. 

Every place on earth, bar none, has its drawbacks; too hot, too cold, too wet or too dry, too windy and barren, or subject to earthquakes, tornados, hurricanes or floods. No decent way too make a living, at least to our way of thinking, or the local culture clashes with our own. Some of us may envy our old friends who still live back in the old familiar surroundings that we, in our fantasies, sometimes long for. The list is endless. Maybe that's why we need to convince others, because in doing so we fortify our own position, thereby convincing ourselves. 

There is no perfect place to live, persuading as we may be in arguing the point. 

When discouragement does set in, and believe me, eventually it will, and on occasion with a vengeance, one may have a propensity to keep it under wraps to save face. 

For some it may reach critical mass and can be contained no longer. Suddenly everything that could possibly be wrong with a given locale plagues the one we inhabit at the moment and discouragement runs rampant, inciting an attitude of doom and gloom and we begin to look for greener pastures. 

And therein lies the rub. 

With few exceptions, pastures are not greener. They just appear that way from a distance; especially if we're wearing rose colored glasses to enhance the view. 

Do I have a solution for this malady?

Contentment comes to mind. 

Does that mean there's never occasion to relocate?

No. We've all done it (with few exceptions) and maybe been the happier for it. 

I think it comes down to the question of why. When we can answer that truthfully, with a clear conscience, unfettered with selfish influence, the path will be clear. 

Very few observations are new; this one being no exception. Nothing new under the ,sun you know. 

On a recent trip, as we were making our way across Texas, I was thinking, and believe me, when you drive across Texas, you have time to think; not to mention philosophize, contemplate, analize, go glassy eyed, count to three zillion, daydream, wander, wonder, remunerate, renumerate, enumerate and go stir crazy. Not that it isn't pretty, there's just so much of it. 

Anyway, while we were driving through the endless rolling hills between San Antonio and El Paso, I suddenly got lonesome for the mountains. The last thing I'd seen resembling mountains was Tucumcari Hill in my rear view mirror, and that was approximately three thousand miles ago. Saw a lot of beautiful flatlands and forested hill country; but no mountains. I began to think, as we sometimes do when driving through a particular stretch of land we find unappealing; why would anyone want to live here?

Years ago I thought those same thoughts when driving down I-40, or old U.S 66 crossing Arizona. How wrong I was. 

It's the best place ever. 

Echoes

The drumbeats have long ago silenced 

Forgotten, their rhythmical sway.

The smoke from the wanderers campfire 

Through ages has drifted away. 

Ten thousand flickering campfires 

Cold ashes returned to the ground 

The halls of the canyons no longer

The echo of voices resound

I step with a strange hesitation 

On ground where they made their last stand

Their epitaph written in whispers 

Borne gently across the warm sand

There runs through my mind like a phantom 

An image of what must have been

A simple people, yet noble

Their memory gone like the wind 

Reflecting I gaze o're the landscape

And savor a moment of peace. 

The wanderers spirit of freedom

Rides still on the wings of the breeze.