Angel Wheeler

Country Troubles

Somedays the J&A Chicken Ranch has more excitement than my feeble heart can handle.

This beautiful breezy morning I am waiting for the water well repair man as we have no water coursing through our pipes. The precious commodity, the life blood, the toilet flusher has seized for reasons unknown to me, but hopefully not beyond the scope of knowledge of the water well man. In today’s America, one does not realize how fortunate and blessed we are until one does not have running water. It is taken for granted, assumed that at the turn of a faucet, we can clean our bodies, brush our teeth, water our plants, or rinse our dishes. No less humble does one become than having to relieve themself outside in the middle of the night, saving that one last toilet flush for the inevitable morning poop. Forgive me, but as is life. But yea for the man who can repair the problem and I only hope he arrives before my bowel movement decides to.

When I first began dating J-Dub, I would ride with him to tend to his cattle. At the beginning of the trip, he would inquire, “Are you brush broke?” At first I didn’t know what that meant, but quickly learned when you are miles and miles from modern conveniences, there will come a time when you have to squat in the brush and piss in the pastures or you’re going to be very, very uncomfortable for a very, very long time. Yes, I am very brush broke.

I slept in a bit this morning but knew I needed to let my fourteen dear chickens out of their coop. Not until you’ve watched fourteen chickens come out of a coop, do you understand the true meaning of the phrase “cooped up”. The chickens have a coop that was an old metal garden shed with a sliding door. It sits in a side yard, up against the edge of the backyard fence, but not in the back yard. Surrounding the shed is a chicken pen, enclosed with chicken wire, and covered mostly over the top with protective wire. I keep the sliding door to the coop opened enough so they can come and go freely into the pen to get fresh air or take a dirt bath or something equally chickenish. Each morning, as early as possible, I open the door to the pen and let the chickens run out so they can free range around the yard and pasture. Our back yard and our two dogs, Drew Miller and Grace, are enclosed directly behind the chicken coop and pen. Never have the dogs and chickens come into direct contact. I fear it would not be a pretty sight.

When the chickens eye me coming their way, they get so excited. They know freedom is in sight. They will run to the corner of the pen, clucking and bocking, eager to get out. This morning, before I was about to open the door, I heard a commotion. It sounded like chicken feet on metal and I assumed a chicken was inside the shed, trying to jump on the metal nesting boxes as they sometimes do. With their chicken claws slipping and sliding and feathers flapping to maintain balance, it sometimes makes quite a ruckus. The next thing I heard was a terrible sound like nothing I had heard before. It was the sound of a chicken in distress. The clucking was rapid and high-pitched. I then noticed out of my peripheral vision, the dogs were agitated. Through a crack in the gate of the backyard, I saw 3 streaks of black running past, back and forth. First a black chicken, followed by Drew Miller, followed by Grace. My first thoughts went something like this: Is there a chicken in the backyard? how did a chicken get in the back yard? There is no way possible that is one of my chickens. It must be somebody else’s chicken in my backyard. Mine are all right here in the pen. With my hand on the door to the chicken pen, ready to push it open, I glanced over and did a quick headcount. 1-2-3-4…… 1-2-3-4-5……, 1-2-3-4 I began adding quickly: 4 Barred Plymouth Rocks + 5 Buff Orpingtons + 4 Black Australorpes = 13 total chickens. THERE’S A CHICKEN MISSING! And it is presently in grave danger. Immediately I began screaming NO DREW! NO GRACE! and with ninja like skills I flung open the backyard gate, grabbed Drew Miller by the collar and tried to get the whole party to settle down. The dogs were having no part of calming themselves, so I drug Drew Miller by his collar over to where his leash hangs, put it on him as he jerked about, acting a fool, and I tied him to a post. He is the dangerous dog. He is the porcupine attacker, skunk killer, possum murderer. He loves the kill. Grace, a heeler, doesn’t want to hurt the chickens, she just wants to herd the chickens as she slinks down, belly close to the ground, haunches shaking, eyes fixated. She doesn’t even wear a collar or has never experienced a leash. She is right by your side most all the time and if she wanders too far, a quick command draws her back to her spot. So there we were in the backyard: Drew Miller and the blue leash wrapping tighter and tighter around a post, a chicken petrified yet unscathed, Grace slinking beside me towards the chicken and me a little afraid to try to pick up this chicken who just might turn into a fighting, pecking, scratching defender. The little black chicken was behind the dog’s water dish. I gave her some time and space to see if she could find her way out of the gate on her own. I thought of trying to corral her out, but decided that might agitate her even more. As I reached down, she hunkered close to the ground, terrified, but allowed me to pick her up, hold her to my bosom, caress her little back. Her feathers were hard and stiff where Drew’s slobber had already dried on them. He obviously had his mouth clamped on her at some point.

It was a close call. Perhaps even a miracle. I think I’ll call her Lucky.

I still don’t know how in the world she managed to get into the back yard. I walked through the pen and the coop looking for holes. I can only figure that she flew out the small opening in the roof, walked across the wire roof of the pen, walked across the roof of the coop, which was the commotion of chicken feet on metal that I heard, and flew over the fence into the backyard.

Stupid chicken. I hope she learned a lesson. The next time she tries to escape, she better hope I’m squatting in the yard.

In Memory of My Dad #20

written on March 25, 1995

Recently I traveled to west and south Texas on “holiday” as my Scottish friend Jody Taylor calls it. Actually it was more of a couple of days off work and more of a “spring break”.

I took highway 33 out of Sapulpa, Oklahoma intending to take the “blue highways” that William Least Heat Moon describes in his novel which was called by that same name. The first thing I noticed was that the small highways today are colored in black, at least they are on my road Atlas. On the older maps the two lane roads were always colored blue, so my trip started off on a horse of a different color but I swore not to let the little stuff bother me.

I used up all of highway 33 that I could before changing my route to travel south to Binger, Oklahoma, childhood home of former major leaguer Johnny Bench. I stopped at a three calendar cafe for some chicken fried steak and cream gravy—no low cal diets for this ol’ fat boy during this jaunt. I usually rate cafes by the number of calendars they have hanging on their walls—the most I’ve ever seen gracing a cafe wall was five, but I’m sure there’s a seven calendar cafe out there that serves biscuits that will melt in your mouth.

Anyway, after I left Binger, I took highway 152 which I recognized from my old traveling pipeline days and I knew this would take me fairly close to Pampa, Texas where I would pick up my two daughters Joley and Angel.

Angel is a sophomore at Clarendon City College located there in Pampa and she decided to go on Spring Break with me. Joley, who is two years older and has the responsibility of taking care of her Golden Retriever “Mo” and hubby John, told one to take care of the other and she loaded up to embark on the trip with us.

I realized something while traveling with my daughters down the open highways of Texas. Even though we are tied together by the blood coursing through our veins, the similarities stop right there when it comes to environments and preferences.

I am a product of the Illinois River and the Baronfork Creek, of cane breaks and oak groves. I’m a product of marshes and mud, of muskrats and perch. I’m happiest scrunching my toes in the sunbaked sand of the riverbed and listening to the chatter of the red-winged blackbirds.

Jo and Angel are products of sidewalks and buildings, of potted fig trees and the manicured grass of city parks. The only time they enjoy being outside is when they are standing outside of the video store about to rent a movie while six lanes of traffic noisily pass on the streets. They are most at home in a thermostatically controlled air-conditioned house where the outside lights come on automatically.

“So what of it,” say both Joley and Angel, “plenty of people have grown up without the companionship of raccoons and otters. And a lot of great people never heard of a red-winged blackbird.”

I suspect the reason that we want our children to share the experiences of our childhoods is because of the memories that constitute many of the important lessons that we learned early. I learned patience waiting on a fish to bite, respect from watching a wall of rain move in on our house at Briggs, Oklahoma, humility from listening to the thunder so strong, it shook the panes of glass from the window sills.

Maybe I’m just nostalgic for my own childhood, or maybe it’s just wanting to be included in the generation that my daughters belong to now. Still, I have the uneasy feeling that the further we move from the everyday workings of the earth, the less we know of the values that have carried us through centuries of living. Perhaps Kahil Gibran was right when he said, “your children do not dwell in the same house you live in….you can only visit them in your dreams.”

R.L. Briggs
1943-2011

One Judge

The Casey Anthony Trial. Yes, I’m going to go there.

On Tuesday, the world reeled at the verdict of Not Guilty to the most severe charges towards Casey Anthony. Today sentencing was handed down and Casey Anthony will be free in merely six days, the world reeled again. Although I did not watch the entire courtroom proceedings, for about the last two weeks I have been completely obsessed with this case so deeply that the couch has been stuck to my butt and the TV has been glued to my eye sockets. It’s almost to the point of embarrassment. The result of my obsession is piles of laundry and jiggly thighs. Um,the jiggly thighs can also be contributed to a bag of cherry sours. But whatever.

I’m not going to give my opinion on whether Casey is guilty or innocent, primarily because my opinion does not matter, nor did it ever. But I am going to give my opinion on the hoopla surrounding this case. And then I’m going to get all preachy on you, because sometimes it overcomes me. So if you don’t feel like hearing a sermon today, from someone unqualified to give one, you might want to click on over to a less opinionated website.

I’ll pause while you decide.

First off, I completely blame the media and social networking for the brouhaha that has shrouded this case. Fifty years ago, if a mother was accused of killing her child, very few people would even be aware of the outcome. Perhaps a newspaper or two would report THE FACTS and life would go on. Instead we have reporters, lawyers, journalists, and a sundry of others coloring the case and the opinions of us all.

As the verdict was rendered Tuesday, and as the sentencing was announced today, I was one of the million Americans online with facebook and twitter reading the comments of friends and strangers alike, and quite frankly I am appalled at the HATE and poison that has been spewed out over social media networks. I believe people should have an opinion, it’s a first amendment right, but to know the thoughts that some people think is a little too much for me. Not only the insults towards the defendant but also comments addressed to the jurors have almost sickened me. One twitter I read said Casey Anthony deserves to be raped. Many others call her names and are hoping terrible, unspeakable acts upon her and also to the 12 who served on the jury. The judge even spoke of a threat to a juror to be fileted, salted, and fed to the pirahnas.

On the other hand, I’ve also read something that said, “You’re familiar with the command to the ancients, ‘Do not murder.’ I’m telling you that anyone who is so much as angry with a brother or sister is guilty of murder.” In case you don’t know, those were the words of Jesus.

In The Message, it goes on to read in Matthew Chapter 5, verse 22 “The simple moral fact is that words kill.”

Are we glorifying God with our opinions concerning this case? Do we please Him when we tweet the things we do about one of His children? After all, she is His child as much as I am. As much as we don’t want it to be true, He loves her. His love is unconditional, thankfully. He died for her as much as He died for me. And you. My sin is no different from hers. Perhaps the only difference is that I know a Savior, and prayerfully we should desire Casey Anthony to know Him as well. For that is our hope.

Yes, a child is dead and no one is being punished for it. Yet. But there will come a day when all will stand before the judgment seat of God and answer to Him. Including me. Including you. And if Jesus himself said being angry at another is the same as murder, I suggest we all reflect on our words and actions and ask forgiveness.

“Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength, and my Redeemer.” And if I may be so bold as to put this verse in 2011 terms, “Let my tweets and facebook statuses be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer.”

As Christians we are called to love one another. In Luke Chapter 6 Jesus tells us: “If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? Even ‘sinners’ love those who love them. 33And if you do good to those who are good to you, what credit is that to you? Even ‘sinners’ do that. 34And if you lend to those from whom you expect repayment, what credit is that to you? Even ‘sinners’ lend to ‘sinners,’ expecting to be repaid in full. 35But love your enemies, do good to them, and lend to them without expecting to get anything back. Then your reward will be great, and you will be sons of the Most High, because he is kind to the ungrateful and wicked. 36Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.

Let’s be merciful with our words.

If you want to turn your emotions into something good, you can go to http://change.org and sign a petition to get Caylee’s law enacted. This law will make it a federal offense if a parent/guardian does not report a missing child in a timely manner.

Now let’s love one another today.

Angel

Why I Blog

I began blogging in November 2008 for reasons unexplainable. It first began as a place to journal my unprivate thoughts and to catalogue my days.

I blogged six days in November of 2008 and then didn’t blog again until January of 2009. After that it was hit and miss for a season or two.

It’s hard to blog and I believe anyone who has attempted to be consistent with a blog can attest to that fact. Some days you succumb to the evil angel at your shoulder who tempts you with napping and sitcom watching instead of writing. Heaven knows I do. Succumb is my middle name.

My blog has evolved from short little paragraphs of how I spent my day to longer narratives of jibberish. These days, I feel more free to write my innermost feelings. I have a pretty good idea of who my audience is. And I can take chances a bit more. Blogging is a type of medium for me. Somedays it’s therapy when I feel my life is sucking. It’s a way of remembering stories that have happened to me and to others. It’s a way to express my feelings and my opinions. And I’d like to think it’s a form of entertainment or at least brings a smile to someone once in a blue moon.

One of the best parts of blogging, however, is getting to know my readers better. Especially the ones I’ve never met. Take Lenore for example. Lenore is a blogging buddy who blogs over at http://lenorediane.com

She’s got two adorable sons, a devoted husband, and is an excellent writer. But the main thing about Lenore is she hearts Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream. Especially Phish Food.

Now me and ice cream don’t have a love affair so much. I’m more of a Sara Lee pound cake kind of kid. I have never to my recollection sampled any flavor of Ben & Jerry’s. So when I read about Lenore loving on her Ben & Jerry’s, I decided to try some. On a scale of one to 10, I found the flavor I chose to be about a 7. I commented on her post and told her about my experience and that I’d have to try another flavor before I completely knocked the whole B & J experience.

And then, lo and behold, I received a card from my friend Lenore with a coupon for a free pint of Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream included along with a sweet note. It made my day.

So go over to http://lenorediane.com/2011/07/01/the-lovin-spoonfuls/ and read about her obsession with Phish Food and show her some love on my behalf.

And tell me, what flavor should I purchase with my free coupon?

In Memory of My Dad #19

If you are shading the wrong side of 50, you are one of the unheeded senior citizens and you can always make an escape to your own personal hideout to get away from the witchy world of today by going into your own kitchen.

Here among the rich smells of good food cooking, and the sight of bottles cooling, you can surround yourself with blessed peace. God Bless the American Kitchen.

We often revert to the things of our childhood to accomplish a task. A favorite tree with the branches just right for sitting and daydreaming, perhaps we may have made a beach-head underneath the hanging branches of a cedar tree. I can even remember digging holes to build an underground room so that we could get away from our parents or the preacher, or some other self-appointed guardian of our childish rights.

Today the aromatic and fun laden kitchen is the in-place to be.

The bombings, the train wrecks and the Republicans fighting it out in New Hampshire fade into insignificance when you unpack the latest gadget for your kitchen; the coffee bean grinder. It will grind coffee beans coarse or fine, with several settings in between. It was to be a gift for my daughter at Christmas but someway I ended up with the thing. Now I must find a place for it. This is not easy when your supposedly neat kitchen is already cluttered with coffee maker, automatic can opener, you sure can’t discard the ice bucket and the lasagna pans. So where do we put this newest gadget? We push the toaster aside making room for it and put it near the bread holder. However, it’s nice knowing you are the gadget king of the county.

These specialty catalogues that will mail you anything from Christmas cookies to salmon and fresh steaks, will fill your every need in the culinary closet. In our kitchen, we have not one but two spaghetti combs. How did the Romans build the coliseum and the Parthenon without ever inventing the spaghetti comb? The reason would baffle the ancient scholars. As a mess of spaghetti rolls and boils, the spaghetti comb is used to straighten the whole mess out until it looks as smooth as one of the Breck girls’ hair on the back page of Good Housekeeping magazine.

There is one item that I feel I should warn you about, and that is whiskey marmalade. The ad asks: “Do you have the blahs each morning? Then have some whiskey marmalade with your English muffin. It will put zip into your life. Made from 80 proof Dewar’s Scotch whiskey.”

Now as you drive to work a man in uniform pulls along side and motions you to pull over out of the 65 MPH lane. He will get out with a toy balloon and tell you to blow it up. You can say severely, “When I was a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away my childish things.” Then drive on and leave the trooper standing there with a toy balloon in one hand, as he scratches his head with the other wondering, what happened? But I digress from my original theme, the kitchen.

Todays kitchen is a blessed retreat for those who wish to withdraw from the hurry-hurry of today’s world that is rushing by so fast. You can sit beside the kitchen stove, watch the early morning sunrise and listen to a pot of wild plum jelly happily bubbling away on the front burner while you drink that third cup of coffee. You can think back to your first presidential election when you first became eligible to vote. You voted for LBJ because he said he didn’t want American boys fighting a war that Asian boys ought to be fighting, and you didn’t hanker to go to Vietnam. But LBJ kept us into a shooting war with North Vietnam, to make the world safe for democracy. But, that’s neither here nor there, and the wild plum jelly is about ready to be put into glass jars and capped with a seal of melted wax.

The only thing that ever came easy for me in securing food for a growing family was the gathering of wild plums. They grow and hang in great clusters like grapes and you can take a machete and a couple of cardboard boxes and gather enough in five minutes that will make enough plum jelly for everyone from Eldon to Welling.

Now it is quiet and the kitchen is all mine as I listen to the purling and boiling of the plums, I can remember other days and other ways.

I can see an older man ramrod straight and dressed in greasy buckskins bent over a small cooking fire. He is turning bacon in a heavy cast iron skillet as his horse, a grulla dun crops grass in the background. His keen blue eyes never look directly into the fire, but the man isn’t too worried because the dun horse would have given a signal if anyone had approached, and he is grazing contentedly.

He has three cooking tools at his disposal, a long-handled fork, a heavy spoon and a skinning knife that has done double duty when the buffalo were plentiful. His name is not important, but he could be one of your ancestors, or mine. He is a scout, guide, ranger or perhaps now he rides on the opposite side of the law. Nevertheless he has led an adventuresome life with the trio of culinary tools and a coffee pot and the heavy iron skillet.

The coffee pot is rusting now in one of his many campsites, the fork and spoon just a memory, but on my kitchen wall, handy to the stove, hangs an iron skillet much the same as the one he cooked his countless meals in, fireblackened and about twelve inches across.

And that reminds me, the bacon is in the pan and store-bought biscuits in the oven, it’s breakfast time once more.

written by R.L. Briggs

Why I’m Keeping My Day Job

I’m a daydreamer.
My mind is my playground.
While others live in reality, dealing with real problems and situations that arise, I stick my head in the sand and daydream.
At work, I fantasize about home.
At home, I fantasize about vacation.
On vacation, I fantasize about looking great in a bikini.

One of my recurring daydreams involves me being a writer. You know, someone who actually gets PAID to write. I envision a leisurely workday of steaming coffee on the desk, sitting at a computer, not interacting with people unless I choose to, while beautiful, moving, riveting stories flow from my fingertips and land right smack dab on the bestseller list. I usually have this fantasy during the school year when I have a class full of darlings pulling on my skirt tails, tattling because someone cut them in line, while their forefinger is buried in their nose up to its knuckle.

But I must say, this summer alone, I have learned that I do not think I have it in me to be a writer or anything else that doesn’t require punching a clock and a puposeful task to complete. I am unmotivated. I cannot make myself do anything. Shaving my legs is a chore these days. I realize my blog has been rather quiet and I offer this explanation. My life is boring and I’m lazy. There.

I yearn for interaction. I haven’t left my house in days. I doubt my car will start on Sunday when it’s time for church.

My days oscillates between watching the Casey Anthony trial and working jigsaw puzzles, with lots of lying on the couch and eating in between.

One constructive task I do each day is the evening chores. But two days in a row, I left the door open to where the alfalfa is stacked and the horses wandered in and were having a hayday (no pun intended). After running the horses out, and shutting the door, my husband gently reprimanded me. “Are you firing me?” I asked hopefully. “No,” he replied, “if not for the chores, then you really would do nothing all day.”

Here’s to summer!
But when does school start?
I need a job.
And a bunch of kids pulling on my skirt tails.

Pop

To a small child, the perfect granddad is unafraid of big dogs and fierce storms but absolutely terrified of the word “boo.” ~Robert Brault

I like grandpas. There’s just something so appealing to me about them. The way they tuck in their shirts and wear their pants high on their waist. The comb tucked inside their shirt pocket. The magical way they make their thumb disappear.

If my paternal grandfather (Pop) were alive today, we would be eating cake and ice cream in celebration of his 112th birthday. He was born on June 29, 1899, and wanted to live during three centuries. He didn’t make it to Y2K, unfortunately, he was a long shot from it, passing away in 1976, a month before I turned one.

There is only one picture of us together that I’ve ever seen. We are lying together on a bed. He’s on his side, and he’s snuggling me in his arms as my cousin stands beside us.

In my life, I’ve felt a little bit cheated not having the opportunity to know him. From family stories, I know that he was an upstanding fellow, a fiddle player, a poet, and man full of wit. He wrote poetry, and my grannie told me once he wrote a poem about the local meteorologist who never could get the forecast correct, and sent it to him. He read it one night during his weather report.

I have an old cookbook given to me by my grannie. The” receipts” as they called them, are a collection from the pioneers that settled this part of the country and they call for ingredients like oleo and sour milk. Towards the back, you can learn how to make salve and stink bait, if the notion strikes you.

Along with a sweet little recipe for a Happy Day that goes like this:

A little dash of water cold, a little leaven of prayer.
A little bit of sunshine gold, dissolved in morning air.
Add to your meal some merriment, add thoughts kith and kin,
And then as a prime ingredient, a plenty of work thrown in.
Flavor it all with essence of love, and a little dash of play;
Then a nice old book and a glance above complete a happy day.

Shouldn’t we all have a daily dose of that?

There among the yellowing pages of this old cookbook, lies a stained, folded piece of paper.

On one side, in a lady’s writing is an unlabeled list of ingredients for something delicious I’m sure. Butter, sugar, eggs, chopped nuts, dates, flour, soda, nutmeg, cinnamon, unsweet apples. Almost sounds like a fruit cake doesn’t it?

And then on the other side, in Pop’s old penmanship is a poem:
My kids aint cute as your kids are
To this I will agree
But you dont have to keep rubbin it in
It hurts me cant you see
But heres one thing boy that is right
and youll admit it too
Im smarter by far and hansomer too
Than a silly nut like you

Happy Birthday Pop!

And what about you? Was your grandpa your best friend? Was he mean? Did he play the banjo? Was he smart and handsome? Could he make his thumb disappear? Or did you, like me, miss out?

In Memory of my Dad #18—Happy Father’s Day!

Although a week late, here is a delightful Father’s Day tribute written by my late dad. Enjoy!

*********

A fellow that I know recently went home to West Texas and he can’t get over what his children did for him for Father’s Day, although it was Memorial Day.

It began with a surprise invitation.

His children, mostly grown, greeted him with guileful smiles and disclosed what was in store. Even son No. 1 was there. He had made an easy 11 hour and 40 minute drive from Houston, pulling a 17 foot Chris craft boat equipped with 120 HP motor.

“Dad, guess what?” said daughter No. 1. “We’re going on a big outing and it’s all in your honor.” The man gulped as the boys playfully cuffed him around, bloodying his nose.

“It’s true, Dad, anything you want to do, we’ll do. Make it a huge Memorial Day/Father’s Day combination, since you’re not going to be here for Father’s Day,” chimed in daughter No. 2.

The young folks used this time to formulate plans, as the man looked around for an escape route that he knew was not there.

It was decided that Dad would get the biggest kick out of going to Lake McClellan, a small buffalo wallow of a lake that becomes a kinghell mess on any given holiday. And this holiday would be worse than any.

“No use protesting, Dad,” said son No. 1. “It’s all settled.”

The plan as outlined to this dude, was that he go down to the lake early and reserve a good spot, seeing as how there would be a crowd that you couldn’t fit into the Astrodome there on the morning of the 29th.

“Get a nice shady spot,” said son No. 2. “Make sure you have a place for your folding chair, it’s your day. Besides we need a place for a headquarters.”

Food! What would Dad like most to eat on this day? It was soon decided that hamburgers and ballpark hot dogs would suffice. “Dad, are you writing this down?’ said daughter No. 1. “We’ll need plenty of chili and chopped onions and melt some cheese to pour on just before the tabasco sauce. You’ll want some fritos to crumble on top of that. And oh yeah, dad, make sure the wieners are those big fat ones.” Dessert would be double-stuffed oreos.

Dad said with the expensive drugs he was taking since his last stroke, and the small bit of progress he was making in his diet, maybe he shouldn’t. But they stopped him right there. “Make sure those are all beef franks, Dad. If you can’t treat yourself on your own day, you’re going to ruin this for the rest of us.”

Dad apologized and said forget about him. He would just have a small snack and then go on to the lake. So Dad went to the lake early that morning, and purchased large quantities of food which he managed to unload in about six trips from the car to the headquarters table—all the while feeling very honored.

At about dark the children arrived, honking their horns and yelling ceremoniously and began unloading surprises—tape decks, loudspeakers, the neighbors’ kids and enough Black Sabbath and Pearl Jam to keep a Memorial Day concert going all night.

Next morning, everybody slept late in honor of Dad, who was allowed to fix breakfast for the whole company. While clearing away the breakfast dishes, the young folks left to launch the boat.

“You just stay here and take it easy, Dad,” yelled No. 1 from the boat. “We’ll feel out the water conditions.” The feeling out was completed at noon. All the kids returned famished from their feeling out. While Dad cleared away the noon dishes, his children napped, tired out from honoring Dad so hard.

Then everyone went down and got into the boat, except for Dad. “Give us a big push and then jump on. Dad gave a mighty shove and then with a great leap landed knees first on the bow of the boat. The boat never moved one inch from the bank. The crunching sound practically made everyone sick as Dad rolled around there on the shores of Lake McClellan, bleeding profusely from both knees.

They were still yelling for him to get medical attention as they headed out to open water for an afternoon of water skiing.

“Dad, as soon as you can walk, have someone look at those knees.”
“Dad, it doesn’t matter how you load my car, just be careful of those Pearl Jam tapes.”
“Dad, take it easy, and have a wonderful Father’s Day.”
But by then they were out of earshot, having done all that they could do.

They found him there in the late afternoon sun, both knees bandaged brightly, the blood just seeping through the bandages. He was in a folding chair, head thrown back, sleeping in the thin sunlight. He heard their voices as in a dream.

“Look at him. He’s all worn out from all the fun.”
“Somebody get those flies away from his mouth.”
“I can’t wait until next year; it’s a lot of trouble, but Dad’s worth it.”

Hope

Tonight I was Master of the Remote Control— a title I don’t especially covet.

I don’t like Television for many reasons that I won’t go into, but tonight for an unknown reason, I decided to turn on the T.V.

I started with The Singing Bee which made my heart happy. I am a World-Class-Lyric-Maker-Upper, so anytime I knew the words to the missing lyrics, I was hooping and hollering right here in my living room. Then I turned to an episode of 20/20. It was all about the Internet and the terrible, horrible people in this world who prey on victims, steal identities, falsely accuse and exploit others, and who truly have evil in their hearts. I thought of my little blog and all the good people who read and comment. Call me naive and stupid, but I still believe there is more good out there than bad. I ended my TV watching experience of the night with the 10 o’clock news and the disheartening forecast of severe drought and 109 degree high temperatures, plus extreme wind. When it was over I was thoroughly depressed, cognizant of why I do not watch TV, and scarfed down 2 waffles just to feel better about the world and my place in it.

I needed an uplifting story. Something that would give me hope, and prove that good wins over evil, and that there is something to look forward to in this world. I thought of googling “uplifting stories” and choosing a touching one, but then a story I’d read before popped into my mind. One of my most favorite stories of all time. I copied it from a website written for children called childrenchapel.org. It’s the story of a great man named Elijah and a contest. It speaks to me on so many levels.

The drought conditions were continuing to get worse. There was hardly any water to be found ANYWHERE. The creeks had dried up LONG ago, and the rivers had become patchy mud puddles. Food was scarce for people and for animals. In fact, many of the animals had already DIED because of the shortage of grass.

King Ahab was beginning to worry about his OWN herds of cattle and flocks of sheep. He called Obadiah, one of his servants, to his side.

“Obadiah,” he said, “something must be done before all the animals die. We must find grass and water. You go in one direction and I’ll go the other. There must be grass somewhere.”

So King Ahab and Obadiah set off in different directions, in search of fresh grass and water.

While Obadiah was looking here and there, trying to find mud puddles and grass, he saw a man walking toward him. “I wonder who that could be,” he thought to himself. As the man came closer, Obadiah recognized him. “Why, that’s Elijah!” he exclaimed out loud and ran to meet him.

“Elijah! Elijah! Is that really YOU?” he asked excitedly.

“Yes, I am Elijah, and I want you to do me a big favor.”

“What is it, sir?” Obadiah asked politely.

“I want you to go tell King Ahab that I am here and want to see him,” Elijah explained.

Obadiah instantly became fearful. This was NOT something he wanted to do. “How can you even think of asking me to do such a thing?” Obadiah asked with astonishment. “Don’t you know that King Ahab HATES you? Don’t you know that the King is blaming YOU because there has not been any rain for all these years? Besides that, the King has been looking for you. Every time he thinks he knows where you are, you leave and no one can find you. If I tell him you are here, then you will leave again; he will want to kill YOU and ME. I’m sorry, Elijah. I just cannot do it!”

Elijah looked at Obadiah and patiently explained, “It will be fine, Obadiah. I promise you that I will be here. I promise you that I WILL see the King. Now please, just go and tell him I wish to speak to him.”

“YOU! YOU! YOU are the one that is causing trouble for Israel!” King Ahab shouted in anger. “YOU are the reason we have had no rain!”

King Ahab speaking with Elijah “No, King,” Elijah replied. “YOU are the cause for all this trouble. You have turned away from Jehovah, the one true God. You are worshipping the false god, Baal. You have caused the people of Israel to sin by worshipping idols. YOU have brought all this trouble to Israel.”

Elijah continued his speech. “I want you to gather 450 prophets of Baal, and 400 prophets of of Ashtoreth, and have them meet me at Mount Carmel.”

King Ahab did as Elijah said and gathered the prophets. A large crowd of people gathered also to see what was going to happen.

Elijah stood before the crowd. “How long are you going to try to worship Baal and Jehovah? You cannot serve more than one god. If Baal is God, worship him! If Jehovah is God, worship Him! You MUST make a decision. You must choose one or the other.”

Then Elijah said, “We are going to have a contest to see who is the REAL God.” He told them to bring enough wood to build two altars – one for Jehovah, and one for Baal. He told them to bring animals for the sacrifice – one for Jehovah and one for Baal.

Altar

The 450 prophets of Baal built their altar. They prepared the animal for the sacrifice. Then they started praying: “O Baal, hear us! O Baal, hear us!” From morning until noon they kept up the shouting.

Elijah was taunting and making fun of them: “What’s wrong? Can’t your god HEAR you? Has he taken a trip? Why isn’t he answering you? Perhaps he is talking to someone else. Maybe you should scream LOUDER.”

Midday had passed, and now it was getting late into the evening, and the prophets of Baal were still shouting and screaming at the top of their voices. Baal still was not listening.

Elijah told the people who were looking on to gather around him. He took 12 stones for his altar, used the wood that was brought, and prepared the animal for the sacrifice. Then he did a very strange thing indeed!

He told the people to bring him four barrels of water. It sounded pretty strange to them, but they DID bring the water. He poured the water on the altar and on the sacrifice.

Barrels filled with water

He told them to bring him four more barrels of water. “What’s wrong with this guy? Doesn’t he know there is a shortage of water?” they were mumbling among themselves. But they obediently brought the water. He poured the water on the altar and on the sacrifice.

That wasn’t enough for Elijah. He told them to bring him FOUR MORE barrels of water. “How much water is he going to waste?” someone whispered. Again they did as they were told and brought the water. He poured that water on the altar and on the sacrifice. The sacrifice was soaked with water. Water was running off the wood, onto the stones, and onto the ground. He dug a ditch around the altar and filled it with water also.

Then he began to pray a simple prayer:

“Lord God, let the people know that You are the true God of Israel and I am your servant. Let them know that I have done these things because You told me to do them. Hear me, O Lord, so these people will know that You are the Lord God, and they will serve You again.”

Fire from heaven falls on the altar and consumes the sacrifice

SUDDENLY, fire came down from heaven! It burned up the sacrifice! It burned up the WOOD! It burned up the STONES! It even licked up all the water that was in the ditch around the altar!

When the people saw it, they dropped to the ground in fear and cried out, “The Lord, He is the God; THE LORD, HE IS THE GOD!”

Then Elijah turned to King Ahab and said, “Get up! Eat and drink! There will be an abundance of rain!”

So King Ahab had something to eat and drink, and Elijah took his servant with him to the top of Mount Carmel to pray to God and wait for the rain. “Look toward the sea and tell me if you see rain,” Elijah said to his servant. The servant peered into the distance but didn’t see any rain.

Elijah kept praying.

“Look again,” Elijah told him. He looked again, but still there was no rain.

Elijah continued praying.

He looked six times, and each time there was no rain. Not even a small cloud was in sight.

Elijah prayed one more time

and asked the servant to look again.

Cloud

This time the servant saw a little cloud way out in the distance over the sea. “Run quickly!” Elijah commanded. “Go tell King Ahab to get his chariot ready and get off the mountain before the rain starts.”

It was just a little while before the sky became dark with clouds.

The wind began to blow.

There was a drop of rain…

…then another.

Then there was a great downpour.

THE DROUGHT WAS FINALLY OVER.

Everyone in Israel knew for certain that Jehovah was the REAL God and Baal was just a make believe god.

REMEMBER: Everyone must choose between good and bad. It is impossible to serve God and the devil.

How did this story speak to you?

Nostalgia

A drive down Highway 10 will snake you through beautiful Green Country. Past trees and hills and green galore. A very different view than the flat, yellow, arid, blowing, dusty pasture grasses that I gaze upon each morning from my kitchen window.

A drive down Highway 10 will snake you past Lover’s Leap, Kooter’s Bar & Grill, and several canoe rentals.

peyton's place cabin #1 (2) — mom, me, and jolea at Peyton's Place---Cabin #1

Until you finally arrive at Cabin #1 where I spent my childhood summers.

Where I learned to dig deep and find the best skipping stones and try to outskip my dad. I failed. Every time.

Where I itched with Poison Sumac every year and walked around pink skinned, not from the sun, but instead from the Calamine Lotion caked on my body.

Where I tasted my first fear of water when the swift rapids unexpectedly carried me farther than I expected or dared to venture.

This past Memorial Day, I took a nostalgic drive down Highway 10 and found things much the same, yet much different.

The peacocks who enchanted me with their outspread plumage were no longer swaggering about.

The sliding glass door on Cabin #1 was replaced with a regular fiberglass door and the choice of paint colors no longer made the cabin “rustic”.

The place where we swam was the same, and it was almost peaceful, if not for the annoying college-aged drunks loitering about being much too loud and immodest.

But for a moment, I tuned them out. I stood on the rocky bank of the Illinois River and closed my eyes. And I remembered.

me and jolea — Me and my sister Jolea. Circa late 1970's.

I remembered summers long gone, but not forgotten. A family in tact before divorce and then death separated. I remembered a happy childhood. Loving parents. Carefree moments. And catching fireflies in a jar. I said good-bye.

Then I walked to my car and drove home.