death – Page 2 – Angel Wheeler

Now

Don’t come to pay me homage
or spill tears upon my stone.
Come now and let me touch you,
Let me know I’m not alone.
I need the sweet assurance
of your warm and gentle smile.
I yearn to hear your laughter,
sit beside me for a while.
When Jesus comes to take me
to my home in heaven’s place,
I’ll go in peace, contented
that I’ve seen your smiling face.
I will not smell the flowers
or hear you sing my praise.
Bring them now to warm my heart
throughout my living days.
Your kindness and compassion,
greater love you can’t endow.
Come share these precious moments
while I live…..come do it now

~Patience Allison Hartbauer

This poem was in a book sitting on my nightstand of the Bed and Breakfast I am staying in while visiting my dad’s grave for memorial day.

It’s a reminder to me to cherish the time we have with loved ones who remain. We may be visiting their graves and cherishing their memories all too soon.

Ranch Security

I don’t know how many of you are familiar with Hank the Cowdog books by author John Erickson. Good ol’ Hank, Head of Ranch Security, can usually be found protecting the ranch from varmints and keeping everyone safe with his side-kick Drover.

Well here at the J & A Chicken Ranch we have our own head of ranch security by the name of Drew Miller.

Drew Miller was rescued by the animal shelter as a pup. My mom and niece Ashy picked out this little, cute ball of black and white fur. They were told by the shelter that he was probably a Border Collie. Well, he ain’t no Border Collie.

We don’t really know what he is.

Drew ended up at our house at about 6 or 7 months of age.

He’s a good, gentle boy most of the time. Except when there’s a varmint on the loose. I’ve seen a side of Drew on the attack that I don’t like seeing. He killed a mama possum once that I witnessed and am still having night sweats over. You can read about that murder here.

But that was a possum. They play dead. I mean, how hard is it to kill something that’s playing dead? Even Hank and Drover could do that.

Then there was the porcupine. You know those fights where one says, “You should see the other guy?” That’s what the porcupine was telling his friends back at the Prickly Pub.

Either last night or this morning, we had a very close call. After church I went out to tend to all the animals and there lying dead in the back yard about 3 feet from the house was a black and white animal.

Yep, you guessed it. A skunk.

My mama used to sing a little song to me when I was a little girl.

Black and white kitty, sitting in the woods. Isn’t that little kitty pretty?

I went right over to pick it up, but shooooo weeeeee, (pinch your nose here) it wasn’t that kind of a kitty.

I’ve never seen a skunk up close. For obvious reasons. I thought he would look more like Flower in the movie Bambi. Uh, No. Skunks are uuugggllly.

Drew killed that poor rascal in our backyard. And miracle of all miracles, it did not let off its stench. Had this been a Hank the Cowdog story, Hank would’ve gotten sprayed, tried to go home for supper, got run off from the house ’cause of his stink, and sent to live with the barbaric coyotes for a month till the smell finally wore off.

Which makes me envision Drew Miller, stealth-like, stalking that skunk, then pouncing before the poor fella could even defend himself.

Either that, or these 50 mph winds we’ve been having for 2 days are tricking us. Only time will tell.

Drew Miller, a.k.a. Killer, serving and protecting.

I think I’m going to get him a badge.

In Memory of My Dad #7–Golf

My dad was a golfer. There was usually a set of golf clubs in the back of his work truck, just in case. As a little girl I remember times when he’d suddenly remark, “Let’s go hit some golf balls.” Oh the joy I would feel. I was going to get to golf! So he’d grab his clubs and that handy little golf club picker-upper and we’d head to large park or walk across to the empty field across the street. I quickly learned I wasn’t there to golf with my dad, but I was sent to get the balls after he’d hit them. He’d holler at me, “There’s one to your left, or farther, go farther.” I never even got to swing the club.

Here’s a story written by my dad about golfing:

You may hear women complain of being a golf widow. Big Deal. It’s you the golfer who is hurting. It’s your hands that are numb and bleed at night, it’s your back that aches and twitches. Your legs are sore and your neck is sunburned almost black from hours of standing over the golf ball. You are in a mortal panic, it’s you who is one of the walking wounded.

When you play a good round of golf, you are deathly afraid that you can’t repeat the swing your next time out. When you play badly you think, “why couldn’t I have been born a mule, then I could get some use out of all this green grass.”

You say to yourself, “I don’t need this kind of suffering,” but you know that you’ll be back tomorrow and that’s what makes the wonderful world of golf so exasperating.

Golfers like to wear shirts with small animals emblazoned over the pockets. Penguins. Alligators. The small Polo horse and rider. I have many shirts with the alligator logo. Once playing in South Texas I hooked a ball far into the left rough. When I went into the jungle grass looking for the ball, I spied an alligator with a shirt that had a little golfer over the pocket. I don’t even think he was a member of the club either.

I used to play a pretty decent round of golf, but since having this stroke, anytime that I don’t fall out of the golf cart is a good round. I could play the game with a broom stick and a road apple now and still score as good.

You’ve got to look good to play the game halfway decent. I have a pair of green canvas golf shoes and an oversized Reebok Sweatshirt, and a pair of wide shorts that end just below the knee. Billy Brewski calls it my grunge look. I may play to a thirteen, but I look like a three out there.

Shoes are more important than “top of the line” golf clubs. Especially if you are just starting out in golf and walking a lot of holes. You need to invest in a good pair of golf shoes if you are going to take the game seriously. Cheap golf shoes have crippled more men than Madonna. I first started to play the game of golf with a pair of shoes bought from Sears-Roebuck. They were a putrid black and red check against a cream background. I liked to have crippled myself before investing wisely in a pair of Foot-Joys.

Better yet, take an already broken-in pair of shoes to the cobbler and have them converted into a pair of golf shoes. Say to the cobbler, “I’m giving these shoes to a friend, the lucky stiff. He don’t know how lucky he is getting to play golf everyday while I’m at work.” This may get you a price break from the cobbler. Now he may only charge you $17 instead of the $20 for the $9 job that he is doing on you and the golf shoes. Also you won’t feel so bad when you throw the shoes away and swear off the game for good after shooting a light running 85.

To have a good time on the golf course it is imperative that you get to the course bright and early. You can’t have much fun on the golf course at night, unless you are accompanied by a blonde and a blanket, and are waiting for a Drambuie front to move in. Of course this kind of stroking and putting isn’t recognized by the USGA.

The first order of business when you arrive at the course is to order a Slo-Gin fizz. This will steady your nerves and stop the churning of your stomach from the night before when you made the golfing date show up bright and early to have a good old-time. It will also help relieve the pressure on your sternum so you can make at least a partial shoulder turn without tearing something loose deep inside of you.

Next move. Find out who you made the golf date with the night before. Greet everyone you meet with a big smile and a huge “Hi there.” Soon you will see someone else with a puzzled look on his face, saying, “Hi there” to everyone he meets. It’s 8 to 5 this is who you made the date with the night before.

Get on the first tee and follow tradition, lie about how you are playing. Say “my handicap is a thirteen, but I’m playing to a nineteen.” Then the other golfer will tell a couple of lies himself and the games are ready to begin.

Forget about playing even close to your regular game. It’s the deal you make on the first tee that counts. Keep the bets small, never more than a $2 nassau. Then lose about $6 or $8 bucks maneuvering your opponent into the unenviable position of buying lunch. On a good day you can come out ahead by $8 or $10 using this ploy.

Advice is always prevalent on a golf course. The best I ever heard was when a guy came in after shooting about 150. He asked the members of his foursome what he should give his caddy following the round. “Your clubs,” was the answer he got.

So go on out on these unseemly warm days we are having. Remember these few rules and you’ll have a good time. And if that don’t work, say to heck with the USGA—-grab you a blonde and go at night.

In memory of my dad #5

As we packed up the house this past week, and walked out the door to spend the night in our new home, I looked around the rooms at the emptiness of them. The pictures were off the walls, the furniture had been carried out. There was nothing left except an old chair or two and a sack of trash here and there. The sun had set, the day was done, and we were exhausted.

Pausing at the door, I took a deep breath and told my husband, “I’m
sad. This is sad.” He sweetly replied, “Well we can bring sleeping
bags back and stay here. ” I giggled. “No, it’s not that. It’s just that there are lots of good memories here.”

Memories of birthdays, Christmases, celebrations of many kinds. There are memories of family, friends, snowed in days, and dog dribble.

And there are memories of my dad, who died barely 3 weeks ago. Those are the memories I don’t want to leave.

The house I’m moving from is the last place I saw him walk. That’s the last place I saw him alive. And it makes me sad.

I’m leaving that place. And it almost feels like I’m leaving him and his memories. I can still see him coming down the hall into the kitchen. I can hear the crinkling of the Chips Ahoy Chocolate Chip Package being peeled back. And then there he goes, back down the hallway to the bedroom with a handful of cookies in his big old paw of a hand.

Or I see him with his coffee cup struggling down the hallway, sloshing his coffee. My husband used to tell a joke about him. He’d say, “My father-in-law doesn’t drink coffee, he spills most of it.”

The last time he was here was at Thanksgiving. My sister insisted we watch a movie. He finally agreed, even though he’d already seen it. He laid on the floor with my sister and we laughed and laughed.

I sit in this house right now, the house I’m moving from. I don’t have internet at my new place yet, so I come here to blog. I’m alone in this quiet house, but if I sit real still, close my eyes, and listen hard, I can hear my dad. I hear him holler for me to come fix the TV in the bedroom because he’s pushed the wrong button on the remote, or figure out how to get to his email on the computer, or get his basket of pills out of his truck.

I see him laying on the end of the bed, on his stomach, snoring with the TV blaring when I come home from work. I only wish I could hear him snore one more time. Just one more. I wish I had more coffee spills to clean and TV remotes to fix.

But I can’t look back, I have to move forward.

I have new memories to make. New roads to travel.

I wish he was here to travel them with me. I wish we were making memories still. I want him to see my chicks. I want him to stay in my new house. We laid laminate flooring instead of carpet, simply for the ease of cleaning up coffee spills.

I’m moving ahead, but there will be times on my journey, I must pause to remember my dad.

Just for a moment, but not too long.
I have promises to keep,
and miles to go before I sleep,
and miles to go before I sleep.

Just In: Chicken Fatality Report

They, whoever they are, say death comes in three’s. Since I last wrote about my chickens, one more has died, which brings the number of fatalities to 3. It was the little chick I was worried about before. The antisocial black one with a little yellow spot on its head who stood in the corner and stared. She didn’t even get a proper burial in the chicken cemetery. I watched J-Dub carry her by her legs and toss her over the barbed wire fence into the pasture. Apparently, we’ve become desensitized to chicken death. It’s just the way it goes. My husband says, “If you’re gonna deal with livestock, you’re gonna deal with death.” He’s right. Nothing lives forever. And what is it that old Augustus McCrae says in Lonesome Dove when young Sean gets bitten all over with water moccasins, “Life’s short. Shorter for some than others.”

But I must admit it’s a bit embarrassing to confess how many I have lost. I feel like it’s my fault. The first thing people say when they see me is not Hi, How are You, but rather,”So how many chicks have died now?” And then they look at me like I have Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy or something. I am hoping the death spree is over. One died on Wednesday, one on Thursday, and one on Friday. I now have 14 surviving chickies, and I’m feeling pretty dern good about the health of these 14. I haven’t seen Ol’ Spaz, the seizure thrower, convulse in a couple of days, and Molasses, the one who got trapped under the water trough seems to be doing just fine. I even think she may not be as bow-legged as she once was. Truthfully, I can’t even recognize her anymore. I’m confident these 14 will survive. At least until I put them outside and a chicken hawk or bull snake gets a hold of them. But for now, they are safe and sound in my spare bedroom. For now.

I get a kick out of them. They are quite enjoyable and provide many laughs for us. When I put fresh straw in their box, if by chance there is a little piece of seed head that even faintly resembles a bug, one of them snags it up and starts running, thinking they’ve really found a treasure that they’re not sharing. As soon as the other chicks catch on that their sister has a jewel, they begin chasing her around trying to nab it. They start grabbing at that little seed head, pecking it from each other’s mouth, even playing a little game of tug o’ war, all the while, peeping loudly.

After watching this sport, I got a little nerve and decided to give them something “real”. Something they would forage for in the yard. A tasty morsel to fight over. I scraped some mud off the bottom of a big flower-pot and found 4 earthworms. Scrumptious, juicy, wiggling earthworms. I took the smallest I could find and tossed it in their box. At first, 2 or 3 chicks circled the worm taking turns pecking at it. They displayed a little curiosity, but not any real gumption. Not until this bold little chick walked right up, pushed her way through the circle, grabbed the worm in her beak with one peck and away she scrambled with the others right on her tail feathers. After a couple of circles around the box, a zig, a zag and a fake-out, she quickly found a spot in the corner, tipped her head back, and swallowed the worm right down her gullet. Thinking she was Hot Stuff, she strutted around, sharpening her beak on the box. In a few minutes, the others laid down for a nap, but not Hot Stuff, she was loaded up with protein and feeling fine and frisky.

I have since put in a couple more worms, and every time a few of them circle and peck until Hot Stuff struts in, nabs the worm and eats it whole. The funny thing is she’s the smallest of the bunch, but definitely the most fearless. It will be interesting to see if she turns out to be the most dominant chick in the coop.

Well folks, that’s it for today.

Tune in next time for more Tales From the Chicken Ranch for the latest fatality report and our special segment, “What’s on the Menu?”

Until Next Time,

Chicky Mama

Slow as Molasses

I have officially declared myself unfit as a chicken mama.

Someone call CPS. No, not Child Protective Services, ring up Chicken Protective Services.

I lost another chicky. I don’t know the cause of death, I contribute it to Mother Nature. Beneath my electrical pole, it is beginning to look something like a chicken cemetery.

Two down, Fifteen to go. And there may be more. I have one who seems to be having seizures. Every so often it begins peeping very loudly, flops over, and twitches its head and feet for about 20 seconds. I don’t know what to do when this happens. I don’t think I can fit a spoon in its beak.

I have another I’m very concerned about. It’s not eating or drinking much. Nor does it socialize, it just stands in the corner and stares at the box.

Frankly, if any of them make it long enough to lay an egg, it’ll be a miracle.

I don’t understand why my chicken flock isn’t stronger. I’ve been taking very excellent care of them. I make sure their temperature is just right, I give them plenty of food, fresh straw, and water.

However, I can pretty much bet that I won’t be winning the “chicken caretaker of the year” award. Let me tell you why. Yesterday I awoke and the chicks were happy, healthy, and rambunctious. They only had tissue paper lining their box for the first day (as per the instructions). Day two suggested giving them some sort of litter; straw, hay, big pine shavings, but not anything too small like sand or wood shavings, as they might eat it and mess up their digestive systems.

I got some hay from a big round hay bale out in the field. I picked each of the little chicks up, counting as I went, and set them in a temporary box to get them out of the way. I laid some fresh hay in their permanent box, then picked them up, once again counting each of them, and placed them back one by one on their new, cozy, straw bedding. Then I gave them a feeder filled with chicken starter feed.

I went into the kitchen, heated their water to a pleasant 98 degrees on the stove (as per instructions), and filled their waterer (pictured below).

I checked on them a few more times throughout the day, then I left to come into town (spoken like a true country girl) to take care of some business. I returned home around four or five in the afternoon and discovered the dead little black chick. I was distraught. My husband pulled in the drive and I met him with the bad news. He buried my little chicky for me.

After the funeral we were just sitting around the box watching the little chicks. I have a couple of little stools that set next to the box and my butt has almost become permanently affixed.

I received 17 chickens and two have died so I am down to 15. Sitting around the box, I did a quick headcount. I counted 14. I counted again, and again got 14. The little boogers are running all around the box, so they are difficult to count. I announced to J-Dub there were only 14, he counted and said, “No there’s 15.” I mentally counted again. Still 14.

“Jason, I’m only getting 14.” He counted again and this time, he too got 14.

“There’s a chicken missing!” I exclaimed.

“Well it can’t be far,” he answered.

Just like a mama whose lost a kid at The Walmarts, thoughts began racing through my mind.

Maybe it flew somewhere? I looked around the room. No chick, chick here. Maybe I left it in the other box and forgot about it? I checked the box. No chick, chick there.

J-Dub says, “Maybe you miscounted when you first got them.” I knew I hadn’t. And then the dreaded thought occurred to me. What if I squashed her underneath the waterer when I set it in the box? I carefully lifted the waterer and peeked beneath, expecting to find another dead chicken, but instead out wobbled a little black chick, hungrier and thirstier than ever. She had been underneath the waterer all day long. Fortunately, it didn’t set flush to the floor, and there was a tiny little space where she was crouched. But the poor little thing just isn’t the same. It’s easily recognizable by its spraddled legs. I think the poor thing must have been in the “splits” position all day and now her legs are very wide-spread. She also doesn’t have very good balance and wobbles around like a little drunk man. Even when she’s standing still, she’s weaving.

We decided if she wasn’t slow in the head before that incident, she is slow now, possibly even retarded.

So Ashy named her Molasses. Slow as Molasses.

She’s a tough one, that’s for sure.

Me? I feel awful. I’m relieved she survived.

So far.

Junior Chicky Little

The chicks are quite rambunctious today. Soon they will need a much bigger box.

Yesterday, I didn’t tell you my story of death, but today I must tell you that one of them did not make it. Nature has its way of elimintaing the sick and weak and I did have a sick one.

When I first opened the box, there was a little yellow chick who had obviously endured hard trip. She was very weak and lethargic. Once I put her in the box, she seemed to perk around. I later became worried about a little black one who began struggling, then that one perked itself up.

A little while later, about 2 hours, the little yellow chick laid down, closed her eyes, and never opened them.

We buried her next to the new electrical pole where they dirt was real loose and didn’t take much manpower behind the shovel.

Ashlynn did what she does when little critters die, and made a tombstone for JR Chicken Little.

I had only ordered 15 chicks, and the hatchery sent me 17. I think that must be their “insurance” against death.

So if you are the “see the glass as half full” kind of person, even though we’ve had a fatality, I still have one extra chick than I paid for.

The remaining 16 seem very healthy and rowdy, so I hope we avoid future burials.

The Funeral

This morning I opened my eyes and the world was still turning. It still is, and more likely than not, it will continue to do so. Everything is real. Nothing has been a dream. Although it seems surreal, we laid my dad to rest yesterday in a beautiful service. A service I hope he would’ve been proud of. My sweet husband J-Dub said even though funerals aren’t cool, that was the coolest funeral he’s ever attended.

My dad’s nephew, Kevin, delivered the message and told stories that reflected his life. Although many weren’t told, or couldn’t be, I hope they are being told somewhere. Remember stories only happen to those who can tell them. Tell your stories.

My dad had a t-shirt he loved to wear and wore often. It read, “Being Bob is my Job.” Everyday was Saturday to him, and all he had to work at was just Being Bob, and he did it like no other. His nephew spoke about him being Bob the Parent, Bob the Patriot, and Bob the Provider, providing us with an abundance of laughter, joy and memories. A beautiful slide show remembered his life. Bob Seger sang, “Like A Rock” and that’s what he was. As strong as he could be. My brother Stan said he was a Superman, and that’s true, nothing could get to him.

The Patriot Riders, a group of veterans, honored him by lining the walkways and leading the procession of cars to the graveside. A very long procession of cars, I might add. His sister Jeanne said Bob would’ve enjoyed knowing he stopped all that traffic.

His pall bearers donned Hawaiian shirts in his honor, I know he would’ve gotten a kick out of that.

The Marines played Taps and presented the flag. It was a proud moment.

At the conclusion a white dove was released.

It lifted itself to the heavens, I watched it as long as I could, and then it was gone. Just like him.

His friends have made a facebook page in his remembrance, and it is a comfort to read the stories and see the love people had for him. One friend wrote it perfectly, “It is clear that Bob was well-loved, and has loved well.” How true, how true.

The tears that pour down my cheeks and fall on this keyboard aren’t tears for my dad. Why cry for him? His struggles are over. My tears are selfish tears. Tears of hurt. Tears of loneliness and sorrow. Tears of missed opportunities and dashed plans. I am grateful to have had nearly 36 years with this man.

This man who held me, laughed with me, encouraged me, danced with me, who never judged me, never spanked me, who gave me horsey rides and sloppy kisses and insisted I was rubbing them in instead of rubbing them off, who prayed for me, who believed in me, who taught me the important things without knowing it, who loved me bigger than Hog Eyes and Sauerkraut, Alabama. (I’ll have to tell you the meaning of that someday).

I know I’ll see him soon, but I can’t see him today. I’ll have to wait and press onward. He would want me to.

The prayers of friends and loved ones have reached the ears of God, and He has carried me and my family past this hurdle. But as I gaze down the road I’m traveling today, all I see is a path of hurdles ahead. tomorrow, next week, next month, next year. Today. Right now. We still need your prayers, please.

When hanging up the phone or in emails to him, he would tell us, “Love you back.” I hope he knew how deep my love was for him, and still is.

Love you back, dad.

P.S. The pics of the funeral are from the Patriot Riders, https://picasaweb.google.com/Proudnamvet/BobBriggsUSMCVietnamTahlequahOK3211?feat=directlink#5579597761663225378

In Memory of My Dad #3

Hello friends,

Here’s a second story from my dad. This was dated January 27, 1996. It is called Marking One’s Progress Through the Ages on the Doorjamb of Life. He had celebrated a birthday 11 days prior.

As I write this I reflect back to the 16th of January. That was the day that I turned 53 years old.

For lunch I had a fine piece of catfish, cornbread and fried potatoes, and a mess of turnip greens. A slice of key lime pie completed the repast, what more could one ask for his birthday meal?

Remember how you loved birthdays as a child? The presents and the birthday cake. The thrill of having one day that belonged to you alone. All this helped to make a wonderful anniversary.

Perhaps the most thrilling was the fact that you were a whole year older. You had the inch to prove it too. You stood there proudly, at attention, while your mother marked your progress on the door jamb. You were inching up on your older sister every year.

Ice cream was the “piece de resistance”. It was made from real hen eggs and cow’s cream. They don’t make ice cream like that anymore. It sat there in a big wooden freezer packed with ice and salt. A huge layer cake waited there in the background, the multi-colored candles just waiting to be lit and blown out therefore making your wish a cinch on coming true.

But what happens to that pride in growth as we add 40, 50, or even sixty years? We still lap up the kudos and cards from our friends and relatives, but we make as little fuss as possible over the number of years.

Birthdays are really very traumatic experiences. Today’s accent is on the young. Looking, acting and dressing the part make more than a few of us older than our years. After a fine bite of catfish and cornbread I can almost pull it off too. So instead of trying to submerge the past, there are those of us that try to preserve and respect it.

It is said that the most catastrophic birthday that we have is the one on the day we are born. Up until now no one has recorded the innermost workings of a newborn babe’s mind, and that is something that will have to wait a few years before being documented. They also say that the 40th is the big bombshell for women. I wouldn’t know about that, but even now on my 53rd, I’m not yet ready to throw in the towel.

So today I feel good about turning 53—despite the sad state the world we are living. Each new birthday becomes an achievement for me.

I wonder if our lack of pride for middle-aged birthdays is because we have forgotten that we are still growing. As each new season passes we have a new set of memories that make us more tolerant and sympathetic toward our fellow-man, and surely we should be for adding another inch of spiritual growth, it is the most important of all.

On my most recent birthday I’ve had a year’s worth of memories, ordinary, yet beautiful to me. I’ve also had unhappiness, but part of my growing process is learning that no one can grow without his own fair share of unpleasantness. The lessons I have learned go a long way toward that old saying, “when the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

Each birthday adds to my ability not to worry about mistakes that I might have made during the past year. next year I’ll try to remedy them, and if they can’t be fixed, so what? I won’t dwell on them.

The only birthday that I won’t be proud of, is the one where I back up to that spiritual door jamb and find that I haven’t grown an inch.

In Memory of My Dad #2

My family and I are in the midst of burying my dad. It’s hard. But tonight we sat around my grannie’s kitchen table and told our stories. And we laughed. And laughed. And laughed. It’s good medicine. It’s what my dad would’ve wanted.

My dad was a writer. He spent some time writing sports and commentary for the Tahlequah Times Journal. While we were rummaging through 2 drawers of my dad’s belongings searching for a compass to lead us towards his final wishes, we discovered a couple old newspapers. Inside were stories from my dad.

This one is dated December 9, 1995.

The thin morning sunlight cuts through the nearly bare trees warming my body as it shows up at work as it has for countless number os years. I can hear the dried leaves skitter by as I sit here and try to draw strength for my upcoming trip to Texas for the holidays.

Some people pray or actually go to church before going on an extended trip. Others break out their good luck charms or their religious medals (such as St. Christopher, the patron Saint of travelers)–and that ain’t a bad idea, seeing as there’s an outside chance that God is a Catholic.

I meditate. I sit quietly, as it were, commune with nature. After an hour of this my whole state of mind rearranges itself into a more harmonious state, and I’m comfortable with myself once more.

I don’t know how this miracle happens. But in sitting here alone, the pathway ahead becomes more clear, my cares become lighter and that elusive feeling of happiness is not so hard to attain.

“Quiet sitting”, as I call it, begins early in life. All children have a need to sit quietly and reflect on the happenings of the day. Every one of us can remember such a spot: an attic or cellar, a fence row or the spreading branches of a mimosa tree (just right for sitting).

My own personal quiet place was a huge blackjack oak tree. I could sit there in that fork near the top and watch the eagles and red-tailed hawks soaring on the uplifting thermals many hundreds of feet above me as the wisps of cloud tendrils weaved themselves in and out of the tree branches. On a clear day you could see forever from my tree.

These were our private retreats where oldsters were never welcome. An escape hatch where we could lick our wounds, real or imagined, after a solid bout of sparring in the real world. In those early years we didn’t know grown-ups needed their own little corner of the world, a place to sit down and go through their own little confusions and sort out their own problems that sometimes seemed insurmountable.

I have a rough-hewn bench since the climbing days of my youth. I call it mine although I am not the deeded owner. It sits between two giant sycamore trees This hard psychiatric bench is just right for sitting, and the sun nearly always finds it.

In the month of February it is a warm spot in a cold world. I can see the first green shoots as they nose their way sunward during these days when winter holds the world hostage in its icy grip.

My bench sits near a busy back country road, but I seem to be in a wilderness where time waits on you rather than the pressure cooker that we call the world today. April builds a new world here, the sun lingers and early spring flowers push their heads above ground for their first peek at this brave new world they are about to become part of.

On a July when there are no floaters out, the bench is a quiet place, shaded and silent. It’s not much, but you can live quiet there. If I am really quiet, perhaps a few birds will come along and serenade me with their warblings. Perhaps old man squirrel will whisk by and stop for a while questioning my sitting–so still.

I have sat on this bench in the fall when the rich autumn colors are reflected in the waters that babble below my bench. And now there is a melancholy note to my bench sitting as I try to store up enough peace to last me the entire winter.

In this hurried pace that we call modern living, I highly recommend that you find you a quiet place to just sit. It’s therapy and inexpensive and even the busiest person can steal away for an hour or so. Try it and you will enjoy a little of the miracle.

Till you’re better paid.