I do a lot of driving during the course of a day in order to run my business.  For twelve years I commuted about an hour away to work.  I was working as a sub-contractor and the work was good.  During the years we were raising our children, the job security was something we were grateful for.  Although I don’t drive quite as much, I still spend a lot of time on the roads, usually two or three hundred miles a week.

            In all this time driving, hazards are often encountered.  Sometimes it is debris on the road, other times it’s a crash…sometimes minor, sometimes serious.

            One time I was driving behind a truck loaded with pallets of bricks.  Of a sudden, some of the bricks came off a pallet and fell to the roadway.  Some of the bricks fell to the pavement and slid along the road while some of them bounced up in the air, spinning so fast that they looked like balls.  I’m talking bouncing up ten feet in the air or more.  It’s good I wasn’t following too close and could slow down without getting hit with one of those spinning balls.

            Another time I was following a truck that was hauling old automotive parts.  There was a transmission on the back of the flatbed that looked like it was working its way slowly to the edge.  I held back as I observed this and, sure enough, it eventually fell off.  It didn’t bounce up, but would have done some damage if hit.  It slid off the side of the road, the truck driver unaware of it, continued on his way.

            There was the day that I was driving behind a semi that had smoke coming from the rear axle.  I was in the next lane and about to pass it and it made me nervous.  I sped up to get past it.  Just as I passed that axle, the bearing seized up and there was a loud boom.  The set of duel wheels broke free and came across the lane I was in, hitting the car behind me in the side.  Fortunately no one was injured, but it was a scary situation at freeway speeds.

            Then there was the time that someone lost a piece of sheet metal duct.  I could see it a couple of blocks ahead of me sitting on the lines between lanes.  All the other drivers in their cars were staying in their lanes and missing it just fine.  Just as I got to it, a pickup driver bumped it just enough to put it in my lane in front of me.  I had no choice but to hit it.  I was in a new pickup doing about 75mph.  My left front tire hit it and exploded.  I was able to get off to the side of the road safely.  Not the best of days but no one was hurt…Just the expense of a new tire.

            My friend Russ has a sister that was following a truck that had car parts on it.  An axle fell off, bounced up and into her car.  She had no chance to swerve or stop.  He was devastated at the loss of his sister.

            There were numerous other times and instances where I witnessed these things happen, including some serious road rage. 

            As I was writing this, I began to think about the road of life and the debris that gets strewn along our paths.  Sometimes the debris is things that hinder us in our progress with our careers. Other times it might be something that hinders us with the relationship we have with our families or others.  Oft times it might be something that affects us spiritually.  At any rate, the debris that we encounter can be painful and many times very personal.  We each have our own cross to carry and how we deal with it can be immensely different for each of us.  Some avoid this debris through counseling.  Others might choose a different course of action, perhaps choosing not to deal with the debris, heading for a crash by hiding behind the effects of drink or drugs. 

            I think one of the best ways to deal with debris is to spend time in serving others.  It gets our mind off of the debris and helps us to avoid the crashes that would hinder and depress us in life’s progress and growing experiences.

            Particularly at this time of year, might we each look for the opportunities of service for those less fortunate.  Whatever we have, be it plenty, be it scant, there are those wanting, who would be grateful for the mite that we could share.  It might help them avoid the debris and crashes in their lives.  Take time, look around and it’s not hard to see someone in need.

            One of my favorite poems by Ella Wheeler Wilcox puts it in perspective for me       

One ship sails East,
And another West,
By the self-same winds that blow,
Tis the set of the sails
And not the gales,
That tells the way we go.

Like the winds of the sea
Are the waves of time,
As we journey along through life,
Tis the set of the soul,
That determines the goal,
And not the calm or the strife.

            In Matt 16:25 is a recipe for avoiding debris and crashes:

25 For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.

 I’ve learned that as God blesses lives, many times, he impresses people and directs them to serve those who have needs.  Might we learn to steer clear of debris in our lives and have smooth sailing along our road of life or whatever path we so choose to travel.  Might we be aware of those impressions from above and lose ourselves in the service of others.

            Visiting a new doctor for the first time can be a little scary.  Especially when you are getting a procedure done that you aren’t too enthusiastic about.  Such was the case with me yesterday.

            The procedure complete, I was exiting the building which was about a block from the hospital.  I noticed a man walking up the opposite side of the road rather briskly.  Normally it wouldn’t have drawn my attention, but this man had a rather determined look on his face.  He was barefoot and wearing a hospital gown.  That’s right, one of those gowns that has a couple of ties in the back and if not held closed, exposes ones back side…err should I say buttocks.

            I thought to myself that this patient was taking the exercise walk a little to the extreme.  About that time, a man in dark blue scrubs came running from the hospital and caught up with the patient.  “Hospital gown man” didn’t look too happy and “blue scrubs” was having a hard time getting him to turn around and head back to the hospital.  Then another man came running up to them.  This man had on dark pants and a white shirt and there was a badge on the shirt.  “Security man” and “blue scrubs” each took the “hospital gown man” by an arm and walked him back towards the hospital.  “Hospital gown man” was resisting the whole time but with the two workers helping him along forcefully, they were making progress, albeit slow…buttocks showing and all.   

            For my soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads.[1]

Sometimes it’s hard to come up with the words that would befittingly express the feelings I would like to express.

 Among those feelings are the feelings of sadness because of the lies and betrayal of someone, most loved by Nan and I.  I lament that I unknowingly enabled the situation, not recognizing or perhaps not wanting to accept what might be happening.  The harsh blow of reality sometimes catches us off guard and shocks us to the very core. 

I feel a need to write and express the gratitude I have for the love of a wonderful spouse who has the wisdom and love that only a mother and wife can exhibit.  The heartache she feels is undeserved of one so loving, trusting and caring. 

I have a need to express the love I have for a Heavenly Father that can lift my spirit with his matchless love and understanding.  

            When tough times come, as they do to all of us, I often find solace in hymns that draw me close to God.  As I ponder the past few months and how they relate to the ups and downs of the present situation, I find myself thinking of the hymn “How Gentle Gods Commands”.  The last verse says “His goodness stands approved, Unchanged from day to day; I’ll drop my burden at His feet and bear a song away”.

            As He has heard and answered my prayers, I can only feel humbled and in awe, that He would be so kind to me by allowing me to drop my burdens at His feet as they weigh constantly in my thoughts and on my soul.

            “I marvel that He would descend from his throne divine to rescue a soul so rebellious and proud as mine, that he should extend his great love unto such as I, sufficient to own, to redeem, and to justify”[2].

            I often awake in the morning with a song or hymn on my mind.  Perhaps it is His way of letting me know He cares.  Sometimes it is a hymn I am only vaguely aware of and I have to look it up to find its message.

            As I read the blogs of others, I realize that my troubles are small compared to many and that I wouldn’t trade my problems for anyone else’s. I know that as we learn to deal with the present, there will be brighter days in the future. 

            Where, when my aching grows, Where, when I languish, Where, in my need to know, where can I run? Where is the quiet hand to calm my anguish? Who, who can understand?  He, only One.[3]

            For quite a few years, we have made an annual pilgrimage to Idaho…land of potatoes.  Our daughter’s husband and in-laws used to grow spuds and we would, each fall, go and bring a load home for us and our children.   A few years ago they quit raising potatoes, instead, opting to raise sugar beets and grain.  With their connection to neighbors who still raise potatoes, we still make our annual trip to that neighboring state to bring home the food staple that almost all of us like.

            When the apple crop in our orchard is abundant, we take apples with us so they can have and share in our harvest.  This was one of those years when we had plenty of apples, so I took apples to Idaho and brought spuds back.

            The difference this year was that we weren’t able to spend as much time visiting our family there.  We didn’t arrive until late evening on Friday and only stayed until noon on Saturday.

            Before leaving for Idaho, with work matters pressing me, I had to squeeze a whole day of work into five hours.  This consisted of sending out my billings so I can get paid next month, picking up supplies for the jobs, picking up the payroll, going to a job where I had to make sure my electrical boxes and pipes were properly installed in the brick, dig a trench, bore under a walkway, install the conduit and bury it and grade the area that I dug.  Having done this, I still had to clean out my truck, load the apples and shower and clean up before we could leave.  When all this was done, I was so tired that my whole body ached, so instead of leaving when Nan got home from work, I had to have a short "power nap" to insure my alertness for the drive.

             With slow traffic due to an accident and an area of road construction, the drive took an extra forty five minutes.  We didn’t arrive until almost 7:00 PM.  Not getting any younger, I felt exhausted when we arrived and was more than happy to plop down in a soft chair in front of the TV until supper was ready to eat.  Waiting for dinner, I was nodding off, the fatigue wreaking havoc on my aching and tired body.

            Not wanting to miss some visiting with my daughter and grandkids, I continued to stay up and visit after supper.   

I have a grandson, eight years young, who is unusually perceptive when it comes to sensing others needs.  He seems to see the needs of others when it isn’t always obvious to the rest of us.  He will see someone loaded down or in a wheel chair, and go out of his way to open a door or do something to ease their burden.  If someone drops something, he is the first to assist them in picking up their goods.  It seems that he can perceive how people are doing or feeling.

            Now, I’m not saying that this young man is perfect.  He throws tantrums, and is mischievous as most any young man can be at that age.  He can hold his own while fighting with his brothers and sister.  When invited to do chores, sometimes it takes reminding him a few times…Just a normal kid.

            When the noise of the grandchildren and the TV got to be a bit too much for me, I decided to go to the shop where I knew my son-in-law was working.  As I headed out the door, Austin decided to join me.  He didn’t ask, only stated that he was going with me.

            My son-in-law and I get along really well, and we had a nice visit as he changed the oil on a tractor prior to the next morning’s work in the fields.  As I stood and visited with my son-in-law, Austin was spinning around in the shop on a John Deere tricycle that has seen a lot of use and abuse for several years.

            Still tired and aching from the work and drive, even though I was enjoying the visit, I was really starting to hurt.  I heard a noise from across the shop and here comes Austin with a chair.  It was one on wheels like we use in an office and the wheels were noisy in the concrete shop floor.  He pushed it over to me without saying a word.  I sat in it and relaxed, glancing at him sitting next to me on the John Deere tricycle.  He was busy watching his dad put the six gallons of oil in the tractor.  I gently reached over and touched his ear to get his attention, and told him “thank you”.  This perceptive young man casually said “you’re welcome” as natural as if it was part of his normal conversation. 

            Austin, with his intuition to help those in need, had again found a recipient for his good deeds.   Fetching a chair for someone, hurting and tired, will never be forgotten. 

            I’m sure his parents are proud of him.  He’s a fine son to them, one I am proud to call a grandson. 

            This coming weekend is the annual deer hunt.  For as long as I can remember, it has always started at daylight on the third weekend in October.  There was a time when I spent time and money planning for this big event, but that was years ago.  The feeling is upon me that sometime I would like to go again…not to shoot anything, but to spend that time with those I love.

            I’m reminded of the Players.  I spent some wonderful times hunting with them.  They hunted the same place for many years and probably still do.  Garnet, the dad, even in his old age would come on the hunt, if only to stay in camp and cook.  It was an annual event and a great opportunity to spend time with his sons, and eventually grandsons too.  Garnet died the day before the deer hunt a few years ago.  His sons and grandsons went on the hunt as usual, spending the evening before opening day of the hunt, reminiscing about all the years and the good times they were able to spend together and with him.

            As a youngster, when I finally reached the legal age to hunt, and having obtained the proper permits, I purchased a hunting rifle and my father took me into the mountains to hunt.  He hadn’t hunted in years, and probably was not a very good hunter, but wanting to spend time with me and allow me the opportunity, we drove some back roads to likely looking area.

            I would state here that my father was no youngster.  He was forty years old when I was born.   He had worked hard all his life, and had a few health issues…although not severe.  I didn’t think much about him hiking around the hills at his age because he was very active at his construction job and probably in good shape.

            Dad sent me ahead to an area he thought would likely produce a buck and he said he would catch up with me in a while.  He wanted to take it slow and enjoy a slow hike.  Anxious as I was to shoot my first deer, I hurried ahead and spent a good deal of time overlooking a little clearing and the draws leading to it.  I don’t even recall how long I looked and watched and waited, but I never saw a single solitary deer.  I waited quite some time, but dad never did catch up.  I thought that perhaps he took a different turn and didn’t know where I was.  Finally I decided to go find him so we could spend the time together.

            As I retraced my route from the clearing to the truck, I passed through a stand of aspen with a few golden leaves on the trees, but mostly a thick blanket of them on the ground.  It was hard not to make a lot of noise walking in those dry leaves.  It was there that I found dad.  I thought he had died of a heart attack.  He was laying face down with his face in the leaves like he had fallen.  I hurried to his side and called “dad”.  He rolled over and sat up, blinking the sleep from his eyes. 

            To this day, I don’t know if he fell, passed out or if he had just lain down and went to sleep, but to my relief, he woke up.

            I wish I knew where that place was.  I know the general area, but of course that was somewhere around forty five years ago and I just can’t pinpoint it in my mind.  Now, the reason I would again like to find it isn’t for sentimental reasons.  When hiking down the trail that many years ago, there were white quartz rocks beside the trail, and they had little veins of gold in them.  At the time, I just passed it off as “fools” gold, but now when I think back on it, I could have passed up the real thing.  I’ll never know for sure, and it would be a “fools” errand for me to spend my time looking for something I know so little about.

            My dad had an uncle whom he loved, and he even worked for him for a period of time.  This uncle loved to hunt and fish.  Dad once asked him “Uncle Will, what are you going to do if you die and on the other side there isn’t any hunting and fishing?”  His uncle replied “you know, when I was a kid, there wasn’t anything better than playing a game of marbles with my friends…but I grew up.”

             I hope I am wise enough to spend my remaining years looking for and developing treasures that I can take with me when I depart this life…knowledge, love, patience, brotherly kindness, and most of all, gratitude for the blessings given my by a loving Heavenly Father.

            In Matthew 6 it says:  

 19 ¶ Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:

 20 But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal:        

            Last night I visited Howard who is eighty eight years old.  I visit him regularly  because he likes someone to talk to.  Having outlived all but one sibling, a son and his wife, life gets lonely.  I would like to think that we can learn from the experiences life has given him.  Some of his life experiences I have heard a few times and others like the one he related last night were new and thought provoking to me.

            A few months before the end of WWII, he was working with an engineering battalion a few miles outside of Paris France.  He participated in the building of different structures, bridges and roads.

            One day, after much stormy weather, the roads were muddy and really a mess.  He was assigned, along with another soldier to take a truck and some German prisoners to an area a short distance away to get some sand for the muddy roads.  The prisoners were given shovels and were to load the truck with some sand from a hillside.  Because of the wet weather, the other soldier stayed in the truck while Howard stood by the hillside with his carbine, watching the prisoners load the truck.  He didn’t see it coming…one of the prisoners rushed him and knocked him down.  Dazed, and trying to get his bearings, it was then, that he realized that part of the sandbank on the hillside had caved in.  Had he remained where he had been standing, he would have been crushed.  The prisoner helped him up, brushed him off and then leaned over, picked up his carbine rifle, brushed the sand off of it and handed it to him.  The prisoner then went back to his shovel.

            The thought then came to Howard that these prisoners were people just like him.  They were patriotic people, serving their country just like him, and probably didn’t want the war anymore then he did. 

            Having listened to this tale, my thoughts reverted to my all time favorite scene from a movie.  In the movie “The Outlaw Josey Wales”, Josey confronts the   Comanche Chief “ Ten Bears"  The dialogue that follows comes from that meeting.

Josey Wales: That's true. I ain't promising you nothing extra. I'm just giving you life and you're giving me life. And I'm saying that men can live together without butchering one another.

Ten Bears: It's sad that governments are chiefed by the double tongues. There is iron in your words of death for all Comanche to see, and so there is iron in your words of life. No signed paper can hold the iron. It must come from men. The words of Ten Bears carries the same iron of life and death. It is good that warriors such as we meet in the struggle of life... or death. It shall be life.

         Mutual respect applies to all generations and peoples.  Governments would do well to learn of the “iron in your words.”  In other words “honesty and respect.”

Ever since my son was a couple of years old, we’ve been attending the annual “fathers and sons” outing.  Some years it has been held in the mountains, sometimes in the desert and this year, at Rockport Reservoir.  The campground was nice and clean, the outhouses were clean but smelled.  Some years we had a camper, some we had a camp trailer or a tent trailer, but this year we just had a tent.

            We didn’t get an early start and didn’t feel like cooking, so we decided to stop and buy a burger before making the drive.  We sat and visited while we ate.  The burgers were big but a little greasy and we ate too much.  We had to stop and get some ice so we stopped at the local Maverik for that.  Dinner was too much for Ben and he headed for the restroom where he tossed his cookies.  Feeling much better, we made the drive to the camp ground. 

The years when we had a camper, we would bake chocolate chip cookies and eat them hot with cold milk before retiring.  Since we didn’t have the means to cook them, we bought cookies and just had cold ones with milk before we went to bed.  In fact, we brought way too many snacks, most of which went unopened.

            After an evening of activities and watching the stars, we finally retired for the night.  We weren’t as prepared as we should have been, because it got cold.  We both got cold in the night, but especially Ben did.  At around 5:00 AM, Ben got up, watered a tree and came back to bed.  He borrowed my extra cover and was trying to sleep.  Nature was calling me, so at 5:30 I decided to get up.  I dressed and threw the extra sleeping bag on Ben to help him get warm.  I used the smelly outhouse, and then trying to be really quiet, I went to the truck to get a drink and    to get some paper to help starting a fire with.

            Living in the vicinity of some retail spaces and across the street from a church, I have sometimes been annoyed by people who inadvertently have set off their car alarms.  It seems that sometimes they don’t realize that it is their car, so it keeps on honking for quite some time.  In fact, I’ve accidently pressed the button on my key while our car was in our garage, disturbing my family.  In the dark, I’ve pressed the button, while using Nan’s car, being unfamiliar with her key.

            I’ve been driving my truck for two years and have never had an experience quit like this one.  There was a tent about twenty yards in front of the truck, and not wanting to wake the people in that tent with my truck lights, I decided to unlock the truck with the key instead of the keyless entry.  To my surprise, the truck started making little quick horn sounds so I pushed the red button on my key to quiet the honking.  It didn’t stop so I quickly closed the door.  When the door closed, the truck went into full alarm.  There I was, trying to be nice and quiet, fumbling with the keys in the dark with the lights on the truck blinking as the horn was honking on and off in a campground full of tents and campers.  Finally, I found the red button…I’ve never been so grateful for silence.

            I decided to blame it on Ben if anyone asked, but ultimately took the blame upon myself.

            Embarrassed as I was, at least no one got up or yelled at me.  If I hadn’t said anything, perhaps I could have gotten away with it.  I did apologize to the ones in the nearest tent.

            I gathered a little wood in the dark, started a fire and enjoyed a while of peace and quiet before anyone got up.

            As I sat there, I watched a herd of deer work its way down the hill and cross the road about 50 yards away.  What a peaceful way to start the morning…after such a noisy blunder just an hour or so before.

            After a nice breakfast of French toast and bacon, juice, milk and chocolate milk, we sat and visited, enjoyed the sunrise over the hills, and broke camp.  With much to do, we departed and pointed the truck in the direction of home.

            Home safe at last, everyone at home was happy for the snacks that we didn’t eat. 

            As for me, I have a new appreciation for the way the alarm system works on my truck.  I’m sure some of the other campers appreciated the fact that we didn’t stay another night.

            A few years ago, while rushing up the stairs two at a time, something in my knee gave way.  I was able to walk only with great pain.  Like a sprain, I figured it would heal in a few days and I’d be back to normal.  When that didn’t happen, I went to my doctor who referred me to a sports medicine specialist.  After some poking around and a couple of x-rays, it was determined that I had a torn meniscus.  To further complicate things, I have arthritis in the knees and in some places, bone on bone.  With surgery and some healing, I was able to walk normally, with little pain.  Since that time five years ago, the knee conditions have only deteriorated.  Some days I’m able to walk with no pain, and other days, I can barely walk.  The doctor told me that some day in the future, knee replacements would be in order.  He said that when the time comes, I would tell him, he wouldn’t have to tell me.

            Along with my bum knees is the pain in my lower back.  A few years ago, I blew a disc in my back and had to have surgery.  I was told that I have degenerative disc disease.  It isn’t really a disease at all, but a flattening of the discs that causes the bones to rub together causing pain. 

            One of the things I was told by both doctor’s who performed the surgeries, was that I shouldn’t run, jump or do anything that would impact the back or the knees.  This would prolong the normal use of them and not cause as much pain.

            I’ve always been active and used to doing what I please.  This meant that if something needed moving, I’d move it.  If it needed lifting, I’d lift it.  If I needed to run, I would run.  The same things goes with jumping, playing sports and many other things that I normally used to do.  Gone are the days!

            I don’t consider myself as getting old but I do qualify for senior’s discounts at some places.  I occasionally have to run in an emergency.  I have found that it isn’t too difficult or painful. 

            So it was that last night I found myself running.  It was actually quite pleasant.  I wasn’t winded, the knees felt good and my back didn’t hurt.  I was surprised how well it went…a totally pleasant experience.

            Then I woke up!  Darn, it was only a dream.  As one who used to run, it stirred up some sweet memories.  They were pleasant and I felt at peace…would that I could feel that peace each day when I awaken.

            There is one thing that I inherited from my grandfather that my wife doesn’t appreciate.  My eyebrows aren’t necessarily thick, but they have some wild hairs.  Now that I’m getting along in years, the ones that are out of line are silver and more noticeable.  Nan thinks that the hairs that seem to grow and stick up or out without having to conform to the rest of the eyebrow, should be cut or plucked or worse yet, YUCK, she’ll lick her finger and paste them down as a temporary fix.

            A couple of years ago we made a deal.  She would dye her hair when the silver roots started to show, and if she did it on a regular basis, I would trim the long hairs from my eyebrows.  This worked fairly well and she even bought me a little trimmer to trim them with.  Even better, when I would go to the salon to get my hair cut, “Purple Hair” who cuts my hair the best, would also trim the eyebrows.

            A few weeks back, I was at the store, and found a hair trimmer that looked like it would do a better job.  This trimmer was like the small trimmer that “Purple Hair” uses to trim around the ears and neckline.  This was an enhanced version and was on closeout.  It had an adjustment that was attached that replaces all the other attachments that you would normally put on a trimmer to adjust the depth of how long or short you wanted to cut.

            The other day, Nan was mentioning that the eyebrows needed trimming.  To emphasize the point, she even dyed her hair.  She did paste the stragglers a couple of times and that’s yucky.

            I thought of the new trimmer that I bought and decided to give it a whirl.  I made sure the battery was charged and adjusted it to what I thought was a good length.  I started with the right eyebrow and whoa!!...I set them things too short.  With my thin brows, short means nonexistent.  It was gone!  I couldn’t go around with one long and one short, so naturally, I buzzed the other one too. 

            Next time I decide to trim the brows, I think I’ll try it on the dog first.

            We took a little trip this week.  On the way to our destination, we drove through Aurora Utah.  It’s a little town a few miles South West of Salina.  A flood of memories came to me as we passed along the main street past the house where Louise used to live with her family.    

            The little dilapidated house they lived in has since been remodeled and has more modern siding on the outside.  I’m not sure if it is still inhabited because just a few yards behind it is a new two story house.

            This is the house they lived in when her first husband, Pete, was alive.  This is the house they lived in when Pete worked in the coal mine.  This is the property where they raised hogs, rabbits, milked goats, and learned to live in and love a rural community.  This is the house they lived in when they would go to the auction and bring home lambs, baby goats and other creatures that were doing so poorly that no one would buy them. This is the house they lived in where they nursed those poor hapless creatures back to health.  This is the property where they worked as a family to rebuild the bridge across the canal so they could again, access their property safely.  This is the house where they took in a Navajo girl on the Indian placement program so she could get an education.  This is the house where they lived when we joined with them in going to the forest to find a Christmas tree.  This is the house where they lived when Pete got sprayed by a skunk.   It was a cold winter day and Pete needed to work.  The bus ride to the mine took a while.  He didn’t smell pleasant from his skunk encounter and they put him in the back of the bus and opened all the windows. Everyone else rode in the front of the bus.

            This is the house where the cat was bothering some of the chickens and Louise decided to pepper it with bird shot in the 22 rifle, but mistakenly put in a regular cartridge and unfortunately, killed the cat.

This is the house where they lived when I came to go pheasant hunting with Pete.   One of Pete’s neighbors offered to let us hunt with them and their dogs.  When I got there, Pete informed me that the offer didn’t work out.  We hunted the fields around their home, but didn’t find a single bird and never shot our guns.  We did have a nice hike and enjoyed the day.

 This is the house where I picked up Pete, drove to Santa Clara near St. George, then back to Aurora and home in Sandy…all in one day.

This is the house where a little girl wandered off while her mom was visiting Louise.  Louise immediately ran to the canal and saw a little hand clutching to a clump of grass.  She pulled a cold, wet and scared little child to safety, handing the child to a scared mother.

This is the house where they lived when Pete came home from work early, still in his black, coal dust covered clothes, having not showered and cleaned up,  having been injured. Working in the mine, a cable snapped and hit Pete in the back of his neck.  It cracked a bone, and over the course of time, the injury accelerated the effects of diabetes for which Pete was afflicted. Before the age of 45, Pete passed away, his body that of a 90 year old man.

This is the house they had to move from, so Louise could go to work to support the family.

Although things didn’t work out, a divorce was in the works when Pete died.  I had worked with Pete for years and loved him like a brother.  His was the first funeral I ever spoke at.

In Aurora, the little dilapidated house with the sagging roof brought back memories, good and bad.  This is the house that will forever bring back memories of a sister, dear to me.  Each time I pass by that little house, a feeling of nostalgia, a feeling of melancholy, a feeling of the years creeping bye, brings back a feeling of love for days/years gone by that can never be re-lived…only appreciated.

            I have blogged about and often stated that spring is my favorite time of year.  I love to watch the world around me as it emerges from the dormant and desolate throes of winter, changing into something beautiful, something glowing with color…something of promise.

            Just because I so much enjoy springtime, doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy the other seasons.  Following spring is my next favorite time of year.  I do, so much, enjoy summer.

            This summer has been as good as any I can remember. Of course, as the years go by, my mind isn’t as sharp and I probably forgot others that were outstanding. 

            We’ve been able to spend time with our family on a trip to Yellowstone.  Nan and I have been able to visit our daughter and her family in Idaho.  We visited our daughter in Tooele and enjoyed a nice lunch with her and her family.  We are taking one last summer outing to Fish Lake next week, spending time with our dear friends, Charlie and Joyce.

            So it is that today I felt a little reticent about letting go of summer.  There was a change in the air over the past week, leaving me feeling a little melancholy.  The early dawn has surrendered to the darkness, the evenings, watching the sun set over the Oquirrh Hills to the west, have given way to evenings watching the stars appear.

            To put it mildly, this summer has been unique, like no other in my adult life.  From May through most of July, I was out of work.  I had to lay off all my employees, spend all my time looking for work, and of course use up much of my cash reserves to survive.  With all this extra time, I was also able to spend more than the usual amount of time, tending to my garden and yard.  My yard is no show piece.  We have trees, shrubs, flowers and lawn.  I know they look nice, but they aren’t going to take any prizes in anyone’s book…this I know.  They are pleasing to Nan and I, and that’s what is important to us.

            Because of the extra time on my hands, my garden is one of the best I’ve had.  I was able to cultivate it each week, weed and water it, and I even talked to it a few times.  All of this attention has resulted in a lot of produce.  We had radishes and spinach that were used and gone as soon as the weather got hot.  We had peas to eat fresh, froze enough for the next year, and gave half the crop away.  Nan canned beets and pickled beets enough for the next year, gave some away, and we still have some left.  We bottled beans enough for the next year, and continue to give them to friends and family, free for the picking.  We had apricots as large as small peaches.  Nan made apricot leather for storage, but most of it gets eaten by the grandchildren.  We also did the same with plums, and will have more when the rest of them ripen.

            I don’t necessarily enjoy fresh tomatoes, but most of the family does, and they are doing well this year.  I raise a lot of sweet corn.  We love to eat it on the cob, and cut it off the cob and freeze enough for the next year.  Our corn is doing well this year.  My favorite thing to do with corn is to give it away.  I like to pick a couple of dozen ears of corn, then drive around one of the neighborhoods near here, and when I see someone in their yard, stop and give them enough for supper.  One man suggested that he could help me sell it, but I declined…it would take away the joy I receive, making people happy.

            We will soon have other veggies as well.

            Our orchard is loaded with apples this year.  My guess is that we’ll get somewhere around forty bushels.  We have one really early apple tree.  It always has nice fruit, but because it ripens so early, we have to pick the apples before they fall on the ground.  These apples make a really good green apple pie.  I made one today.  It’s pretty tart, but a little ice cream on it makes it better.

            We also harvested some honey this week.  It’s possible that we might get a little more later on, we’ll just wait and see.

            In a couple of months, the fatted calves will also meet the measure of their creation.

            I have watched with interest, as a couple of my children have some game they play on the internet.  It has to do with farming.  They don’t understand that in the real world, the planting, cultivating, harvesting and preserving crops are a lot of work, not just a push of the button.  I’ve encouraged my daughter to help in the “real” garden…sort of “the little red hen” principle, but she doesn’t get it.  She’s more than willing to harvest, but that’s as far as it goes.

            So it is, that as the weather changes, I bid farewell to summer, and greet the fall with hopes of continuing a great and bounteous harvest.  I couldn’t feel more blessed…the necessities of life are still mine in abundance.  Sure, I have worked hard, but I can’t for the life of me take any credit without thanking my God for his mercy and blessings.  Without Him, I am nothing! 

            Years ago there was a movie called “Eight Seconds” about a cowboy named Lane Frost.  Lane Frost was a bull rider and a good one.   In 1989 after a really good ride on a really tough bull, he was on his hands and knees in the mud when the bull hit him twice.  With broken ribs and a torn artery, he regained his feet and sprinted towards the gate but collapsed and died before reaching it.

            Last week I saw my neighbors herd of cows in the alfalfa field behind my house.   I climbed the fence to push them into the adjoining pasture.  Seeing the one ton bull with the cows reminded me of what bull can do.  Abruptly, I climbed back over the fence and retrieved a pitch fork before returning to herd them back where they belonged.

            A bull, identical to the one in the alfalfa, was one time acting a little protective of his harem.  Being the cautious type, I had warned my neighbor not to turn his back on the critter.  While separating a couple of cows from the heard, somehow, the bull took offense to someone messing with his girlfriends.  Before my friend could react, the bull, although with no horns, was pile driving him into the ground and fence.  We humans are no match for a 2000 pound bull.  As this attack began, another neighbor’s dog started to go crazy and distracted the bull enough that with some encouragement, the dog’s owner was able to coax my friend into consciousness enough to get himself to a gate where he was rescued.

            When I was small, perhaps six or seven years of age, while my sister and I were in the front yard of our home, there came a rather large bovine creature.  He was probably twenty feet from us, and he lowered his head and was pawing the ground with his front feet.  We were really scared.  I sprinted to the front porch which was perhaps ten feet away.  I didn’t need the stairs…I just ended up on the porch.  Turning around, to my amazement, my sister was so scared that she had frozen in place.  Her feet wouldn’t move, she just stood there with a horrified look on her face.  I jumped off the porch, grabbed her by the hand and dragged her out of harm’s way.

            Today, this sister is facing a bull of a different kind.  His head is lowered and he is pawing the ground.  She is facing him head on, full of courage.  Her feet are not frozen in place, she is sprinting towards the gate and she has the inner peace to face what is coming.  I wish I could grab her by the hand and drag her out of harm’s way, but it isn’t to be.  Cancer can sometimes be a horrible, menacing bull.

            Life can get Crazy.  This past couple of weeks have been enough to put me in the loony bin.  A week ago today we drove to West Yellowstone.  It was a quick trip with all the kids and grandkids.  Unfortunately, we were short one kid, her spouse and some grandkids.  Still we managed to have a good time, visited Yellowstone Park, drove a lot, hiked a lot, ate a lot and slept a little.  I woke up on Friday and had a sick stomach.  It kind of messed with me for the whole trip.  We had to be home for Sunday as I had some obligations I needed to do.  As soon as I walked in the door on Saturday evening, the phone rang and someone was having power problems.  I went to do a service call and got back late in the evening.  My irrigation turn was from 10:00 PM Saturday til 2:00 AM Sunday.  I got most things irrigated and at a little after 1:00 AM  I was just too tired to continue, I sent the water down the ditch, went in and went to bed.  Sunday started early as I had a 7:00 AM meeting and it went until nearly 9 when I had to be to another meeting as the speaker.  After that, I relaxed until Nan was ready to leave with her sisters for their yearly outing.

            My computer crashed twice.  Both times while I was trying to finish a form requesting mediation/arbitration for our property that the state is taking for the new road.  I messed with the computer for a couple of days and suddenly, after a repair program and a restore to an earlier date, it started working again.

            I’m still trying to find work, as I haven’t picked up anything new in quite a few months.  I had to do a punch list on a job I completed, and am now done with that job.  Now I’m down to no jobs.  I do have a couple of jobs that I bid, that look like I’ll be doing them.  I’m even hopeful that they’ll start in about a week.

            I seem to be getting pressure from all sides.  If it isn’t someone pressuring me about work, it’s the Red Cross wanting to do a summer blood drive…which I haven’t time to handle.  I have a deadline to meet, filling out a roster of youth to work with Special Needs Youth.

            I have a truck in the shop needing a repair and I am just worn out. 

            My highlight for the week was a tee shirt that made me laugh.  It said “I childproofed my house but the kids keep getting in”

            Sitting on the rostrum behind the pulpit sometimes has its advantages and disadvantages.  About half the time, my church calling requires me to sit up front.  Sometimes it’s embarrassing when I’ve had a late Saturday night and struggle to keep my eyes open and my head from bobbing, as I fight to stay awake.

            This past Sunday I was really glad that I was sitting up front, as I was able to observe a remarkable experience.  One of the deacons who happened to be  passing the sacrament to the audience had a moment of clumsiness.  He tripped and fell flat on his face.  The fact that he was carrying a sacrament tray and it hit the floor with a bang didn’t help his cause.  A couple of people helped him up and helped him pick things up.  He was the last one to finish, so the other deacons were already waiting for him.  It was obvious that he was very embarrassed by the situation.

            The sacrament finished, the deacons sat down.  The Bishop got up to announce the rest of the meeting and excused the deacons to go sit with their families.  As the deacons filed out of their row, I noticed one of the older deacons put his arm around the young man and then pat him on the back.

            I was truly touched by this act of compassion.

            My thoughts went to previous times in my life when I have figuratively stumbled.  Perhaps my actions were careless or insensitive and others were hurt, embarrassed or offended.  I can remember feeling really low for doing something so stupid.  It was at these times that I felt His arms around me.  It was as if He was patting me on the back and letting me know that it was OK.  That he knew what I was feeling and was there for me.

            So many times, when one stumbles as happened this past week, others would tend to make fun of him, rather than show compassion as happened in this instance.  I’m a better person for the example I observed.  It gives me confidence in the upcoming generation.

            There was a time when I would spend every Saturday, late in the fall, duck hunting.  It was something I started doing in my late teenage years and continued for several years after I was married.

            My first experience duck hunting was when I was too young to carry a gun.  My father had hunted ducks on and off for many years, and I finally reached an age where I guess he thought I might enjoy tagging along.  We got in the truck and drove to one of the many marshes that surround the Great Salt Lake.  This area is in the migration path of many species of birds and ducks.  We hiked for a ways, waded through the marsh and finally came to a place where there were cattails and grass high enough to hide in.  The season in those days began at somewhere around 10:00 AM.  As soon as the season opened, everybody started shooting at the many ducks that were flying around in a panic not knowing where to land safely.  Most hunters would bag a couple, and of course, the next day, being Sunday, we’d have roast duck for supper.

            I don’t remember too many hunts where I came home without at least one bird.  Each year, I would buy a case of shotgun shells.  When the case was gone, my season was over.  I couldn’t afford more.  I would take two boxes of shells with me each week.  Some weeks I would use them all and not have much to show for it.  Some weeks I would use less than a box and have my limit.  I can honestly say that I’m not too good at hitting ducks.  Those little suckers fly fast.  Mostly I just shot holes in the sky.

            We found “our spot” where the ducks always flew over us.  We hunted there for years.  There were the years where we took our flat bottomed boat and went out for the hunt.  There were years where we loaded up and road bikes out on the dike roads to “our spot”.  There were the times when we hunted on snowy days and would hide under white sheets until the ducks flew over.  We even bought decoys and got a good laugh when we spotted a hunter sneaking up on them.  There was the year when Roger went to retrieve a duck and stepped in a hole.  I remember how mad he was as he was soaked clear through.  I remember watching him disappear and then come up coughing and spitting that nasty marsh water.  There was the year when I couldn’t find anyone to go with me, and took the neighbor kid with me.  I couldn’t hit anything that day, so in desperation, I gave him the gun for one last shot before we went home.  Wouldn’t’ you know it, his only shot and he bags a Mallard.  I made him clean it, and he was proud of his prize.  I wonder if his mom cooked it for their Sunday supper.

            There was the fateful year, probably around 1975.  It was the opening day of the season and it began at 8:00 AM. Of course there are those hunters that begin shooting early, but the wardens have spotting scopes and are generous with their citations.  That being the case, I always waited until the appointed hour.  I really tried to follow the letter of the law.  I was having a hard time hitting anything.  All morning, I had only had small Teal flying over, and was wishing for a Mallard or something substantially larger.  I was watching a flock of birds approach where I was hiding and when they were within range, I lifted my gun for a shot.  It was another flock of Teal but there was a larger bird in the bunch.  I took aim, let it fly, and that big bird crumpled up mid air and landed in the road on top of the dike.  The warden was driving up the road and my bird nearly hit his truck.  I went up to claim my prize and the warden watched me pick it up.  It was then that he approached me and said “do you know what you just shot?”  I answered honestly that I didn’t.  He then said “what you just shot is a protected species”.  I thought to myself  “oh *$*#%”.

            My heart dropped to my toes, knowing that I was in trouble.  The warden was actually kind to me.  He explained that even with ducks, you have to identify what kind it is before you shoot.  He put my prize in a plastic bag, confiscated my license and told me that I could continue to hunt but that I needed to stop at the warden’s office on my way home.

            When I stopped by the office, I was issued a citation and ordered to appear before a judge in Farmington in the near future.  He gave me back my license and said “have a good day”.  A couple of weeks later at the appointed time, I appeared before the judge.  He wasn’t as kind as was the warden.  He wasn’t as kind in giving me the same advice about identifying what you shoot.  He asked if the warden had confiscated my gun.  I answered that he had not.  He then turned to the warden and asked why not, as it was common to do so with this kind of infraction.  The warden stood up for me and said it was an honest mistake.  The judge was respectful of the warden’s evaluation of the situation and allowed me to keep my gun, but fined me fifty dollars.  All for one bird…a Cormorant.  They had frozen it and saved it as evidence.  I shot it fair and square, they saved it, but they didn’t give it back.  I never did find out what Cormorant tastes like…but if it’s anything like duck, it doesn’t taste all that good.

            “Our spot” was always good.  Even when hunting was slow on the rest of the marsh, the birds flew over us.  We continued week after week in the fall for several years, when we discovered that other hunters weren’t deaf.  They could hear our shooting and over a couple of year’s time, converged on “our spot”.  We would have to get there earlier and earlier each week, and even then, they began to crowd us out.  We would hide in our places and they would move up next to us, making it uncomfortable if not unsafe.

            At last, all good things come to an end.  We would eat our ducks or give them away and we finally got tired of meat that tasted like marsh mud.  We tried all sorts of things to make it taste better. We tried stuffing it with apples, onions, marinating it in all sorts of different concoctions, but to no avail.  We finally just got tired of eating it.  We gave it to family and friends until we didn’t have any…ducks or friends.

            It’s been many years since I’ve hunted ducks, eaten ducks or wanted to do either.  If I want to eat something that tastes like that, I can go to the canal down the street, mix some moss with the mud and have a mud pie. 

            Ducks may be birds of the same size but they don’t “taste like chicken”.

            I noticed a spot on the internet that said that today is “national donut day”.  I didn’t know we had to have a day to celebrate donuts. 

            According to my years of reading Louis LaMore, back in the days of the old west, donuts were a treat and because of their shape and size were referred to as “bear sign”.

            Growing up, my mom used to make homemade drop donuts.  I’m sure these were similar to the ones referred to by Mr. LaMore.  Even the memory of those donuts brings about pleasant memories.  Because of the time and effort required to make them, it wasn’t an everyday treat.  The times we did have them were special.

            While living in Denmark, we had something that was similar in size and shape but cooked differently and surely not the same recipe.  These were called ableskivers.  The translation was apple slice.  With these Danish delights, a little slice of apple was cooked in the middle and they were rolled in sugar or powdered sugar.

            I know some people that travel a long way to get the special brand of donuts they like.  For me, I’m perfectly fine with a chocolate cake donut as long as it’s fresh cooked, not from a package.

            The only donuts I like packaged are the baby donuts.  I don’t eat them often, but when traveling, they are good to munch on.

            I had one supplier that used to have donuts on the counter every day.  It seems that some contractors would have all their employees there almost every day.  I’m sure they lost many hours of work while their employees stuffed themselves.

            As it is, I have one supplier that has donuts on Fridays.  Sometimes I eat one, sometimes I don’t. 

            Since it is national donut day, I suppose I really should support the system and partake.  I know my cholesterol is already in the shape of little donuts, but one more can’t hurt…or can it?

            Almost all my life I have lived in a house that had a piano.  As a child, I took lessons and didn’t particularly take it seriously.  Perhaps I could learn now, but the desire isn’t upon me. 

            My parents purchased a piano when I was a child.  It was not like the tall upright ones, but was shorter and had some kind of wood with a blond finish.  That piano remained in their house until the house was vacated two years after mom passed away.  One of my sisters has it now.  There have been many pianos that I have seen, played on and cursed throughout my life.

The other day, as I drove down the road, there next to the curb was a piano.  At least, it was what was left of one.  There were some kids walking down the street and they were walking around and examining it.  From the looks of it, it had probably fallen out of a truck and because of the damage, been pushed to the side of the road and abandoned.  The keys were missing, the legs were broken, and it was a total wreck.

            The memory came back to me as if it was yesterday.  I was driving towards town, and in the middle of the intersection of 39^th South and 7^th East, two men were trying to lift up one end of a piano while a third was trying to back a truck under it.  This piano was also wrecked beyond repair, but at least they were going to haul it off.  There was a lot of traffic and I’m sure they were risking life and limb to get it off the road.

            I remember a large and very heavy piano that belonged to my sister.  For some reason, she and her family moved several times a year…or so it seemed.  The first time we moved it, we sort of lost control of it as we were going down the stairs of her split entry home.  I don’t remember who had to patch the hole in the wall.    Each time they moved, we had to pick up that doggone heavy thing, load it into a truck and move it again.  Since my sister had a brother-in-law that was tall and strong, it was a running joke that we would have four of us on one end of the piano and him on the other end.   It was a happy day when they finally sold it, except for the fact that they offered to move it for the people that bought it.  We had to deliver it to a house way up on the avenues.  When we got there, they wanted it put in the basement.  We had to carry it down a narrow path and stairs around the outside of the house and into the basement.  We almost didn’t make it.  I’m certain that if the people ever sold the house, the piano would have to stay with the house.

            My mother had a cousin, or some relation, that was helping move a piano and he was riding in the truck to steady it as they drove along.  When they went around a curve, the piano tipped over on him and crushed him.  He expired before they could get the piano off of him.

            We have a similar piano.  Years ago, Nan’s dad was doing a demolition job for a music store owner.  He traded some of the work for pianos for his kids that were married at the time.  The one we got had been refinished with wood grained Formica.  It must have been a lot of work for somebody.  We’ve had it probably close to 30 years, and it was old then.  We’ve had some people play it that think it has really good sound.  Now that the kids have grown and moved away, the only sound that comes from it is when someone is visiting.  If it isn’t one of the kids, then it’s one of the grandchildren, most of whom don’t know how to do much but pound on the keys.

            I once casually mentioned to Nan that we might want to get rid of it.  My, was the wrong thing to say!  As a gift from her father, it has too much sentimental value for her to ever part with it.  I’m thinking that when she gets old and passes away, they will have to make a coffin big enough to fit in the piano too.  Perhaps we could use it as a coffin.

            I just know that someday we’ll have to move, and I don’t think any of my family is strong enough to move that dang heavy thing.

            Don’t get me wrong, I like piano music.  I just think that for the amount of time it gets played, we could be better served by a xylophone or an electric guitar taking up the space in the living room.

            Through the years of raising our children, it was not uncommon for me to walk out the back door of our house and trip over a bicycle.  Also, it was not uncommon for me to be found repairing a flat tire on a bicycle.  We used to buy   tire repair kits by the case.  I think the children would deliberately head for a thorn patch, just so I could fix the tires.  Usually, when I was fixing a tire, there were multiple holes in the tube that needed patching.  Sometimes, I think I was putting patches on top of old patches.  As the children grew up and moved away, these particular problems also disappeared.

            As a youth, I learned to ride a bike on an old girls bike that belonged to one of my older sisters.  It was light blue and unlike most bikes today, had fenders to keep the water and mud from splashing up on you when you rode it.  I took a couple of nasty spills on it as I learned to ride on the playground behind Oakwood Elementary school.

            The first real bike I owned was one given to me for a special occasion…I’m not sure if it was for Christmas or my birthday.  It was brand new and made by J C Higgins.  I will always have a fond place in my heart for that bike.  I spent many hours riding it around the neighborhood with my friends.  It was a dark red, more the color of a ripe plum.  I loved to race along at top speed, then jam on the brakes and skid the tire.  This particular bike was once partially crushed because I left it in the driveway.  My father ran over one of the wheels with his truck.  I’m sure my father didn’t have money to repair it, but somehow, it was accomplished and it looked brand new again.  I don’t recall what became of it.

I eventually came into possession of a Schwinn bicycle that had belonged to my brother-in-law Carl.  While he was attending college, it was his mode of transportation.  I don’t know if it was paid for or if it was given to me.  I just remember that at that time, Schwinn was the most popular and expensive brand.  It had hand brakes and three different gears.  As I was getting used to this bike, I wasn’t used to hand brakes and as I was making good time going down the sidewalk, I turned into the church parking lot, only to find a car exiting.  We had  a minor collision with the car getting the best of the deal.  I forgot that the bike had hand brakes.  Bikes are no match for a car, and even though the driver saw me coming and stopped, I didn’t even slow down and hit him head on.  I flew over the handle bars and landed on the car hood.  Shaken up but uninjured, I couldn’t find any damage to the car or the bike, and got back on the bike to go home.  It was at this time, I discovered that the front forks had been bent back a little, and when I went to turn, my feet would rub on the front tire. 

The next bike I remember in my life was the one I purchased on my mission in Denmark.  I had just arrived from the States and it was my first major purchase.  It was my primary mode of transportation.  My companion and I rode bikes everywhere even though it was winter.  On Sundays we would lock our bikes in the bike parking lot at the rail station, ride the commuter rail to another town for church services, and then late Sunday evening, return and ride our bikes back to our apartment.  On one of these trips, when we got back to the station, my bike was gone.  Apparently, somebody wanted a new bike and acquired mine.  We looked through the lot, over and over again, but it was not to be found.  Of course it had been locked, but if someone wanted it bad enough, locks could be cut.

There was a man and wife that we spent a lot of time with.  They were an older couple and never had children.  We would eat at their house several times a week.  Frank owned a bicycle shop, and his wife Esther helped him and spent her days with him. Esther had a bad heart, and was quite feeble.  I was able to buy a used bike from them.  This bike wasn’t new, but Frank made sure that it was in good shape.  I used this bike for the remainder of the two years I was in Denmark.  I sold it to another missionary when I was ready to return home.

My companion and I decided to take a bike trip on one of our preparation days.  We wanted to see the sites on the Southern end of the Island.  It was many miles away, and took us many hours to get there.   From where we lived in Naestved to Mons Klint, as near as I can figure, one way was about thirty miles.  At Mons Klint, high on the cliff looking over the ocean, one could, on a clear day catch a glimpse of land…Germany.  It was a clear day, but I don’t remember if we were able to see Germany or not.  The ride home was long and tiresome. We had been gone since early in the morning, and had a long way to go.  Finally, unable to ride any further, we came to a town and caught a commuter train back to Naestved.  Very late at night, we took our bikes off the train and rode to our apartment.

I had some interesting experiences with bicycles during the two years in Denmark.  I had one companion that had very poor eyesight.  I remember riding in a snow storm and pulling up to a stop under an awning in front of a store, only to watch in dismay as my companion ran into the curb and fell over in the wet slush on the side of the road.

I had another companion that had just bought a new two pant suit.  As we were riding along the side of the road, a car came a little too close to me, and I edged over a little too close to my companion, clipped his bike, and sent him tail over tea kettle in the grass.  There was a nice green stain on his blue suit and If my memory serves me well, there was a hole in one of the knees.  At least it was a two pant suit and he had one more pair of pants.  He kind of got even with me, as this particular town had a bike path along the edge of the bay that we rode on to get to town from our apartment.  One time, we were riding side by side, and as someone approached from the opposite direction, he returned the favor, nudging me, accidentally of course, off the path and into the bay.

Another companion and another town:  This particular town had a draw bridge that we had to cross in our daily travels.  We were living on one side of town and working on the other.  One day there was a big storm, and a tug boat sank in the fjord next to the draw bridge.  A couple of days later, there was a large boat with a crane lifting the sunken boat.  As we were coasting on the downhill side of the bridge, we were standing on our bikes so we could see over the side of the bridge and look at the boats.  My companion was ahead of me and he drifted a little too close to the railing between the sidewalk and the bike lane.  He snagged a pedal on one of the posts of the railing, stopping his bike short.  I heard a big clang and looked up in time to see him sailing off his bike, spread eagle in the air.  He probably flew for about ten feet before hitting his head on the railing.  I ran over his wrecked bike with mine, but stopped just short of running over him.  He wasn’t unconscious for long, but it rattled his marbles, and he had to get a nasty gash in his head stitched.  A few weeks later, on his repaired bike, we rounded a corner in town, and we happened to be going across the trolley tracks.  This time he dropped his front wheel into the grove in the pavement next to the track.  Unable to steer, he biffed it again.  This time, he just got some road rash and one cut he had to have stitched.  I wonder if he still remembers those  times.

Well, things have kind of gone full circle around here.  My wife and a couple of daughters have expanded on their running and marathons and half marathons and 5K and 10K races.  They have decided to participate in triathlons.  This consists of swimming, riding a bike and running.  Now we have in our garage a couple of expensive bikes.  These bikes have many gears and little skinny tires for road racing.  It’s back to tripping over bikes when I go into the garage to get something.  If that weren’t enough, I’m back to fixing tires.  In the last month I’ve had to fix three flats on Nan’s bike and one on Leslie’s bike.  I put a thorn resistant tube in Leslie’s bike, but they don’t make them in the size that Nan has.  Nan is good on a bike and loves to ride.  I know Leslie knows how to ride a bike, but she just had to have the special shoes that clip into special pedals.  She hasn’t biffed it for a couple of weeks, but that’s because she has been sick and hasn’t ridden in a couple of weeks.  I keep telling her that she won’t be able to type on her computer at work if she breaks something.  But who am I to say.

I’ve come to the conclusion that when this life is over and I show up at the pearly gates, I’ll be ushered through a door and will trip over a bike with flat tires.  I can imagine it having flat tires that I’ll have to repair daily, and instead of a set of wings, they’ll look at me and say “you get the bike”.

            My favorite time of year is here again.  With the winter storms ebbing, and the spring rains washing over the fields, I can’t help but thank my Creator for this beautiful earth.  The mountains around our valley are still snow covered and beautiful in their magnificent grandeur, as they peak through the storm clouds passing bye.

            The leaves in the valley are beginning to grow.  My globe willow tree, that I  pruned to a stump, already has new shoots on it that are covered with the brightest green you can ever imagine.

            The peas, spinach, radishes and beets that I planted are all sprouted, and I spent a couple of hours killing the wicked weeds that plague their struggle to survive.

            My bees survived the winter and are about, pollinating anything and everything that is blooming.  I fed and nurtured them, medicating them against diseases and mites, and I am doing my best to be their friend.  I know they don’t appreciate what I do for them, but in my quest to help them, I have grown to love them.  It is a hobby that costs me money, but the pleasure I derive from it is immense.

            My most favorite thing about spring, however, is something pleasing to the olfactory senses and easy on the eyes.  How do you describe something as beautiful as a blossom.  As soon as the apricots finished a spectacular year of blooming, the plumbs began their turn, transforming my orchard into something that even a picture can’t adequately encompass.  Now that the plumbs are finished, the cherries are blooming and nearly complete, and the apples are in the middle of one of the prettiest and most proficient blooms that I can ever remember.  I took Nan out to the orchard just to gaze at them.  My daughter from Idaho was impressed, lamenting that she forgot her camera.  Not only is it beautiful, but even with my sinus problem this last week, I could smell the fragrance that mother nature provides.  Our hedge of flowering plum bushes are ablaze with deep pink flowers that overtake your imagination when you walk out the back door.  The sweet fragrance nearly bowls you over before you even realize what it is.

            I realize that we’re at the mercy of nature.   Even though the bees have been doing their thing, and there are apricots on the trees, and plums on the plum trees, and most assured, there will be apples on the apple trees, a cold spell with freezing temperatures could take away all this fruit.

            Still, with all this beauty, I would thank God, for I have been adequately rewarded.  More blessings, I could not ask for.

                It’s only sheetrock.  You know, the plaster board kinda stuff you put on walls, patch the joints, nails and screws, then paint it to make it pretty.  It’s been around for a long time.  As little kids, we used to take little pieces of it and use it as chalk to write on the sidewalk or driveway.

            This past weekend I had two things that reminded me of an incident that happened many years ago. 

As I was entering my teenage years I worked for my dad as an electrician.  At that time, my father mostly wired homes for a living.  We had a project not far from home where we were wiring an entire subdivision for a contractor.  These were not large homes, and it would only take a day for my brother-in-law, Homer, and I to wire one.  For some reason, before we were done with this particular house, the drywall contractor had the house stocked with sheetrock.  They had a stack leaning on the living room wall and another stack piled on the floor in the living room.

Not sure that the outlets were finished on the wall behind the stack of sheetrock, I pulled on the stack to look behind it.  This stuff is heavy, and as the stack started to move, I couldn’t stop it.  In my rush to get out of the way, I stumbled on the stack of sheetrock on the floor and that’s as far as I got.  The falling pile pinned my left leg against the pile on the floor. 

My father was there, and he along with homer tried to lift the pile, but it was just too much weight.  A couple of workers from the house next door heard the noise as the sheetrock crashed down, and came over to investigate.  With the two men and my father and Homer, they were able to lift the sheetrock just enough for me to get my leg out.

My leg was sore but probably not broken.  I went back to work and helped finish the wiring on the house.  I never went to the doctor for it.  I did have a spot on the side of my leg that was numb for years afterward, and the leg hair didn’t grow on that spot.

A few days later I also learned that a couple of the floor joists below the pile of sheetrock had cracked.  Between the pile on the floor and the twenty or so sheets that slammed down, it’s fortunate the entire floor didn’t cave in.

Since that time, I’ve always been wary of sheetrock…Don’t ever pull on a pile leaning against a wall, It’ll get you if you don’t watch out.