Training Wheels

The young boy wobbles less on his new bike,
And the training wheels disappear,
Leaving joy and doubt remaining-
both within and without.

The Father now assumes their role-
Supporting, lifting, providing safety.
But he continues to add encouragement, love and faith-
Things training wheels could never provide.

Yet so quickly, even the father is no longer needed.
Riding solo- wind in his face- free to fly or fall-- on his own.
Ecstasy of accomplishment and joy of freedom!
No outside influence or support from training wheels.... or dad.

But the faith, encouragement and love remain-- at the ready.
Both newly confident rider and anxious but proud observer know this.
And they find quiet comfort in the knowledge.

Now, the young man heads off to his first homecoming dance-
Taller, straighter, stronger- almost taller than Dad.
No training wheels.
No parents--- on his own.
Wind in his face again....Free!
To fly or fall.
But with the secure knowledge that
The love and faith and encouragement
Will always be there.

Training wheels- on call.

Two Chairs

In the fuzzy edge of my memory, where oft-told stories now ingrained co-mingle with true recollections, I see them there. In the chairs. They didn't LIVE there, like so many immobile couples, but they retired there each evening, to review the day's happenings, entertain whichever fortunate family member happened by, or just to hold hands and visit. The chairs sat as thrones for an everyman king and queen. I remember still the first time I sat in HIS chair; it felt so big and comfortable, as if it would completely envelope the small boy who deigned to take upon him that seat . But the envelopment was not one of fear, but one of love. It was as if the love my grandfather oozed every day of his life had somehow been transferred into that old chair, and then to me as my body sat where he had rested and my mind played over what I imagined were his thoughts. My curious hands couldn't help but touch his assorted necessities of life on the shelves next to the chair. A pipe, some tobacco, an ash tray, the obligatory assortment of pocket knives and the cornucopia of prizes bequeathed to and from the treasured grandchildren, one of whom I was so very happy to be.

He loved me- this I never doubted. Whether it was his incredible patience as I putzed around his workshop, or the truly admiring glances he shot my way as I out shot the relatives -even him sometimes- on the rifle, or just the stories he would tell- just to me, as if I were the only one who would ever hear or ever care to hear. He loved me. I know that, and I treasure that knowledge. But just as I know he loved me, I know that, with a depth I do not know, he loved her. Oh how he loved her.

They were together more than 60 years. How many evenings were spent in those chairs?! Reaching out- holding hands- but more importantly, reaching out emotionally. He would tell one of his stories- oh he was a story teller. She, his rudder in so many things, would remind him who he was. "Amos, you're not as funny as you think you are." Yet the loving twinkle in her eye shone through with a light only 60 plus years can produce. He'd throw his head back and laugh- that silent laugh we all adored- head back, mouth agape, and no sound whatsoever. He loved to laugh. And she with him- but hers were always closed mouthed, and a bit shorter- more proper for a southern grandma. That IS how it should be, after all. Then the warning, "Amos....." And his eyes would reciprocate the twinkle.

Today, though, tears etch grooves on his marble face. No head back in silent laughter. A different silence fills the air and acts to suck it from the room. No twinkling eyes and soft edicts. No stories told and stretched and re-stretched into the funniest and tallest of tales. Today, she is gone. He reaches to her chair as he has so very many times before, but his companion cannot reach back, cannot issue her warnings. We hear no "Amos..." She cannot touch his hand or call his name now. The sweet silent laugh is replaced by sad silent tears. Her chair is empty.

But there is hope, for their souls are united, and deep, deep in his heart, he can still hear her call, feel her touch, and know that their love still burns. Her chair is empty, but their hearts are full.

Write the Love

My friend the writer, who, without malice or even intent, inadvertently puts writers such as I in their place with his vivid portrayals of passion and love, leads a life seemingly filled with drama, excitement and intrigue. He sweeps ladies off their feet and gallantly rides in on his pony of passion to elicit romance known only to those few who brave the waters of torrid love and lingering lust.

I commented to him on my perception of the the excitement of his life and, what I was mistakenly feeling was the boredom of my own. I write, for goodness sake, about apple cake!! (See earlier post- if you dare.....) In his kind and gentle reply, as he has done so many times before, he provided sage advice: "Write what you see. That’s all I do. I write what I see. You see it. You can write to record it. Or you can write to right its wrong."

Right now, in my life, I see love. I feel love, and, I hope, I radiate love. I've decided, at least for today, I'm going to write the love.

I love my small town, which cradles me in its arms and helps me feel safe and happy. I love the nip in the air in the mornings as we take our walks and take in - not see- not view- but try to take in the raw and expansive beauty of the mountains, the river and the daily dynamic of clouds and mists and sunshine which act as an ever-changing lens on the beauty of this region.

I love this time of year, when as my wife said yesterday on our walk, "The breezes tickle Autumn right through your clothes and into you." Some leaves already explode with color and beauty as they signal their oncoming drift into another phase of life. The wind aids them as they cavort with one another, playing tag and footsie in the trees, savoring this resplendent time of love and life and beauty.

And I love, oh how I love, my family. They provide me daily with joy unbridled and soft peeks of the eternal happiness awaiting. They lift me up and praise me and help me through the rough times of doubt and discouragement. They love me when I'm most unlovable.

I live a short five minute walk from my work, so my family is never far away. Just today, my 15 year old daughter came up to hear an author speak at the University's weekly forum. He was funny and inspirational, and Kathryn and I shared a father/daughter time of joy and happiness as he signed the newly purchased books from two of his newest fans. Joseph and I share an evolving set of father/son bonds. Kicking the soccer ball used to suffice; now we need talks about things and jobs and girls and life. Those talks are often short, arising just after negotiating who will be driving to our next destination, but they are poignant, and, frankly, what a father longs for. And Granger, our 8 year old, brings me such deep joy and love each day. He is a spark to our smolder, a breeze to our doldrums and a purpose to our drift. We all love him so, and that love brings a greater unity to every other aspect of our family. And the joy, love and pride I feel for our exceptionally wonderful 23 year old, Elizabeth, is immense. She teaches special needs children and is not unaccustomed to coming home from work with bite marks or bruises. The love she feels for her work and her students is inspiring, and I'm sure it will be evidenced in her interactions with everyone she meets throughout her life.

Finally there is Sharlet, my wife. She has been by my side for almost 26 years, and has stood by me through the storms of life and the inherent drama of international moves, part time graduate studies, late in life doctoral studies and the myriad of tests and complications which make a 26 year relationship a 26 year relationship. She is my rock, my anchor. She brings me home- not with a look of distaste or a harsh word, but merely with a soft touch or knowing glance of love. Recently she and I have discovered the joys of text messaging, and it is truly thrilling to feel my heart skip just a bit at the sound of a new message from her. She holds my soul in her hand and has the power to do so many things to it. But her choice- and this says so much about her- is to sweetly, quietly and gently adore it and hold it to her breast.

She is the mother of our 4 amazing children. She has raised them to be wonderful souls who serve those around them, and seek to leave every person they meet a bit better, whether it be by a gentle greeting, a small act of service, or even a kind look which can say so much. Her motherhood has dropped the pebble in the pond of familial joy from which the circles will spread for generations.

When my shortsightedness brings darkness to my life and our lives, she is the light which remains, unwavering, ready to reach out and console and love and cherish. I cannot describe the debts I owe to her nor her willingness to waive all debt that we might simply enjoy life as two who act as one. We are united in life and love, and therein is my truest joy.

I feel so blessed and privileged to be living this life right now. Of course there are problems and concerns- but the love emanating from our marriage and home is a force not to be ignored. Today, it is one to be praised and written of. Please pardon what some may consider sappy ramblings. I love sap. I live for sap. For me, right now, sap is love and life and home. I may not be able to write drama and sexual intrigue, but I can sure try my very best to write the love.

At What Price?

What is the worth-
Of a heart that is pure?
Of love that is untarnished and unbridled?

Without the niggles and vague memories
Of a former life- not real nor tangible-
Merely shadows of fantasy,
Masked with opaque luminescence.

Stand not in the opaque.
Embrace the sun
Dance in the open.
Live now and here.

Be.... and be free.

"I'll Teach You to Hit Your Sister!"

[I feel the need to write and know that there is not enough time- so I call this a draft and plan to come revise and polish. Please bear with me.....]

I carefully perused the cereal aisle- I often wonder why that seems to be the highlight and mainstay of grocery shopping trips. Perhaps it's the lingering longing from my childhood for just the right cereal with just the right prize- perhaps it's just that my children love cereal. Who knows?

A simmering feud interrupted my prize quest. I could sense the tension in the cart coming up the aisle. The two children, a 4 year old boy and 2 year old girl, had obviously been thrust into the cart, were not getting along, and the mother appeared to be close to reaching critical mass. Closer than anyone imagined, it turned out. I didn't see the catalyzing incident, but I assume there was some sort of sibling poking or smacking. Then this frustrated mother squelched out with such menace I had not heard in years, "I'll teach you to hit your sister!" and she hauled off and smacked the 4 year old full force, open hand, and hard- with intent.

Now this could easily turn into a biting indictment of the mother's reaction- and I honestly don't mean it to be so. Not that it was right- but.....it was her preceding statement that struck me like her hand had struck her son. "I'll teach you to hit your sister." I thought, "Yes you will, ma'am. Yes you will."

We have to have licenses to operate motor vehicles, to get married, and to own a weapon. Heck, we even have to have a license to catch a fish or shoot an animal. We don't, however, have to have a license to be a parent- the most sacred and holy calling, next to being a spouse, on this earth. I don't think that parental licensing is appropriate, but I do think that right along with English- and you KNOW how important that is to me- math and history, we should teach some parenting techniques.

The old aphorism, "The sins of the parents are visited upon the heads of the children" is too often true. And too often, far too many times, we DO teach our child to hit his sister.... or cheat on his taxes, or not respect womanhood or manhood or marriage. We teach; they learn, and the cycles repeat themselves. I plead with those who read here- be breakers of cycles- teach those you love in turn to love and respect and cherish. Therein we will find truly unbridled joy. And maybe the prize in the cereal won't matter as much. Maybe....

The River- again

It's truly amazing to me how much symbolism lies in the rivers of our lives. Perhaps it's because I've spent most of my life living in close proximity to, and often nestled in a bend of, assorted rivers. Perhaps it's because I'm looking for symbolism now in everything from my walk to the song on the radio to the prophetic formations my cheerios make in the morning.

We walk earlier now. The kids have an early morning class at 6:45, so we leave at 5:45 for the walk. My bride and I head to the river- to talk and walk and listen to its rumblings. Our conversation follows the vagaries of that first creek which carved a curvy path through our town centuries ago. Plans for the weekend, who are we? how are the kids? how are we? are all up for grabs in the morning conversational melee.

This morning it was dark- and the river lay obscured by the shrouds of fading night. yet the darkness held beauty. I was a step or two ahead when I saw it-- sure enough- a skunk. Now I had seen all manner of wildlife on the walk- deer, fawns, water fowl, puppies, geese, etc. They were all beautiful and added to the magic of the fog lifting off the river.....but I had never seen a skunk before. Luckily we eluded its observation, turned around and headed the other way. Particularly fortunate was the fact that Beau, the 13 year old golden retriever who accompanies us, has lost not only what little killer instinct he ever had, but also most of his hearing and powers of observation. "Skunk? What skunk? Why we turning around?" "Come one Beau- you protector you."

Interestingly, it could have been a bad morning. Here's the funny part- it wasn't . We could have dwelt on the dark morning, the obscured river, the skunk from hades, but instead we looked past the immediate difficulties and saw two people in love having a nice walk. When we came to the stop light that is our demarcation point, my love turned left to go home to the kids, and I turned right to go do a real workout walk and head up the big hill that traditionally finishes off my walks. Yet even our brief parting was not difficult, but just a realization that our needs were slightly different at that time, and we'd be together again shortly.

To overcome obvious symbolism and morning difficulties is a good sign. These days there are lots of them.

Friends

Monday was a rough day for me on many fronts. But the amazing thing was, these friends of ours called and asked us over for a Labor Day barbecue. Now that might not seem like much, but it was truly fantastic. They have a pool, so the kids swam and had a blast. We brought dessert, and some sides, but they provided the chicken and dogs and grill. We "men folk" went out to cook and just talk while the ladies stayed inside and did whatever they wanted. So here's the thing- my mind was occupied, but not by sad thoughts. My family was occupied, but not by sad thoughts. After cooking we went inside and the kids ate in one room, and we four good friends went to another just to talk. We reminisced about good times, laughed, joked, (didn't laugh sometimes) and yes even cried. But we did it within the supporting confines of true friendship, where no offense is given nor taken, and you can let your hair down and just say what's on your mind- well.... most of it. It was just the thing I needed to get through that day. How did they know? True friends just know. That's why we love them so much.