Pigtails,
I saw you once.
Whether it was yesterday or tomorrow I’m not certain.
So smug…so secure, you sat on Papa’s knee.
No care, no burden
Just you and him through that hazy curtain.
Pigtails,
from your harbored perch
you cast off pain, need, heaviness and fear
and with a wave of your hand as a scepter of light
you blessed your brothers dear.
Then, just to please his little girl, your Papa called us near.
Funny how some seemingly insignificant moment from the past will stick with a person their whole life.
“Your the bestest mom in the whole wide world!” was my excited response to Mom’s affirmative nod and smile. My brothers and I had just asked her if we could walk to Holbrook’s Pond for an afternoon swim.
The funny part is that I remember all the details of that moment – Mom in the kitchen, us boys rushing out the door wearing only our cut-offs and towels, me turning back to give Mom a hug and my gleeful exclamation – rather than remembering any details of our first swim without parental supervision.
It was a big deal. It was the beginning of a yearly summer ritual for my brothers and me all through our growing-up years. It was a liberating moment for us boys and I suppose, for our parents too.
Holbrook’s Pond was for all intents and purposes the neighborhood swimmin’ hole. Mel Holbrook was a logger and owned his very own bulldozer. In a time before restrictive land-use regulations, he excavated a huge crater across Ewe Creek and dammed up the lower end. The resulting reservoir formed the perfect centerpiece for a backyard playground. Mel’s wife Mary had a flair for the aesthetic and under the shade of oak and madrone trees, she cultivated lush grass and flowers.
In time, cattail, bullrush and willow lined the water’s edge. Mel stocked the pond with bluegill and catfish. Frogs just naturally seemed to find their way to the summer oasis. Picnic tables and an outhouse completed the park-like setting.
My folks and others who lived on Ewe Creek Road were good friends with the Holbrooks. Our families gathered there often for a picnic and a swim. When the sun began to fade in the evening, we would typically paddle our tubes upstream on an imaginary jungle cruise as the grown-ups sipped their drinks and fidgeted with their poker chips.
My brothers and I learned to swim at Holbrook’s Pond. Whether by design or coincidence, the pond was laid out perfectly. The far side offered a shallow and gradual entry, good for beginners and splashers. It even featured a series of tree stumps, progressing upward in height, for novice divers.
The near side was steep and deep – with a real diving platform. It was reserved for the older and bolder. Looking back, I find it a bit nostalgic to recall how each one of us progressed through the summers from wading, to the stumps, to the platform. All of us eventually became strong swimmers and graceful divers – and at quite a young age at that!
So Mom was not naive and careless when she gave us that nod and smile of approval. It was an “eagles nest” moment. It was as if she knew the question was coming and she – and we – were ready. Still, I marvel that Mom was able to trust God and three little boys to walk barefoot the mile-and-a-half to Holbrook’s Pond for an afternoon of swimming.
For that moment, which contributed to one of the great chapters of my youth, I once again declare “You’re the bestest mom in the whole wide world!”
When darkness falls
and a chill sweeps in
with it’s
fear
doubt
despair…
When a presence near
of clammy skin
slithers close,
death
fills
the air.
Surrounding me, creeping things
crouching, wing-ed beasts.
Talons, teeth
beyond belief.
My God! This isn’t fair.
My eyes see only doom and gloom.
A wretched stench ascends.
My last – my end
Does this portend
of my bones in evil’s lair?
Suddenly… a shout I hear
“Open his eyes to see!”
Is another door
not seen before
hidden from earthly stare?
Horses! Riders! Chariots of fire!
on the ridges, hills and mounts.
And leading the way
to rout their prey
I see Michael and Gabriel there.
How quickly does the battle turn
when I lift my eyes to see
the legion hordes
with flaming swords
and a Captain who really cares.
~ ~ ~
Darkness makes a showy scene.
Light reposes ‘neath a veil.
Yet more are those who fight for us
than those who’d have us fail.
refer: 2 Kings 6: 15-17
I wait, rehearsing the steps in my mind
At the end of the runway – the bar, as a taunting rival – silently stands
even daring to touch the object of my dreams
I lift my eyes to the deep blue beckoning of my tantalizing partner
The music begins…
Like a charger-mounted knight I raise the lance
Fair Lady waits with a wink of romance
If strength and form come together perchance
the sky and the rider will embrace in the dance
Planting the pole, it bends like a hickory bow
I lay back, thrusting feet upward at the bow’s release
Straight as an arrow, into a handstand I twist – six meters high
Then, as a jackknife closing, over the bar
Releasing the pole, on my partner entranced
I pass over my rival with nary a glance
When the aerie Lady and I join hands
for the briefest of moments, ours is the dance
The music fades…
As if torn from a lover, I fall back to earth
The lingering fragrance, the fading notes sustain my joy a little longer
Then, the cheers remind me: the crowd sees only the jilted rival
They know nothing of the sky dance. Just as well…
Secrecy only sweetens its beauty.
You meet a person.
Immediately, you are drawn to that person and want to be close to that person.
Time passes and the lustre begins to fade.
Eventually, it is clear the attraction has turned to revulsion.
A friend talks you into hearing a favorite song.
Reluctantly you endure, rejecting all but the catchy bridge.
Privately you listen once again, discovering a brilliant bass line.
Another hearing uncovers a moving guitar solo and background vocal.
Before long, the song becomes for you, a winner.
What happened in the two examples above?
Time elapsed.
The image evolved.
A clearer picture developed.
Did truth change?
Or is truth fixed and immutable, only allowing us to see tiny bits of itself?
Or is it something else altogether?
The stimulus which confronts our senses is often perceived as truth.
If we can taste it, see it, hear it, smell it or feel it, it must be true.
Pontius Pilate once asked the question “what is truth?”
Was it simply a rhetorical question or a serious inquiry, considering his company?
Through the ages, the concept of truth has been praised, preached, defended and died for.
Such a valiant and valued entity should at least be defined.
So now, with only a smidgen of playful intent, I ask you:
what is truth?
My wife is an animal person. She was raised on a ranch in the San Joaquin Valley of California. Since the beginning of time, a farmer’s worth has been measured in numbers of cattle.
Since our small, three-acre parcel won’t support the thundering herds, we have dogs – and a few miniaturized versions of horses and donkeys. Dare I say we are utilizing the maximum livestock potential of our small plot?
I love animals too. Although I don’t share Lady Red’s propensity for excess, I accept her obsession as part of the package. Lord knows, she has made many a concession regarding certain traits of ‘yours truly’.
Because the benevolent county land-use commission is so concerned about the quality of our groundwater run-off, we are required to gather all the solid waste by-product from our dogs and haul it to the local landfill.
Among my many titles around the realm, I am the Poop-Scooper-in-Chief and Hauler Supreme. Each time I make the short drive to the landfill, my heart inevitably begins to swell with feelings of self-importance as I consider the utter sacrifice I am making in order to fulfill the Lady’s desire.
You’d think that after so many such trips to the dump, I would heed the proverbial advice: “pride goeth before a fall”.
My lofty pedestal takes an immediate hit as I maneuver our old farm truck in between two shiny extra-cab SUVs. The belching of a chronic exhaust leak only adds to the salvo of disgust now coming my way.
Then, the odor of my fermenting freight makes it’s presence known. I detect a noticeable increase in the rapidity with which my dump-mates complete their task.
Again, stares of disbelief and shaking of heads levels any remaining haughtiness to a pile of rubble.
If looks could kill, I’d be writing this from the grave.
As I survey the discard of those around me, I take little solace in knowing that at least MY refuse is worthy of throwing away. (Americans can be such a wasteful lot).
I leave the dump clearly interpreting the thoughts of those who chanced to encounter my presence: “Good riddance!”
As I turn into our driveway, thoroughly brought back to earth, I utter a silent oath to myself: “I’ll never fall into the trap of pride again. This time, I’ve learned my lesson!”
But before I can even park the truck, a thought invades my mind: “God, I’m so humble!”
The longer I walk this earth
…the less I know
The closer I get to the light
…more darkness I see
It seems my feet are leading me astray
Yet deep inside my soul
I know this is the way
Out of the mouths of babes and infants
you have perfected praise, oh Most High
Ps. 8:2
It was the late 1950s – a time before political correctness and environmental consciousness.
My brothers and I would often walk the 2 miles to Trowbridge’s Store. It was a treasure hunt of sorts, as we would gather discarded soda and beer bottles along the way, cashing them in for candy money once we got to the store.
It was a very rural area in those days. Passing vehicles were few and far between yet somehow we were always able to fill our sacks with a bountiful harvest.
I’m still not sure if the other kids thought themselves above such lucrative enterprise or simply lacked the industrious spirit required for the effort and reward.
At any rate, we owned that stretch of road – except for Dirty Jerry.
Dirty Jerry was so named because of his unkempt appearance. He was unshaven and wore a tattered old coat – even in the summer. He was old, and walked slowly, with the aid of a cane.
He was a familiar figure along the road as he made his daily pilgrimage to Trowbridge’s Store. The man never accepted a ride or money, on the rare occasion when it was offered.
My brothers and I, young lads that we were, looked upon him with caution whenever we chanced to meet him on the road. To us, his appearance was sinister and threatening – due more to our youthful imaginings than to any tangible expression on his part.
Plus, we viewed him as a business rival, not realizing at the time that the sack slung across his back was used only to carry groceries back to his shack.
~ ~ ~
Several years passed, and as a young man I heard the news of Dirty Jerry’s passing. The neighbors had chipped in to see that Jerry was given a proper funeral. My Aunt did some research on his life to include in his eulogy.
There were many gaps in his history but some details were uncovered:
He was the last operator of a ferry across the Rogue River, a short distance from his shack.
He was college educated and had accumulated a lot of money.
He once had a family.
Not much more was discovered about our Dirty Jerry.
Occasionally I ponder the mysterious life of this man who’s surname still eludes me. What were the circumstances which drove him to the life of a hermit? What kind of pain must he have carried along that road while some laughed and some feared? Why didn’t someone – why didn’t I - bother to get to know him?
My ponderings inevitably lead to regret.
It is my loss that a rich story is known only somewhere in the great beyond.
My loss…that a person with feelings and character and something to contribute was never more to me than a scary man to be shunned.
My loss…that my near-sighted judgment robbed me of a grand vista.
May I live and learn.
workout at the gym…?
pedicure…?
tanning booth…?
…or the tiny piece of shade of the locust tree…?
