Yes, I believe you can live at a truck stop in America.
In Bakersfield, California I stopped by a Flying J truck stop to fuel up and spend the night before making my delivery in Tulare, California the next morning.
After dinning in the resturant I took a shower and stopped by the TV room to see what was on. I knew what was on, a rerun of Law and Order. Perhaps I would luck out. Yeah, Law and Order.
In the seats in front of me was a young couple in their mid twentys sacked out and perhaps making out under a very large blanket. The male of the pair left for a few minutes to return with two large cokes and a large pizza.
I finished the Law and Order and went to my sleeper to get a good nights rest.
Early the next morning I passed the TV room on my way to breakfast and the young couple were still watching the TV and eating cold pizza.
My delivery was made in Tulare, then I made my way toward Los Angeles for another load to go to Sacramento. I stopped by the same truck stop the next day for fuel and lunch.
Guess who was still there, drinking cokes and eating a fresh pizza, taking up five seats and hugging under the big blanket.
Perhaps they moved in.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Moms' Memory
When mothers begin to age they begin to forget. I remember when I was fourteen, my mother forgot my birthday and my carrot cake.
She forgot for four months, but made up for it with an extra big carrot cake.
Well, she did it again. I turned seventy last week and Mom forgot. She called four days after to let me know she was improving because it was only four days and not four months.
I'm really beginning to be concerned about her memory. This is the second time she has forgotten my birthday. the first was in 1952 and now in 2008. If this keeps up I probably will not even get a call in 2038 when I turn one hundred.
She forgot for four months, but made up for it with an extra big carrot cake.
Well, she did it again. I turned seventy last week and Mom forgot. She called four days after to let me know she was improving because it was only four days and not four months.
I'm really beginning to be concerned about her memory. This is the second time she has forgotten my birthday. the first was in 1952 and now in 2008. If this keeps up I probably will not even get a call in 2038 when I turn one hundred.
Reality
During Desert Storm an Army National Guard Col. from Myrtle Beach SC was to be promoted to Brigadier General while en route to Saudi. He, his staff and part of his unit were being transported on a C-5 Galaxy Aircraft.
The front upstairs, seats fourteen people and the rear upstairs seats seventy three people. The cargo compartment, the lower level holds up to six greyhound buses or about 400,000 pounds of cargo.
There are about 32 steps up a ladder to get to the balcony of the upper front passenger area, almost straight up. The symbol of rank of a Col. is an eagle with spread wings. The symbol of rank of a Brigadier General is one star.
Today I saw
An Eagle face reality
His task ahead
Is uncertain agony
His legs were shaking
As he took
That first long step
Into the Galaxy
His voice was quaking
As he ascended
The steps toward
The balcony
He took his seat
Shed his wings
And assumed
His star of authority
The baby Brigadier
Has passed
His first test
Of Deployment Reality
The front upstairs, seats fourteen people and the rear upstairs seats seventy three people. The cargo compartment, the lower level holds up to six greyhound buses or about 400,000 pounds of cargo.
There are about 32 steps up a ladder to get to the balcony of the upper front passenger area, almost straight up. The symbol of rank of a Col. is an eagle with spread wings. The symbol of rank of a Brigadier General is one star.
Today I saw
An Eagle face reality
His task ahead
Is uncertain agony
His legs were shaking
As he took
That first long step
Into the Galaxy
His voice was quaking
As he ascended
The steps toward
The balcony
He took his seat
Shed his wings
And assumed
His star of authority
The baby Brigadier
Has passed
His first test
Of Deployment Reality
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Month of May
It was dark and cold in the pinewoods where I grew to maturity. When the loggers came to cut the forest they took us all. They didn't even leave any remnant of a woods.
Even before I was hauled away, bulldozers began clearing and I overheard there was going to be apartments built where I once stood. The woods, my home, had been near the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, the home of the famous 500-mile races. I always wondered what that noise had been during the month of May.
I was offloaded at a lumber mill where I was trimmed, sliced, and diced into hundreds of little blocks. I was then packaged in a little plastic bag along with four little wheels and four nails.
I sat around with nothing to do for over a year, then one day I was moved into a very bright store and placed on a shelf. Along came a little boy about ten years old wearing a blue uniform and a yellow scarf that picked me up. I heard him tell his father, "This is going to be the winner Dad, I can just feel it." The year was 1967 and I could not understand, I was just a block of wood, how could I be a winner?
Quickly I found out how winners are made. They are drilled, sawed, shaved, and sanded into little miniature racing cars. They are painted and sanded and painted again. They are weighed then drilled and filled with lead and weighed again. I had been fitted with the four little wheels and lubricated with fine graphite. I really looked like a beautiful black shinny winner.
The day of the big race came. I was placed on a long sloping track with a car on both sides of me. Suddenly the barrier dropped and down the ramp I went, 8.2 seconds flat. I had won, but that was only the first race. I had to win two more before I would really be the winner. I sure hope my graphite stays in place until this is over.
The second race was no competition. One car was just a block of wood with wheels and the other one looked like a little green bug.
The third and final race looked like it was going to be tough. I only had one to beat, a shinny silver dude that looked real fast.
We were placed on the track. The barrier dropped, down and away I went. Another 8.2 seconds and slick silver dude was nowhere in sight. It seems the glue wasn't quite dry on one of his wheels and it fell off going down the ramp. I was the grand champion of the 1967 Tulip Tree Trace pinewood derby.
For the next ten years or so I was packed away in a box with little flags only to be put on display for a table decoration during the month of May. Then I was packed away in a very dark place for a long time.
Suddenly in 2007 I was taken out of storage, had my wheels fitted with fresh graphite and I was off to a race, only I found I was the backup car to the main one. A little slick looking needle nosed red thing. Me and little needle nose were slipped on to the track for a little test run before the real races. I showed him, I left him smelling my hot graphite.
Little red needle nose was hidden away in a plastic Wal-Mart bag while I won the first two heats. Then I guess I was just getting tired or my age was catching up to me. A big blue bully beat me by just a tenth of a second. I took second in the tournament, but me and little red needle nose, were the centerpiece for the table display during the month of May.
The table decoration this year was exquisite. Just me and little red needle nose sitting among a display of flags, flowers, my trophies and surrounded by dishes and bowls of wonderful smelling food.
While the family gathered around for the blessing, a familiar hand reached into the display, picked me up and spun my wheel a couple of times. Before the prayer was finished I was carefully put back in my spot, but with a wet tear on my hood. That familiar hand belonged to the ten year old boy that molded and shaped me from a block of wood in 1967.
Even before I was hauled away, bulldozers began clearing and I overheard there was going to be apartments built where I once stood. The woods, my home, had been near the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, the home of the famous 500-mile races. I always wondered what that noise had been during the month of May.
I was offloaded at a lumber mill where I was trimmed, sliced, and diced into hundreds of little blocks. I was then packaged in a little plastic bag along with four little wheels and four nails.
I sat around with nothing to do for over a year, then one day I was moved into a very bright store and placed on a shelf. Along came a little boy about ten years old wearing a blue uniform and a yellow scarf that picked me up. I heard him tell his father, "This is going to be the winner Dad, I can just feel it." The year was 1967 and I could not understand, I was just a block of wood, how could I be a winner?
Quickly I found out how winners are made. They are drilled, sawed, shaved, and sanded into little miniature racing cars. They are painted and sanded and painted again. They are weighed then drilled and filled with lead and weighed again. I had been fitted with the four little wheels and lubricated with fine graphite. I really looked like a beautiful black shinny winner.
The day of the big race came. I was placed on a long sloping track with a car on both sides of me. Suddenly the barrier dropped and down the ramp I went, 8.2 seconds flat. I had won, but that was only the first race. I had to win two more before I would really be the winner. I sure hope my graphite stays in place until this is over.
The second race was no competition. One car was just a block of wood with wheels and the other one looked like a little green bug.
The third and final race looked like it was going to be tough. I only had one to beat, a shinny silver dude that looked real fast.
We were placed on the track. The barrier dropped, down and away I went. Another 8.2 seconds and slick silver dude was nowhere in sight. It seems the glue wasn't quite dry on one of his wheels and it fell off going down the ramp. I was the grand champion of the 1967 Tulip Tree Trace pinewood derby.
For the next ten years or so I was packed away in a box with little flags only to be put on display for a table decoration during the month of May. Then I was packed away in a very dark place for a long time.
Suddenly in 2007 I was taken out of storage, had my wheels fitted with fresh graphite and I was off to a race, only I found I was the backup car to the main one. A little slick looking needle nosed red thing. Me and little needle nose were slipped on to the track for a little test run before the real races. I showed him, I left him smelling my hot graphite.
Little red needle nose was hidden away in a plastic Wal-Mart bag while I won the first two heats. Then I guess I was just getting tired or my age was catching up to me. A big blue bully beat me by just a tenth of a second. I took second in the tournament, but me and little red needle nose, were the centerpiece for the table display during the month of May.
The table decoration this year was exquisite. Just me and little red needle nose sitting among a display of flags, flowers, my trophies and surrounded by dishes and bowls of wonderful smelling food.
While the family gathered around for the blessing, a familiar hand reached into the display, picked me up and spun my wheel a couple of times. Before the prayer was finished I was carefully put back in my spot, but with a wet tear on my hood. That familiar hand belonged to the ten year old boy that molded and shaped me from a block of wood in 1967.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Glenns' Birthday
Some years ago I was invited to a birthday party. In fact it was about sixty years ago give or take a year. Ice cream, cake, pin the tail on the donkey and bring a gift for Glenn.
Everything Mom suggested, I didn't want to take or it was too expensive. I decided to wrap up a dollar bill. Don't laugh, that was when a dollar was worth a dollar. Today a dollar is probably worth fifteen cents.
I know gas was fifteen to eighteen cents a gallon. A dollar would get you at least five gallon. But, of course our great American cars only got eight miles to the gallon. That would be about forty miles on that dollar. Today's car at twenty five miles per gallon at three eighty a gallon wouldn't get us quite as far. Remember if it wasn't for the Japanese we would still be getting eight miles per gallon and sixty five thousand miles to the first engine overhaul.
Anyway back to the birthday party and that dollar. I put the dollar in an envelope, in a small box, in a slightly bigger box, in another slightly bigger box, then again in a little bigger box and then in a really big box. I wrapped it in birthday paper with a ribbon and bow.
This was the biggest box at the party. All during the games and pinning the tail on the donkey, Glenn kept looking at that box. We ate cake and ice cream and sang songs. Glenn kept his eye on that box.
Finally, Glenn got to open presents. A pair of socks, pencils for school, a yo-yo, a toy soldier; stuff like that and all American made. The big box was last. Glenn opened, and opened and opened and laughed and opened some more and everybody laughed.
He then found the envelope that said Happy Birthday on it. He opened it and found the dollar. We all laughed. Then Glenn got serious when he said "Mom, now I have enough to get that new bible I've been saving for".
Silly little story, but Glenn Kapperman became a Presbyterian Minister.
You never know what your little gifts will help accomplish.
Everything Mom suggested, I didn't want to take or it was too expensive. I decided to wrap up a dollar bill. Don't laugh, that was when a dollar was worth a dollar. Today a dollar is probably worth fifteen cents.
I know gas was fifteen to eighteen cents a gallon. A dollar would get you at least five gallon. But, of course our great American cars only got eight miles to the gallon. That would be about forty miles on that dollar. Today's car at twenty five miles per gallon at three eighty a gallon wouldn't get us quite as far. Remember if it wasn't for the Japanese we would still be getting eight miles per gallon and sixty five thousand miles to the first engine overhaul.
Anyway back to the birthday party and that dollar. I put the dollar in an envelope, in a small box, in a slightly bigger box, in another slightly bigger box, then again in a little bigger box and then in a really big box. I wrapped it in birthday paper with a ribbon and bow.
This was the biggest box at the party. All during the games and pinning the tail on the donkey, Glenn kept looking at that box. We ate cake and ice cream and sang songs. Glenn kept his eye on that box.
Finally, Glenn got to open presents. A pair of socks, pencils for school, a yo-yo, a toy soldier; stuff like that and all American made. The big box was last. Glenn opened, and opened and opened and laughed and opened some more and everybody laughed.
He then found the envelope that said Happy Birthday on it. He opened it and found the dollar. We all laughed. Then Glenn got serious when he said "Mom, now I have enough to get that new bible I've been saving for".
Silly little story, but Glenn Kapperman became a Presbyterian Minister.
You never know what your little gifts will help accomplish.
Nails
Nails are used to hold our houses together and keep the rails in place under our trains.
They are used as art. One time I saw a sculpture of an old shoe and a work glove with hundreds of nails driven into them, all twisted, bent and painted flat black. I felt I was looking at someones whole life, working hard, just trying to get ahead; only to be constantly nailed and held down.
Nails are used as twisted little puzzles to keep idle mines occupied.
They have been used for torture and to cause death. Jesus was hung on the cross with nails.
As a youngster I could not pronounce my N's. I used to say lail instead of nail. I remember the day I ran to my mother, shouting, "I can say it, I can say it. "Let me hear you " she said. For a four year old I had to think hard, but I could really say "nail".
I have used nails as a learning experience. I used to sit in the doorway between the dinning room and kitchen and pound nails into the floor. I used a large claw hammer. When I finished, the nails were bent and twisted. I pulled them out and started all over again.
This was the busy time of my day, taught me how to hammer, taught me what patience was and the lack of it. I was only three.
After the house was remodeled with new oak floors, Mom had no patience, with a three year old, with a hammer.
They are used as art. One time I saw a sculpture of an old shoe and a work glove with hundreds of nails driven into them, all twisted, bent and painted flat black. I felt I was looking at someones whole life, working hard, just trying to get ahead; only to be constantly nailed and held down.
Nails are used as twisted little puzzles to keep idle mines occupied.
They have been used for torture and to cause death. Jesus was hung on the cross with nails.
As a youngster I could not pronounce my N's. I used to say lail instead of nail. I remember the day I ran to my mother, shouting, "I can say it, I can say it. "Let me hear you " she said. For a four year old I had to think hard, but I could really say "nail".
I have used nails as a learning experience. I used to sit in the doorway between the dinning room and kitchen and pound nails into the floor. I used a large claw hammer. When I finished, the nails were bent and twisted. I pulled them out and started all over again.
This was the busy time of my day, taught me how to hammer, taught me what patience was and the lack of it. I was only three.
After the house was remodeled with new oak floors, Mom had no patience, with a three year old, with a hammer.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Just Dust in the Wind.
It was a big one, I could see it more than half a mile away. I became concerned as it slowly moved across the field toward the Interstate.
Quickly glancing to my left I could see that three had made it across all four lanes and were now resting next to a fence on the south side of the highway.
Another glance to the right and there were six or seven more moving across the field toward me.
Now, I was three hundred feet away and it was still moving closer to the edge of the Interstate. An eighteen wheeler started to pass on my left just as it began to cross just ahead of us. The wind from the big truck spun it around and it stayed in my lane.
No place to go . I hit it at sixty miles an hour.
A puff of dust and I felt the impact and crunch under my tires as I passed over it.
It's been a good year for Texas Tumbleweeds.
Quickly glancing to my left I could see that three had made it across all four lanes and were now resting next to a fence on the south side of the highway.
Another glance to the right and there were six or seven more moving across the field toward me.
Now, I was three hundred feet away and it was still moving closer to the edge of the Interstate. An eighteen wheeler started to pass on my left just as it began to cross just ahead of us. The wind from the big truck spun it around and it stayed in my lane.
No place to go . I hit it at sixty miles an hour.
A puff of dust and I felt the impact and crunch under my tires as I passed over it.
It's been a good year for Texas Tumbleweeds.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
The Poison Blackberries
On a Saturday during the early summer blackberry season; Dad, Mom and four of us kids went blackberry picking. It was an unusually good year. We ended up with about five gallon before noon. Upon returning to the house we all had baths to get rid of the chiggers. We got chiggers anyway.
Dad put put the berries in the creamery; a little shed attached to the back of the house where they could be washed and made ready for pies and jelly. The shed had really been a creamery years before when the farm had dairy cattle.
In the meantime, Dad received a phone call to get a client out of jail and had to leave on business. While he was gone one of my sisters stuck herself in the top of the foot with a frog gig.
Upon Dad's return, It was off to the hospital for a tetanus shot for her. In all of this confusion the blackberries had been forgotten, that is until Tuesday afternoon.
Upon realizing he had forgotten about the berries, Dad was very upset and yelling. Mom was upset and crying and us kids were just staying out of the way. Dad finally calmed down and realized the berries were ruined. They had begun to rot and mold; and they smelled real bad.
The buckets of berries were scattered on the far side of the garden near the barn yard. The family went about the business of living and doing our farm chores until late Wednesday afternoon. That is when it was discovered our seven geese had eaten the rotten blackberries and had died.
Dad was really mad now. The dead geese had been in the hot sun all day and we could not even butcher them. Mom, in her effort to salvage something from the situation began to pick the down feathers for pillow stuffing. I pulled some of the wing feathers to make me an Indian headband. After the geese had been plucked, we threw them in a farm wagon and hauled them to our trash dump on the backside of the farm. Dad was still very upset with himself.
On Thursday morning, at daybreak, we were all startled awake by a very loud commotion on the side porch. The dogs were barking and the peacocks yelling in addition to all of the noise on the porch.
When we opened the door, there stood seven of the maddest, half-drunk, naked geese ever encountered.
Dad put put the berries in the creamery; a little shed attached to the back of the house where they could be washed and made ready for pies and jelly. The shed had really been a creamery years before when the farm had dairy cattle.
In the meantime, Dad received a phone call to get a client out of jail and had to leave on business. While he was gone one of my sisters stuck herself in the top of the foot with a frog gig.
Upon Dad's return, It was off to the hospital for a tetanus shot for her. In all of this confusion the blackberries had been forgotten, that is until Tuesday afternoon.
Upon realizing he had forgotten about the berries, Dad was very upset and yelling. Mom was upset and crying and us kids were just staying out of the way. Dad finally calmed down and realized the berries were ruined. They had begun to rot and mold; and they smelled real bad.
The buckets of berries were scattered on the far side of the garden near the barn yard. The family went about the business of living and doing our farm chores until late Wednesday afternoon. That is when it was discovered our seven geese had eaten the rotten blackberries and had died.
Dad was really mad now. The dead geese had been in the hot sun all day and we could not even butcher them. Mom, in her effort to salvage something from the situation began to pick the down feathers for pillow stuffing. I pulled some of the wing feathers to make me an Indian headband. After the geese had been plucked, we threw them in a farm wagon and hauled them to our trash dump on the backside of the farm. Dad was still very upset with himself.
On Thursday morning, at daybreak, we were all startled awake by a very loud commotion on the side porch. The dogs were barking and the peacocks yelling in addition to all of the noise on the porch.
When we opened the door, there stood seven of the maddest, half-drunk, naked geese ever encountered.
The Ditch
As both a military veteran and curious American, I hailed a cab on a dreary day in Washington D.C., to see the much talked about Vietnam War Memorial, which was still under construction.
Soon the cab driver pulled to the curb, collected the fare, and pointed to an empty open field said "It's over there! Just walk into the field and you'll find it". In the drizzle and chill, I began trekking across the field. I was still puzzled until it came into view. But, that's not a wall, that's a ditch in a field with a wall built into the side of the ditch.
The Vietnam Memorial was being built in remembrance to those who lost their lives in that war. The design of this memorial with the names engraved high overhead is very emotional and tearful. There is a ramp going down in the ditch with only a few names on the wall. With each step into the ditch, more names. Then you are at the bottom of the ditch among roll after roll of names. You are caught in a quagmire of tears and emotion.
As you make your way across the names to the upward ramp, the heaviness begins to lift. When you are finally out, you look back at the anguish you just walked through and realize the wall in not just a symbol of great honor, but also a symbol of the dishonor to the Politicians that dug the ditch and took our nation through that quagmire.
We lost honor as a nation, but gained military leadership as to how not to conduct war in the future.
The question today is, Have we learned our lesson? Some forty years have passed, we are now engaged in another war, a different war. This enemy does not wear a uniform or belong to any country and he wants to kill us. This enemy kills by remote control. He kills himself and his innocent own just to create carnage. He kills just to kill. This enemy comes from the past to keep us from the future.
Much of our warrior force fighting this war are from close to home. The Reserve and National Guard. When someone dies or is wounded, it is not just a soldier or marine from someplace else. It is your National Guard neighbor, Your reservist brother or your son.
The parasitic politicians that rose this nation against this enemy, that voted for this war, are now digging the ditch. They are looking for a way out while they have given themselves a pay raise. A pay raise and digging is more important than supporting, funding and winning. Political advantage is more important to them than victory.
Without victory this war just may last another year, five years, ten or even twenty years. To fight and come home with victory is our only option. Our politicians are copying what did not work forty years ago. They are digging a memorial to defeat.
We as Americans all are soldiers in this war. We are the Aunts, Uncles, Brothers, Fathers and Mothers of the Soldiers, Marines, Guardsmen and Reservist; the warriors fighting this war are us.
Recently, I witnessed a man stand in front of a church congregation to make an announcement. With a tear in his eye and a lump in his throat he proudly announced that his eldest son, who had recently graduated from High School, Just enlisted in the Marine Corp. This announcement was met with an immediate long applause.
The Memorial for this war will come. Let us pray that it is not another ditch in a field. Let us build a Memorial that we can look up to and proudly salute. Let us build a Memorial from Victory and not ditch digging.
Soon the cab driver pulled to the curb, collected the fare, and pointed to an empty open field said "It's over there! Just walk into the field and you'll find it". In the drizzle and chill, I began trekking across the field. I was still puzzled until it came into view. But, that's not a wall, that's a ditch in a field with a wall built into the side of the ditch.
The Vietnam Memorial was being built in remembrance to those who lost their lives in that war. The design of this memorial with the names engraved high overhead is very emotional and tearful. There is a ramp going down in the ditch with only a few names on the wall. With each step into the ditch, more names. Then you are at the bottom of the ditch among roll after roll of names. You are caught in a quagmire of tears and emotion.
As you make your way across the names to the upward ramp, the heaviness begins to lift. When you are finally out, you look back at the anguish you just walked through and realize the wall in not just a symbol of great honor, but also a symbol of the dishonor to the Politicians that dug the ditch and took our nation through that quagmire.
We lost honor as a nation, but gained military leadership as to how not to conduct war in the future.
The question today is, Have we learned our lesson? Some forty years have passed, we are now engaged in another war, a different war. This enemy does not wear a uniform or belong to any country and he wants to kill us. This enemy kills by remote control. He kills himself and his innocent own just to create carnage. He kills just to kill. This enemy comes from the past to keep us from the future.
Much of our warrior force fighting this war are from close to home. The Reserve and National Guard. When someone dies or is wounded, it is not just a soldier or marine from someplace else. It is your National Guard neighbor, Your reservist brother or your son.
The parasitic politicians that rose this nation against this enemy, that voted for this war, are now digging the ditch. They are looking for a way out while they have given themselves a pay raise. A pay raise and digging is more important than supporting, funding and winning. Political advantage is more important to them than victory.
Without victory this war just may last another year, five years, ten or even twenty years. To fight and come home with victory is our only option. Our politicians are copying what did not work forty years ago. They are digging a memorial to defeat.
We as Americans all are soldiers in this war. We are the Aunts, Uncles, Brothers, Fathers and Mothers of the Soldiers, Marines, Guardsmen and Reservist; the warriors fighting this war are us.
Recently, I witnessed a man stand in front of a church congregation to make an announcement. With a tear in his eye and a lump in his throat he proudly announced that his eldest son, who had recently graduated from High School, Just enlisted in the Marine Corp. This announcement was met with an immediate long applause.
The Memorial for this war will come. Let us pray that it is not another ditch in a field. Let us build a Memorial that we can look up to and proudly salute. Let us build a Memorial from Victory and not ditch digging.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Conversations
Have you ever listened to three or four people talking?
It's really quite interesting.
Everybody talks, everybody has something to say.
Like, "My Doctor has me on this medicine that makes me want to sleep all of the time".
Or, "I've been really busy, just don't have time for anything anymore".
And everyone departs, knowing they had a warm friendly conversation with someone and everyone said something.
But, nobody was listening, nobody but me.
It's really quite interesting.
Everybody talks, everybody has something to say.
Like, "My Doctor has me on this medicine that makes me want to sleep all of the time".
Or, "I've been really busy, just don't have time for anything anymore".
And everyone departs, knowing they had a warm friendly conversation with someone and everyone said something.
But, nobody was listening, nobody but me.
The Three
The three ignored me until I stopped the car and got out. They quickly turned to face me, side by side with suspicion in their stares.
To my surprise they looked alike standing in the wind. Their hair was falling down between their eyes. Even the hair on the back of their necks was dancing to the windy gusts.
The three seemed proud in spite of the situation they found themselves. They could be sisters or perhaps a mother and two daughters.
I was strongly attracted by their beauty and thought a picture was in order. As my camera came into their view, the three turned and swiftly moved away, never to even glance back. It was as if I had violated what little pride that remained.
These wild horses of Oregon are truly a different breed.
To my surprise they looked alike standing in the wind. Their hair was falling down between their eyes. Even the hair on the back of their necks was dancing to the windy gusts.
The three seemed proud in spite of the situation they found themselves. They could be sisters or perhaps a mother and two daughters.
I was strongly attracted by their beauty and thought a picture was in order. As my camera came into their view, the three turned and swiftly moved away, never to even glance back. It was as if I had violated what little pride that remained.
These wild horses of Oregon are truly a different breed.
Where is your Mule?
There was once a Louisville Kentucky Psychiatrist by the name of Dr. Presley Frank Martin. Before becoming a shrink he practiced real medicine in Elizabethtown, Kentucky by treating heart patients, delivering babies, sewing people back together after auto accidents and most things a good doctor would do.
One of the very unusual things he did was two or three times a month, instead of playing golf or going upriver in his boat, he visited a local farm and went for a mule ride.
He would saddle up the mule, pick up his black doctor bag, and ride into the hills to make house calls. The reason he rode the mule was there were no roads back into those hills. He took care of people that seldom, if ever came to town. They lived off the land. Dirt poor farmers and hunters.
Dr. Martin delivered their babies, gave shots, sewed up cuts and treated infections. He did the things good country doctors did for people. He was never paid with money because they didn't have any. If he was paid, it was from the garden or the hen house and on occasion he brought home a good hickory smoked ham.
This didn't happen in the 1700's or the 1800's. This was in the 1960's
You don't have to be a doctor to ride the mule. You just need the heart of a servant.
Just get on your mule, use your talent, make a difference in someones life.
One of the very unusual things he did was two or three times a month, instead of playing golf or going upriver in his boat, he visited a local farm and went for a mule ride.
He would saddle up the mule, pick up his black doctor bag, and ride into the hills to make house calls. The reason he rode the mule was there were no roads back into those hills. He took care of people that seldom, if ever came to town. They lived off the land. Dirt poor farmers and hunters.
Dr. Martin delivered their babies, gave shots, sewed up cuts and treated infections. He did the things good country doctors did for people. He was never paid with money because they didn't have any. If he was paid, it was from the garden or the hen house and on occasion he brought home a good hickory smoked ham.
This didn't happen in the 1700's or the 1800's. This was in the 1960's
You don't have to be a doctor to ride the mule. You just need the heart of a servant.
Just get on your mule, use your talent, make a difference in someones life.
My Blind Pony
My Dad was a very smart man, but there were times I thought he did some very questionable things. However, in retrospect, I have to admit most of the things he did, taught me valuable lessons in life.
There was the time Dad came home with a blind pony. Everyone in the family said, "What in the world are we going to do with a blind pony?"
Thinking back, that blind pony taught me more about life, and absolute trust than anything ever could have. It took her a while to learn her way around the barn yard without bumping into things. Initially, she had to be lead to her food and water. She never forgot. She depended on other animals and her colts to guide her around. She was a very attentive mother.
When I saddled and rode her, she depended on me to not let her get hurt or run into anything. She would run like the wind when you wanted and she could tell by the sound of your voice when you said "whoa" whether she was to make a quick stop or just slow down. She would jump ditches and jump over fences without hesitation by the way you talked to her and held the reins. She had absolute trust.
During the times when my cousins, nieces and nephews came to visit, she never resisted as she was harnessed to a little wagon. For hours she would pull that little wagon around a path in our side yard as if she could see exactly where she was going.
We all could use a blind pony in our lives. I've had mine and I would not trade the experience and lessons in life for anything.
Knowing Jesus is a lot like being a blind pony. Jesus is showing the way. He is guiding the reins, He is watching for the ditches and fences. He has made the path. We must have absolute trust and he will help us gallop through this life and into the next.
Jesus said, "I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life". (John 8:12)
There was the time Dad came home with a blind pony. Everyone in the family said, "What in the world are we going to do with a blind pony?"
Thinking back, that blind pony taught me more about life, and absolute trust than anything ever could have. It took her a while to learn her way around the barn yard without bumping into things. Initially, she had to be lead to her food and water. She never forgot. She depended on other animals and her colts to guide her around. She was a very attentive mother.
When I saddled and rode her, she depended on me to not let her get hurt or run into anything. She would run like the wind when you wanted and she could tell by the sound of your voice when you said "whoa" whether she was to make a quick stop or just slow down. She would jump ditches and jump over fences without hesitation by the way you talked to her and held the reins. She had absolute trust.
During the times when my cousins, nieces and nephews came to visit, she never resisted as she was harnessed to a little wagon. For hours she would pull that little wagon around a path in our side yard as if she could see exactly where she was going.
We all could use a blind pony in our lives. I've had mine and I would not trade the experience and lessons in life for anything.
Knowing Jesus is a lot like being a blind pony. Jesus is showing the way. He is guiding the reins, He is watching for the ditches and fences. He has made the path. We must have absolute trust and he will help us gallop through this life and into the next.
Jesus said, "I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life". (John 8:12)
Family Reunion
We played together as kids. Visited each other at our homes and during the summers had many gatherings at Grandpa's farm. Built forts in the barn loft and panned for gold in the creek bed. We had corncob fights, fist fights, swam and fished together.
Then we grew up.
There was college, the Marines, the Air Force, marriage, jobs, our own children and that seldom reunion where the second cousins could meet and play like we did.
Time drifted us apart. We lost contact. I heard the kids got married. Just little glimpses of cousins and second cousins.
Then came the invitation to another family reunion. My, it's been a long time, I'm going this year.
I'm glad I went. After the first handshake and hug, we had never been apart. We were kids again, laughing and having fun. Talking about our latest toys, cars, and boats, family history and of course the Internet and emails.
We promised to stay in contact. I said goodbye and he said later. He always said later.
There were letters, emails , jokes, pictures, a little business and are you coming back to the reunion again this year? and again that "later", never a goodbye. I think it was too permanent, because there was always a tomorrow for him.
One of us died last week, and when I heard I was over a thousand miles away on a business trip. I couldn't go, but a warm pleasant thing happened that I shall never forget.
On the day he died he was very strong in my thoughts and when I went to bed I said to myself I would like one more visit just to say goodbye.
Sometime during the night, in my dreams I was visited by someone who covered me with a blanket and tucked me in. As he faded from my dream, I distinctly heard one word before I went into a deeper sleep.
"Later".
Then we grew up.
There was college, the Marines, the Air Force, marriage, jobs, our own children and that seldom reunion where the second cousins could meet and play like we did.
Time drifted us apart. We lost contact. I heard the kids got married. Just little glimpses of cousins and second cousins.
Then came the invitation to another family reunion. My, it's been a long time, I'm going this year.
I'm glad I went. After the first handshake and hug, we had never been apart. We were kids again, laughing and having fun. Talking about our latest toys, cars, and boats, family history and of course the Internet and emails.
We promised to stay in contact. I said goodbye and he said later. He always said later.
There were letters, emails , jokes, pictures, a little business and are you coming back to the reunion again this year? and again that "later", never a goodbye. I think it was too permanent, because there was always a tomorrow for him.
One of us died last week, and when I heard I was over a thousand miles away on a business trip. I couldn't go, but a warm pleasant thing happened that I shall never forget.
On the day he died he was very strong in my thoughts and when I went to bed I said to myself I would like one more visit just to say goodbye.
Sometime during the night, in my dreams I was visited by someone who covered me with a blanket and tucked me in. As he faded from my dream, I distinctly heard one word before I went into a deeper sleep.
"Later".
Very Slow
Yes, it is happening very slow. We notice and seam to adjust. We adjust like that frog placed in a pan of cool water.
The water with the frog is placed on a stove, the heat is turned on and heats very slow. It slowly heats until it is boiling. The frog is cooked and didn't even notice, he just adjusted.
Our economy and jobs have been slowly leaving. The products we buy are made by someone else. It is happening very slow. We noticed, but we were too busy trying to stay ahead or just even. We only noticed a little and we adjusted.
We may be boiling in three or four years, then comes being cooked, then consumed. But we will adjust.
We may be adjusted back to the 1940's, 1930's or perhaps the 1920's; or would we prefer the 1820's. We didn't use much oil then and we will remember the good old days of 2008, wonder what happened and look for someone to blame.
Does anyone have a mirror?
The water with the frog is placed on a stove, the heat is turned on and heats very slow. It slowly heats until it is boiling. The frog is cooked and didn't even notice, he just adjusted.
Our economy and jobs have been slowly leaving. The products we buy are made by someone else. It is happening very slow. We noticed, but we were too busy trying to stay ahead or just even. We only noticed a little and we adjusted.
We may be boiling in three or four years, then comes being cooked, then consumed. But we will adjust.
We may be adjusted back to the 1940's, 1930's or perhaps the 1920's; or would we prefer the 1820's. We didn't use much oil then and we will remember the good old days of 2008, wonder what happened and look for someone to blame.
Does anyone have a mirror?
It helps to know where you are going
In a parking lot in North Little Rock Arkansas, behind the Red Lobster and Road House restaurants and near a theater, you will find shade under the tall pine trees.
It is a good place to park and catch a breeze in the heat of the day. Catch up on reading, studying, writing or just relax for a midday break. It is a good place to stop and contemplate or just listen to the breeze going through the trees above.
On occasion a mockingbird can be heard serenading from high above and a family of squirrels are heard making barking sounds from the oak trees just over the hill.
Many times the quiet is shattered and the birds scattered by some lost soul taking a high speed short cut through the parking lot down past the pine trees, past the trash dumpsters and over the hill; only to come to an abrupt stop near the big oak trees.
Very shortly, the driver, wide awake now, backs up the hill and turns around near the trash dumpsters.
There is amazing realization on his face, for he has found out this isn't a road. It is pavement that goes nowhere.
The strange thing about this is, if you want a repeat performance, just wait about fifteen minutes. Oh, here comes another one now.
Many seem to search for God on a covered path, a fast easy road that goes over a hill, to a dead end.
Just stop, study, read, and pray. Be patient and God will find you. He has been waiting for a long time, at the end of the fast lane near the bottom of the dead end.
It is a good place to park and catch a breeze in the heat of the day. Catch up on reading, studying, writing or just relax for a midday break. It is a good place to stop and contemplate or just listen to the breeze going through the trees above.
On occasion a mockingbird can be heard serenading from high above and a family of squirrels are heard making barking sounds from the oak trees just over the hill.
Many times the quiet is shattered and the birds scattered by some lost soul taking a high speed short cut through the parking lot down past the pine trees, past the trash dumpsters and over the hill; only to come to an abrupt stop near the big oak trees.
Very shortly, the driver, wide awake now, backs up the hill and turns around near the trash dumpsters.
There is amazing realization on his face, for he has found out this isn't a road. It is pavement that goes nowhere.
The strange thing about this is, if you want a repeat performance, just wait about fifteen minutes. Oh, here comes another one now.
Many seem to search for God on a covered path, a fast easy road that goes over a hill, to a dead end.
Just stop, study, read, and pray. Be patient and God will find you. He has been waiting for a long time, at the end of the fast lane near the bottom of the dead end.
Just a Thought
How many times have you told someone that asked for prayer that you would pray for them, (keep them in your prayers) and you didn't (forgot, slipped you mind, or didn't really care).
And they died.
Don't you think they now know?
And so does Jesus.
And they died.
Don't you think they now know?
And so does Jesus.
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