Ear Buds vs Tree Buds

In the past I've made statements like, "I remember when one could hear a bee buzz twenty feet away and could not see it. Today one can see a bee three feet away and cannot hear it."

It is not only the drone of incidental noise in the air that contributes to not hearing, but also loud music, home entertainment, and being self-absorbed in gratifications.

"Stop and smell the roses," has more than one meaning. I know one can bend over and smell a rose, but does anyone see it for its beauty. The same for running, stop, take a deep breath and actually commune with God's creation.

A jogger may run right past blooming dogwoods and simply say,"Ah, nice white." Then just keep moving on.

As we run through life we miss the beauty that is free to see and enjoy. We run with our head down afraid to make eye contact as not to be forced to engage in a greeting, and Lord forbid, a conversation.

Look what one can see if we only slowed enough to walk:

All of a suden we see a painting, a composition, hear a tune in your heart. You have switched from self to something outside of yourself. Realizing you say, "What about that!"

Gee . . . you've stopped running. Now you've made eye contact with nature, a non-threatening image. An image one can easily smile at. You feel free - at ease. You realize this is what is missing in your life. "Be still and know that I am God . . . Ps 46:10" The Scripture says.

Uninhibited, you will want to get close. You will absorb something into your soul that has not entered for selfish reasons. You are open. "Speak to me," you say. 

So is it with God. Quit running, dismantle yourself, and listen.

Beaver Attack

Carol and I have worked hard to settle the cold and stormy depths of our Floyd County woods. Our beautiful pond is man-made which apparently upset one of the native inhabitants.

As you can see, last year we added a dock, a ramp by which to walk into the water, a patio to sit around the fire pit, and a weeping willow to eventually shade most of the patio.

Two days ago, as we pulled up to the cabin Carol hollered, "Look, look! What has happened to our willow?" The trunk of the tree was chewed in half making the top topple over. Only the middle was still tied to the post that kept it steady when the harsh winds blew.

As I snuck up to the situation a large critter took off and swam under the dock.

The monster temporarily left its dinner behind. You can see the tree did well and had several nice branches, now just nubbins. The white stick in the water is part of the tree. Its bark was all chewed off. White sticks littered the water all around. The bark must have tasted pretty good to the pig.

Mad at me, the creature circled his fallen prey telling me to get lost. At one time he smacked the pond with his tail to send a sound like a shotgun blast.

I got a couple of movies of the beast before darkness took over.

The next morning the remnant of the tree laid on the ground. Obviously he wasn't happy with part of his catch still hanging in the air. It must have taken quite an effort to yank the thicker than two inch trunk of the T-post stake. He even chewed more of the branches before his gut filled.

Well we heard coyotes howl and yap during the night, seen bear track, saw red foxes, fox squirrels, a bald eagle, dozens of turkeys. Now a four-foot long beaver.

Never a dull moment in Floyd County.

Our Pet, A Member of the Family

The Day We Almost Lost Our Pooch

Our pet dog is a long time member of the family. He is eighteen-and-one-half years old.
Poor guy he can’t see of hear any longer. 

He sleeps a lot and wants to wee often in between to receive his treat.

A few days ago he was resting, sleeping on his side, when suddenly he let out a scream as if something was attacking him. He jerked, his legs stretched out and went stiff. He lay there as if dead. Carol panicked and stroked him on the floor. There was no response. She sobbed. 

The rush to the vet, about three miles from home, provided time for much consternation, kissing the dog, and crying. I kept the peddle pushed.

When we entered the vet’s office the lady behind the counter saw the distress on our faces and came running to our aid. She interrupted her conversation with another customer at the counter and took the dog from Carol’s arms and rushed him to see the doctor.

We sat down to get ourselves ready for the bad news.

The kind folks at the counter tried to give us some comforting words while we waited. 

Soon an elderly couple walked in. The elderly lady carried a black poodle in her arms. It trembled as its tongue loosely hung from the mouth. The elderly man followed her and placed a small cage on the floor of the waiting room. The cage contained a cat. The poor cat laid sprawled and moaned like a small child. The attendant took both to the rear of the clinic.

A large dog on a leash pranced in. He needed his shots. To the owner’s surprise, the dog had also gained ten pounds in the last three month. The sad result, he was put a a diet. Good thing he didn’t understand the conversation.

Another couple came in with one small dog each. The conversation revealed that they were the proud caretakers of five dogs, all rescued from the needle of death at the pound. The frisky little mutt in the man’s lap had on a jacket that said, “Local Bad Boy.” The dog himself only weight five pounds. The lady held her pooch, a female, a diabetic, with a pink cape on her back stating, “Mama’s Baby.” The pet needs two shots a day, she told us. She came in to have her sugar level checked.

Suddenly we heard a jap! . . . Jap . . . Jap jap! Mr. “S” our old warrior had revived, sending a signal throughout the clinic stating that, “I an’t done here yet.” We rejoiced. Our heats soared. 

We agreed to have his blood tested in search of a possible cause. The results were negative. Our guy had a seizure. Not too uncommon at his age.

The old couple, who brought in the poodle and the cat returned. Soon the Veterinarian entered the waiting room with two black, strapped shut satchels. The elderly couple sadly accepted one each. Out the door they stumbled. The doctor watched them go and enter their vehicle. The doctor took a deep breath and said, “I have never gotten used to this.” She stood there a while, obviously distraught, making sure the elderly couple was all right to drive away.

Life goes on, even in the world of pets. 

Relationships

A Point Of View

Being in a relationship could have and does have various meanings.

As I look back just a few decades, I see the secular influence now on our culture. I do not travel, as one would say, in a world where new and crude words are used. I hear enough, however, to make me cringe at the ease of which the media and the younger folks use foul and suggestive language.

Homosexual, lesbian, are proper english words to describe the associated behavior. Why has the country stopped using these descriptive words and substituted the word gay in its place? We all know why. Gay means happy, joyous, carefree, bright and showy. The true meaning has been bastardized to suggest that this lifestyle fulfills all the former meanings of the word. Our culture cannot name a girl Gay any longer. One can still pervert the truth, but can not refer to a person as a pervert.

I'm afraid the word "relationship" has become the new word to cover or hide a more deviant behavior that may be offensive to the older, (narrow-minded) folks.

Children in their early teens are referring to being in a "relationship." To a parent what does that mean? Is it an on-line relationship? Are the kids having sexual relations? A girl does not date a boy any longer, they are in a "relationship." Dating is old fashion. Relationship is now the accepted word for "anything goes."I have nothing against teens dating, hanging out, communicating and enjoying each other's company. I do not like the word "relationship" because of its connotations.

What does the term relationship include? Certainly it includes simple dating. It also includes co-habitating and homosexual experimentation. It is a convenient cover or umbrella, symbolizing inclusion and acceptance in the progressive culture.

Thank God our laws attempt to protect our children by prosecuting child molesters and child rapists. Although some of our States' courts show just a wink and a smile to such vile behavior. "Just part of a relationship."

As the culture progresses toward Hell, I'm sure the term will include group relationships, animal relationships and any other perversion that may creep out of the slime pit.

Tobacco - Fun Stuff?

This short story is from my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant." This version of the story is expanded and will be published as part of an e-book in the future. The story below takes place in Germany around 1946.

WHAT ABOUT CIGARETTES

Many men rolled their own cigarettes long before the GIs came. Few smoked cigars, I guess they were not readily available. Many smoked pipes. The elders of the town showed off their long hanging meerschaum pipes; the younger men much smaller and sportier ones. Cigar stubs found their way into a pipe and totally used until they turned to ashes. Nobody chewed tobacco or dipped the stuff, between cheek and gum, like they do in the United States. 

Snuff, finely ground tobacco, existed and actually was sniffed up the nose. When the need for a dip came, as Beisser Opa called it, he, with greatly exaggerated and somewhat elegant motion, reached for his silver snuff box, which he kept in his left, inner, jacket pocket. 

After he tapped the box with his knuckles to knock off any snuff stuck to the lid, he’d flip it open. With the precision of an orchestra conductor, he removed a pinch between his thumb and two fingers. He then flipped the lid closed with his pinkie finger. Carefully, he’d return his treasured, little box into his breast pocket. All these theatrics were always evident before the pinch of snuff was placed on the backside of his left hand. With great expectation he slowly raised his hand to his nostrils. His head slightly raised, eyes half closed, he gave one good snort up one nostril taking about half the dip, the other nostril likewise received the rest.

Since a kid couldn’t get hold of any real tobacco, we made our own smoking tools and hunted stuff to smoke. 

We began by making our own pipes. Corncobs we never heard of. No one had ever seen or eaten any corn. Where we lived bamboo or reeds did not grow either, but elderberry bushes did. 

We reamed out the elderberry branches’ pithy center for the stem of our pipe. The pithy stuff of the stem was removed with a wire. We shoved the wire through and pulled it back and forth to increase the hollowness of the stem. 

The bowl of the pipe we carved from the thick branch of the elderberry bush reaming it out with our pocket knife. We then drilled a hole in the side of the bowl with the sharp point of the knife and stuck the two parts together. 

The tobacco substitute we decided on, after experimenting with various dried leaves, was that of the horse chestnut. Some smelled a bit better than others. When we tried to inhale it made our eyeballs almost pop out. None of the stuff we smoked tasted good, and all left you spitting for hours. 

Smoke we did––with spit and tears flying in all directions. 

The closest thing in form to a cigarette, or thin cigar, was what we called Judenstrick or Jewish rope. It is the dried vine of a wild grape. A similar vine here in the States is the Virginia creeper and the possum grape vines. 

The vine grew on banks and in gullies. It grew thick, climbing the trees, and often totally covered small bushes. 

The hollow and shaded underside of these mounds of tangled vines made a perfect hideaway for us boys. One such particular hideout was entered by crawling on our bellies. Once inside, the dark and damp made it very private. We only allowed our closest buddies to a secret fort like that; the ones we trusted to keep their mouths shut. Of course, any clandestine operation done in the vine fort would have warranted a whipping from our parents. Smoking was one of these operations. 

The walls and domed ceiling of the hidden den consisted of years of dead vine; all of it good to smoke. All one had to do was reach out with our pocket knife and whack a smoke. The section between knots in the dried vine made the perfect cigarillo. It was porous, and air could be sucked through it. All we had to do was light up one end and sit back. 

The dry vine stayed lit and even sported a little stub of ashes on the end. Just like a real cigarette. We sat around exhibiting various stances and techniques to hold the weed, imitating the grownups and their cigarets. Some folks held theirs between two fingers. Others held their cigarettes in their mouth all the while dodging the smoke from getting into their eyes. We felt grown and quite in control. 

The trouble however, after one or two smokes, the bitterness and smoke of the vine seemed to dry up the saliva glands. The mouth became parched, and the tongue swelled. After we killed our taste buds, we crawled out into the day. If anyone observed a bunch of boys hanging around the water pump, coughing, spitting, they sure knew what we had been up to.

So, then the GIs came to town. They held their smokes with thumb and two fingers, the lighted end facing in. They flipped their cigarette butts all over and created in us an urge to do some real smoking. All we had to do is circle the squad tents and gather all the cigarette butts without looking like chickens picking beans. You might say we boys were in butt heaven.

We were not the only ones to sheepishly pick up the discarded butts. I believe the older boys and even some grownups did the hunt and gather mode as well. With four of us boys collecting butts, we soon had a small tin can full of loose tobacco. 

Since none of us were allowed to be caught with this taboo substance, we decided to bury the tin can in our secret hideaway. We set a date, a non-school day, for the great Bavarian Smoke In. 

A week or so later, the day of all days arrived. Plenty of the real stuff buried and ready. All the practicing we did finally will be tested. The occasion is surely going to elevate us into the world of manhood. 

I remember sitting in a circle in our secret den, each one of us prepared, with either pipe or roll-your-own paper. Matches were on hand and ready to start the grand experience. We unearthed the tin can and carefully pried open the lid. All eager eyes strained to stay focused on that metal box. The box holding the long sought treasure. The lid popped off. What? . . . A strange, fuzzy haze of light blue and green stared back at us. Our much heralded stash had totally molded––grown a green beard! 

I have never longed for another smoke since that day.

GERMS . . . YOU'VE GOT TO LOVE'EM

FRANZ'S SYMBOL OF WISDOM

Germs

I grew up in a world, at least in our house, where we were not concerned with germs. We didn’t use the word and worry about germs as we do now.
It was a given, and natural instinct, to stay clear of any fecal matter. Although animal dung was mixed with dirt to grow a garden we did not handle it.
We had no refrigeration and knew when food began to grow blue mold it was at a point of no longer eatable.
We had to make a call as to bother washing off maggots or throwing out the meat.
I remember as a child washing off little white eggs green flies had laid on a piece of meat during the day. However, food being boiled or fried always killed what might have hurt us.

Germs are now an obsession in this country. I agree there are many things one should do to lessen the chance of contracting the flu. However, seeing everything as contaminated makes life a dread. One can actually lose the freedom of a simple life worrying about what germ nay be lurking. Nothing is more precious, in my mind, as a simple life. I’d rather get a few ailments, and build up some resistance and immunities, than walk around with plastic gloves on my hands, a white mask over my nose and mouth, stop at all sanitizers, wipe hands on Clorox napkins, shun friends in fear they may breath on you.

On a side note, I caught myself doing a no-no at Walmart. I was in the process of buying tomatoes, pealed off one of the plastic baggies, I could’t open the stupid thing, so I put a little spittle on my fingers, opened it, and commenced to finger a tomato or two with the same fingers. (I was polite enough to place the ones I fingered into the bag.)

Too many of the folks, especially our children, are over sanitized. That is why, I believe, kids get sick every whipstitch. Everything is treated with an antibiotic. Millions of people have overdosed on antibiotics to a point where the drug industry can no longer come up with a pill that works. Germs have outsmarted the antibiotics and are laughing at humanity.
Maybe, just maybe, to get sick, let nature work its wonder, build an immunity to simple sicknesses, is the way life is meant to be.

Going back to germs. If you are one of those paranoid folks, let me help you to get discouraged.
How often do you sanitize your spigot at the sink? Your handle on the drawer that holds you trashcan? Your phone? The handle on the refrigerator? Your armrests on your easy chair? Every door knob in your house? Your countertops? Your steering wheel? Your car  keys? 
You want to be a slave to germs, shrivel up in fear, lose your simple freedom? 
As for me I’m free! I depend on my reasonable good sense and the Good Shepherd, Who has taking care of me to this day. I know He will have the last word on my future whether I fret over a few germs or not, and I will give Him all the glory. 
.

Why Shoes

This short story is from my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant." This version of the story is expanded and will be published as part of an e-book in the future. The story below takes place in Germany around 1946.

WHY SHOES

Along with scarred and banged-up knees came tough, little bare feet. We wore shoes only in the winter. I never had a pair of boots to wear when sleigh riding or building forts and snowmen. My knitted socks kept me warm only until the snow around the ankles melted, saturating my socks and shoes with freezing water. I had so much fun, but it seemed like I always had to quit the fun stuff early, not because I was tired, but because my feet were about to freeze off. 

My shoes were always either too big or too small. When my shoes were too big, Mom had me stand on cardboard as she traced my feet with a pencil. She then cut out the shape and put the cardboard inside the brogans, sometimes two or three layers, to fill them enough so the laces would tighten. I stuffed wool balls or old rags into the toe area to keep the feet from sliding forward. 

I never had a pair of new shoes. If there was a shoe store in town, I sure did not recall one. Where the used shoes came from was not discussed. As I got a bit older I wore mother’s old ones. If the sole had holes, which was often the case, a piece of stout material was slipped under the cardboard on the inside. As my feet grew and the shoes were still usable, spacers were removed one at a time. 

The Sunday-go-to-church shoes did not wear out. Year after year the same pair was shined and worn to church. Once the toes became cramped, I simply balled them up and walked kind of pigeon-toed until back home when the feet were liberated again. In any case, with Sunday shoes on, you did not and could not do much running.

Summer time was when you got your bare feet in shape. Nothing was hard enough to hurt the bottoms. We took great pride in the toughness of our soles. We tested them on new gravel doing a stationary run and seeing how far we could sling the rocks backward with our feet. 

Another boy-thing we did for fun, was the dirt slide. Sliding down on our backsides of the Lederhose was fun, but taking a running jump and sliding down an almost vertical mud track on your bare feet was tough. For sure, after a good rain, the wet soil really added speed. However, climbing back up the bank on the slippery mud was a bit slower. 

We tested walking on shattered glass, but only when someone dared you to do it.

As always, we waited longingly for the days to grow longer and the snows to be gone from the well-travelled paths. To be bare footed again was a springtime dream. 

Ah, what a welcomed sight, when a couple of boys spotted a horse drawn wagon coming our way. I can still see the beasts laboring up the incline to reach the town’s center. Even while a long way off, we craned our necks to see if a generous pile of horse apples had been left behind. Most often however, such a pile, still steaming with warmth, was left sitting in the center of town; a treat just for the taking. 

We'd run and lovingly step into the warmth, sort of kneading the fluffy droppings with our toes. The juice oozed between our toes and feet as we worked to find the last pockets of warm spots. No wonder we had such growth spurts in the spring.