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. 
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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. 

A MUSTACHE or SCHNURRBART

Franz's Symbol of Wisdom

THE MUSTACHE or SCHNURRBART

When boys begin to change to men often the first visible sign is the fuzz under the nose that has started to darken. This sign, the beginning of the horn of masculinity, is a young man’s pride. Often it is coaxed to grow by prayer, and often waxed with olive oil to make it darker for a better impression on the girls.

Maybe the reason for a mustache at all, is that our Maker meant it to deter flies. Much like a man’s hair in the ears and eyelashes and brows around the eye.

I’ve had a mustache, or something like a mustache, for a long time. I’ve had a full mustache, one that sits on top of the lip like a wide push broom. I’ve manicured a thin mustache, just above the lip, to emulate Clark Gable’s. I’ve had a mustache that swoops down and up to blend with furry mutton chops. 

I’ve proudly displayed a formation of hair under my nose referred to a handlebar mustache. The maintenance of such a configuration is demanding, and requires frequent self inspection. This self-inspection borders on being feminine. If it wasn’t for the growth, the obvious symbol of masculinity, requiring a man to look at one’s self, carrying a small can of wax the size of snuff in one’s pocket, I would say it is a sissified ritual. 

On one occasion I had run out of mustache wax. After a hot, morning shower a handlebar mustache needs wax! That morning I had to substitute for the wax. I, the ever problem solver, simply chose a dab from the can of brown Kiwi shoe polish. Good choice, until I got to work and sipped on a fresh hot cup of coffee. Let me tell you, melted shoe polish not only tastes horrible, but it tends to stain one’s teeth.

I have grown, trained and shaped a multitude of mustaches, however, I’ve have never sported one like Adolf.

Nowadays they have trimmers and special combs for a guy to primp with. In the olden days a straight razor was used. If you had two bits one could get a mustache trim and a haircut. I hate to think what a gal, fresh out of beauty school, would dowse me with? Also, what contorted stances she’d be in to trim a guy’s source of pride.

I’m not a linguist; especially not in Latin. Schnurrbart is German for mustache. Schnurr simply means to sniff or smell. Bart means beard. To decipher, or find a root word for mustache does not make sense. Mustache = must ache?

A mustache has long been called a soup strainer. Be as it may, I can vouch for it being a  flavor saver. The beauty of a mustache is that it has the much touted ability to supply a lingering aroma of the most recent cuisine a man has enjoyed. I have for hours enjoyed the rich aroma of parmesan cheese, thanks to my mustache. I have savored the scent of barbecue sauce offered to my nose. I have been reminded with the bouquet of garlic and fennel flavors from a lentil soup for hours, until I decided my deodorant had failed. To make sure, I left my company and sniffed myself, washed the growth around the mouth, until I was sure my dabbing and spritzing had not failed.

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A Real Christening

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 1946.

A REAL CHRISTENING

Bavaria is predominantly Catholic. As in most towns of that day and time, the town’s church was the predominant structure. The church’s furnishings, decorations, candle holders and goblets were often centuries old and precious. The town’s church, the center of all religious activities never locked its doors. One could enter its sanctuary at all hours to pray, find shelter and solitude. 

First Communion is a big deal in every young person’s life. I was about six years old. I know Mom had a hard time getting the money together to buy a large, rather ornately carved candle. I carried it during the processional, along with all other young candidates, up the center aisle of the church. The candle with its added white ribbon and drip cup stood about two feet tall. It sure seemed huge to me. 

I got to wear a white shirt and a dark colored suit on First Communion day. Where the suit came from, I haven’t the foggiest. Mom hemmed up the sleeves and pants’ legs and made other modifications that later could be reversed as I grew taller. All starched-up and ironed, fingernails cleaned, hair spiffied-up, shoes shined, I went to church. 

I guess the significance of the whole religious ritual was the celebration and the awareness of a young person’s beginning the age of accountability. From that day forth one could go to confession, tell your misdeeds to a priest, do your multi-prayer penance, and participate in communion. 

All that was good and honorable because it molded me to be a better boy, a boy more aware of other peoples’ feelings and needs. The impetus for me to do better was either the fear of having to tell the priest your sins, or the dread of saying a multitude of Lord’s Prayers and Hail Marys. Whichever it was, I can’t remember. 

Lunch time that memorable day must have been a little late. I took the extra time to dawdle and look at a new baby calf before I went upstairs to our kitchen to shed my Sunday suit. 

Sepperl, the young son of Mr. Beir, our landlord, asked me to follow him through a door which led to the milking stalls. Note, this was not the place where the cows ate out of a manger. I had visited that part of the stall before and even got to touch the cows, scratching them above their noses. He wanted me to step into a small door which led to the rear of the beasts. Obviously, it was where the new calf could get to its mama for a suck. I knew the place was dark in there, and more than just straw covered the floor. 

Knowing the wrath of Mother, I sure did not want to soil the fine get-up I was sporting. So I asked Sepperl to bring the calf out into the open for me to get a good look at it. 

Well, he looped a rope around its neck and coaxed it to the door. This is where the calf stopped; or should I say anchored itself. Apparently, the month-old calf was not yet accustomed to the sunlight. Sepperl stepped back outside onto the cobblestoned wagon yard and began to yank on the rope trying to budge the stubborn, young critter. However, the calf was determined not to step down through the door and out into the open. 

Plan two. The rope was long enough to get another pair of hands on it. I could’t just stand and watch, I had to give him a hand. Both of us pulled and kept the pressure on, our feet braced against the wall and doorsill. The calf, its head down and stiff legged, refused to comply with such useless shenanigans. Being of the dominant species we, two intelligent boys, stayed determined and braced for the duration. 

Then suddenly, totally without warning, the calf jumped toward the two of us and sent us sprawling. I stumbled backward, unable to right myself, I banged into a wheelbarrow. 

I had seen that wheelbarrow before and smelled it often. It was encrusted with years of manure which had been pitchforked into it while cleaning out the cow stalls. That day, you guessed it, it proudly boasted not the dried but the tenderly soft and wet stuff. When I quit stumbling and had come to rest and was sprawled in the wheelbarrow as if soaking in a tub. 

Well, the starched shirt and the ironed pant creases lasted long enough to get through Holy Communion plus another surprise and memorable christening.

Reflections For The New Year

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I shared this post one year ago. The photos are taken from the Blue Ridge Parkway. The clouds above and the obscuring fog below led me to reflect what lies ahead and how futile it is to plan and attack the new year with gusto and new resolutions.

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It is easy for us to reflect on the year just concluded. It is much harder to reflect on what lies ahead.

To start with, we must agree, there is no guarantee of a tomorrow; not even one next minute. So in that sense, there is no use in any new year resolutions. We quickly come to understand we have no control what comes next. The Almighty, not you or I, directs all things. The old adage "If it's the Lord's will, . . ." becomes the crux of the matter.

What do you see out there in the picture above? Something in the distance? Is that the mountain you plan to conquer this year? You can't even see it all. . . . Look, it is covered with uncertainty.

Not only are you not guaranteed the next step, but you don't know what is lurking in the valley. In your mind you may see your goal clearly, and even the joy of the blue sky beyond, but still, it is not you that will get you there.

That is why from our vantage point, at the beginning of a new year, we must look up. You will notice the clouds above resemble the clouds below. They are there to remind us that God obscures what's ahead, but He can lift the clouds and lift uncertainties.

TRUST, is the key word. After all, what is the purpose of it all? The purpose of this life? –– Like Jesus said: "What good is it for a man to gain the whole world, but loose his soul?" . . .  "I have come to prepare a place for you, that where I am, there you may be also." . . .  "Don't worry about tomorrow, for today has enough trouble of its own." . . .  "Come unto Me all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." . . .  "My peace I will give you; not like the world gives . . ."

Those are eternal words for an eternal life, an unclouded day. –– He is "The Way, the Truth, and the Life . . ." He can lift the clouds of greed and selfishness and let you look into the new year with a Hope, a Hope of Glory, far beyond the days ahead.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Brr . . . Lets Go Back A Month Or More

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Even the nandina is bowed in prayer.

The pines are hushed, drooping to shrink from the cold.

All wants to return in time when late summer breezes tickled and fluttered leaves and blades.

To a time when color was king . . .

To a time when warmth invaded the bones . . .

Dreaming of cattails and broom sage . . .

But . . . the time has gone.

We dream to enjoy once more. . .  Let us not forget who has given us every day, as He sees fitting for us.

I thank God and His Son Jesus for every breath, every step, and every day.  HAPPY NEW YEAR!
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Snowed-in, Treed-in, And Iced-in

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Snowed-in, Treed-In, and Iced-In

The Christmas celebrations finally ended. Not to say, “I’ve had enough,” but to finally get a chance to come down from heights of excitement, grandchildren, and family.

The day after the ho-ho-ho we ventured out to Copper Hill, our getaway cabin. It sleeted so hard when we left that by the time we had travelled a mile it became apparent that maybe we should’ve stayed at home. The wipers had trouble keeping up. Nine-tenth of the way up goose creek hill we came to a spinning stall. I slapped the truck into four-wheel drive to get us to the crest. Ten miles later I eased it back into straight drive and made it all the way to our drive at Copper Hill.

Back in four-wheel drive we inched our way toward the cabin in three inch thick ice and snow. The barren trees and pines drooped with thick and heavy ice, a natural winter wonder. Harsh winds a week earlier left their mark on the driveway. We were able to navigate around several trees that sprawled across the drive. About a thousand feet from the cabin our luck changed. Two thick pines, to big to climb over with the truck, blocked our way. This called for a chainsaw. After I whacked off the portions that hindered forward progress, I hoofed it to get my farm tractor. Thank God for the front-end loader and four-wheel drive I pushed the problem out of the way. On to the house we went.

Home and safe at last. However, the heat did not run. No electricity. The place had cooled to a humbling 55º. The inside of the truck became our refrigerator. We dare not leave any food outdoors for the critters to smell. Soon wood heated the place to a cozy 68º.

At four in the afternoon the power came on. Great! The day however, was too cold to melt any of the thick ice on the pine trees. The weatherman prophesied strong winds during the night and into the next day. Not good for 100 foot tall white pines near the cabin.

Carol threw a third quilt on the bed; just in case! The cast iron stove packed with hot coals persuaded us to crawl into bed. The wind whipped. Ice and branches blew unto the tin roof. In the forest trees snapped. Angry clouds scurried past the full moon. Ice from the roof tore loose and seemingly landed above our heads . . . we prayed.

The wind whined. Debris hit the windows and tin roof. Nearby massive snaps sounded like guns going off and followed by the tear of dozens of branches cracking, plunging to the ground. 

I got up again and helplessly watched a half dozen 100 foot pines, 50 feet from the house, sway in wild circles. I prayed some more.

The projected temperature on the ceiling read 65º inside, 30º outside. Under Carol’s quilts, too nervous to relax, I checked the temperature again. . .. Nothing. No power!

The wind moaned. Huge trees snapped. Then a horrendous crack, followed by an earth shaking thump, a massive pine top hit within a few feet of the house. The white snow outside the window looked black, covered by the fallen pine. Hell didn’t subside all night. Helpless we all are in facing the fury of God.

It's 23º this morning. Over 2000' of driveway. I'm glad I was home for Christmas!
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