My Old Horse

I put my old work truck out to pasture. A sad day for any old thing. 

That old truck used to rear-up when he saw a new, cute F150 prancing down the road. To greet those prissy chicks, the old boy did a wheelie to show his stuff that was packed into his undercarriage. 

The old boy used to rev his power waiting for the red light to give the go-ahead. My pal carried mulch, sand, fertilizer, lime, bricks, cement, blocks, pavers, and gravel. He lugged timbers of all sizes. He was not ashamed to have hauled 12 foot 2x10s that proudly stuck out the back of the old boy. The more weight the better. Often the stuff was held down with a dozen 3/4 inch 4x8 sheets of plywood. The old boy didn’t mind getting his lid scratched transporting 16 foot boards on his roof. He would schlepp, pull, tug, push, drag, and never worry about his factory chrome decorations. Those add-ons were once to entice the buyer and the ladies.  

My friend dragged many-a-loads of brush and sticks to the gully. He dragged trailers, trees and stuck cars. He pulled himself out of ditches like a wild stallion. 

A scratch here and there, a ding or dent didn’t make him sob and pout. He is tough. He didn’t need a garage to protect his sturdy and muscular shape. “Pine sap, rain, ice and snow gives a guy character––window dressing,” the old boy called it. 

Now he’s old. He still has good lungs and torque. Poor thing got pushed aside. A new power horse has entered the family. Much younger, shiny, without dings or scratches. The new stallion is “equipped.” Whatever that means. Auto this, and auto that. It even has a well spoken female hiding somewhere under the hood that occasionally spouts of and leads the gullible driver around like a piglet on a leach.

“My manhood may be dried up,” the old boy says. “I’ll show them. I’ll be hauling firewood, logs and other stuff that the new and prissy thing will frown on doing. I’ll show them. I may be old, but I’m still a horse.”

An Ode To The King

An Ode To The King

by

Franz X Beisser

Ah, Christmas, the season of sharing––what annual fun,

If we’re not careful, it can get quite overdone.

Giving shirts, more shirts with sales tag wagging.

Fancy ties and dapper hats, all not worth the bragging.

Long-johns, how many does a fellow need?

One in the drawer, and one doing its deed.

Does a guy need a present from the digital world?

For fifty years he was without it––why now be spoiled?

Does a guy need a book on gardening means,

When still in the freezer are last century’s beans?

So what are the best gifts the old guy should get?

Treats––like the pooch for good behavior,––you bet!

A sack full of goodies such the wife cannot stand.

Goodies all aged and packaged in a mystery land.

With labels printed in silver and gold Chinese,

Ingredients and spices added by pious Mongolese.

The goodies must explode with sharpness and flavor,

Only a man with exquisite palate and grit would savor.

Pickled eggs, hot cherry peppers to make the mouth pucker.

Black olives, purple and green, for which I am a sucker.

Herrings, kippered and smoked, in wine sauce sour.

Sardines, spiced and skinned, in bites ready to devour.

I love smoked fishes in olive oil layered two deep,

Or singed in hot sauce, a true memory to keep!

Smoked oysters from the Mekong’s clean waters, the ultimate treat!

Stuffed with pride into shiny new cans, sealed and packaged all neat.

Why not soft and hard cheeses, some born years ago,

Still improving with age as surely you do know!

Brie, how delicate its flavor, on a cracker sprinkled with pepper,

Or layered inside a hot baked potato, oh my, what could be better!

Camembert, its fast growing mold so pungent and white––

Paired with onions on seeded rye, a man’s true delight.

Smoked Edam and Gouda makes great little cubes,

Much superior to anything squeezed from a plastic tube.

Cheeses, bring them on!––Havarti, Fontina and Asiago too.

And don’t forget, the Kaiser of cheeses must make his debut.

The aroma arrives first with it an instant cheer.

I offered to share it, but none dared to come near.

All the other cheeses stood respectful in the wing,

Smiling, bowing to their ruler––Limburger the King!

I have gained eight pounds since last Christmas so fine,

Eating cheeses for breakfast, supper and at snacking time.

For weeks my wife noticed a gathering fragrance in the fridge.

I did not tell her, but knew the King waxed picante and rich.

It was well into January when the King took the stand.

An anointing with pomp was his rightful demand!

My wife, all giddy with joy, went quilting from morning till four.

From the fridge stepped my King, as she closed the front door.

Basking on fine china he blended to room temperature,

Giving a boost to its excellent flavor and aroma for sure.

The knife, the onion, and rye bread were ready for duty.

All waiting to give honor and elevate that aging beauty.

A little Mozart added to lift my heart’s dancing,

The dog aroused from deep sleep came prancing.

It wasn’t the music, the smell the onion was making.

It was the scent of something dead that caused his awaking.

Poo-bear, I said, this heavenly treat is for Papa alone.

I promise you will lick the plate––better than an old bone.

His tail wagged with anticipation as my nostrils flared,

To take a good bite now, was all that I cared.

Discarding the crust, so pungent and ripe, would be a sin.

A nibble of it made my palate explode. Wow––truly a win!

The crunch of the onion supported the creamy inside,

Delivered by the rye bread––with chest-pounding pride.

Each bite built more flavor on top of the last,

I enjoyed every morsel till noon day long passed.

My wife will be home shortly, the aroma still in my nose,

And wafting happily through the house I suppose.

I opened the deck door and a window or two,

Praying for the breeze to freshen the air all new.

The wrapper I buried deep in three zip-tight bags,

Then I noticed the pooch’s boisterous wags.

Come here my little brother in crime,

Lick this plate clean, we don’t have much time.

I scrubbed my hands and finger nails too,

Bent in the sink to rinse my mustache with bubbly shampoo.

The scented candle gently crackled and hissed,

While I sat in the chair waiting by my love to be kissed.

Its been a long day and I did miss my wife,

But the King of all cheeses had added to life.

She bounded through the door all jolly and filled,

Then drew a deep breath for a greeting so fine––WHAT STINKS?

Reflections On 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!

Grace, Joy, and Family

Christmas Eve 2013. A time when the Beissers came together to give thanks. 

Grace, the gift of God, is what we did not deserve. Jesus, God with us, is what gives us the Joy. The Joy of knowing where our Hope lies, and the joy of giving thanks for our family.

The tree reminds me of my childhood; the tinsels, the the shimmer, the glow of rejoicing.

Dozens of goodies graced our table. This one especially cute. Little Santa hats made with a slice of banana, a strawberry, and topped with a small march mellow, held together with a toothpick.

The highlight for the men is our traditional Weisswurst. It is eaten with a special German potato salad and dipped into course-ground horseradish mustard, toned down with brown sugar and mayonnaise. The pot, especially designed for this sausage, came from Germany.

The grandchildren present that evening:

Chloe, Rachel, Megan, Sarah, Laura, Heidi, Julia.

The grandsons Josiah, and Jacob. The youngest and the oldest of all the grandchildren.

Never loosing an opportunity to show off, Luke and Eli.

And our newest member of the family: Jafar from Nigeria, 6 feet 6 inches tall, and basket ball star for LCA in Lynchburg.

Decked out with Lakers cap and Kobe Bryant shirt. What a blessed day we had.

We Lost Our Faithful Friend

Sebastien, mighty Mr. “S”, was our little dog. He left a void in our midst after more than nineteen years.

A funny little pooch was he. He made us smile so many times, not only with his antics, but also with stubborn attitude.

I wrote several stories about him previously. I especially love the one where Mr. S wound up at a wedding rehearsal 15 miles from the house while Carol and I went to the grocery store.

I remember him hiding under the bed. The only way he would show his face was when we bounced a tennis ball. He loved his ball, and often slept with it next to his body.

He would get mad when he found his food bowl empty. He’d whack at the bowl until it flipped up-side-down. If that racket didn’t result in instant attention, he’d attack the small trash container near his bowl, dump its contents, and tear to shreds all that was in it.

One time, during one of his rants, he grabbed hold of the toilet paper and dragged a long strand of it, for twenty feet or more, all the way into the kitchen.

One time he stole a box of small chocolate donuts from a grocery bag sitting on the floor. For days, Carol could not figure where the donuts went. Until one day, Mr. S emerged from under the bed with an odd smile on his face. Carol noticed his chops were puffed and she could not see his teeth. He was savoring one more donut in his mouth. One that he, at the time, was unable to consume.

Carol had to reprimand the little fellow once with a fly swatter. It was not long after, that mighty Mr. S attacked the swatter and tore it into a thousand pieces. Nothing but the wire handle was left.

On our cross country trip he gained four pounds; to a whopping total of 18 pounds. I had built for him a pedestal type of box to rest in. The elevated box was in between the front two seats. It had his water and food bowl in front of him. The sorry little pooch didn’t even have to get up to eat and drink. All he had to do was stretch his neck and partake.

He loved to help sing. Whenever I cut loose with a high-pitched diddy, he would chime in like a jackal howling at the moon. The grand kids coaxed him to do the same. He would howl like a mighty wolf. The kids loved it.

Mr. S knew his territory. One time a plumber came to the house. I knew the man. He had two large dogs living with him. It did not take Mr. S long to establish his territory. Mr. S simply raised his leg and peed all over the man boots. 

“Now take that, Mr. Plumber!”

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A Pig In The Doghouse

More than thirty-six years ago we moved to Bedford Virginia. We moved piecemeal, a load at a time. We built a 20x24 outbuilding to store furniture, stuff, and some old printing equipment. We dug a well and septic, moved into a trailer behind the job site until our new house was built.

The summer of 1977, my senior class at the Tech School where I was teaching, presented me with a twenty pound piglet to take to Virginia as a going-away present. The students brought it to the classroom and had a good laugh as they handed it to me. I was tickled to get the gift, and looked forward to providing a good home for it in Virginia.

Now, I knew about bringing an underage girl across state line was against the law. I also heard that transporting livestock across state line was not allowed.

Well, I had a dog once, who teamed up with a stray pack, got into a sheep pasture, and was shot by the farmer. His vacant doghouse made an excellent container, and decoy, to carry the pig across state line.

I drove a Datsun pickup truck at the time. I loaded the pickup with crates, tools, outdoor furniture, and the occupied doghouse. I was all packed, strapped, and raring to go. However, with the pig in the doghouse, I had to nail a board across its opening. The first challenge came just twenty miles down the road.

At Philipsburg, NJ, I had to cross the Delaware River into Pennsylvania. Slowly, I approached to the tollbooth to pay my dime to cross. I kept a lookout at the doghouse through my rearview mirror. The opening to the doghouse was clearly in view and faced the tollbooth. Just as I handed the guy on duty my 10 cents, the sow in the doghouse decided to stick its snout out the crack and let out an alleluia squeal. Like saying, "yippee, I'm in Pennsylvania!"

Oh my! Fear and trepidation struck this old boy. My German upbringing smacked me straight up-side-my-head. I pulled from that tollbooth with one eye glued to the rearview mirror. First thinking that the guard at the tollbooth will surely shoot my tires out. After a couple hundred yards, windows open, I strained for sirens to close in on me. After a mile or two, I looked for troopers to eyeball me from the other side of the highway. For a hundred miles or more, down route 22, then interstate 81, I craned my neck looking for flashing lights.

Maybe the law sent a message ahead to the Maryland boarder, I wondered? Or ahead to the West Virginia boarder? Surely, the state of Virginia will be waiting for me to confiscate my baby sow.

I was shocked at the laxness of law enforcement. Clearly I had been caught. The proof was in the squeal! So, I trucked on, staying in the right lane, making sure I not infringe on any other law.

Then I came to view a new road sign. One I had not anticipated. "Weigh Station - All Trucks Pull Over"

Well, my German regimentation gripped me again. I was not driving our station wagon, I was driving my truck. A truck! Period. Not wanting to antagonize the law any further, I dutifully pulled off, along with the eighteen wheelers, onto the weigh station.

I clearly remember, leaning way over to get a look at the fellow high up in the glass tower, to see if he will let me go on with the heavy load on my small pickup. All I saw was a guy, his head almost pressed against the glass, screaming and frantically waving his hands, motioning me on. - - I didn't know you supposed to hit the scales at forty miles per hour speed. There I sat, feeling like a roach that landed on the wrong pile.

We named the pig "Lisl." I built a shelter for her and a fenced-in lot. She wallowed and basked in the Virginia air for more than a year. At over two-hundred pounds she finally filled two shelves in the freezer.
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HORMONES ON THE PROWL

A shorter version of this story is in my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant." I have expanded the story and it will be published as part of an e-book in the near future.

None of us had ever heard of a school bus. My sister walked to the same school, but she joined her own friends on the way. The closer one got to school, the more kids were seen walking. My buddy and I mostly stayed a pair.

One girl in our class, named Monika, was a cute fifth grader. She flashed large eyes and slung her curly, dark hair with a come-hither motion. We both must have been struck on her. Moreover, we were quite interested in the showing of her early development to womanhood. Every day we hustled to draw close and walk near her. We knew even at eleven years old, that men who admire the opposite sex do not walk ahead of the girls, but follow so the eye can get its fill.

As we walked close behind we’d crack snide remarks to tease her. She’d turn around and give us a chance to better ogle her noticeably developed front side.

Two young snaps are always braver than one alone. We asked her one day if she stuffed socks in her bra just to show off. Well, that did not set well with her. She got so upset at the insinuation that she approached the teacher and told of the comment we made.

The teacher called us to his desk and asked if the story was true. We confessed, thinking for sure we’d receive the warranted punishment. Keeping a stern face, he simply admonished us not to let it happen again. Monika was not angry with us, she just wanted to set the record straight.

We also trailed Monika walking home. Maybe out of habit, but certainly chemistry may have had something to do with it. We knew we would not be able to keep up an intelligent conversation with a girl that was messing with our mind. So, we stayed about five paces behind. This made us think we were with our girl, and it kept us from making fools of ourselves.

When you are infatuated, you just can’t talk of sports and trucks. The conversations we had in our minds we dare not reveal to the one for whom we had this longing. She was aware of us as we followed and most likely felt very important to have two sprouts interested in her. After she entered her building, we stayed across the street staring at her fourth floor window until she waved at us. Then we went home.
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