Do you ever wish for life like it was in simpler times?
Me too. Like time BWE. Now, I feel like keeping you guessing awhile before I tell you what "BWE" stands for. Maybe it's, "Before We Evolved". Yeah, that would be simple sure enough; not nearly so many worrisome decisions to make.
Or how about "Before Winter Equinox"? Or "Before Winnie's Eeyore"? Actually that last one could fit. As in how some of us Yoders (me and my friend Jeremy mostly) are afflicted with the "Eeyore Syndrome", but we didn't really realize it until we worked our way up to reading Winnie the Pooh later in life and now we feel worse than ever because we understand what's wrong with us and know what to expect in the dismal future.
But no, that's not it either. You might as well give up, because you'll never guess it.
It stands for "Before Weed Eaters".
What in the world?, you say. Aren't weed eaters a great invention?
Yes, they are a marvelous one. But the timing of the feminist movement and the appearance of weed- eaters in the 1970's was a bad combination.
Let me explain it this way. We have a weed-eater. And my otherwise good wife Mary loves to weed eat.
Now to most husbands, this sounds like a winning combination. But don't be so quick to jump to conclusions here. There are a few problems that go along with this otherwise rosy picture.
For one thing, she usually can't start the thing. So I suppose you can guess who gets the honors. You're right, that would be me.
Now it's not so bad if I'm going to be on the premises. But sometimes I'm not going to be and she'll say something like, "Will you start the weed-eater for me before you leave for work?" So I start it and race out the lane and up the road as fast as I can so hopefully I'll be out of sight by the time it stalls.
For the second thing, she doesn't have the foggiest idea how to fix the string when it messes up, which for her happens a lot. (mechanical things aren't her strong point) Really and truly and honestly, she is absolute MURDER on weed-eater string. In fact, they should hire her to TEST weed-eater string.
I can see the ad now, "Brand X weed-eater string; best on the market! Outlasted all others in Mary's famous and grueling weed-eater string trials!)
You would think with that feminine touch she would operate the thing with finesse, but no, if you listen, you can hear the string whap-whap-whapping against whatever it is that she's weed-eating around. All of Mel Good's fence posts have marks around the bottom from the weed-eater string. I wonder what he will say when they start falling down due to having been weed-eated in two.
And then there's the thing about gas. We don't have our personal weed-eater gas can. (We should) I usually try to keep the tank full by taking it along to work and filling it with chain saw gas. But, alas, sometimes I forget.
Just the other day I was doing something important, like unloading logs. My phone rings. It's her. She wants to weed-eat but there's no gas here. There is this certain "martyr-type" tone of voice she uses. She has mentioned this before, about the gas. She says (like she has many times before) that she is going to get her own personal weed-eater gas can so she can have gas when she needs it.
Which would all be well and good except for one thing. Our weed-eater has this new-fangled gas cap that for the life of her she can't figure out how to get open. ( had I mentioned that mechanical things aren't her strong point?)
Well, it's off my chest now. I may be headed for the doghouse directly.
I sure hope it doesn't need any weed-eating done around it.
Saturday, August 24, 2013
Sunday, July 21, 2013
"The Old Swimmin' Hole"
We went to the old swimmin' hole last evening. Myron called and said they were taking the boys down and wondered if we wanted to stop by.
I didn't actually swim, but man, did the memories ever come back thick and fast about the place. I realized how privilaged we were growing up to have our "own" personal swimming hole. (well, it wasn't ours exactly. It was on Uncle Robert's farm, later to be cousin Dwayne's) And how, at the time we might not have been able to verbalize it, we thought anyone who didn't have a creek was dreadfully deprived.
As the crow flies, over the field and down the ridge it was less than a quarter-mile from our place. And in the summer we made it there almost every day. I have no doubt but that some of those years you could have found my DNA in a sample of Albemarle Sound water, which is where the water from Seneca Creek eventually ends up.
In the spring of the year one of the main things on our young minds was, "When will it be warm enough to begin swimming?" The hotter the forecast got, the better it sounded. Actually, I should rephrase that. I should have said it was our parents that were concerned about when it was "warm enough".
For us, if it wasn't frozen over, swimming was fair game. In fact,one year several friends and I made a solemn pact that we would swim in every month of the year. I don't think we quite got it accomplished; I think we may have missed Jan. and Feb., but I'm pretty sure we got all the rest. Some of those months like Nov. and Dec. you absolutely couldn't make yourself get in the water by just wading in. The only way was to jump or dive in off the "rock". (you know, you couldn't change your mind once you were in midair) The transformation was amazing. You would dive off the rock a quiet and serene Mennonite kid and come up a shouting charismatic. But you felt deliciously good after it was all said and done.
One of my earlier memories of the swimming hole was a time before I knew how to swim. The hole seemed big, deep and scary. I was innocently standing on the rock watching the older boys swim when all of a sudden two of my cousins, Joe and Howard picked me up from behind. One had my feet and another my legs. They swung me back and forth several times like a sack of potatoes and then gave me a heave into the deep.
I forgave Howard quicker because he jumped in alongside me and plucked me out of the water before I had taken in a lethal dose of Seneca Creek water. It took a little longer to forgive Joe, as he just looked down from the rock and laughed.
I said earlier that we looked at it as "our" swimming hole. Well, it didn't end up quite that way in real life. This spot in the creek was well known in the community and sometimes other people were there, much to our dismay. We always hoped on the way down that nobody would be there that day.
One time there were some other boys there who we didn't know and we decided on a plan. (I'm guessing the plan was mine, since I was the oldest that day) Dwayne's cows were grazing in the field alongside the creek, so we got in behind them and began herding them towards the swimming hole, shouting and raising a ruckus. "Watch out for the bull!", we shouted to each other. I'll have to admit that's about as close as I ever came to telling a bald-faced lie, as the truth was, there was no bull there at all.
We did manage to get the cows all herded right into the swimming hole. It definitely got the other boys out, but they just sat on the bank and looked at the cows and looked at us. I can't remember if we got to swim that day or not!
One game we used to love to play was a game of points that used cans. We would gather up cans along the road on the way down and come up with a points system. Common cans like Miller High Life or Old Milwaukee were one point apiece. Some rarer cans might have been worth five or ten points. There would be one can, say a Shlitz Malt Lager, that would be worth twenty-five points.
Then we would fill all cans with water, to make them sink, and randomly throw them all over the swimming hole. (Although the randomness could be disputed; just recently at our last family reunion, my brother Robbie accused me of throwing the "valuable" cans in the "deep part" where the younger ones like him were too afraid to go) Then each of us would make a circle in the sand for our cans, and on the count of ready, set, go!, we dove furiously all over trying to find as many cans as possible. When that round was over we would add up our points to determine the winner. I'll put that game up alongside any computer game out there, even if it was played with beer cans.
We camped many nights on the bluff overlooking the swimming hole. Anybody for swimming at night? It was wonderful! There aren't many places as dark on a moonless night as a swimming hole with overhanging trees. But if you have a lantern on the rock..........
One night (I hope the statue of limitations has run out on getting into trouble with my folks over this one; it's been forty years ago) we found that if we took gas and threw it out over the water, it would, of course, float on top. Then you could light it and fire would float down the creek. We would dive in and swim under the fire. It was an amazing and spectacular show with the flames of the fire reflecting and bouncing around with the moving water. (Parents: warn your children never to do this; oh, that's right. Not to worry. They're playing computer games)
When I think of pure relaxation and contentment, I think of a scene from the old swimmin' hole. I came by one day and saw Johnny Irby in the hole. Now Johnny was one of those guys who shaved when he got around to it. It might go a week or two in between. (I was like that too, until I gave up altogether twenty-five years ago)
The day I went past it was was very hot and muggy. Old Johnny was in the swimming hole, right it the deepest part up next to the rock, with basically just his head sticking out. He had his soap, shampoo and towel laid out. He had a small mirror propped up on a ledge on the rock and he had himself all lathered up and he was shaving.
The sheer contentment of it all impressed me greatly. I thought to myself that there would be no better comfort on a hot muggy day to get deep into the swimming hole and drink a cold Dr. Pepper at the same time. So, sometime later, I tried it.
It wasn't as great as I expected. What makes a cold Dr. Pepper so good is the contrast between being so hot on the outside with the cool liquid going down the inside.
I've thought of many life lessons with the old swimming hole in mind. The hole itself was in a bend in the creek and each year the topic of discussion in the spring would be how the hole would be this summer. Sometimes the current would come to one side of the bank and curl back upstream on the other side. Sometimes the current would be the other way. Sometimes the hole was filled in somewhat with sand, sometimes it was washed out and was deeper.
But "the rock" was always the same. It never changed. Hundreds of years ago when the Indians walked across that same trail alongside the bluff, I'm sure that rock looked exactly the same as it did yesterday.
I could go on and on. About the beauty of swimming in the rain. (underwater the raindrops make quite a loud sound) I could tell you about the cable we had fastened up in a leaning Birch tree and how you could swing way out over the swimming hole. Or of trying to get cousin Delvin out of the swimming hole when it was time to go home. (you couldn't)
But I've got to stop. Let's just say if you're one of those terribly unfortunate ones who grew up without a creek in your childhood, I feel dreadfully sorry for you. You have been deprived of one of the greatest pleasures known to growing boys.
I'll pray, that God in His grace, will make it up to you some other way.
I didn't actually swim, but man, did the memories ever come back thick and fast about the place. I realized how privilaged we were growing up to have our "own" personal swimming hole. (well, it wasn't ours exactly. It was on Uncle Robert's farm, later to be cousin Dwayne's) And how, at the time we might not have been able to verbalize it, we thought anyone who didn't have a creek was dreadfully deprived.
As the crow flies, over the field and down the ridge it was less than a quarter-mile from our place. And in the summer we made it there almost every day. I have no doubt but that some of those years you could have found my DNA in a sample of Albemarle Sound water, which is where the water from Seneca Creek eventually ends up.
In the spring of the year one of the main things on our young minds was, "When will it be warm enough to begin swimming?" The hotter the forecast got, the better it sounded. Actually, I should rephrase that. I should have said it was our parents that were concerned about when it was "warm enough".
For us, if it wasn't frozen over, swimming was fair game. In fact,one year several friends and I made a solemn pact that we would swim in every month of the year. I don't think we quite got it accomplished; I think we may have missed Jan. and Feb., but I'm pretty sure we got all the rest. Some of those months like Nov. and Dec. you absolutely couldn't make yourself get in the water by just wading in. The only way was to jump or dive in off the "rock". (you know, you couldn't change your mind once you were in midair) The transformation was amazing. You would dive off the rock a quiet and serene Mennonite kid and come up a shouting charismatic. But you felt deliciously good after it was all said and done.
One of my earlier memories of the swimming hole was a time before I knew how to swim. The hole seemed big, deep and scary. I was innocently standing on the rock watching the older boys swim when all of a sudden two of my cousins, Joe and Howard picked me up from behind. One had my feet and another my legs. They swung me back and forth several times like a sack of potatoes and then gave me a heave into the deep.
 |
| Looking upstream at the swimming hole, which begins on the upstream side of the big rock. Actually, the rock we dived off of is hidden by the rock in the picture. |
I forgave Howard quicker because he jumped in alongside me and plucked me out of the water before I had taken in a lethal dose of Seneca Creek water. It took a little longer to forgive Joe, as he just looked down from the rock and laughed.
I said earlier that we looked at it as "our" swimming hole. Well, it didn't end up quite that way in real life. This spot in the creek was well known in the community and sometimes other people were there, much to our dismay. We always hoped on the way down that nobody would be there that day.
One time there were some other boys there who we didn't know and we decided on a plan. (I'm guessing the plan was mine, since I was the oldest that day) Dwayne's cows were grazing in the field alongside the creek, so we got in behind them and began herding them towards the swimming hole, shouting and raising a ruckus. "Watch out for the bull!", we shouted to each other. I'll have to admit that's about as close as I ever came to telling a bald-faced lie, as the truth was, there was no bull there at all.
We did manage to get the cows all herded right into the swimming hole. It definitely got the other boys out, but they just sat on the bank and looked at the cows and looked at us. I can't remember if we got to swim that day or not!
One game we used to love to play was a game of points that used cans. We would gather up cans along the road on the way down and come up with a points system. Common cans like Miller High Life or Old Milwaukee were one point apiece. Some rarer cans might have been worth five or ten points. There would be one can, say a Shlitz Malt Lager, that would be worth twenty-five points.
Then we would fill all cans with water, to make them sink, and randomly throw them all over the swimming hole. (Although the randomness could be disputed; just recently at our last family reunion, my brother Robbie accused me of throwing the "valuable" cans in the "deep part" where the younger ones like him were too afraid to go) Then each of us would make a circle in the sand for our cans, and on the count of ready, set, go!, we dove furiously all over trying to find as many cans as possible. When that round was over we would add up our points to determine the winner. I'll put that game up alongside any computer game out there, even if it was played with beer cans.
We camped many nights on the bluff overlooking the swimming hole. Anybody for swimming at night? It was wonderful! There aren't many places as dark on a moonless night as a swimming hole with overhanging trees. But if you have a lantern on the rock..........
One night (I hope the statue of limitations has run out on getting into trouble with my folks over this one; it's been forty years ago) we found that if we took gas and threw it out over the water, it would, of course, float on top. Then you could light it and fire would float down the creek. We would dive in and swim under the fire. It was an amazing and spectacular show with the flames of the fire reflecting and bouncing around with the moving water. (Parents: warn your children never to do this; oh, that's right. Not to worry. They're playing computer games)
When I think of pure relaxation and contentment, I think of a scene from the old swimmin' hole. I came by one day and saw Johnny Irby in the hole. Now Johnny was one of those guys who shaved when he got around to it. It might go a week or two in between. (I was like that too, until I gave up altogether twenty-five years ago)
The day I went past it was was very hot and muggy. Old Johnny was in the swimming hole, right it the deepest part up next to the rock, with basically just his head sticking out. He had his soap, shampoo and towel laid out. He had a small mirror propped up on a ledge on the rock and he had himself all lathered up and he was shaving.
The sheer contentment of it all impressed me greatly. I thought to myself that there would be no better comfort on a hot muggy day to get deep into the swimming hole and drink a cold Dr. Pepper at the same time. So, sometime later, I tried it.
It wasn't as great as I expected. What makes a cold Dr. Pepper so good is the contrast between being so hot on the outside with the cool liquid going down the inside.
I've thought of many life lessons with the old swimming hole in mind. The hole itself was in a bend in the creek and each year the topic of discussion in the spring would be how the hole would be this summer. Sometimes the current would come to one side of the bank and curl back upstream on the other side. Sometimes the current would be the other way. Sometimes the hole was filled in somewhat with sand, sometimes it was washed out and was deeper.
But "the rock" was always the same. It never changed. Hundreds of years ago when the Indians walked across that same trail alongside the bluff, I'm sure that rock looked exactly the same as it did yesterday.
I could go on and on. About the beauty of swimming in the rain. (underwater the raindrops make quite a loud sound) I could tell you about the cable we had fastened up in a leaning Birch tree and how you could swing way out over the swimming hole. Or of trying to get cousin Delvin out of the swimming hole when it was time to go home. (you couldn't)
 |
| The next generations having a blast in the creek. (grandsons Caleb and Clifton) |
 |
| Long live swimming in the creek! |
But I've got to stop. Let's just say if you're one of those terribly unfortunate ones who grew up without a creek in your childhood, I feel dreadfully sorry for you. You have been deprived of one of the greatest pleasures known to growing boys.
I'll pray, that God in His grace, will make it up to you some other way.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
"The Family Reunion"
Today we had our first annual Fourth of July week family reunion. We've decided getting together at Christmas time is often too complicated with so many family connections that we will do ours in the summer. When I say family reunion, I mean my mom and dad, us siblings, our children, and a growing number of our children's children.
The reunion will alternate between here and Floyd, VA with us siblings taking turns being in charge. My brother Calvin just may be out of luck (or maybe he gets off scott free, depending on how you feel about it) since he lives in Indiana.
This time Mary and I were in charge so we decided to keep the meal simple. We did. Domino's simple!As I was loading up the stacks of pizza boxes (about a dozen in all) a gentleman walks in behind me and was watching. I told him I was feeling a hungry spree coming on.
After eating we sat around for a time of sharing and fellowship. I told them of the strange thing that happened to me the other evening. Our Sunday evening program guy had planned a service for the "over 50" crowd. They had invited Papa to come speak to the gathering. I was going to help sing in an over 50 group. On the way to church I was thinking to myself that I never would have dreamed that my dad and I would be having part in the SAME old people's service. I thought he was permanently older than me. Or maybe that I was permanently younger.
I said also that growing up we didn't necessarily have a flamboyant family life. Our idea of a nice family evening was all of us sitting around the living room reading books. One evening Robbie wondered if anyone would notice if he came out in his blue long johns to read his book.
Nobody did.
At this point Mary stood up and said that we had calm family life until I got married. She told how when we were first married we lived right beside Papa and Mama and she would borrow lots of things off Mama. (we were poor as church mice and didn't have much) She said Mama was always so gracious and would loan her anything she wanted. Until one day she decided that I wasn't getting the brush and trees around our trailer cleaned up fast enough and she went up the hill and asked Mama if she could borrow the chain saw. Mama told her maybe she better wait until I get home.
I said I did sort of envy some of my cousins at times. Uncle Bud's family and Uncle Robert's family both had boys that were very close in age (I think it's Donnie and Joe that are actually the same age for about a week every year) and could have fair fights and such things. I was always in awe of how cousin Jerry knocked out his brother Howard once in a fight.
I was the oldest in our family and then sister Judy came along 3 years later. So my closest brother is Robbie, who is five years younger than me. Now I told them that I was scrawny but Robbie was scrawnier. If I tried to fight with him, I was just seen as an older bully picking on him, and that was no fun at all. If I made him mad all I had to do was hold him at arm's length and he could swing all he wanted to and never hit me. About here Robbie spoke up and said he learned that the way to do was to get in one punch and run.
We took turns going down thru the families. Nephew Steven said if anyone wonders why he is the way he is, that he had a very traumatic thing happen to him when he was growing up. How when he was young he had this habit of picking his nose. He had a substitute teacher one day (Aunt Mary) and Mary was reading them a story. He was peacefully sitting in his desk minding his own business (and picking his nose) when Mary stops right in the middle of her story and says, "And Steven, stop picking your nose!"
Afterwards Mary (who didn't remember the incident at all) asked Steven if he would forgive her. He said he would if she would help him pay his Faith Builders counseling bill.
There were more memories shared and quite a bit of singing by different groups. I closed it by saying how when I think of growing up in our family, the things I think about most are peace and security. We took it for granted back then, but I'm afraid the percentage of homes today that have the peace and security we enjoyed are by far in the minority. Thank you, Papa and Mama!
We finished the day off with a softball game. And was it ever hot. At least 90 degrees and humid. We had a 47 year age range; the youngest player being 10 and the oldest 57. My brother Steve and his wife Joan were on different teams. Our team made a play at second (Joan was covering second) and got Steve out. So before he trots back in they have a quick hug. "No hugging on the field!", somebody shouts. "Fifteen yard penalty!", yells my brother Robbie.
It did me good to see my younger brothers getting more tired out and red in the face than I was myself. We were going to play seven innings but along about the middle of the sixth Joan came over to me and said that Steve couldn't go anymore. So we decided to quit after we finished out the the sixth.
Our team was behind 24 to 22 but we had the last bat. We scored two runs to tie and someone else got on base. Then the 57 year old hit a scorching line drive double over the shortstop's head to score the winning run and the game was over. (we won't mention his name here in case he would get the big head)
All in all, it was a lovely way to spend a hot July Saturday. For all of you out there that are privileged, (as I am) to have family, be exceedingly grateful along with me.
There are multitudes out there who don't.
The reunion will alternate between here and Floyd, VA with us siblings taking turns being in charge. My brother Calvin just may be out of luck (or maybe he gets off scott free, depending on how you feel about it) since he lives in Indiana.
This time Mary and I were in charge so we decided to keep the meal simple. We did. Domino's simple!As I was loading up the stacks of pizza boxes (about a dozen in all) a gentleman walks in behind me and was watching. I told him I was feeling a hungry spree coming on.
After eating we sat around for a time of sharing and fellowship. I told them of the strange thing that happened to me the other evening. Our Sunday evening program guy had planned a service for the "over 50" crowd. They had invited Papa to come speak to the gathering. I was going to help sing in an over 50 group. On the way to church I was thinking to myself that I never would have dreamed that my dad and I would be having part in the SAME old people's service. I thought he was permanently older than me. Or maybe that I was permanently younger.
I said also that growing up we didn't necessarily have a flamboyant family life. Our idea of a nice family evening was all of us sitting around the living room reading books. One evening Robbie wondered if anyone would notice if he came out in his blue long johns to read his book.
Nobody did.
At this point Mary stood up and said that we had calm family life until I got married. She told how when we were first married we lived right beside Papa and Mama and she would borrow lots of things off Mama. (we were poor as church mice and didn't have much) She said Mama was always so gracious and would loan her anything she wanted. Until one day she decided that I wasn't getting the brush and trees around our trailer cleaned up fast enough and she went up the hill and asked Mama if she could borrow the chain saw. Mama told her maybe she better wait until I get home.
I said I did sort of envy some of my cousins at times. Uncle Bud's family and Uncle Robert's family both had boys that were very close in age (I think it's Donnie and Joe that are actually the same age for about a week every year) and could have fair fights and such things. I was always in awe of how cousin Jerry knocked out his brother Howard once in a fight.
I was the oldest in our family and then sister Judy came along 3 years later. So my closest brother is Robbie, who is five years younger than me. Now I told them that I was scrawny but Robbie was scrawnier. If I tried to fight with him, I was just seen as an older bully picking on him, and that was no fun at all. If I made him mad all I had to do was hold him at arm's length and he could swing all he wanted to and never hit me. About here Robbie spoke up and said he learned that the way to do was to get in one punch and run.
We took turns going down thru the families. Nephew Steven said if anyone wonders why he is the way he is, that he had a very traumatic thing happen to him when he was growing up. How when he was young he had this habit of picking his nose. He had a substitute teacher one day (Aunt Mary) and Mary was reading them a story. He was peacefully sitting in his desk minding his own business (and picking his nose) when Mary stops right in the middle of her story and says, "And Steven, stop picking your nose!"
Afterwards Mary (who didn't remember the incident at all) asked Steven if he would forgive her. He said he would if she would help him pay his Faith Builders counseling bill.
There were more memories shared and quite a bit of singing by different groups. I closed it by saying how when I think of growing up in our family, the things I think about most are peace and security. We took it for granted back then, but I'm afraid the percentage of homes today that have the peace and security we enjoyed are by far in the minority. Thank you, Papa and Mama!
We finished the day off with a softball game. And was it ever hot. At least 90 degrees and humid. We had a 47 year age range; the youngest player being 10 and the oldest 57. My brother Steve and his wife Joan were on different teams. Our team made a play at second (Joan was covering second) and got Steve out. So before he trots back in they have a quick hug. "No hugging on the field!", somebody shouts. "Fifteen yard penalty!", yells my brother Robbie.
It did me good to see my younger brothers getting more tired out and red in the face than I was myself. We were going to play seven innings but along about the middle of the sixth Joan came over to me and said that Steve couldn't go anymore. So we decided to quit after we finished out the the sixth.
Our team was behind 24 to 22 but we had the last bat. We scored two runs to tie and someone else got on base. Then the 57 year old hit a scorching line drive double over the shortstop's head to score the winning run and the game was over. (we won't mention his name here in case he would get the big head)
All in all, it was a lovely way to spend a hot July Saturday. For all of you out there that are privileged, (as I am) to have family, be exceedingly grateful along with me.
There are multitudes out there who don't.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
"Trolls or No?"
I have no idea how you feel about trolls. Or especially how you feel about talking of them to young children. I mean, you could get them too scared to sleep in their own beds at night.
Well, a month or so ago Mary read grandson Caleb Merle "The Three Billy Goats Gruff". At the tender age of two and a half, it made quite an impression on him; especially the troll.
And it just so happens that Myron and Heidi's house sets on a little piece of higher group between two small streams. And crossing both of these streams are little bridges.
Anyway, I just couldn't resist.(I'm a firm believer in children developing a little imagination) I told Caleb one day, "Look, I see a troll bridge!"
He ate it up hook, line and sinker. And ever after that they've been the "Troll Bridges". Caleb uses a "w" for most of his "r" sounds, but in "bridge" he leaves out the "r" altogether. So it comes out "twoll bidge".
Now, Caleb and me are great buddies and almost every morning when I stop in to pick up Myron on the way to work, Caleb comes running out on the porch in his jammies to talk with me a little.
We talk about whether a bear came to see him during the night. Or about the "twoll bidges". (You can see both of them from the porch.) We talk about the things we hear running across the creek at the sawmill. He could tell you if it was "Jr's loader" running, the skid-loader, a forklift, or the chipper making a big gnawing racket as it eats up a big slab from the sawmill.
One morning awhile back we were visiting (and I hadn't said a word that morning about trolls) and I heard a chain saw start up across the creek at the mill. I said, "Hey, I hear somethin' over at the sawmill!"
He got a great big grin on his face and his eyes were shining. "The twoll is cuddin' wood!" he said.
Well, a month or so ago Mary read grandson Caleb Merle "The Three Billy Goats Gruff". At the tender age of two and a half, it made quite an impression on him; especially the troll.
And it just so happens that Myron and Heidi's house sets on a little piece of higher group between two small streams. And crossing both of these streams are little bridges.
 | ||||
| Doesn't this look a little "trollish" to you? You can almost see one peeping out. The sawmill is just on the other side of this creek and patch of woods. |
 |
| This one looks like it could come right out of "The Three Billy Goats Gruff". See all that green grass on the one side? |
He ate it up hook, line and sinker. And ever after that they've been the "Troll Bridges". Caleb uses a "w" for most of his "r" sounds, but in "bridge" he leaves out the "r" altogether. So it comes out "twoll bidge".
Now, Caleb and me are great buddies and almost every morning when I stop in to pick up Myron on the way to work, Caleb comes running out on the porch in his jammies to talk with me a little.
 |
| Nothing like a visit from Caleb to start your day off right! |
We talk about whether a bear came to see him during the night. Or about the "twoll bidges". (You can see both of them from the porch.) We talk about the things we hear running across the creek at the sawmill. He could tell you if it was "Jr's loader" running, the skid-loader, a forklift, or the chipper making a big gnawing racket as it eats up a big slab from the sawmill.
One morning awhile back we were visiting (and I hadn't said a word that morning about trolls) and I heard a chain saw start up across the creek at the mill. I said, "Hey, I hear somethin' over at the sawmill!"
He got a great big grin on his face and his eyes were shining. "The twoll is cuddin' wood!" he said.
Monday, May 27, 2013
"My Sunday Afternoon Walk"
The Sunday afternoon walk was sort of a tradition in our family. That is for my dad, my brothers and my sister.We always left Mama at home and we'd always come back with a bouquet of some kind, of which Mama was always appreciative. Looking back now I'm pretty sure it was Papa's way of giving her a precious hour or two a week of peace and quiet. And we enjoyed the walk as well.
Still do. I enjoy going by myself and taking my peace and quiet along. The woods was made for peace and quiet. Now I know many people enjoy roaring thru the woods on 4-wheelers. While I know it's not a sin, to me it just borders on being sacrilegious.
So, I went on a walk yesterday. Nothing earth shattering. Sure, I'd rather been in Glacier National Park, but that wasn't feasible for Sunday afternoon.
So instead I just eased to the backside of Airy Mont Farm to my favorite spot on Seneca Creek below Sheep Rock. How did it get it's name? The woods slopes down towards the creek here until it abruptly ends with a straight rock drop off of probably 35 feet down to the creek level. Legend has it that back in plantation days a pack of dogs was chasing sheep in this area and they went off the cliff and died.
Now I mentioned earlier about the peace and quiet. This year they are both in short supply around here. You see it's the year for the "17 year locusts". And from all appearances you would think it was a plague of Biblical proportions happening right in front of your eyes.
But actually, they're not locusts, but rather "Periodical Cicadas". The ones we are seeing now were born in 1996 and have spent the last 16 years as larvae in the ground. Now this is the year for them to come out, mate, and lay the eggs that will hatch out for the next cycle.
For as many of them as you see, you would think they would eat everything green in sight. But they don't seem to eat anything. The only damage at all is to some of the smaller diameter tree branches which the females sort of spear to lay their eggs.
And they are LOUD! I read that the sound level from their "singing" can be as high as 100 decibels. Now this singing may not be as melodic as you might imagine. The nearest thing I would compare it to would be some of that Russian men's choral music where they stay on the same pitch for a very long time. Some folks say the noise drives them crazy. But personally, I think they were probably crazy to start with. To me, while the sound itself maybe isn't exactly beautiful, the amazing life cycle makes it a lovely sound to my ears. It sounds like they are just shouting about a Designer.
While I enjoyed the cicadas for awhile, I spent most of my time down in the creek. Down in that creek canyon you feel like you've left the cares of civilization behind. I would say why don't you join me, but two's a crowd at this spot!
Still do. I enjoy going by myself and taking my peace and quiet along. The woods was made for peace and quiet. Now I know many people enjoy roaring thru the woods on 4-wheelers. While I know it's not a sin, to me it just borders on being sacrilegious.
So, I went on a walk yesterday. Nothing earth shattering. Sure, I'd rather been in Glacier National Park, but that wasn't feasible for Sunday afternoon.
So instead I just eased to the backside of Airy Mont Farm to my favorite spot on Seneca Creek below Sheep Rock. How did it get it's name? The woods slopes down towards the creek here until it abruptly ends with a straight rock drop off of probably 35 feet down to the creek level. Legend has it that back in plantation days a pack of dogs was chasing sheep in this area and they went off the cliff and died.
Now I mentioned earlier about the peace and quiet. This year they are both in short supply around here. You see it's the year for the "17 year locusts". And from all appearances you would think it was a plague of Biblical proportions happening right in front of your eyes.
But actually, they're not locusts, but rather "Periodical Cicadas". The ones we are seeing now were born in 1996 and have spent the last 16 years as larvae in the ground. Now this is the year for them to come out, mate, and lay the eggs that will hatch out for the next cycle.
 |
| A cicada came out of each one of these holes! |
 |
| When the larvae come out of the ground, the first thing they do is shed their old skin. The ground is littered with these empty skins. |
 |
| Right handsome actually; red eyes and yellow tipped wings. Supposed to be good eating when they first come out. |
While I enjoyed the cicadas for awhile, I spent most of my time down in the creek. Down in that creek canyon you feel like you've left the cares of civilization behind. I would say why don't you join me, but two's a crowd at this spot!
 | ||||||
| A little civilization going by high overhead. (Now that's BLUE sky and GREEN trees) |
 | |||||
| Look closely for Mama Duck and little ones. |
Friday, April 19, 2013
"Till Death Do Us Part"
Sorry to disappoint you. I know when you read the title you were thinking that most likely the first "Eliezer Connected" couple was on their way up the aisle.
But to be honest, my phone hasn't exactly been ringing of the hook just yet. But on the flip side, the good news is that I haven't been run out of town on a rail yet either.
There was some good discussion going on lately and one of my favorite comments was someone who commented on Dorcas Smucker's "Thoughts on Marriage" post. (http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/)
This person said it is so interesting "how people I've encountered from various cultures ended up in a pretty similar proportion of happy and unhappy marriages by vastly different means."
Well said. Which goes to show that the focus should be something other than finding the "perfect means" in getting the job done. (it also means that the "Eliezer Connection" could work, given the right focus otherwise)
One person said that she would very much enjoy being a part of an Eliezer connection for others, but couldn't imagine allowing some "disinterested third party" to play the same sort of role in her life.
I know what she means, but I was imagining everybody being very interested all the way around.
Take Abraham's servant, for instance. He stopped by the bosses tent that morning expecting to discuss where to graze the flocks and herds for the week and whether to make the tents out of goat or camel and were they going to kill the fatted calf for lunch or dinner, but instead Abraham blows him away with "Go get a wife for my son Isaac!"
I'm not sure how long the journey took, but you can be sure he had plenty of time to think. This whole story is high drama. ( I always get a little amused how drama is discouraged in our conservative Mennonite culture, but there sure is plenty of it in The Book!)
I can imagine him thinking about all the great and grave responsibilities he had as the steward of Abraham's vast portfolio of wealth. All that he was good with. This latest mission has him shaking in his sandals.
He was probably a lot of things, but I'll bet you "disinterested" wasn't one of them. What if he couldn't find a girl? What if he found her and she wouldn't come back with him? What if he found her and she came back but she ended up being a jerk? (can girls be jerks, or is that strictly a guy thing?)
Read the story again in Genesis 24. If it doesn't give you goose bumps you're lacking in the feelings and emotions department.
Speaking of which, I do have a love story to tell you. I wasn't involved with getting them "connected", but a good love story nevertheless.
Now back when I was a kid we never, hardly ever saw Canadian Geese. We were too far from the coast and the migration routes. But gradually we began to get a few here and there and now we have a healthy population that stays here in south central Virginia and doesn't migrate at all.
In fact, some of the city parks are starting to look at them as a nuisance, they hang out there in large numbers, especially in the winter, and generally foul up the place. But out here in the country we still love having them around; to see and hear them fly overhead gives you that "call of the wild" sort of feeling.
On my way to work each morning, (3 mile drive) I go past four ponds that I can see from the road. And each one has a nesting pair of Canadians on them.
About two weeks ago I went down to Yeatts pond to check on the pair there and maybe get a few photos. When I got there the male wasn't at home. The female was on the nest and stayed there all hunkered down until I got quite close.
But finally I got "too close" and she erupted in a royal hissy fit. I thought maybe she would come after me, but she stayed at the nest while giving me a tremendous honking out.
The male must have been off feeding but after hearing his mate's frantic honking, he comes sailing in to the aid of his bride.
You are remembering that Canadian Geese mate for life. Sit up and take notice, human race. We could learn something here about dedication and faithfulness.
When the geese are doing a better job than we are, shame on us.
But to be honest, my phone hasn't exactly been ringing of the hook just yet. But on the flip side, the good news is that I haven't been run out of town on a rail yet either.
There was some good discussion going on lately and one of my favorite comments was someone who commented on Dorcas Smucker's "Thoughts on Marriage" post. (http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/)
This person said it is so interesting "how people I've encountered from various cultures ended up in a pretty similar proportion of happy and unhappy marriages by vastly different means."
Well said. Which goes to show that the focus should be something other than finding the "perfect means" in getting the job done. (it also means that the "Eliezer Connection" could work, given the right focus otherwise)
One person said that she would very much enjoy being a part of an Eliezer connection for others, but couldn't imagine allowing some "disinterested third party" to play the same sort of role in her life.
I know what she means, but I was imagining everybody being very interested all the way around.
Take Abraham's servant, for instance. He stopped by the bosses tent that morning expecting to discuss where to graze the flocks and herds for the week and whether to make the tents out of goat or camel and were they going to kill the fatted calf for lunch or dinner, but instead Abraham blows him away with "Go get a wife for my son Isaac!"
I'm not sure how long the journey took, but you can be sure he had plenty of time to think. This whole story is high drama. ( I always get a little amused how drama is discouraged in our conservative Mennonite culture, but there sure is plenty of it in The Book!)
I can imagine him thinking about all the great and grave responsibilities he had as the steward of Abraham's vast portfolio of wealth. All that he was good with. This latest mission has him shaking in his sandals.
He was probably a lot of things, but I'll bet you "disinterested" wasn't one of them. What if he couldn't find a girl? What if he found her and she wouldn't come back with him? What if he found her and she came back but she ended up being a jerk? (can girls be jerks, or is that strictly a guy thing?)
Read the story again in Genesis 24. If it doesn't give you goose bumps you're lacking in the feelings and emotions department.
Speaking of which, I do have a love story to tell you. I wasn't involved with getting them "connected", but a good love story nevertheless.
Now back when I was a kid we never, hardly ever saw Canadian Geese. We were too far from the coast and the migration routes. But gradually we began to get a few here and there and now we have a healthy population that stays here in south central Virginia and doesn't migrate at all.
In fact, some of the city parks are starting to look at them as a nuisance, they hang out there in large numbers, especially in the winter, and generally foul up the place. But out here in the country we still love having them around; to see and hear them fly overhead gives you that "call of the wild" sort of feeling.
On my way to work each morning, (3 mile drive) I go past four ponds that I can see from the road. And each one has a nesting pair of Canadians on them.
About two weeks ago I went down to Yeatts pond to check on the pair there and maybe get a few photos. When I got there the male wasn't at home. The female was on the nest and stayed there all hunkered down until I got quite close.
But finally I got "too close" and she erupted in a royal hissy fit. I thought maybe she would come after me, but she stayed at the nest while giving me a tremendous honking out.
The male must have been off feeding but after hearing his mate's frantic honking, he comes sailing in to the aid of his bride.
 |
| He gave me a piece of his mind as well. |
When the geese are doing a better job than we are, shame on us.
Monday, March 25, 2013
"If I Ran the Zoo"
With all due apologies to Dr. Suess and the seriousness of the subject at hand, I just couldn't resist using that title.
Let me explain. A little over a month ago Shari Zook wrote a very short post entitled "PS". (look it up at shari.zooks.us/ps/ She stated that very few single ladies are single by choice and just wanted the men who happened to be reading to pass this on to their "compadres".
This prompted quite a few comments (mine included). I commented that I have some single guy friends who aren't necessarily single by choice either. At the end of my comments I mentioned that I was having a brainstorm. How many single lady friends does she have, I asked. I've got three guys on my end, I said. Maybe we would be of some use in an "Abraham's servant" role here somewhere.
She commented back that I had a great idea. She has twenty-six, she said. She said she sees I will have to find some more men. She said she would supply the camels.
Which I have to admit was a very funny comeback. I laughed sitting at my computer for a long time. But really, I wasn't just joking. (read also her next post entitled "I Speak For the Trees", in which she spoke to the ladies; this generated lots of comments as well)
I have a few opinions of my own on the subject and since there is no one here to stop me I might just feel free to give them!
Let's get a few fundamentals down first:
1. Marriage is an exceedingly serious thing, so the contemplating thereof should not be taken lightly.
2. Marriage is not for everyone. A single person should NEVER be made to feel second-rate.
3. The falling-head-over-heels-in-love-with-your-soul-mate is overly hyped and over rated.
If you are a single person you may have a grandma or a biddy-hen aunt that feels its one of her highest duties to pester you about this subject. I think we would all agree that this usually isn't all that helpful.
What about teasing? If done, it should be done VERY carefully. Looking back on my experience, (as a frightfully shy and slow to grow up skinny kid) if I was teased by my close friends who I knew loved and cared for me, it actually made me feel better about myself. That maybe I was worth teasing; like there was some room for possibilities in this area for me. But any teasing that comes from outside this close circle of friends is liable to be hurtful and crushing.
And I've heard disparaging comments on how some couples meet. It seems like the "ideal" scenario is if you fall in love straight out of high school or the youth group. If that doesn't happen then maybe you should consider going to one of the Bible Schools. And if that doesn't work and you are getting older and desperate, you may want to consider going to SMBI, otherwise know as the "Shoe Factory". As in bringing the young people in, mending their souls first and then sending them out in pairs. And further down the line would be voluntary service, etc. etc.
That whole mentality really stinks in my book. I'd be willing to venture the relationships that begin at SMBI on the whole are quite a bit more stable than the "falling in love in high school"ones.
Do you need to wait until some romantic bombshell explodes in your consiousness before you move ahead in this area?? I say you better give it some thought beforehand, while you are still in your right mind.
What would be wrong with a young single person (or not so young) making a simple, rational decision. That they would like to find a life's companion. (Ok Shari, I'll have to admit that in our culture the guys have the advantage here)
Now let's take it a step further. What would be wrong with second parties being a help in introducing singles who may not know each other at all? I know this does happen on occasion. But what if something was actually formally organized with this intent?
It could be called "The Eliezer Connection". It would work this way. Say I have a single friend that would like to be married. I also have connections with someone else who has some single friends of the opposite gender.
For example, I would say to my "connection friend" that I have a sincere, quiet, hard working young man and go on to give his character strengths (and maybe if there are any weaknesses, hey, we've all got them) and his interests. My "connection friend" would look over the possibilities among his aquiantances and we would get our heads together to see if we have a potential match. Up to this point the singles themselves would have zero involvement except to agree to allow "The Eliezer Connection" to do some homework.
At this point the Eliezer volunteers would go to the singles with a suggestion that they learn to know
each other. And from this point they are on their own, realizing that the Eliezer people don't necessarily know the mind of God and that they are responsible to find this out for themselves.
Not romantic enough?? I have no idea what the ladies will say about this. I have this nagging vision of them tarring and feathering me and running me out to the edge of cyberspace somewhere.
Until then "The Eliezer Connection" is open for business!
Let me explain. A little over a month ago Shari Zook wrote a very short post entitled "PS". (look it up at shari.zooks.us/ps/ She stated that very few single ladies are single by choice and just wanted the men who happened to be reading to pass this on to their "compadres".
This prompted quite a few comments (mine included). I commented that I have some single guy friends who aren't necessarily single by choice either. At the end of my comments I mentioned that I was having a brainstorm. How many single lady friends does she have, I asked. I've got three guys on my end, I said. Maybe we would be of some use in an "Abraham's servant" role here somewhere.
She commented back that I had a great idea. She has twenty-six, she said. She said she sees I will have to find some more men. She said she would supply the camels.
Which I have to admit was a very funny comeback. I laughed sitting at my computer for a long time. But really, I wasn't just joking. (read also her next post entitled "I Speak For the Trees", in which she spoke to the ladies; this generated lots of comments as well)
I have a few opinions of my own on the subject and since there is no one here to stop me I might just feel free to give them!
Let's get a few fundamentals down first:
1. Marriage is an exceedingly serious thing, so the contemplating thereof should not be taken lightly.
2. Marriage is not for everyone. A single person should NEVER be made to feel second-rate.
3. The falling-head-over-heels-in-love-with-your-soul-mate is overly hyped and over rated.
If you are a single person you may have a grandma or a biddy-hen aunt that feels its one of her highest duties to pester you about this subject. I think we would all agree that this usually isn't all that helpful.
What about teasing? If done, it should be done VERY carefully. Looking back on my experience, (as a frightfully shy and slow to grow up skinny kid) if I was teased by my close friends who I knew loved and cared for me, it actually made me feel better about myself. That maybe I was worth teasing; like there was some room for possibilities in this area for me. But any teasing that comes from outside this close circle of friends is liable to be hurtful and crushing.
 |
| Know this couple? They met in a nursing home in 1976 |
That whole mentality really stinks in my book. I'd be willing to venture the relationships that begin at SMBI on the whole are quite a bit more stable than the "falling in love in high school"ones.
Do you need to wait until some romantic bombshell explodes in your consiousness before you move ahead in this area?? I say you better give it some thought beforehand, while you are still in your right mind.
What would be wrong with a young single person (or not so young) making a simple, rational decision. That they would like to find a life's companion. (Ok Shari, I'll have to admit that in our culture the guys have the advantage here)
Now let's take it a step further. What would be wrong with second parties being a help in introducing singles who may not know each other at all? I know this does happen on occasion. But what if something was actually formally organized with this intent?
It could be called "The Eliezer Connection". It would work this way. Say I have a single friend that would like to be married. I also have connections with someone else who has some single friends of the opposite gender.
For example, I would say to my "connection friend" that I have a sincere, quiet, hard working young man and go on to give his character strengths (and maybe if there are any weaknesses, hey, we've all got them) and his interests. My "connection friend" would look over the possibilities among his aquiantances and we would get our heads together to see if we have a potential match. Up to this point the singles themselves would have zero involvement except to agree to allow "The Eliezer Connection" to do some homework.
At this point the Eliezer volunteers would go to the singles with a suggestion that they learn to know
each other. And from this point they are on their own, realizing that the Eliezer people don't necessarily know the mind of God and that they are responsible to find this out for themselves.
Not romantic enough?? I have no idea what the ladies will say about this. I have this nagging vision of them tarring and feathering me and running me out to the edge of cyberspace somewhere.
Until then "The Eliezer Connection" is open for business!
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