"For the Love of the Game"

We played softball last Friday evening. "We", meaning the youngsters and I. (along with two of the dads)

The "youngsters" are the girls and boys ages 9 thru 14 from our church. Willis Byler had started these games for the boys maybe 5 years ago and had gotten me to help. Then when Willis moved away I kept it going for the boys and then a couple years ago decided to try adding the girls in also. At the end of the year I told them that  I had wondered how it would go over with the boys to have the girls help play. You know at this age boys are a little concerned about associating too closely with girls in fear of catching some of those dreaded "cooties" that girls supposedly  have sometimes.

I told the boys I was proud of them for not acting like it was any big deal, and I told the girls I was really proud of them, because they played along with the boys even while knowing for a fact that the boys definitely had the cooties.

We bend the rules a little to help out the first year players. First timers get unlimited strikes and also I as pitcher can't field the ball when they do hit it. It gives them a much better chance of getting on base. 

Anyway, the game last Friday was a good one. Usually these games have scores like 25 to 14 or something similar. This one stayed close, 4 to 2, then 7 to 5, etc. At the end of 9 innings the score was tied, so into extra innings we go. Ten innings, still tied. Eleven innings, no change. Finally it was the bottom of the twelfth with two outs, the bases loaded, and Clayton up to bat. The suspense is almost too much to bear.

Now Clayton is a very promising young man, good sized for his age, and can swing a bat like he means serious business. But every once in awhile he'll take a tremendous swing that you are sure is going to result in the ball being hit clean into the graveyard in deep center field, but somehow he strikes out instead. Reminds me of the Mudville Nine and "Casey at the Bat".

Now let me tell you up front that I'm really not a sports nut. Right now I can't even remember who won the last World Series. I think professional sports are overrated and way too many of the players are spoiled brats. But now a good old fashioned country softball game on a fine summer evening, that's somethin' else awhile.

And softball (or baseball as well) is such a dignified sport. As opposed to football where brute force is so important. Or basketball, where the players run back and forth like idiots the whole game, trying to decide on which end of the court they want to be playing.

My love for softball goes back a long ways. I learned the fundamentals in my Uncle Robert's front yard  watching him and his five boys play. Home plate was just in front of one flower bed, first base right by the front porch step, second in front of the other flower bed and third base by a big oak tree. Aunt Esther must have had a lot of patience as those flower beds had to have gotten a rough life. I can't remember if I was old enough to help play at the time but I do remember lots of games later on with Sonny, Missy, and "Nookie". I can still hear Sonny saying that here comes Missy to bat with her "washerwoman chop".

Actually Sonny and I had many baseball games just the two of us. (Hey, we had imagination when we were growing up) We would take turns catching and pitching and if I remember right the catcher would call the balls and strikes and say when there was a "long fly ball hit to deep center field, it's going, going, gone!" and how many runs had scored, etc. etc.

At the peak of my make-believe baseball career.

One thing that influenced me greatly in my developing love for softball during my "growing up years" was that I was doing very little of the growing up part. I was too scrawny to be any good at football. And I wasn't a real fast runner either.  And I was too short to make a good basketball player. And my lungs were (still are) too small for long distance running; I would always come in towards the end of the pack along with the fat boys on the 600 yard run we had to do in school.

But I can remember the good feeling in grade school when the "big boys" William Bell and Gary Hall were picking up teams and I got picked  fairly early on. "He can catch", one of them said. (Now not catch as in being the catcher, but as in fielding the ball)

 At the time I loved to play left field. You got a lot of hits with the majority of players being right handed. I can still feel the rush that came with the crack of the bat and racing to try to make the catch.

I never got to be a power hitter. One field we played on at Gladys Elementary  was fairly narrow with a bank going down just past third base. If  I hit it just over the third baseman's head hard down the line it would go over the bank and I could get on base.

During the teenage years our weekly softball game was as much a part of the fabric of summer as were eating and breathing. We had a ball field in the middle of a cowpasture  down on the Seneca Creek just upstream from the swimming hole. We built our own home run fence out of slabs and old boards we got from Dan Zehr's sawmill.

We would take a pickup truck up to Halley Dillard's store and pick up a whole pickup load of neighborhood boys and haul them down to the creek where we would trek across the narrow trail over to the swimming hole and up to the ball field. Most of the guys we picked up played in some sort of "bush league" and were pretty good. We prided ourselves in being the underdogs but still won some games now and then.

One year we even kept batting averages, rbi's, and all those good statistics. Hey, we were pretty good, too, with batting averages around 600 or so. Not too many of those in the major leagues these days.

But back to our game last Friday evening; I guess I've kept you in suspense long enough. As I said,  two outs in the bottom of the twelfth, bases loaded, and Clayton up to bat. I was thinking about "Casey at the Bat". And actually also wondering if there would be enough daylight left to play thirteen innings if necessary.

Here's the pitch. (I pitch for and sort of coach both teams at these games) As I said, here's the pitch. Clayton swings mightily. He connects! It's a solid base hit to I don't remember where. The leading runner crosses home plate. The game is over.

It was a summer evening at it's finest.

"The Power of a Positive Word"

I haven't written in awhile. Have I run out of ideas? Absolutely not. That's part of the problem; I've got so many running thru my head I have a hard time settling out on one.

But my biggest problem is that I've been going to bed too early lately. I haven't been staying up long enough to get  into the right frame of mind to write anything.  For me, I have to kind of get in a certain zone that doesn't usually happen in the daylight.

So today I worked in the forenoon, rushed home just in time to get ready for an appointment in Lynchburg at  2:00, headed on to Harrisonburg for Mary's niece Connie's high school graduation and then back home. So now it's 11:16 Friday evening, it's a long time 'till morning, and I feel the writing mood sneaking up on me.

I've been thinking about the power of positive words. Most of us can probably think back  and point to some positive people who said some positive things and made a difference in our lives.

I remember my dad telling me about Sam Yoder from Stuarts Draft. (Sam would be a grandfather to Eric Hershberger who is marrying Joanne Yoder here real soon)  He was the youth boys Sunday School teacher in the Amish church in Draft when my dad was growing up. Papa was very short for his age and wondered for years if he would ever grow up at all. I don't know if Sam ever had any extended talks with him, but what Papa used to tell me about was how Sam would always shake the young guys hands after church and give them a kind word. "Eli, how are you," he would say, and you could tell he really meant it. And it made you want to grow up to amount to something because you knew somebody believed in you.

I told you before how when Mary started school she cried every morning 'till Christmas. Part of that was due to the fact that her first grade teacher was mean and uncaring. When she got to the second grade she had a wonderful teacher and Mary came out of her shell, blossomed, and was voted class president before the year was over!

Are all kind words kind? What about the "kind" words of a flatterer? I'll just be honest; I don't care for flatterers. Most of the time they are just trying to butter you up to get something out of you for their benefit. When I'm listening to a flatterer I feel like saying, "Hurry up and get done with your baloney and tell me what you want!"

But honest kind words; a heart-felt compliment here and there give a person the gump to go on living.

When I was a teenager (or maybe before) I developed a love for singing. And I wanted so badly to become a song leader. I went to Bible school for six weeks and one of the classes I took was "Song Leading And Ushering". I knew full well that you would have to get up front at Bible school and use your new found skill, and shy as I was, even that didn't deter me.

And I can't impress on you enough how shy I really was. Several years ago at Penn Valley we met up with a lady who had been a student at Calvary the same time I was there. She couldn't believe I was the same person that she remembered from those days long ago. She said, "Well, if you even just looked at Merle sideways he would fall through the floor!"

So I'm saying it took a lot of guts to sign up for this class. Anyway, the class went well and I survived and came home just itching to lead some singing.

My chance finally came and I don't remember if it was a song service or if I just had to lead several songs in the regular service. Afterwards Caleb Glick came up to me and said if he shut his eyes he was back in the little country church along the creek (was it Shady Grove or something?) near Faith Mission Home with my uncle Sanford leading the singing.

Now I always thought Uncle Sanford bellered a little bit when he led singing but I took it as a high compliment and one that warmed my heart and one I have never forgotten.

Another one was maybe ten years ago when I was still logging. A dad and his young son were looking out the window one Sunday morning and a log truck went by. The son said, "I don't guess that's Merle". The dad says, well, not unless he's going to Bethel for an object lesson. And the son again,"Well, I wouldn't put it past him!"  That one warmed my heart for a long time.

Just a month or so ago, son Myron and wife Heidi were visiting in the home of a minister in another church setting. They do things somewhat untraditionally there and he was telling Myron they get called "redneck Mennonites". Myron told me he spoke up and said, "Well, where we're from, my dad and I are probably about the most "redneck" of anybody there". Now that's a compliment that I will hold dear to my heart 'till the day I die.

Several weeks ago I got an email from a lady saying she liked my writing style. (well, she actually said "loved", but be that as it may)  Now this lady seems to be pretty smart and knowledgeable and keeps herself that way by eating healthy foods and taking Juice Plus. But to top it all off, she works at CLP. I mean she should know something about writing, right? Of course, come to think of it, I'm not sure what she does there; maybe she mows the grass or something.

I emailed her back and thanked her for the compliment and said I would use her endorsement on the front cover of whenever my new book comes out. (my tongue is really in cheek here) I said it would read something like, " famous CLP guru endorses previously unknown redneck writer". I told her I hope it won't cause her to lose her job.

So let's look around us. Have you been blessed (as I have) by the kind words of others? Now it's your (and my) turn to pass them on. There are young ones coming on that are struggling to grow up. There are plenty of  "grown-ups" that are struggling to "stay up".

You may never know what a well timed compliment or a kind word will do. 

"The Gift of Procrastination"

Here I sit tonight, my thoughts rambling out through my fingers, when I really should be doing something else. Any number of things possibly, and a few things particularly.  And I should warn you, sometimes some of the things I write may be with tongue somewhat in cheek. When is it in cheek and how much? That's for me to know and you to wonder.

We have Summer Bible School starting about a month from now. We're one of the very few left that still do a two week Bible School and I'm the superintendent. And I have been for more years than I have fingers on both hands and maybe about as many as my fingers and toes. And I have yet to decide what I am going to use for the assembly at the end of each evening.

I've told Otto Koning's  "Pineapple Stories" and Silvia Tarniceriu's "God Knows My Size" both several times. After 4 or 5 years you have a new group of children who haven't heard these stories and you can use them again. I always leave Otto or Silvia in the worst possible situation at the close of each evening so the children will want to come back the next evening to hear what happened to them. We've been privileged to have both Otto and Silvia come and speak to us for the "program" evening.

I've also used nature stories several times and one year various short stories that taught a good lesson. Like Tolstoy's "How Much Land Does a Man Need?" and "They Grind Exceedingly Small". (can't remember who wrote that one)

But so far this year?? No inspiration just yet. This is a situation where the "planer", the "scheduled" person that likes to "have it all together" starts getting uptight. The truly gifted procrastinator doesn't lose his joy for at least several more weeks.

Now let me be perfectly clear. There are some things you shouldn't procrastinate on at all. Things like being at peace with your Maker. Like getting your crops planted and harvested on time. And you should never procrastinate when someone else will have to suffer for it. That's selfishness, plain and simple. That's how you can tell the difference between the low-down scum-bug procrastinators and the "gifted"ones.

One time last summer we were getting company on Sunday and we wanted the yard all mowed nicely and the place generally presentable. Now I'm the type of person that functions the best on a predictable schedule and sometimes I "fall apart" on the weekends. This particular Saturday I fell apart. I couldn't get going and laid around the house all morning. (I was tired too; sometimes I work pretty hard for an old man my age)  I rallied enough to eat lunch and then rested some more. I should mention too that the forecast was calling for rain that day.

Finally about the middle of the afternoon I made it out of the house and onto the lawn mower. An hour or so later I had just finished the last couple passes and was headed back to park the mower when the rain began to fall in earnest.

Mary asked me with begrudging admiration, (well, that's probably a little too positive) "How do you manage to DO things like this??" I mean, my timing was perfect; got the job done and just slipped in under the wire.

I tried to be modest. It's a gift, and you can't be proud of a gift.

There have been many times that I have begun to worry about something and all day I'm thinking tonight I must get on this thing whatever it is. Then I get home and get to thinking about it more and it comes to me that actually I could put it off for one more day. And you wouldn't believe the peace and joy that comes over you. I might pop up a big bowl of popcorn and relax on the couch with a logging magazine. All life's small pleasures seem to take on special meaning. Can't relate to that? Well, then obviously you're not gifted in this area.

If there's anything that makes me procrastinate, it's when the "something" that needs doing includes a phone call. I HATE having to make phone calls. I border on having a phobia about it. Now if you call ME, I'm fine. But if I'm calling you? Don't hold your breath waiting; it may not be today.(I think e-mail and text messaging are the best thing since sliced bread) And I'm fine to talk to people in person as well. Mary used to laugh at me; I would drive several miles to talk with someone so as to not have to call them up on the phone.

There's something else I'm wondering about procrastinators. I have a theory that if you studied it out you would find that procrastinators tend to be "evening" people instead of "morning" people.  I never have been able to figure out why some people waste all those wonderful, quiet hours of the night doing nothing but sleeping. Of course they wonder why I'm still sleeping then when those "wonderful" early morning hours roll around. I milked cows for years and years at the "wonderful" hours of 4 and 5 o'clock in the morning; I've had about as much wonder as I can stand. I'm a little like Otto Koning's wife Carol. He tried to get her to get up early enough to see the sunrise in New Guinea and she said  if God would have wanted her to see the sunrise, He would have scheduled it for later in the day. (By the way, Carol Koning is suffering from cancer and not expected to live much longer)

For years I felt so inferior to the "morning" people. Felt like a first class second-class citizen. I mean these people get up before daybreak and read their Bible and pray! (I read mine at night) They never procrastinate about anything. (I have the gift of it)

All the evangelists always try to encourage us in our devotional life. Take time each day, they say, but preferably in the morning when your mind is the "clearest". Well, in the morning my mind the clearest isn't. (think mud) I can't think straight 'till about 10 o'clock. When we were young married Mary used to think I was mad at her in the mornings when all I would do is grunt at her. I'm telling you, it was the best I could do. A one syllable grunt meant "yes", a two syllable (huh-umn) meant "no", and a three meant "I don't know". (MMM-mm-Mmph)

Anyway, late one night several years ago I was reading my Bible. I happened to glance over at the bedside clock. It read a few minutes after midnight. All of a sudden all those years of inferiority fell clean away.  Second class citizen no more! I'm getting about as early a start on the day as there is to be had! How freeing! TAKE THAT, all yall smugly superior "morning" people!!

 So if you're an evening-night procrastinating combination like me, take heart. There's a place in the Kingdom for you, too. And there is nobody (I repeat, nobody) that will appreciate the New Heaven and the New Earth as much as we will. That feeling of  not having to be pressured to do something TODAY. Because there will always be tomorrow and the day after that and the one after that and the one after that.

 It will be a joy that is right down our alley!

"In the Great Outdoors"

As I have mentioned before, I love the outdoors. I was reading my uncle Harvey's blog awhile back (I would give you the link, but I'm too dumb) and he mentioned that the average youngster these days spends 7 minutes a day outside. 7 MINUTES! And that wasn't all; the average youngster also spends 7 hours a day on electronic media. 7 HOURS!!! That's almost a sin. The poor, lousy, flabby, unimaginative average youngster!

When I was young my mama had a hard time getting me up on the five school mornings of the week. But on Sat. (when everyone else in the family liked to sleep in a little extra), I was up soon after daylight and out of the house roaming the woods before anyone else was up.

This past summer had the privilege of going to Northern Idaho for a men's seminar. Northern Idaho is beautiful beyond words. We camped in tents and rode horses each day up the trails into the mountains.

There were eighteen guys on horseback; I'm the second from the front of the line

While on top of the mountains we would have a session together and then spent some "alone" time by ourselves. During this time we were supposed to be contemplating what God was trying to tell us about our character and our spiritual needs.

Takes your breath away!

From the top of this mountain you could see to the west into Washington state, north into Canada, and east into Montana

Later when filling out an evaluation we had to rate the value of the different activities we had done. I said the "alone" time was the least valuable for fulfilling it's intended purpose in my case. I couldn't hear God whispering about my needs (which are many) because all I could hear and see was God shouting at me about the absolutely stunning beauty everywhere you looked.

The taller peaks still had huge snowbanks in places and this was the last week in July. The wildflowers were everywhere and gorgeous. The woods had a heady, heavenly smell like balsam. I left part of my soul out there in those high mountain meadows.

The woods smelled heavenly

This summer I decided I was going to do something about passing along to the next generation this love for God's outdoors. I realize that southern Campbell County isn't northern Idaho but there's still a lot of beauty if you look for it. So I lined up two young friends of mine for some time in the woods this summer.

I sent them an e-mail before our first get-together. It said:
GOALS FOR OUR "SUMMER WOODS CLASS"

1. To learn to love the outdoors. Most of this younger generation is spending waaay too much time indoors. A house is a good place to eat, sleep, etc. but the best living begins outdoors.
2. To grow in respect, admiration and worship for the CREATOR of the outdoors.
3. To appreciate how all nature works together in harmony to make the earth a hospitable place for mankind.
4. To learn to know trees and other plant life well enough so that a walk thru the woods feels like you're among old friends.
5. To learn to enjoy the solitude of the forest and being quiet long enough to develop your powers of observation.
6. To appreciate beauty wherever it is found, even in the smallest forms. Campbell Co. isn't exactly known for being the most beautiful place on the planet, but there is plenty of beauty all around us if we open up our eyes.
7. To do all of the  above and still maintain a positive energy balance. (in other words, have plenty of good food!)
Also, come prepared to:
Hike steep trails and wade thru creeks. Prepare to get scratched by the briars and poisoned by the poison ivy. Prepare to get mosquito bit, deer fly bit, chigger bit, tick bit, yellow jacket bit, spider bit and snake bit. (well, hopefully not snake bit) In other words , prepare to have a really good time.

This didn't seem to scare them off and we had our second session today. I sent this e-mail out before today's session: (We were planning to canoe but changed our plans because it was too cold)
Young friends,
My plan was for the Lewis and Clark Expedition along with French guide Charbonneau to explore the wilds of the Seneca Creek river basin beginning about 12:30 tomorrow. I wasn't sure if the Seneca Creek leads to the Northwest Passage or not but we were determined to find out. (Sacagawea was staying home; there wasn't room for her in the canoe)
Bring: your notebooks, river shoes, just in case, something to drink on the river or trail and you appetites. (don't think that one will be a problem!)
                                                                Mountain men forever,
                                                                                      Merle

A pretty spot on the Seneca

As near as I could figure, we hiked about 4 miles today. Up and down steep slopes. Through the creek once. Well, I waded the creek and carried them over piggyback one at a time. We backpacked our food in and stopped along the creek at a pretty spot to eat. We roasted bratwursts over an open fire. After maybe an hour I was thinking it was about time to begin hiking back out to civilization. One of my young friends was laying by the fire, having just consumed 4 bratwursts,(with buns) one pack of Doritos, assorted roasted marshmallows and a Pepsi. I asked if we were ready to go. He said, " Could I have just a little more time for some more digestion?"

It was a wonderful afternoon in the great outdoors.

"New Life"

We are firmly in the grip of Spring here in southern Virginia. I've seen upwards of a half-century of them and they amaze me every time they come around. Every year I'm amazed anew with the almost endless shades of the color green. The Crayola people don't have anywhere near half enough variations of the color green if you were to want to color the landscape right now.

The hill behind our house

Campbell County isn't especially known for it's beauty, there is always beauty to be found it you have an eye for it. And in the spring it's on every hand. Here are a few photos I took within just a few minutes of each other.

Buttercups, they're everywhere

Buttercup closeup; there's not a glossier yellow anywhere

Clementis; my kind of purple!

To all you flower buffs out there, how many of you can tell me what this one is?

I'm not sure if I'm a typical man in regard to my love of beauty in nature. Several years ago I decided to start putting an arrangement in front of the church every Sunday at Perrows Chapel. It took several months before anyone figured out who was doing it. People were thinking it was probably Verna Good as she is quite a flower lady.  I kept it up for the whole year. It got a little harder during the winter months, but there was always something of beauty available if you had your eyes open. And in the spring instead of trying to decide what to use, you had to decide what NOT to use as there were so  many possibilities.

And there is new life in the animal kingdom as well.The other evening I went over to the bluebird house hoping to get a picture of the little ones, but they had already fledged and left the nest. So I checked the house at Long Island Lumber and the ones there were still in the nest but they looked very nearly ready to leave as well. I wanted a pose with all the little mouths open wide but these chaps were too shy and hunkered down; they wouldn't move a muscle.

And last but not least, there is some new life in the Yoder family! Clifton Samuel was born to Myron and Heidi on April 16th. He gave us a few anxious moments as he refused to get in position to be born (he was laying sideways) and then about the middle of the night Sat.the 14th Heidi had these terrible pains. I was the ambulance driver who took them to the hospital. By the time we left home she was feeling better but Myron said let's not waste any time.

I didn't do anything too wild, but certainly didn't waste any time. I hit 75 a couple times on a few of the long straight stretches and ran the only two lights that were red the whole way to Lynchburg. The doctors checked things out and said everything was fine and sent us back home.

Then Sunday night we head back in again. They had earlier scheduled a c-section for April the 23rd because of the baby laying sideways, but low and behold between Sat. night and Sun. night the  little rascal had turned in the right position to be born after all! I told Mary that I declare he must have my blood; he has the knack for procrastinating 'till the very last minute and still getting the job done.

He was born around eleven Mon. morning. Six lbs. and I think 14 ounces. Don't remember his length but he does have some long fingers. Cute? Yeah, I have to admit he is handsome and cute both.

Clifton Samuel Yoder

 Now I normally am pretty reserved on my compliments on babies. To be honest, I've seen plenty that  I didn't think were cute at all. Shriveled, squashed and the like. I offended most of the local ladies once when I was giving a talk and was comparing babies and baby calves and mentioned in passing that most of the time the calves were cuter.  Nothing against them; (the babies) give them a few months time and they usually grow out of it. But hey, this guy is actually cute for real!

I just hope he doesn't take after me in that regard as well. I started out  halfway cute when I was young but instead of improving like most youngsters I  went downhill from there. Hopefully with the good nutrition and all that's available nowadays he will just get more handsome as the years go by.

Welcome to the world Clifton! We're delighted for the chance to get to know you! May the hand of God rest upon you even as a child.

"Finding Things"

First my apologizes to those of you who read this story in an email several months ago. I hadn't started this blog yet and I sorta wanted it "on the record" here. And there may be some who haven't read it. And while Mary had no idea I had sent out that email, I did get her permission to reprint this. So here goes with only a few minor embellishments. (I didn't get her permission for those)


Here is the proclamation I made recently: I NEVER AGAIN WANT TO BE MADE FUN OF FOR NOT BEING ABLE TO "FIND THINGS". All our married life Mary has made fun of me (or been downright disgusted with me) for not being able to "find things". She claims that if my body parts weren't so handily fastened together I'd never be able to find them all at the same time. And she says the closer something is to being right in front of my nose, the  less apt I am to be able to find it. Which is all very strange to me as I've always had better than 20-20 eyesight.  (It came to me later, maybe my nose is blocking out that part of my vision)

Now out in nature I can find things remarkably well. I can drive past an overgrown field and not even be thinking about deer, and I will spot two ears sticking out above the brush at a couple hundred yards. I can be walking across a lawn and find four leaf clovers when I wasn't even looking for them. It's happened to me many times. Back when I was still on the farm I could be disking and spy an arrowhead laying on the ground when I wasn't even thinking about arrowheads.

But finding things in a structured place, like a house, not so much. I've never totally learned the layout of the "stuff" in our kitchen cabinets. In fact, I've always imagined that there is a conspiracy going on behind those closed doors. I open one door to "find something". It's not there. So I close that one and open the next. In that split second of time I think the pots and pans quickly trade places, so that when I open that next door, what I'm looking for isn't there either. Frustrating, to say the least. Here recently we were getting new cabinet doors and there was about a week where we had no doors at all. It was great! For once I could find things!

But let me tell you the story about me and my pants. One day a number of years back we were getting ready to go somewhere and I was characteristically in my usual laid-back Southern style, running right on the bottom minute of being "on time", which happens to be very important to people that are from further north than here. Even just as far north as Harrisonburg makes a tremendous difference on this issue, and it is something that has been a point of contention in our marriage from pretty much day one.

Anyway, Mary says she will go drop something off at someone's house (while I'm getting ready) so we don't have to do it on the way. That way when she gets back I'll hopefully be ready to go and we might still be close to being "on time". (I'm also suspicious that it's less stressful to be out of the house than to have to just sit there and watch me piddling along.

So I'm in the shower, she hollers at me that she's leaving, she'll be back soon, and she's laying out the pants that I'm supposed to wear. ( I also lack the ability to color coordinate clothes, but that's a topic for another day)

Well, the minutes are ticking by and I'm furiously getting ready, and now I'm at the place in the routine that you generally need your pants. I look on the bed. Not there. I make a trip around the house using my best "splatter gaze". ( That's the gaze you use use to find a set of deer ears in a  ten acre field) Nothing. I'm beginning to get a little desperate. If I'm not ready when she gets home my precarious situation just got precariouserer.

I speed up my pilgrimages around the house, even checking in the kitchen. Nooooo luck. And here comes Mary pulling in the lane and I'm still pantless.

Where were they?? Of all places, hanging on a dining room chair. I had been past them 4 or 5 times. If they had been a snake they could have bitten me in the backside. What can I say?????????

BUT, LET ME COME BACK TO MY MAIN STORY!! (and what a story it is)

 There was a sizable check at Long Island Lumber that needed to get to the bank by 2:00 o'clock. I mean sizable enough that if I could have cashed it personally, we could have lived comfortably on it for a couple years. I call Mary. She's going to the dentist. Could she take the check along? Yes, she says. Will you forget to pick it up? No, she says, she will pick it up when she drops off my lunch.

I am just finishing my lunch when my phone rings. It's Mary. She is sobbing. She is distraught. She has done something terrible, she says. My mind is racing; I can't imagine what. I wonder if there are visiting hours in whatever jail she'll be landing in.

It was raining when she left the office so she put the check in a Food Lion bag to keep it from getting wet. She stopped by the dumpster to drop off the trash. There is a vacant pickup parked there that spooks her out so she throws the trash out quickly and glances around the van for anything else that might be trash.(She's a compulsive thrower-awayer)

You guessed it; she threw the Food Lion bag (check enclosed) in the dumpster too! Although she doesn't realize it until she gets to the bank and can't find the check. That's when she calls me.

So we both head for the dumpster. Me from the Long Island end and her from Rustburg. I get to the dumpster first. The coast is clear. Good. Not too much trash has been added since she had been there maybe 20 minutes earlier. No, no one has stopped by to run the ram that squashes the garbage from the hopper into the container.

I work my way down the hopper. I will start at the bottom first. (Mary is a firm believer in throwing her trash as far down as possible. Less likely that someone will get ahold of one of your papers and steal your identity, she says) I gingerly move two big bags to clear a path to the  bottom.

I am entirely focused. I mean, the Luftwaffe could be bombing the nearby metropolis of Gladys and I probably wouldn't even notice. I spot a little pile of cards that remind me of ones I remember seeing in our van. And there is a Food Lion bag laying there beside them. And the check is inside!

I crawl triumphantly out of the dumpster, check in hand, and am almost to the top as the next vehicle pulls down the driveway. Perfect timing. I call Mary. I meet her at Kedron church in Gladys. She is still weeping. I think this time it's from joy and relief. (Sometimes with women it's hard to tell) I am a hero.

She heads back for the bank and the dentist. At the dentist she tells them the whole story and she is still so worked up about it that they send her home without fixing her tooth. And I'm thinking how dreadfully dull my life could have been if I wouldn't have married that woman. And I'm thinking, "in sickness", "in health", and "in the dumpster".

But I also know my hero status won't last forever. Probably for the next 20 times straight she'll be the one finding something for me. I'm thinking what if she happens to not be around at my time of need. And so I'm wondering also how many four leaf clovers it would take to make a nice pair of fig leaf type britches if the need so arises. Or better yet (and quicker) would be thinking deer ears in a ten acre field and a buckskin suit.

"A Tribute to a Good Wife"

I realize that most people wait for someone to die before giving them a tribute. Well, I am of the opinion that a tribute will likely do the most for a person while they are still alive and breathing. And since I have tended to take my good wife for granted too much of the time, it won't hurt me either.

And I'll tell you this also; so far everything I've posted here has been purely my thoughts unedited by any of Mary's opinions. And tonight's post will definitely be that way as she is in Harrisonburg and there is no chance that she will stumble downstairs and look over my shoulder. Actually there's not much chance of that anyway; she's a morning person and is usually all conked out by nine o'clock. Me, not so much. Of course then it's the other way around in the mornings, but that's a topic for another discussion.

Mary grew up in Harrisonburg on the family dairy farm. She claims she was in the barn as one of the main milkers by the time she was ten years old. She says she never ever remembers having enough time to get bored.

She was shy when she started first grade; she cried every morning before going to school from the time school started in the fall until Christmas. After that she seemed to get over the  hump and I haven't noticed it since.

She was always tall for her age. In the fourth grade she was taller than her teacher. By the seventh grade she was all grown up. And me? Well, it's the same old story; not so much.  In the seventh grade she was a foot taller than I and weighed twice as much.(I was 75 Lbs. and 4' 9" tall) Fortunately we didn't learn to know each other until we were nineteen and by then I was finally mostly grown up myself. And for the record, I was always good with the tall. My opinion is that the majority of Mennonite women are stunted; down about 5' 5"somewhere.

Mary's family comes from Old Order Mennonite stock on both her dad and mom's side. The Rodes's tend to be high-strung and outgoing. They're the thoroughbreds of the human race. The Burkholders are quieter and more laid back but are very forthright when they do say something. You usually don't have to wonder what a Burkholder is thinking about you (whether good or bad) because more than likely he will tell you. Mary is a delightful combination of both of these genetic lines.

She has been an above and beyond the call of duty help-meet for 35 years now. To this day I never thought she was any cuter than when she was headed to the barn in her bandanna and Tingley boots. When she knew I was extra busy, here she would come with her cup of hot tea in hand.

Headed for the barn back in '88 or '89

And nobody put  themselves into their children any more than she. She homeschooled them for most of their education. She was determined that son Myron would learn braille since he was nearly blind. The county had a "vision teacher" that would come out once or twice a week for maybe 45 minutes, which isn't a whole lot of time for learning anything. The vision teacher at the time didn't know braille herself so Mary talked her into getting us the information and she proceeded to teach it to herself. Braille has a series of dots for each letter of the alphabet but it takes up an awful lot of space to print every letter out like that. So there are also 200 more combinations that stand for whole words or a series of words.  She got to where she could read it about as good as Myron could, although she was reading it by sight as opposed to Myron reading it with his fingers.

I wonder how many books she read to the children over the years. She is a good reader and could go on for chapters at a time. I remember one cold winter night she was reading "Treasures of the Snow" and as it got later the kids kept begging for her to keep reading. I was  laying on the couch with a cover over my head pretending to be asleep so no one could see me getting emotional at the touching parts of the story.


She and I are about as different as night and day, and living with me has been a trial at times.  When we lived on the farm we raised up all the bull calves (and left them as bulls) till they reached 1,200 lbs. or so. There were maybe forty bulls in a pasture just up the road from the farmhouse. On quiet summer nights (especially full moon ones) you could hear them down the road bellering and generally raising cain. You always hoped they stayed on the right side of the fence.

Sometimes they didn't and it was always a dreaded thing to hear that the "bulls are out!!"  One night we woke up to hear a beller and cattle running past the bedroom window. Mary said right away, "The bulls are out!!" She says that without even opening my eyes I said, "Sometimes cows make noises like that". She also says that if I ever die unexpectedly don't even bother to do an autopsy because she already knows what caused my sudden demise. Its sand in the lungs, from "putting my head in the sand" all these years instead of choosing to face reality.

I'll close with a story that illustrates better than anything her character and personality. I've told her that I will tell this story at her funeral but considering the amount of sand in my lungs already, I better not wait in case I don't get the chance.

Now one thing Mary isn't is gullible. (Just look back at that picture of her going to the barn. Isn't there just something in those eyes that says, "Yeah, right, just go ahead and try to pull something on me.") Our daughter's first husband was quite a smooth and slick character and he said something to the effect that he could pull the wool over my eyes and get me to believe something but "Mrs. Yoder", now she was a different story.

 Anyway, back to my story......... Sometimes in the summer we have "Southwestern" salesmen that come door to door selling  Bible study type books. These guys are usually clean-cut college kids trying to make some money during the summer months.

Mary has always insisted that the first thing they always do is ask you for a drink of water. Then if you let them in and give them a drink, there's something about that that breaks a barrier down or something. It makes  them seem like part of the family and you're more apt to  buy their books. 

So one day a few years ago, (I wasn't at home) a young man knocks on our door. A "Southwestern" young man. Could he come in, he asks, and show her what he has to offer? She says, yes he can as long as he doesn't ask for a drink of water. And she went on to tell  him her theory.

That won't be a problem he says, since he just had several glasses of water  up the road at Esther Bowmans. So he went on showing her the books he had for sale. Somewhere along in the presentation he hesitantly asks, "Ma'am, would you happen to have a bathroom I could use?" Mary says she supposes that is a legitimate request seeing as how he had all those glasses of water at Esthers.

He goes on with his sales pitch and Mary actually does buy a book or two.  Then when he is doing the paperwork she refuses to put all her information on his list because you can look down over it and see who all in the community has bought books along with their personal info.

 So he's finally done and ready to leave. (He probably can't wait to get out the door!) She says, "Sir, you've been asking me all kinds of questions, now could I ask you one?" Well, yes go ahead, he says. She goes on, "Do you happen to like Dr. Pepper?" Well, yes, in fact he does. So she goes and gets him a nice cold one out of the fridge and sends him on his way. Probably the most interesting call he made all day.

I gave Mary a card once some years ago on our anniversary. It said, "Being married to you has been a lot of things but boring hasn't been one of them."

Now don't get me wrong, Mary isn't the only one to have had to endure a few things in this marriage. I've endured a thing or two every now and again. But would I do it  all over again?? You betcha I would.

P.S. As I said, Mary doesn't look over these posts before they are published. In fact some of you will probably read this before she does.  I'll just ask this favor of you; if you don't hear anything out of me for several weeks, would you come looking for me? I may be stuck in the doghouse somewhere.