Idling away the time at the car dealership

 Paid a visit to the Ford Home today.  Paid the bill and drove home.

Two black beauties parked in the showroom, a Mustang and a Cobra  GT 350.

Grille work.  I can't recall the number of times I have laid that stuff inside the form in building a concrete pad.  But whatever captures the designer's imagination.

Trust me, this beast was all black with the exception of the chrome snake and the GT designation.  The white wall on the tire does not show at all to the naked eye.  The camera sees all, though.

Oh, jsyk, I've zero intention to drop $64K on a kar.

"They" are Coming to Take Me Away, Hey, Hey

 People all too often reference the ubiquitous "they" when speaking of, well, politics, economics, the world in general,or whatever.  I sometimes ask, "Who is this 'they' of whom you speak?"  This question is usually not well-received, and that may be the principal reason I ask it.  The truth is almost every answer I have gotten provides a circular definition, which is to say it goes something like, "They are the ones who. . ." (want to rule the world, are trying to destroy the economy, etc, etc,)  Note the use of "they" to define "they."

The other day a lady used the "they" reference and I asked my question.  Her response:  "There really is a "they."  The implication was, and I know I received this message correctly, "If you weren't so dense you would understand that.  I pity you."

What Comes around Goes around #T

or, The Wheels on the Bike Go 'round and 'round.

Isn't she a pretty little machine?

The Back Story

I was six years of age. Opal, who boarded in our home for a short time, got a job in a defense plant in Los Angeles.  She departed for her new life but she left her bicycle behind, a huge, to a six-year old boy, heavy, to anyone, steel-framed 26" behemoth.  I wanted to ride a bike.  So by main force-- and awkwardness-- I dragged the vehicle to the patch of grass just beside the neighbor's garden.  I learned to ride, as the saying might go, all by myself.  How many times I picked myself and the machine up from the ground I have no recollection.  But there were incidents.

I have been a bicycle rider for many decades, and past the mid-point of my ninth decade on this orb I can still ride, and I do.  But.  Isn't there always a but?  While I have not found it impossible I have found it difficult to get my leg over the crossbar to mount the bike.  Solution?  Oh, yes.  In the barn there is a functional, nay even easy riding 26" girl's bike, that is, one without the annoying crossbar.  I have been riding it recently but it was flawed.  It had no basket in which to carry my groceries or whatever and it had no fenders to keep the wheels from striping my clothes with mud should the streets be damp.

But my bicycle had all three of these, so I cannibalized it in the interest of perfecting this beautiful lightweight aluminum machine you see here.  The only problem was that the back fender struts bolted to  special holes in the original bicycle but there were no such holes in the frame of the blue bike. and the struts were an inch too short to be attached to the axle.  Hence the project was to extend the struts exactly one inch each and include the 3/8-inch holes to fit over the axle.

A snap, a cinch, or easy-peasy, whichever you prefer.  Except it took me, literally, all afternoon to attach that rear fender.

But I got 'er done!

 

BS

 Yes, you will believe this because, though it seems implausible, you know that I am a reliable scribe who would not mislead you.

Imagine you are a man of a certain age.  Your spouse dies.  You expect that her income will no longer come into the coffers.  You are right.  What you didn't count on was that you would be getting bills for increased premiums on insurance policies which are already paid and in effect.

I am not making this up.

Explanation:  "You are now a widower, that is, a single male, which puts you in another risk category, therefore the premium is a bit higher."  ("A bit" is well in excess of a hundred bucks, which may be "a bit" in some budgets.  Maybe.)  Anyway, you reply, "So because my wife died I am now a worse driver?"

"Oh, no, sir, It does not make you a worse driver, but it throws you into another risk category.

I have not been treated with such disrespect and inconsideration since I was a single man under 25, and that may or may not have been a higher risk category.  Go figure.

A Monument to Caution?

Here I sit in my automobile talking to a telephone.  Why is that?  Well. I drove the daughter to a dental appointment.  Masked, I went in, sat in the empty "waiting room."  "Sir," the receptionist, oh, so sincerely apologetic, "We'll have to ask you not to sit in the waiting room."

Back in March I wrote a post entitled "My only post on covid-19.  I hope."  And that was my hope, but how can one not remark on this remarkable situation?  Okay, I could let it pass.  And it was a nice, sunny day, if a bit chilly.  With the windows rolled nearly to the top it is quite comfortable.  

Comfortable enough, I think, that this calls for a nap!

May you be well and treated with respect. And show grace to others; they are stressed, too.

An Englishman Bites the Dust

 402 years ago today Walter Raleigh succumbed to the ax.  I memorialized him here.

It's been a month

He rolled over, 

stretched his arm to the other side 

to see if she had come back to bed yet.  

Empty space.  

Eyes wide open, 

heart clenched like a fighter's fist,

 awareness:  she will never come back. 

Hot tears.

Sleeplessness 

until the dawn breaks.

Who Am I?

 

And he said unto me, Son of man, stand upon thy feet, and I will speak unto thee.

And the spirit entered into me when he spake unto me, and set me upon my feet, that I heard him that spake unto me.  --Ezekiel 2:1-2, 6th century BC

Stand up, and the Spirit will help you stand.  

No Man is an Island

No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe; every man

is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine;

if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe

is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as

well as if a Manor of thy friends or of thine

owne were; any mans death diminishes me,

because I am involved in Mankinde;

And therefore never send to know for whom

the bell tolls; It tolls for thee. --John Donne, 1624

Every man is a part of everyman.  No one does it on his own.

Plagiarism?

 You can't scare me. I'm eighty-six years old, wore out, can't sleep at night, can't stay awake in the daytime, can't taste my food, can't hear the music, teeth gone, money gone, wife gone, whatta ya gonna do to me to make things worse? 

 

Approaches plagiarism, you say?  Maybe.  It is cobbled together from some lines I heard in an old Western movie from half-century ago and a verse in 2 Samuel 19:35, adding a sprinkling of my own experiences. 

 Solomon said, "There is no new thing under the sun." And Willa Cather wrote, “There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before.”

What's the Point?

Twelve years ago today on a rainy night in the middle of Missouri I made my first blog post.  Here it is in its entirety.

 "Traveling Life's Road

"In Missouri at the end of a very rainy day on I-44.
Watching the 'debate' between two pretenders to the seat of power.

"There will be a tomorrow; but what are we going to do with it?

"For myself, I plan to get back on the highway and head on to Indiana.
But that's not what I mean."

I was right on at least one count: there has been a "tomorrow."  There have been many tomorrows I can see looking in the rear-view mirror.  I could scarcely have imagined even had I tried what those tomorrows would hold.  My retrospectroscope is so much more accurate than is my crystal ball.

When I first wrote on "String Too Short to Tie" I had a beautiful companion who shared my life, almost my every moment since that day.  Now I am alone.  Who would have predicted that?  I am older than she was, I am male, two factors that say I should have preceded her to eternal rest.  But the twists and quirks of life, the unexpected, in a word, is exactly the principal composition of life on this orb.

The past twelve years have been a joyous journey.  The companionship with my beloved is now but memories, wondrous and wonderful memories.  My proclivity to sit at the keyboard and pound out word after word, stringing them together to provide entertainment or enlightenment, if not for other readers at least for myself, seems to be shrinking, even as the body itself and probably the mind as well is in that stage of life where shrinkage seems to be the norm.

One who has read this far might well ask, "What is your point, vanilla?"  To which I would be compelled to reply, "Not everything has a point."  And I could go on from there to cite example after example from life in this day and age which surely would support the assertion.  i won't.

Be well, and keep the faith!

Sincerely,

vanilla

12 years and 2876 posts later

My Love

Today my sweetheart

my love

went for a ride in a long blue Cadillac

my love

rode past farm fields, silver-lined clouds

my love

with sunbeams streaming down 

my love

I rode behind her and I drove home

my love

did not return with me, the ground received

my love's 

body

But God received 

my love's 

spirit

My Love.

--September 28, 2020

JoAnn

                                           Grace JoAnn Womack Harrison Lacy

                                           October 5, 1937 - September 22, 2020

She stood faithfully and firmly by my side for more than twenty years. 

Crooked Nails and Generosity #T

 Cañon City, Colorado, summer 1940 my father in the process of building a church building is sitting on the ground, hammer in hand, a bent nail in the other hand held against a flat stone.  Dad is straightening used nails.  There is a small pile of nails next to him.  He places the straightened nails in a near-gallon lard bucket as he works.

Coming up Seventh Street we see an elderly gentleman, arrayed in full three-piece dress suit, starched collar, cravat, walking briskly to the north.  This is "Busy" Jones.  Mr. Jones acquired the appellation because he is busy.  He is milking virtually every cash cow in the community and though he has amassed a fortune the size of which the town busy-bodies speculate about and wish they knew.  Jones lives with his spouse in a nice but modest abode a few blocks north of the church site.  Jones walks to and from his office daily.

"Good day, Preacher," greets the old man

"Nice day, Mr. Jones," replies Father.  Dad drops a nail into the can, picks another from the pile and places it on the stone.  As he pecks at the crookedy nail with his hammer, Mr. Jones reaches into his pocket.  He pulls out a dime, drops it onto the mass of bent nails lying on the ground.

"Here, Preacher," he said, "go buy yourself some nails!"  He turns and heads on toward his domicile.

                                                   

I have speculated about this event over the years and have wondered if perhaps the old tight-wad acted that evening to buy himself a piece of heaven, for he was 74 years old at the time, or if he was just having a piece of fun with a "religious crank."

It was nearly a lifetime later that I grew curious enough about Jones to use the interwebby thingy to see what I could learn about him.  His name, which I had never known, was Lewis Jones.  He was born in 1866 and lived ninety years on this orb.  He built Cañon's theatre, The Skyline, in 1917 but sold it a few years later as he had many other fish to fry.  RIP, Busy.

Earthquake!

The words of Amos, who was among the herdmen of Tekoa, which he saw concerning Israel in the days of Uzziah king of Judah, and in the days of Jeroboam the son of Joash king of Israel, two years before the earthquake.  --Amos 1:1 KJV

Some modern scholars refer to the earthquake mentioned here as the "Amos Earthquake."  Geologists, seismologists and archaeologists have verified that this quake occurred in 760 B.C. which would have been during the "days of Jeroboam."

The quake was estimated at 7.6 to 8.0 on the Richter Scale and its epicenter is placed roughly 60 miles north of the Sea of Galilee.  It was the largest temblor along that fault in the past 4000 years.

The Rest of the Story

Sitting here after one ayem. Thinking of an incident that took place when my father was 85 years of age. I took him out to Doctor Fearnow's small orchard to introduce him to the old gentleman. We stood in the driveway next to the stand where the man sold his produce. The two men exchanged some experiences, found that they had some things in common. Dad was a minister, the doctor had been a missionary to Haiti in his younger day, he said.

Inevitably, the pitfalls of growing old came up when Mr. Fearnow observed that things really were more difficult to accomplish, and so on and so forth. Then he said, "You'll know what I mean when you get to be as old as I am."

My father said, "How old are you, Mr. Fearnow?"

"Why," he replied, "I am 77 years old."

With a grin Dad replied, "My, you really have piled up some years."

Never a hint at his own age, and I was standing there about to pop a stitch trying to keep from laughing out loud.

The old apple man never asked, and we never told him.

Mr. Fearnow's house now, taken yesterday from the driveway in which we stood to visit. He passed five years ago at age 97.

Less Coffee, Less Sleep

 It's 4:08 p.m.  I am on my third cup of coffee.  What is going on here?  Normally I would be setting up my second pot about now.  Less coffee, good, no?  No.  I am also getting less sleep  Two hours last night, four hours (maybe) the night before.  With less coffee I should be getting more sleep, right?  Not the case.  Worse I fear I may be getting dehydrated for my coffee not only supplies my caffeine, it supplies most of my liquid intake.

You may infer from this that my lifestyle has been disrupted.  It has been.  My close friends and family know this but I have not been journaling about it in a public forum.  A mention might be in order in the event that I post something completely irrational.  Oh, but that happens often, you say?  Knock it off.

Her daughter and I are providing round-the-clock care for BBBH with the assistance of Guardian Angels Hospice whose personnel visit from time to time.  They are very pleasant and caring people but of course can provide only the services for which they are equipped and JoLynn and I are with her at all times.

Sleep is a prized commodity for us all and seemingly rationed sparingly by whatever Fates control such things.  Morpheus?  Whatever.

Coffee intake is limited only by the desire to procure a cup and swallow the contents.  The urge seems to strike much less often than it did in the past.

No Way

 Walking along the sidewalk minding my own business; looked up and what should I see but

this.  I reject that.  I have been called many things, some of them not complimentary, but I refuse to accept that I am a "cull."

I have made the same trek untold numbers of times but this was the first time the sign shouted this at me.  Now what have I done to deserve this?

Old Negatives and Wonderful Friends

Two years ago BBBH and I visited my sister and her husband in Kansas.  They have since moved to Idaho.  Too much detail, I know, but I miss being able to jump in the car and see them at the end of a day's drive.  Proceeding with accounting for the pictures.  While we were there Vee said to me, "I found some old negatives and would really like to know what is on them."  Hey, what are big brothers for?  I told her I thought I could "develop" them digitally, and lo, for once I was able to deliver.

This is a photo of our good friends, Win and Esther Brown.  As children we developed a close bond with these people.  Esther stayed in our home briefly long ago.  Winfred, in later life known as Win, was in the army and served a tour of duty in the European Theater.  He survived battle encounters and ultimately returned to the States, was honorably discharged and came to our city to pursue a degree in the Bible College of which our Dad was President.  Win and Esther went into the ministry and served as pastors of three or four churches on the district.  Later Win was elected District Superintendent.  We maintained contact with these people over the years.  Esther passed on to her eternal reward in 2002 and Win joined her in 2013.  He lived alone the years following Esther's passing. He repaired clocks (finally having to turn down business because too many people wanted his services) and worked in a funeral home as a driver and assistant in services.

This is Win as a lad with his dog.  This would probably have been six or seven years before we met him.

This is Esther's high school graduation   Win and Esther were both natives of Morland, Kansas and her memorial is in Morland Cemetery along with that of Winfred who passed later. 

There were other pictures in the pack of negatives but I have made these three snapshots an opportunity to pay tribute to two kind and loving friends.

Proud of Who I Am

BBBH and I truly enjoy Merle Haggard's songs and his performance of them.  He did a number that goes, "I'd like to hold my head up, be proud of who I am.  But they won't let my secret go untold.  I paid the debt I owed 'em but they're still not satisfied.  Now I'm a branded man, out in the cold."  And so on and so forth.  I sing along with him betimes (through the miracle of technology, though he is no longer with us).  Possibly inappropriately, for I've never spent a day in jail in my life.  I sang his song "Tonight the Bottle Let Me Down" as a public performance one time.  Back home that evening BBBH chastised me.  "You can't do drinking songs.  You've never had a drink in your life."  Well, okay then, but call it empathy or whatever.  I like the song."  I sketched this as a tribute to Merle's plight

Clif, Church and the Unknown

I did a series about the Pratts of Pineville two years ago.  This has lain dormant in my drafts folder.  My intention was either to continue the series or to conclude it in some reasonable way.  I never got around to proofing and completing this, so it seems we may now infer that the Pratt story ends here at the kitchen table. 

A few days after Darren had visited Clifton's chicken ranch, twenty chickens and a goose, Darren invited Clifton over to his house for a Saturday romp around.  Clif said, "I ain't never been to no preacher's house."

"You probably have never been to a church, either."

Saturday morning, a bright day, promising cheer, warmth, and good times.  Clifton showed up at the Pratt's back door just as Mrs. Pratt stepped out to drop a trash bag in the bin.  "Hi, there!  You are Clifton, aren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am and you kin call me Clif."

"All right, then, Clif.  Get on in here.  Hotcakes and bacon on the table!"

"Oh, Miz Pratt, I never thought to you feedin' me."

"Of course we are going to feed you."

Darren was all excited that Clifton was going to spend the day with him.  Darlene was not so pleased, but she resolved to behave herself, at least for a while.  "Hey, Weasel," she greeted the visitor.  "This little twerp is my sister, Mindy.  You have met Mom, and Dad will be here soon's he finish shaving.  Sit down."

The four kids seated themselves at the table.  Mrs. Pratt poured six glasses of orange juice and seated herself just as Edwin entered the kitchen.  "Morning, All!"  His cheery, booming pulpit voice so early in the day.  The kids all muttered a "Morning," and Dad seated himself.

As the Pratt family all linked hands around the table.  Clif was a bit puzzled as Darren reached for his right hand while Mrs. Pratt was taking hold of his left.  But he caught on quickly and joined in as they all bowed their heads and Edwin greeted the Lord in thanksgiving.

Clif could hardly believe the huge stack of pancakes on the platter, but they were all quickly transferred to the six plates around the table.  Another batch was cooking on the griddle as they buttered the first batch!  Oh, my!

CVS Receipt

Collect enough I can wallpaper my bedroom.

Another Birthday

Interstate 86 in the West lies entirely within the state of Idaho.  It basically replaces old US 30.  It runs from I-15 just north of Pocatello westward 63 miles to connect with I-84.  I have never been on I-86 but I have driven US 30 across that stretch many times in another era.

So I personally am no longer 30, far from it, for today I am 86.  86,  "would you believe…"

Well, then you ARE old, Someone said.   "I asked you not to tell me that," I said.

Another day to enjoy this life "…and loving it."

Couldn't resist the references to my favorite agent.   "sorry about that, Chief."

Tried to work in a couple more but "missed it by that much."

--James Thurber

Puzzling in these Puzzling Times

Okay then.  We were back at it during our "incarceration."

A Christmas puzzle in April?  Certainly.  The story of the Saviour's birth is good anytime, and it is more likely that Jesus was born in April than that his birth was in December.

Difficulty rating:  very high; challenging, but not beyond our skill level!

An Ordinary Man #T

Herschel was the seventh son of the seventh son.  From an early age Herschel heard people remarking on this fact.  It puzzled him. Big deal, he thought.  I get the hand me downs from the handed down.  But then he thought, But I have enough, and I have parents who love me and six brothers to complete my life.  I am blessed.

As his life progressed Herschel progressed as well.  He grew to manhood, married and started a family of his own.  He lived in an ordinary town and worked at an ordinary job.  And still people remarked that there should be something special about a seventh son of a seventh son.  But Herschel said, I have many people whom I love and who love me, I have enough.  I am just an ordinary man.  Nothing special here.

Herschel completed his career and retired, dandled his grandchildren on his knee and watched them grow to adulthood.  Though fame and great riches never attached themselves to this man, he was happy  Then the realization that he was mortal crept in as the aging process and the diseases of old age began to take a grip on him.  People said, Oh, Herschel, you will live forever.  You are the seventh son of the seventh son.  But Herschel knew he would not live forever, and that became more distinctly clear as the months passed by.  So Herschel decided to write his own obituary.  He sealed it and placed it with his important papers and gave directions to his wife and his children as to how to find it and expressed his wish that it be used in place of the boilerplate the funeral homes tend to write.

Then Herschel died.

His wishes were honored, and without the particulars, we here present the final paragraph of what this man wrote.

"Throughout my long life, I was often reminded that as the seventh son of the seventh son I might expect great things and blessings beyond measure.  I have lived an ordinary life,  I have loved and I have been loved.  My life was filled with enough.  So indeed I have been blessed beyond measure.  Let this inscription be engraved on my tombstone:

HERE LIE THE EARTHLY REMAINS OF AN ORDINARY MAN.

Herschel possessed the magical power of contentment, and in that Herschel was an extraordinary man.

Encouragement and rebuke

I wrote this one five years ago.  Like a dog worrying a bone I like to gnaw on my binky from time to time. You are welcome.

Who Penned Hebrews?

My friend Louie and I had a conversation via the internet this past week, as we do from time to time..

The part of the discussion which is germane to this Sunday morning post was a statement I made to him that when I sought encouragement or believed I was undergoing chastening I turn to the twelfth chapter of the Book of Hebrews.

Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us, Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of God. For consider him that endured such contradiction of sinners against himself, lest ye be wearied and faint in your minds. Ye have not yet resisted unto blood, striving against sin. (Emphases added.)

 What greater encouragement might we hope for than to look to the example of our Christ who laid down His very life for our sins!  The chapter continues

And ye have forgotten the exhortation which speaketh unto you as unto children, My son, despise not thou the chastening of the Lord, nor faint when thou art rebuked of him: For whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth. If ye endure chastening, God dealeth with you as with sons; for what son is he whom the father chasteneth not?

While I may endure chastening, I am a son of God!

End lesson.

Now Louie and I know that we both agree on the essentials of the Scriptures, but we also know that we disagree on a couple of points that are not critical to salvation.  To wit, and in this instance, Louie is a firm believer that Paul was the writer of The Hebrews.  I am just as firmly convinced that Paul did not write the book.

He wrote back to me, "I Love  Hebrews. Dave, I cannot  believe how these nut cases  cannot see that Paul is the writer.  That is if they read his other books,  Also He knew more about The Hebrew  law than any other  person that was in The Church of God that The Lord Jesus started. Blessings on you this weekend!"

To which I replied (remember, we each knew the position of the other before this conversation):   "Thank you for your (repeated) position on the authorship.   May the blessings of the Lord be yours, and may there be peace between you and

Your Fellow Nutcase in Christ. 

(Who can’t see how you can read the Letters and still believe Paul penned Hebrews. Oh, well.  We both believe God is the Author of His Word, the Author and Finisher of our faith.)"

Quickly, my case, in a nutshell, if you are interested.

In my opinion, Paul could not have written:

" How shall we escape, if we neglect so great salvation; which at the first began to be spoken by the Lord, and was confirmed unto us by them that heard him;" (KJV  Heb 2:3)

for Paul was certainly one of “them that heard him.”  Acts 9 

"And as he journeyed, he came near Damascus: and suddenly there shined round about him a light from heaven: And he fell to the earth, and heard a voice saying unto him, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?  And he said, Who art thou, Lord? And the Lord said, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest: it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks. And he trembling and astonished said, Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?"

To me, this is the most compelling reason to believe Paul was not the writer.  There are others, e.g., the missing “salutation” which we see in Paul’s letters.

Romans 1:1  Paul, a servant of Jesus Christ, called to be an apostle

I Cor 1:1 Paul called to be an apostle of Jesus Christ

Ii Cor 1:1 Paul, an apostle of Jesus Christ by the will of God

Ephesians 1:1 Paul, an apostle of Jesus Christ

Galatians 1:1 Paul, an apostle, (not of men, neither by man, but by Jesus Christ, and God the Father, who raised him from the dead;)

Colossians 1:1 Paul, an apostle of Jesus Christ

I Thess 1:1  Paul, and Silvanus, and Timotheus

II Thess 1:1 Paul, and Silvanus, and Timotheus

I Tim 1:1 Paul, an apostle of Jesus Christ

II Tim 1:1 Paul, an apostle of Jesus Christ

Titus 1:1  Paul, a servant of God

Philemon 1:1  Paul, a prisoner of Jesus Christ

Compare these with

Hebrews 1:1 God, who at sundry times and in divers manners spake in time past unto the fathers by the prophets

Yet Louie may have as good a chance of being right as I have.  But you have probably perceived that I doubt that is the case.