Army Worms

This summer was a trying one in terms of growing grass
To feed our hungry cows
Because our normal rains came early and heavy so
The Spring was good but
Quickly fizzled into dried stems and dust until
By the end of August we were
Scrambling for pasture and there was no hay to be
Found for a reasonable price
Anywhere within a few hundred miles which meant
The freight alone made it too high.

September came and we received enough of the precious
Moisture from the sky to get
Some late growth on the summer grasses and to give a
Start to the winter ryegrass which
Is a necessary part of the annual cycle of grasses that
Grow in our area and our
Optimism had returned that perhaps we would get by
And there would be enough
Late forage grown that the demand for hay would ease
And we might be able to buy.

Then came the invading host like a Biblical plague
And within a day the hatch
Became a seething horde which swept the landscape bare
Except for gray, leafless stems
Where the promise had stood the day before giving
Hope for a year, redeemed by
The late summer rains which finally fell upon the parched
And weary land that thirsted
For so long, but now had once again fallen to an army
Of wriggling worms already gone.

The Eyes of Our Heart

Poetry
By Design
Evokes images

Images
Awaken thoughts
To open minds

Minds
Process Images
Into poetry

It has been said that a picture speaks a thousand words;
How can one paint a picture for the blind?
If words upon a page evoke images in the mind
How can one see what he has not experienced?

Much is wrong in our world which only opened eyes will see.

"Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God." -- Hebrews 12:2

Did We Really Hear the Hearing?

Times of trial come to every generation
At some point along the way.
These past weeks of hearings relating
To the highest court nominee
Had very much to say

About the state of this great nation and
The forces at play who wish
To dominate, to seize the reins
Of power and to control
How "we the people" like goldfish

In a bowl are treated and how much
Freedom we are allowed when
Our Constitution clearly states that
Power of the government is derived
From the people, both now and then

When it was drawn to protect the very freedom
That we of older generations were
Taught that we enjoy while
Slowly those very freedoms have been
Taken from us as we defer

"Leadership" to those who were elected
To represent, not lead.  For leadership
Resides in the electorate, not the elected,
And those who represent should do only
That which reflects and does not worship

At the altar of power which they seek
By their begging hands which manipulate
The purse strings, so deeply entangled,
To rest ultimately in those whose God
Does not stand at Heaven's gate

To rescue us from our sin and greed, but
Seeks to draw us away from that which is good
And right and just.  Evil resides in the hearts
Of men -- and yes, women -- and it rises
To the puppeteers who stood

Behind the scenes of a disintegrating Republic,
No longer One Nation Under God,
But a seething mass of conflict between
Powers of this earth who no longer represent
But, give those who sent them less than a nod.

Redefining Who We Are

Where I grew up there were no tracks
For trains to run through town.
It seems the Founding Fathers
Either chose not to seek the rail
Or, didn't have the political clout
Or, perhaps had located our small town
In the wrong place.

I love to hear the trains today as
Their lonely whistle blows
To warn cars and pedestrians
To get out of the way because they are
Coming through and can't
Easily stop to accommodate those
Who would be laggards.

I think about the commerce that rides
Upon the cars as the clickety-clack
Of their passage unfolds and
The sound of mighty engines rolls
Away among the warehouses and
Other buildings that line
The shiny rails and blackened ties

And I think of the history that I have read
Of how the first tracks were placed
Across a country still wild and covered
With game and people who didn't
Understand what was happening that
Would destroy their way of life.

Descendants of those early crews have
Blended into the populace for the most
Part but, enclaves still exist in places
Like San Francisco where the Chinese
Origins are clear and the culture
Has endured but, there are other

Groups who played their part in building
These great roads that opened up the
New acquisitions to settlers who sought
Cheap land and opportunity.  They had names
With roots in Ireland or in
Italy or perhaps in other places

That produced those who followed, speaking
German and Scandinavian languages
Until subsequent generations blended with
The English pioneers into a much more
Homogenous type until the resurgent
Darker pigments of the Southwest

And the newly freed of the Southeast spread throughout
The land and today are changing once again
The ethnic boundaries that have long defined,
Yet long diffused genetic material into
A slowly evolving amalgamation that
Transcends origins and borders

But, gains a new identity, as yet unclear,
Just as the rails which first
Drove across the trackless, undefined
Wilderness opened the way and the borders
To a newness that penetrated every aspect
Of who and what we are to become.

Threads in Common

Is there something as we age
That causes us to reach
Way deep inside to things from the past?

It seems our memories
Oft improve with passing time
Into images throughout our life to last.

It takes only a few words
To invoke a vivid scene
When the picture in our mind is strong and pure

And the common thread between
The way we each have lived our lives
Brings connections that through many years endure.

The North Side of the Square

I have only fuzzy memories of the Square in my hometown
When the old Courthouse stood empty and alone.
It's second life as a hospital had come to an end
And it was being torn down to make way for something new.

A long metal building soon stood on the north side of the Square
And stands there to this day, though somewhat changed.
Three new businesses soon occupied the space
And each of them was special in some way.

If memory serves correct, the one to farthest west was
Bill Kelly's Men's Clothier full of suits and ties and
Dress shirts to outfit the gentlemen there in town in
The finest sort of clothes that could be found.

Dad sometimes shopped in there because way back in that day
A suit and tie were appropriate attire for teaching school.
My link to that store wasn't for the clothes I wore but for
The help Bill gave me much later in my years

When he recruited me to replace him at the Savings & Loan.

In the middle stood Duncan's 5 & 10 Cent Store which
Brings cheerful memories of standing at the counter
With a quarter in my hand trying to choose a piece of candy
From the rack in front of me as Bob sat there

Behind the register waiting on my Mother with her purchases
Who was trying to hurry me to make up my mind what I would choose
But, I also remember the toy bins over on the east wall
Where I would spend every chance I got looking over

The selections for something special like a set of
Roy Roger pistols and caps to go with them and
A holster to hold them so I could be the champion
Of the cowboys & Indians wars which were inevitable.

I can still hear Bob's voice there at the register....

Major James had the White's Auto store which occupied
The east end of the building and it was where I first remember
Eyeing the BB Gun that I would save my money to buy someday
But, more importantly, Major gave me my first job

Working in the public eye and I would wash the store windows
Every morning and dust the shelves and make sure everything
Was in its place and he would send me to the back where
I would spend many hours assembling bicycles and other items

That he had ordered in preparation for the Christmas season.
Major had me learn every county in the Panhandle and South Plains
And be able to locate it on a map because to him it was important
That I know my geography, but also so I would know

How far it was to the storms which brewed and know the danger
When we listened to the announcement from the National Weather Service
That a tornado had been spotted in Hockley county and how
It might become a threat to us as it moved northeast.

I can still smell Major's pipe in my mind....

The occupants have changed through the years, but
The building is still there.  Leon's Grocery was probably
The longest enduring of all those who passed through that building
That is filled with many good memories.

Some Childhood Memories

Way back in the day when I was just a kid
We lived on the east side of our town.
The house, it wasn't large, but
I didn't know it then
'Cause I had everything that I could need.

The driveway was of dirt and there was no garage
But, beyond it was a big old empty lot
Where we had dug a hole that
Was the perfect place to spend
Hours and hours just digging in the dirt.

We had a great big garden that Dad kept oh, so neat
With not a single weed there to be found
And Mom planted flowers
In a bed around the house
With the prettiest blooms there were around.

In the back were willow trees grown from cuttings
Off of trees that were to be found
North of town out on the Draw
And in the front were two Pecans
That were dug up near a well

Off the Curry place where they were grown from seed.
We had a cellar too, there in that big back yard
That Dad and Grandpa and my uncles
Had hand dug and lined with cinder blocks
Because Dad didn't like the storms.

He was raised in Oklahoma and he knew what they could do
'Cause he'd seen so much damage they had done
Since he was raised in the heart
Of Tornado Alley where they saw so many
Dancing across the Plains.

I remember in the mornings on every Saturday
I would wake up early in the winter time
And lie upon the floor in front
Of the old propane wall heater
And watch Roy Rogers on the black and white T.V.

Yep, we had everything that we could need.

Fall Weather

Light slowly seeps into awareness
As the dim outline of trees in the distance
Materialize above the silvery fog
Which hangs along the creek.

The cool dampness is a pleasant change
From the sultry heat which has hung on
Long past the peak of summer
When it is expected.

The cattle move like specters through the mist
As they harvest the wet succulence of the recent growth
From rains which seemed long delayed
As the heat of August domed the land.

A sense that Fall has arrived has finally
Leaped from the start of school and
The Friday night rituals of football and marching band
To the weather itself.

The harvest is in full swing as crops
Are brought into the storehouse against the needs
Of the looming months of cold
And rest for the land

As it hibernates until the time when earthly tilt
Brings longer days again which are
Warmed by the nearer sun which releases
Dormant seeds to spring anew.

The Backyard Battlefield

A brilliant tactician,

She seeks the high ground

From which to survey

The battlefield.

Her keen eye glances skyward

To the branches

Which overhang

The lush terrain.

Nostrils slightly flared

A scent draws her

To look slightly

To her left

And she quietly leaves

Her lofty perch on the planter

To enter into a

Stalking crouch.

Movement catches her eye

And she freezes,

Awaiting the coming

Inattention of her prey

Which is focused on finding

An acorn, or

A pecan hiding

In the grass.

The stalk continues

With laser-like intensity,

Always keeping

The tree between

Her line of approach and

The furtive prey

Which occasionally

Sits up to wave

Its bushy tail as if taunting,

Or perhaps,

Warning her that

It is aware of her

Approach across the yard.

The strike comes

Like lightening

And the furry target

Scrambles for the rough bark

That leads it up

And out of reach

Of snapping teeth.

From a branch high above

The chattered scolding

Sounds a challenge

For another day.

Weaning Calves

Round them up and sort them out
The cows go to the right,
Calves all go the other way.
Watch her, she wants to fight.

Check your count and don't miss one,
Sometimes the calves slip by.
"Use the gate to cut her off,"
The Boss says with a sigh.

Babies bawling through the fence
To see where Momma stands;
It's not so much they need them,
Fear drives their demands.

It's time for them to grow on up
And make it on their own.
They know how to eat the grass
Just like their Mom has shown

Them since they hit the ground
About half a year ago
When they were born into the cold,
And sometimes it would snow.

But, life's a cycle going 'round
And this is just a step
Along their earthly journey.
And now they will be kept

In a pen that's set aside
For such a time as this.
And even though she will be close
Their Momma will they miss

For a few days until they have found
That they no longer need
The nourishment that she provides
As they learn to eat their feed.

Very soon they won't depend
On Mom on whom they leaned
And one more time I'll smile and say,
"The calves have all been weaned."

Grandpa's Hands

I remember as a child,
Taking Grandpa's hand
And feeling all the calluses it bore
And seeing all the cracks
That held a little grease
Left over from some
Mechanical chore.

His fingers were quite twisted
With knuckles very large
From arthritis that he
Tried hard to ignore
Although it was quite painful
And his hands were always sore
He never failed to reach out to me

When I came to visit him.
As years passed by and I had grown
And Grandpa had retired
He'd often sit within his chair
To smoke a pipe that sat
Within his twisted hand
And I admired

The fact that he always would
Reach out to me to shake my hand
Although it often was his left
Because the right one hurt
So badly and was stiff
With pain so bad his pipe
He could not heft.

Too many years of labor
On the farm and with the cows
While rheumatoid arthritis
Slowly destroyed those hands
That had worked and scraped
And built for his family.
Those hands are something that I miss.

The High Plains

Pale straws bend as unseen
Forces sweep
Across the nearly featureless
Landscape
That stretches for miles
Unending,
Broken occasionally by
Deep green
Sprays of needles and
Dried stalk
Of the yucca known as
Bear grass.

I lean slightly into
The invisible
Never-ending force of
The wind,
That restless, timeless
Bringer
Of storms and drought
And change
Upon this landscape
Swept flat
By Eons of scouring
Movement.

I am covered by a sense of
Peace
When a slight hint of dust
Tickles
My nostrils as I gaze
Across
The seemingly forever
Plains.
It is the serenity of being
Home.

A Birthday

Today is my Mother's birthday,
She just turned eighty-one,
And so I thought I'd do a post
About her just for fun.

She keeps her house all neat and clean
And worries about her yard
If it doesn't look just perfect
She takes it kind of hard.

Whenever we come visit
There'll always be a place
Set aside, just for us,
To escape from the rat race.

I know it's hard to be alone
As she is day by day
And I can't seem to find the time
To often get her way,

But, when I do she welcomes me
Just like she always did
With hot meals and a restful place
Like when I was a kid.

She gets around quite well for one
Who has lived her many years
And thinking that she might not could
Is one of her only fears.

She cooks enough to feed a host
Each time that I am there
And I eat more than I should
As if it was a dare.

Tonight's my turn to take her out,
A dinner on the town.
When I asked her if she'd eat a steak
She said, "I won't turn it down!"

Ties That Bind

In between the earth and space
There stands an organism
That ties the two together.

With arms that stretch toward the sky
It seeks the sun's vast energy
And scours the air for molecules

While sending deep into the earth
Its toes to drink the moisture there
And mine for needed minerals.

Upon its limbs in summer garb
Are tiny engines made to capture
Light that falls upon them.

That light excites the cells to bind
The carbon waste of others
And free the oxygen of life

To be breathed by those who need
This catalyst for their vital function.
It stores the carbon in itself

In fibrous growth that help it stand
Against the storms and winds
And ravages that assail

To give it strength which makes
It valued by the builder for
Shelter and other usefulness.

It breaks the earth with its strong feet
Allowing microbes to enter there
And further free the needed wealth

Of minerals contained therein
Which enrich the lives of smaller plants
That need such nutrition

To then be used by beings
Higher still to create the cycle
Until decomposed they fill the earth again.

A tree
Is key.

Words on a Page

Words written on a page
Are windows
Into that
Which lies beyond
Our own experience.

We learn,
We imagine,
We live
The words.

In them we may see
The pathways
Not traveled
And find enlightenment
For our needs.

We learn,
We imagine,
We live
The words.

It may be the "how to"
Or, a Biography
Or, it might be
A flight of fancy
That provides escape.

We learn,
We imagine,
We live
The words.

They provide insight
Into that which
Went before
Or, perhaps a glimpse
Of what lies ahead.

We learn,
We imagine,
We live
The words.

Through recorded experience,
We learn.
Through recorded conjecture
We imagine.
By embracing the written word
We expand our lives.

Power

I have cords for everything;
No matter where I look
It seems there is attachment
To phone, t.v. and Nook.

They tie things to a power,
Unseen but always there,
That flows through wires and other things
By man's unfailing care.

It reminds that we're connected
To the Father up above
Who seeks to empower us
Through His unfailing love

If only we'd reach out to Him
Through prayer in one accord
His power would recharge us
And He doesn't need a cord!

Daydreaming

In my office there's no window to look out upon the world
So, I must use the window in my mind
To allow my drifting consciousness to wander where it will
And see what new adventures it might find.

Instead of looking out upon a street filled with cars
Or, a parking lot, or even yards of grass
My thoughts drift to the mountains and a cold tumbling stream
Or, to a deep cold lake as still as glass

With surface broken only by the tiny little lure
I would toss out as temptation for a fish
Until I feel the tug, almost like electric shock,
Of a glistening rainbow trout as I would wish.

There upon the distant shore I see across the way
A regal elk come stepping from the wood
To drink from crystal waters where I seek the tricky prey
Then he looks upon the place whereon I stood

And I salute him for his boldness, for his total lack of fear,
As he sounds his eerie cry into the air
That calls his tiny harem down to drink there by his side
While he keeps a silent watch upon them there.

A fog comes slowly drifting down the wooded mountainside
To obscure the vision far across the lake
And again I see the ripples from the fish that I have sought
With temptation for the bait I hoped he'd take

Until the whole scene finally faded from my mind
Into a blank computer screen before
And I realized what happened as I sought to fill the page,
Preferring to be daydreaming once more....

Pulled Curtains, Open Doors

It is said the eyes
Are a window to one's soul.
I think sometimes
That is true, however,
There are times in which
The shades are drawn,
The curtain pulled,
So that which is deep within
Is obscured
From prying eyes.

Laughter,
Pain,
Loss,
Life itself,
Are hidden.

The tiny lines
That etch the corners
Of the windows give a hint,
As do the creases
Around the mouth
And chin,
Which reveal a tiny piece
Of the wear and tear
They have received
Through the years.

Kindness,
Love,
Patience,
Invested time,
Open doors.

Coyote

Far across the pasture upon a slight rise
I see you watching me,
Knowing that you saw
My approach long before I was aware
Of your presence.

You drop your head and tail and begin
To trot at a measured pace
In the general direction
Of a copse of trees
Across the fence.

Were you hunting and I interrupted
Or, were you headed home
From an all-night chase
With your buddies
And their yipping chorus?

There is abundance now, but it was
A lean summer in which the
Fare was scarce and difficult
Yet, you look to be
Well nourished.

You are part of the balance that I know
Is necessary yet,
I am unforgiving when I see you
In springtime around the
Newborn calves.

Right now I am tolerant of your presence
But, beware come spring
For I will be watching and
If you stray too close I might
Send a shot your way.

Visiting the Neighbor

We own a couple of Charolais bulls
That we call Curly and Moe.
Their job is to keep the girls happy
And it's one they seem to know.

Yesterday as I was checking the cows
I looked across the fence
And there was Moe looking at me
Just like he had good sense.

I thought, "No, that can't be him!"
And double-checked the brand
But, sure enough it was him alright
As big as a brass band.

I knew I had to get him back
But, the neighbor wasn't home;
He wasn't supposed to be there,
His job was not to roam!

So, I opened a gate that's been there for years
Likely put there for just such a case,
And headed afoot 'cross the neighbor's place
Not really wanting a chase.

I figured that Moe was ready to go
Back from whence he came
But, no, that wasn't the plan that he had
And so commenced the game

Of me trying to coax him to that tiny gate,
A place where he'd never been,
And just when I'd get him almost to it
He'd circle around me again!

Then he decided to head toward the creek,
And I thought, "Well that's Okay.
He's probably headed to a hole in the fence
That allowed him to come over today."

Of course I was wrong as we walked near a mile
With him looking for holes in the fence
Until he got clear to the far south end,
Me following like I had good sense.

Then he turned around and started right back
The way that we had just come
And I was beginning to wish for some help
And frankly, feeling quite dumb.

He finally made it clear to the gate
I had opened when e'er I did start.
He looked back at me with a smirk on his face
And through it quickly did dart!

I wired it back shut so he couldn't get out
And headed him back to his place
With him calling out every few steps or so
As if he had just won a race.

So, then my next chore was to go 'round the fence
And figure just how he got out.
I never did find anything out of place
So, I figure he jumped, the big lout.

Porcine Nemesis

We enjoy the wildlife on our small piece of rural property in Northeast Texas.  We see coyotes, deer, and the occasional other small animal and our game cameras capture images of those we never see, but know are present, such as bobcats.  There is one wild animal, however, that we are not thrilled to have and that is the feral pigs.

The pigs are destructive.  They tear up the ground for roots and grubs and can leave large areas of pasture looking like it has been bombed.  There are many places along the fences that are obvious trails for them and it is not uncommon to find the bottom wire broken in those places from the frequent pressure of the larger ones squeezing underneath.  They also can carry disease which may potentially spread to the cattle.

Hunting them is a challenge because they are one of the most intelligent animals.  They seem to make a circuit of a very large area and are unpredictable as to when they will be in any particular place.  Some likely stay on our place, but they seem to travel between us and several of our neighbors along the river bottom.  One can go for days watching for them and see nothing and then large herds of them may appear as if out of nowhere.  Their trails through the woods show signs of hundreds passing through and the proof of such large groups is frequently caught on our game cameras.

Trapping them is a way that some in the area attempt to get rid of the hogs.  They quickly learn about the traps which must be moved frequently to remain even marginally effective.  Most of those who trap the hogs don't do so to eliminate them, they capture the young ones and feed them for a short period and then sell them to one of the local butchers with connections to outlets for "wild boar" meat.

We also have a neighbor who likes to run them with dogs.  I have told him repeatedly to call and ask permission before coming onto our place to hunt.  He doesn't.  His dogs also are used to find stray cattle and I have seen torn ears on a couple of my cows that I suspect were caused by his dogs.  I wonder sometimes if he encourages the proliferation of the hogs so that he can hunt them.

The state now has authorized the use of poisoned bait of a specific type to help with the hog problem.  I don't like putting out poisoned bait because of the potential unintended consequences on other wildlife.

It is a big problem for which I don't have an answer.  I wish someone did.

Conflicting Attitudes

In the stillness of the morning
I watch the gentle rain
As it falls upon this city
Where I find myself again.

After days in a hotel room
It will good to be back home;
I have need to check the cattle
To make sure they did not roam.

And there's other chores awaiting
My attention there you see
That no one else will do
So, they wait there just for me.

I guess it's good to feel I'm needed
And I don't give a hoot
When I find my sock gets muddy
In a worn-out holey boot

Because I'm thankful for the rain
And how it helps the grass to grow
So, there's feed for all the cattle
And perhaps the creek will flow

And wash out all the dead tree branches
That have fallen from the drought,
But, I worry about the fence
And how they just might take it out!

So, I'm ready to get home
And check the fence there at the gap
Then count the cattle as they're grazing
Hoping there's been no mishap

But, instead of being worried
I will think on gratitude
For this gentle rain a falling
And adjust my attitude.

Heroes Wear White Hats

My heroes have always been cowboys;

At the top of the list was the King.

He could ride, he could shoot as he whipped the outlaws

And on top of that he could sing!

He rode on a horse that was everyone's dream

And Trigger was his name;

A gold palomino, swift as could be,

The fastest one in the game.

They don't make 'em like Roy and Dale anymore,

At least not up on the Big Screen.

Today they portray all the cowboys

As ornery, low-down and mean.

Hollywood needs to go back to the day

And make cowboys heroes again.

It's important for roles to be healthy for kids

And help the young boys become men.

[The photo above is one I took yesterday at the Briscoe Museum of Western Art in downtown San Antonio, Texas, of the saddle and bridle of Roy Rogers.]

A Bowl of Oatmeal

With slow steps the old man shuffles through the door and eyes the room for familiar faces.  He's early so he takes a seat at the end of the long table where his friends will soon gather.  The waitress brings him a heavy mug filled with steaming black coffee and he smiles and says, "the usual," as she asks what he'll have to eat.

He thought how for 65 years he ate the same thing every morning; oatmeal with a couple of strips of bacon and steaming black coffee placed before him by loving hands that were up and about cooking his breakfast while he was getting ready for the day.  She would hand him his paper and kiss him on the head as she placed it on the table there before him before sitting down with her slice of buttered toast, apricot jam and her own cup of coffee.

It was their morning ritual.  They would sit quietly, him slowly turning pages as he read the news and her catching glimpses of the headlines from across the table....

The salty moisture beaded on the rim of his eye as his mind wandered while waiting for the waitress to bring his breakfast and the other old men to come and sit and joke and talk about their ailments and complain about Washington and the weather.

Words on a Page

Sometimes when I sit and think,
Or look at a blank page,
I wonder why I take the time to write.

Instead, I could just take a nap
Or, sit and drink a cup
And in the peaceful moment take delight.

But, I feel compelled it seems
To put the word to page
Recording there the things that fill my mind.

Is it some gremlin in my head
That's bent to waste my time
Or, are there reasons I have yet to find

That drive me to apply my fingers
To the plastic keys
And watch the words that scroll across the screen

That sometimes seem so simple
And at other times complex
While most of them are likely never seen

By anyone but me who cares
One whit 'bout what I write
Especially when they're as they are today

Where they are just a sequence of
Black letters on the page
And nothing there important for to say?

Read to Me?

Grandpa in his easy chair
Hears all the kids around
And smiles inside at all the sounds
Of happy feet and games
Until one with bubbling laughter
Says, "Grandpa, read to me!"
Then goes to fetch her favorite book
And climbs into his lap
Joined by others
Until the chair is full
And more gather around
To hear the story told
Which excites imagination
And remembered words
From something heard so many times
It has become a part
Of memorization.

As pages turn and years go by
Those same, once small ears
Who learned to love
The written word are often found
With book in hand
Absorbing
That which other hands have written
And imagination
Grows and grows
Until one day shares
With their own children
The stories of waking years
That brought so much joy
To young hearts.

Then children grow and move away
But, joy of reading never
Leaves and often
As time allows a book is found
In hands no longer young
But, who wait for
Generations new to come
And visit and sit upon their lap
To hear the stories once again
Of favorites and new
And imaginings of others
Written there upon the pages
As they turn to reaching hands
And wiggling bodies
Enthralled.

Dimly, tired eyes
See blurs where once stood
Words upon the page
And silent tears slide
For what was lost
And memories rise
Of happy laughter
And tiny bodies squeezed
Into the chair and on the lap
Until is heard the quiet
Sound of youthful voice
Asking what is wrong
Until is heard,
"Would you read to me?"

Time for Rest

There's never enough time to get the things done
I think that I should do
And yet I find time to do the things
I really want to do.

I sometimes leave things 'til it's almost too late
To get them done in time
And sometimes the order of things I get done
Has no reason or rhyme.

I make lots of lists to keep my tasks straight
And then sometimes I find
I add things to my list long after they're done
As a palliative to my mind.

Then there are days I get nothing done
While thinking alone as I sat;
Those are the days I find time to relax
And I am quite happy with that.

We are made to work but, we need to get rest
Or, we pay a toll with our health
Even though the world teaches us "no time to waste"
In the continual search for wealth.

But, God has a different plan that he defined
And I find that His plan is the best;
He said we should have a full day of rest
As a rule and not just suggest.

Building Fence

Take a mark and find the line;
Clear the brush and weeds and vine.

Set the corners up just right;
String the wires all nice and tight.

Pound the posts into the ground;
Hope no rocks will there be found.

Tie the wire with even space;
Then the stays go into place.

A level gate is wanted most
As hinge mounts go into the post.

Hang the gate right in its place;
Wipe the sweat from off your face.

Building fence, the rancher's chore,
Was so much fun, let's build some more!

A Remembered Opening Day

Hunting season comes around
In Fall of every year;
Through much of this great country
The quest is for the deer.

But, I grew up upon the Plains
Where deer were scarce to see;
It was hunting for the birds
That held excitement for me.

First came dove, how swift they flew
Across the bright blue skies;
To get the hang of hunting them
Took many, many tries.

I think of when the first I shot,
I was well short of ten,
But, I felt that I was mighty tall
To go hunting with the men.

I don't recall who all was there
But, it was at the ranch;
Dad was far the better shot
Upon the family branch.

But, Grandpa was the one who set me
In the pumphouse door
To watch out toward the water tank
For one, or maybe more

Of those swift creature who might
Light upon the fence.
That gave me an advantage
When my shot occurred and hence

I didn't try to take them
As they darted through the air;
No one then had told me
That it wasn't really fair.

So, I set there on a bucket
With Mom's .410 in my hand
And waited for the dull gray birds
Upon the fence to land.

And when one finally did
I carefully lined my shot
And pulled the small black trigger
While pointing at the spot.

And the blast sent me a flying
Off the bucket to the ground
And dazed, I went to looking
If the target I had found.

And sure enough I got him
Though I was somewhat bruised.
Then I dusted off my britches
And ejected the shell that I had used.

I leaned my mighty weapon
Up against the pumphouse wall
And proceeded to the place
Where my quarry had to fall.

As I showed it to my Grandpa
Who was grinning ear to ear
I had to say I wasn't expecting
To get knocked upon my rear.

Cycling Through the Night

Sometimes in the dark of night
I lie upon my bed
And think on all the many things
That dance within my head.

Of things that I forgot to do
Or, things that wait tomorrow
Or, things that happened in the day
Or, things that cause me sorrow.

My mind is oh, so restless
As I ponder on each thought
And then it shifts unmercifully
To other things unsought.

And I wonder if I'll ever fall
To sleep though hard I try
As I toss and turn about
In my bed there as I lie

Until I wake much later
Not knowing I have slept
But, find my thoughts on other things
Which in my mind have leapt.

But, for an instant
As I wake and come aware
Of some small noise in the night
That once might give me scare

And I remember dreaming,
Something twisted and confused,
Where thoughts of one thing
With another have been fused.

And so it goes throughout the night.
A pattern soon is seen
From waking to the depths of sleep,
To dreams of vivid scene.

Until the morning comes and eyes
Become of time aware
That it is the hour of rising
As at the numbers I do stare

And think, "How did my body know
That it was time to be awake
Without alarm a ringing
Or, my shoulder someone shake?"

This body that we dwell within,
Amazing as can be,
Is made so very special
As it seems so plain to me.

And I wonder how one e'er could doubt,
Oh, yes, I find it odd,
That some would ever question
We're made by the Hand of God.

[Sleep cycles intrigue me and I find it interesting to see how my Fitbit records them and then compare that to what I remember.  Our minds are amazing things.  I rarely use an alarm clock, but instead decide when I want to awake and almost always can do so within a minute or so of that time, if not precisely.]

Seeing the Extraordinary

When we truly look at all we see in this wide world around us
It should fill us with amazement.
We see things from the surface and they become ordinary
Because they are commonplace.
If by chance we look in depth at something simple as a cup
We experience man's inventiveness.
The one I see before my eyes is crafted porcelain,
Glazed white within and black without,
With an etched emblem on the side that faces me
When I grasp it by the handle.
I see the glaze and know it coats a rougher substance
From which it is shaped.
The separation of the colors is such that I wonder
How they made the line so perfect.
The figure on the outside is etched through the black
Into the grainy texture of the core.
It keeps my coffee hot for just long enough to enjoy
A moment of relaxation as I drink.
It was crafted by men who learned the art of making it
From labors built over many generations.
It was designed for a company which sells coffee at
A price far above their competition;
I know because their stamp of copyright is placed
Clearly on the bottom in four languages.
Someone spent a good deal of time designing the logo
Which is etched upon the cup.
That logo was then programmed into a machine designed
To etch it into the surface.
The glazes used upon the cup were mixed by a chemist
So they melted at a temperature
Below that which would destroy the matrix of the cup
Itself upon which they were applied.
After the cup was cooled it was packaged and shipped
To the various outlets of the coffee company
Which then made them available for sale to their
Highly devoted customers (of which I am not one.)
This single, simple cup was designed, manufactured, transported
And sold through a complex process
Involving many people scattered across the continent
To end up in my hand.
To me, that is truly extraordinary.
Just imagine the mind that designed the minds which
Are capable of such things....

Winged and Dangerous

Summer is a time of year
With many creatures, small and dear,
That disappear when winter's chills abound.

Among them is a tiny thing
Which can seem vicious, oh, so mean,
Near any pool of moisture on the ground.

It has a long and narrow probe
For piercing skin where're it goes
To drink from living rivers there beneath.

And when I can, I swat the thing
Which leaves a splash of red on me
And often words, unkind, escape my teeth.

For though she's small and merely seeks
Something there which she might eat
I begrudge her every single liquid bite.

So, if I see her land on me
I swat her, quick, 'fore she should flee
And watch for all her friends that try to light.

The Hawk

From his perch upon a post
The silent watcher spies
Movement in the sheltering grass
Wherein a creature lies

In wait for chance to find a seed
To make a scanty meal
Or, loosened stems with which to wind
Her nest where she would seal

The pink and hairless squirming babes
Who wait her quiet return
That they might suckle at her breast
'til large enough to learn

Their way out in the larger world
That waits just on the verge
Beyond the tangle where they live
Where they will soon emerge.

But, then a silent plunge begins
With speed beyond belief
Into the grass with talons spread
That leaves the babes in grief

For mother who will ne'er return
To the soon silent nest.
Her life once lived so furtively
Now lies ever in rest.

Kitchen Chemistry

As I sit within my chair
I suddenly become aware
Of a scent wafting gently
Across my senses
That causes me to rise
And go in search of
Something that I know

Is in the making
Just one room away
Where I have heard
The quiet sounds
Of bowls and spoons
And oven door for cooking
Something even though

My favorite part is still within
The bowl of eggs and sugar,
Flour and several
Other things like
Chocolate chips and I
Reach in to grab a taste
Of dough....

My Desk

It seems I have a messy desk.
I must admit it's so,
But, everything that rests on it
Is in a place I know.

It is a desk quite large you see
And there is lots of space
That would likely go to waste
Without these things in place.

For otherwise I'd have to dust,
Not something that I do
Too willingly it seems,
At least as I've been told, so

I use it to keep organized
The projects that I'm on
With one stack here, another there,
Another over yon

Beside the pottery shards
Picked up out on our place
Beneath the shelf that holds the statue
With the Incan face.

And by the cup that holds the pens
There is a stack of cards
But, that is just the least of them
For I have them in yards

Stuffed in a drawer. From ages past,
They're likely worthless now
But, there's surely a good reason
I hang onto them somehow.

And there are several yellow pads
Each one with different things
Written on the pages there
And to them often clings

A sticky note that I have placed
To mark a certain spot
Or, maybe just to emphasize
Some written, special thought.

And up above, on the top shelf,
Mementos of the past
Or, pictures that the grandkids drew,
The things I want to last.

And of course, there on the floor
Rests a box or two
Or, three or, four or maybe more
That lean somewhat askew.

But, I know what is in each place
And filed within my mind
Is a virtual map of things
I could find even if blind

And if you try to clean my desk
By moving things around
I would be quite upset with you
For things that would ne'er be found.

Rhymes and Times

Some of you may wonder when/where I started writing poetry.  Well, I call it poetry although some of it is pretty lame.  Most of it would be considered doggerel rather than serious poetry.  I suppose it began in college  back in the 70's when I wrote a few songs.  I never did much with the songs, although I did copyright a few of them.  I would have to dig pretty hard to find them.

The next attempt at poetry would have been in the 80's when I took a "Cowboy Poetry" class from Cindy Buchanan who supposedly was a descendant of Cynthia Ann Parker -- the mother of Quanah Parker.  It was in Olton and there were probably a dozen of us that attended.  She did a later class in Lubbock which I also attended.  I met some interesting people in those classes.

After that, I wrote a few poems here and there that might be considered cowboy poetry.  I say, "might be" because I never really was a cowboy, so they more accurately would be considered poems written about the cowboy/ranching lifestyle by a non-cowboy.  They were infrequent and often written in odd circumstances such as while helping with a hamburger cookout for a feedyard crew.  I recall hearing a funny story from one of the cowboys and then creating a poem about it on a napkin.  Some years later I was in the feedyard and the poem had been framed and was hanging on the wall in the office.

It wasn't until I started this blog that I began to write poetry fairly consistently.  I probably prefer prose, but the challenge of writing in rhymes appeals to me.  It requires frequently rearranging thoughts and lines to be able to couple words that rhyme.  It also has a rhythmic quality that is similar to writing music.

If you were to go back through the fairly lengthy history (started in February, 2007) of this blog you will find that I go through periods of poetry and periods of prose.  There is also a two-year gap when I put nothing into the blog.  That doesn't mean I wasn't writing, I just wasn't doing so regularly or, for putting on this particular venue.

It is also interesting to note the things that are popular with readers (Saturday's post about growing up in a small town is one of them).  I don't necessarily write this for others, but mostly for myself.  It is a way to record my thoughts and to leave something for my family if they should be curious.  I don't know that my words will tell them much, but perhaps there will be a few clues sprinkled here and there about who I am/was.

I wish I had such from my parents, grandparents, and the generations before them.  It would interest me greatly.  Anyway, that's my thoughts this morning....

Growing Up in a Small Town

Shotgun streets laid in a grid,
Out of doors was where you lived.
Playing football in the yard,
Riding bikes and falling hard.
Tempers flared, some fights broke out,
Quickly over with a shout
From someone's Mom you didn't think
Could see out the window at the kitchen sink.
Skins and scrapes and ripped blue jeans
Were common part of summer scenes
But, growing up was mostly fun
Playing in the summer sun.

Thinking, Planning and Praying

I've found that when I start each day
With coffee cup in hand
If I will spend some thinking time
With thoughts of this day planned
Prioritizing tasks that move
Me toward some higher goal
That waits ahead yet, still undone,
The time is well spent
Because it helps to focus me
On things important and required
For success in my tasks.

Then, as I think through daily plans
I call on God above
To guide me through the list of chores
Which I have set,
Though asking that He redirect
My path if it has strayed
From that which He desires of me
And that He guide my thoughts
As the list is made
With gaps for opportunity
To which I might respond as He asks.

Short vs. Tall Grass

I grew up in a country where the grass was short and strong;
The cows there liked to eat it and it kept them all year long.

Where I live today the grass is usually mighty tall;
It loses all its strength when summer turns to Fall.

And even in the best of times it isn't worth a lot
Although it grows quite well when summer days are long and hot.

The problem is it grows so tall because it's full of water
And it takes a mighty lot of it to feed the bovine daughter.

It's said that you can always take a cow from east to west
But, taking them the other way has never worked the best.

The cows back east have larger guts to handle this lush treat
It gives them the capacity to eat and eat and eat.

But, if you ship a cow from west to places way back east
They just can't seem to eat enough to get enough to eat.

A Meteor

Flitting there across my sight
A flash lit up the starry night,
An omen, some would say in days of old.

As I watched there in wonder
My thoughts began to ponder
How it had traveled 'cross the spaces cold

To die in flash of streaking light
And bring to gazing eyes delight
With wishes breathed by those who were below.

This ancient wonder in the sky
Snuffed out before my very eye
From distant places I will never know.

Taking Out the Trash

This is a poem about something done
A couple of times each week.
It's a chore that comes to everyone,
The high, the low, the meek.

It surely holds some higher truth,
This regular routine
Of taking refuse from the house
That helps to keep it clean.

We're geared up for consumption --
What we wear and what we eat --
And when we're done with using it
We toss it, nice and neat.

It happens with the things we eat,
And all the things we use;
We take just what we need from it,
The rest of it we lose.

So, as you're taking out the trash
Just think, in days of yore
There was no modern plumbing
But, a pot behind the door....

(Some of you may have to Google "chamber pot" to understand this post.)

Around and Around

Long summers past and after school
There was a never ending rule
That I must have a way some funds to earn.

I "chopped" some cotton, stacked some hay
And lots of other things for pay
And even useful skills were there to learn.

But, one I hated way back when
Is even now like it was then,
That's driving a tractor around and around the field.

It was a thing I grew to hate
From early dawn to evening, late
It never to my drifting thoughts appealed.

I just got bored and had a lack
Of staying on the narrow track
Defined by rows laid out so carefully.

My mind would drift 'long other ways,
A tangled and unending maze,
And my mistakes were there for all to see.

So mostly I was sent to plow
The fallow ground as needs allow
In endless circles cutting weeds right down.

And if by chance my mind would drift
The next time 'round my track would shift
To fix mistakes before they caused a frown.

Those years thought long since in the past
Came back just like a sudden blast
Today as I commenced to cut some weeds.

I hooked the shredder on three points
And greased up all the moving joints
Then filled the diesel tank to meet its needs.

The goat weeds and the nettles grew
In many places old and new
Where pasture grasses were what I should see.

And there I started around and around
As they succumbed to the chopping sound
And my mind drifted to this memory.

Sorting Time

Not too far off there'll come a day
When there will be life's bill to pay
And some will find that theirs is overdue.

The measure might be what we did
Or, even all the things we hid
And maybe if our word was false or, true.

But, my belief is that's not right
For when I read the Word of Light
It's simpler than the works of our own hand.

The price was paid for one and all
If they but answer to the call
And with their life to boldly take a stand

For the One whose Word is true
Who came to earth for me and you
To bring us life with Him eternally.

Yes, we must answer for our life;
Was it of peace, or one of strife,
and lived of love for Him for all to see?

Our selfish hearts must e'er be turned,
For heaven isn't to be earned,
Our life should point to the One above.

How we live should show the light
To all who dwell beneath His sight
And what we do should always be for love.

We must ourselves deny each day
For Jesus is the only way
That we will ever win the race.

And when we stand before His throne
We know we will not stand alone
When we meet our Savior face to face.

Matthew 13:47-48
John 14:6

Dripping

Another Saturday has come around
Bringing its list of chores;
Most of them it seems today
Must be done out of doors.

At 6:00 a.m. it's 85
And drips humidity.
Oh, how I dread to go outside
'Cause it's so hard on me.

I'll sweat and sweat and sweat some more
'til I am wringing wet
And as I walk I'll leave a trail
From all the dripping sweat.

I grew up on the dusty Plains
As dry as it could be
And even when 'twas scorching hot
A breeze was cooling me.

I think I never will get used
To all the moisture in the air
Which just won't seem to fall to ground
That's dry and parched and bare.

How can we be in such a drought
With high humidity?
That water should be doing good
And not afflicting me!

Legacy

Just like a walk along the beach

The tracks we leave today

Are only there a little while

Before they're washed away.

The legacy that we create

Is not the things we do

It's values that we pass along

To generations new.

Prairie Ghost

Standing on the ghostly Plains

He watched as I drove by --

A remnant from the recent past

As through the grass did sigh

A voice, mournful, quiet, true

Of plaintive chanted prayers

For bloodied spears and meat to eat

And on my head the hairs

Did stand on end as chills swept

O'er my senses there

Of something present in this land

Long passed to ne'er

Return upon the hunt

With rush upon the fleeing herd

Their lances held on high

While overhead the bird

Of death circled on the breeze

Awaiting chance to pick the bones

Of those whose path was slow

And destined for the stones

To join them in the sod

So recently trampled under hoof

Where to this day

A sentinel aloof

Stands there upon the hill,

A silent Prairie Ghost,

A solitary remnant

Of a vast thundering host.

Hunting Arrowheads

Out the back door,

Out through the lot,

I'd head for the pasture

At a slow trot.

Visions of redskins

Danced in my head

As out to the draw

My footsteps had led.

I knew where to hunt;

I'd been there before.

I had one in my pocket

And was looking for more.

Arrowheads!

Arrowheads!

That's all I could think

And fast as a wink

I found one!

I rubbed off the dirt

And then with some spit

I polished it up

And my eyes were all lit

With the sight of this treasure,

This thing I had found,

Just laying right there

On the dry dusty ground.

My mind's eye then saw him

Right there on his horse;

The warrior that lost it

On that water course

So many long years ago.

Remote Office

The technology we wear on our wrist or carry in our pocket these days is amazing -- especially to us old gray heads that remember rotary dial phones and the first Texas Instruments calculators.  There really is no need for a "brick and mortar" office unless you have some type of business that requires machinery or stock of some sort.

I can accept a phone call from anywhere in the world, put it on speaker and then switch to e-mail to look at a document while still talking.  If by chance I am interrupted by a text from someone else I can respond to that text while continuing with my conversation.  If we then decide someone else needs to be involved in the conversation it is easy enough to add an additional caller with the touch of a few "buttons" on the screen.  A friend of mine even has his phone connected by Bluetooth to his hearing aid.  I'm not there yet.

I have been known to participate in conference calls while sitting in an ATV at the farthest end of the pasture.  No one knows whether I am at my desk or traveling down the road unless I tell them.

I wonder what the next technological innovation will be?  I foresee a computer built into my glasses that is manipulated by voice and optical movement -- oh, wait, I think they already have that but, it's too expensive for the average user.  Maybe the next innovation will project the images into my brain through some type of neurological interface.  I will be able to manipulate the functionality by thoughts alone.  I don't think I'm ready for that one yet....

Whatever is next, I'm sure it will become just the routine way of doing things after a short while.  The kids today don't even know what a rotary phone is!

It's Monday!

Today I get to go to work!

It's great to be employed

Where I can make a difference

In somebody else's life.

It's true I must admit to you

I used to be annoyed

When Monday rolled around again

To another week of strife.

But, something happened on the way

To what I'm doing now;

I learned that it's my attitude

About the things I do

That determines how I feel

When Monday rolls around and how

I now tackle each new week

As opportunity, fresh and new.

A Reason to Write

I have been asked by some why it is that I write this blog.  Blog -- now that's a strange word.  For those who don't know it is a shortened form of Web Log.  It is a method of journaling designed for cooperation between researchers who might be at a great distance from each other.  Anyway, back to the subject of this paragraph -- why I write this blog.  It is actually quite simple; it is to discipline myself to write every day.

There are many who have found ways to monetize their blog.  If the site generates sufficient traffic, or "hits," it can be lucrative to advertisers to have their ads placed on the blog in hopes that someone will click on them.  Advertisers pay for the placement of those ads.  This happens on political blogs and book, movie or, product review blogs.  At one time, in fact as one of the reasons I started the blog many years ago, I thought to do the same.  My  reasons have evolved though and that is no longer my purpose.

Perhaps a better question to ask is why do I like to write?  That really is the heart of the issue.  Most people don't seem to write much unless for business purposes.  For me, it is therapeutic.  It also helps me to organize my thoughts in a way that I can "test" them.  What I mean is that it forces me to evaluate the logic of an argument in such a way that it either enforces or disproves (at least based on my current level of knowledge) any theory I might have about controversial topics.

Hmmm....I have been trying to avoid most controversial topics since restarting this blog other than a few political observations at the beginning.  I suppose that is because I find little value in attempting to inject reason into the realm of politics since it is a field which seems to be completely devoid of reason.

Ultimately, I must confess (mainly to myself), I aspire someday to write a book.  I have started many and finished none.  That probably says something of my character, however, I will blame it on busy-ness rather than on lack of ability to stick with a project.  It seems that every time I embark on a work requiring extended focus I seem to get busy with work.  It is in the slow times that my mind returns to writing.

Writing, like any other skill, requires practice.  This blog is about practice.  It gives me a reason (artificial construct though it is) to write something each and every day.  Hopefully there will occasionally be an "accidental" gem produced that someone will find who is in need of that particular reflection of my experiences and thoughts.  I suppose in that sense, the blog's purpose is two-fold -- practice and a desire to share something of value.  Value is, after all, in the eye of the beholder.  It has often been said that one man's trash is another man's treasure.

As you may have guessed if you have read to this point, today is a day in which I struggled to find something about which to write.  So, I have written of writing.  If you are a writer, you are familiar with the struggle.  For the rest of you, pray for rain; we are in the midst of a drought here.

Surviving the Storms

There is an interesting tree growing down in the woods on our place -- well, there are many interesting trees, but this one is uniquely twisted and gnarled.  It isn't a large tree, but it has obviously had a few challenges to overcome during its life.  I would love to know its story.

It is near an old cattle trail that winds through the woods.  I suspect it was stepped on by a cow and broken when it was only a young shoot rising through the leaf litter and other debris on the ground.  

It may even have been broken multiple times by the look of it as it twists and turns on a tortuous path before rising toward the scant sunlight breaking through the larger trees which overhang the trail.

It is a Bois d'Arc tree.  Bois d'Arc, also known as Osage Orange, or Post Trees are fairly common in our area and known for their hardiness.  Early construction laws required that homes be built on a pier and beam foundation which used Bois d'Arc for the piers since they are extremely resistant to insect damage.

I have pulled old Bois d'Arc fence posts from the ground that were likely put in over 50 years previously.  They show surface damage from tunneling beetles and other insects, but if you cut them in cross-section, the inside is still a bright yellow and completely undamaged other than a gray ring around the outside surface that might penetrate 1/8 to 1/4 inch.

The trees themselves, while green and growing, have a strong springy quality that is said to have inspired the name which I understand comes from early French explorers who noted its quality for making hunting bows.  Many of the Plains tribes used the wood for that very purpose.  It is extremely durable.

The Bois d'Arc is a thorny tree.  The short, thin spines seem to reach out and grab you if you are close to the trees.  They also bear large green fruit which fall to the ground and are eaten by a few animals.  I have seen cows chew on them for extended periods and froth at the mouth from the process.  Hogs, squirrels and other small animals will eat them although they don't seem to be a preferred food of any species.

The Bois d'Arc is a survivor.  I have cut them down frequently only to see them grow back quickly.  They are survivors.  They aren't usually aesthetically pleasing, but they endure.

I suppose I see a certain beauty in them though.  I admire their tenacity, if you could ascribe such a trait to a tree.  They are tough, they are prickly and they endure.  I know a few people like that.  Sometimes I think that's the best kind of person to be -- one who endures the pain and troubles and manages to survive.  They carry lots of scars, but oh, the stories they could tell....

Mabel the Guard Donkey

A few years back we adopted a jenny from the BLM's Wild Horse and Burro adoption program.  We called her Mabel.  She had been a resident of a BLM facility in Oklahoma prior to coming our way.

We adopted her because we had been having trouble with coyotes and black vultures harassing new born calves and their mothers.  We had lost a few calves and decided a "guard donkey" was probably the best solution.

We considered purchasing a donkey locally, but thought one that had been born in the wild would have stronger protective instincts than one that was raised in a purely domesticated situation.  Sure enough, Mabel was true to her heritage and was a protective mother to our baby calves even though they weren't her own offspring.

I spent some time with Mabel breaking her to a halter and to lead.  She never completely adjusted to human guidance, but did become less intractable with time.

We needed Mabel because cattle today have had most of their survival instincts bred out of them.  They are used to man caring for them rather than having to cope with a far-from-benevolent natural world which would quickly take their life in the never ending struggle for survival.  We have civilized them -- bred the "fitness" from them.

I think sometimes that is one of the biggest problems with civilized humanity today....

The Hollow Log

Walking through the woods the other day I came across a large hollow log balanced on the bank of a creek.  It was almost 3 feet in diameter and much of it had been broken.  It stretched 12 feet long or longer from end to end.

It appeared to be the remains of a white oak, although it was difficult to tell.  White oak are common in the area and one of the few trees that grow tall and straight to such a large size.  The creek on which this fallen giant lay is a feeder to what is known as "White Oak Bottom" which is the tree and brush-choked course of White Oak Creek winding eastward a short distance to the south.

To be that size, the tree was likely over 50 years old.  It had withstood wind, flood and drought, but it was unable to withstand the constant attack of the insects which are probably what felled it.  Most likely it had lain for many years somewhere along the course of the creek until decay left only a shell which became light enough to float along the frequently flooded waterway to the point where it lodged along the bank.

I'm sure that while it lived it provided shelter for birds and squirrels and food in the form of acorns for the same as well as for deer, feral hogs and other wildlife which break open the hard shells for the nutritious meat of the nut.  It now provided shelter of a different sort for some of the smaller denizens of the neighborhood.

It was large enough that I could almost squeeze into its hollow core although the thought wasn't especially appealing due to the numerous insects and spiders which lived there.  It brought to mind, though, the many times I have read or, saw in a movie, where someone hid inside a hollowed log.  It certainly seemed possible except for the fact it was open at either end and any occupant was readily visible.

Many things crossed my mind as I looked into what once held the heart of this mighty tree.  I thought of the corruption that eats from the inside and I thought of the shell which was once a mighty sentinel.  It made me think of aging and dying and of bones that molder into the earth to provide sustenance for the creatures of the soil.  Birth, life and death are but a momentary flash within the passage of time.  It was a reminder to make certain that brief span is lived with purpose.

The Tracks We Leave Behind

Although we sometimes think we're small

And no one knows our name

We leave our tracks upon the earth

That show the way we came.

Life is short, our days are few

But, think of where you go

For there are those who walk behind

That you may never know

Who seek to follow in your steps

Wherever they may trod.

So, make your pathway straight and true

Led by the Hand of God.

Reality Check

Nothing is real until it is experienced and even then we have our doubts.

Experiential knowledge surpasses "book" knowledge.  Once we have done something -- seen something -- then knowledge moves from head to heart.

Sometimes, from the same, or similar experience, we learn different truths.  Sometimes what we thought we learned was incorrect and must be re-learned.  From repeated mistakes comes a different view of reality.

We are weak and fallible creatures who are faultless until experiential wisdom proves otherwise.

Never accept what you think you know as truth.  All things in this life are tainted by corruption from "the fall." -- Genesis Chapter 3


I've no idea why my thoughts have taken this direction this morning.  Perhaps it is because today is an anniversary.  It is a signpost along the pathway of aging, of maturity, of the passage of time.  It is a day to remember overcoming shortcomings and struggles and remembering joys and victories.  It is a realization that there is an end ahead which marks the termination of the temporal and a heightened awareness of the eternal.  It will be an awakening of true knowledge.-- 1 Corinthians Chapter 15

Endless Repetition

Have you noticed how life is often a series of endless repetition?  The daily routine of getting out of bed, getting dressed, eating, going to work, etc. is an endless repetition of sameness.  Oh, we try to vary the routine somewhat by eating different foods, wearing different clothes, etc., but all-in-all, it is the same thing over and over again.

Mowing the yard is another one of those tasks as is feeding the cattle, feeding the dogs, filling the pickup and car with fuel and on and on.  Why is life so repetitive?

Repetition occurs on a much larger scale than just our daily routines.  The moon goes repetitively around the earth, the earth around the sun and the galaxy itself spirals in endless motion.  The seasons repeat, the weather repeats, long-term climate cycles repeat.  The entirety of the universe is cyclical in nature with repetition built into everything.

It is no wonder that some religions believe in a life/death cycle in which the dead come back as someone, or something else.  Everything is cyclical so why not an eternal existence as various beings?  I don't buy it, but some do.

The same type of thinking leads to a theory of balance -- that it is a "zero sum" game.  For every good there is a corresponding evil.  I don't subscribe to that theory either.  I see good and evil as antagonistic, not balancing complementary states.  Ultimately, I believe good will overcome and in fact, I believe it has already occurred through the death, burial and resurrection of Jesus, but from a temporal perspective, the fulfillment is not observable yet.

Some day we all will see that there is more to life than endless repetition.  The first step is to recognize the salvation from this life that rests in Jesus alone.  -- John 14:6

A Week of Sales Calls

Some days it is difficult to know what to write.  Perhaps, some days, I should write nothing, however, when I restarted this blog a month ago, I committed to myself to write something every day if possible.  I think I have missed one.

This past week was one of travel for business.  I was making sales calls.  Such weeks tire me, yet there is much that needs done here and I struggle with thoughts that I need to be out "ticking things off my list" when what I am doing is sitting at the computer and wishing for a nap although it is only 8:15 in the morning.

It is good to be back home.  I don't sleep well when traveling.  Even though motels look much the same wherever they might be -- whether of the same chain or different -- there is variety in the comfort of the bed and in the most important of all things, the thermostat in the room.  It seems I can never get the thermostat set to a level that is consistently comfortable.

Typically when I travel for business I have at least one or two set appointments.  I also like to do some "cold calling" on such trips if time allows.  It is difficult to coordinate schedules so that I can have back-to-back-to-back scheduled meetings without slack time, so I fill that slack by "dropping in" on potential customers.  I did a lot of that this week.

Many people in sales dread making cold calls.  I think they are my favorite type of call.  It is always interesting to see how you will be received and whether or not you will actually have the opportunity to present your pitch to someone with the power to make a decision.  I always assume on a cold call that it is merely exploratory to see if there is interest which might lead to further calls and ultimately a sale.  Rarely in the type of services that I represent do you make a sale on the first call.

One call this week will go in my "Effective Techniques in Sales" book which will likely never be written.  I dropped by a potential customer and asked for the manager by name.  He was not in his office, but was out dealing with something.  His assistant, however, called him on the phone and let him know that I was there and would like to visit with him.  He said yes, and that he would be back to the office in a few minutes.

I waited patiently for about 5 minutes for him to come in.  When he did, I reintroduced myself to him since it had been many years since I had previously met him and he didn't really remember me.  He said, "You've got 2 minutes," and proceeded to take me into his office where he offered me a seat.  Usually the "you've got 2 minutes" doesn't go with an offer to take a seat.

I gave him my 20 second "elevator speech" and said, "That's it.  Now, what are we going to talk about for the next minute and a half?"  He looked at me and kind of chuckled and said, "Hmmm.....I'm interested, tell me more."

That is always what a salesperson wants to hear -- the prospect asking for more information.  Forty-five minutes later I left with the promise to follow up in the near future.

Will it lead to a sale?  I don't know, but it is the kind of call that makes what I do gratifying.

Josiah Gregg

Yesterday, while heading back to Amarillo from Garden City, Kansas, I decided to take a route that I normally avoid for various reasons.  It was partly because I was a little off the beaten path after making a few sales calls on prospective customers and partly because I hadn't been that way in many years.

I came across a historical marker that I had never stopped to read (on Texas 136 northwest of Amarillo).  It was about Josiah Gregg and the Fort Smith to Santa Fe Trail.  It seems that in 1840, Josiah Gregg, one of the most famous Santa Fe Traders, explored a new route from Santa Fe to Fort Smith, Arkansas.  Instead of the well-traveled trail which followed the Arkansas River, he set off across the plains following the south bank of the Canadian River across the Texas Panhandle.

Gregg wrote a detailed account of the terrain and water sources which became invaluable to the U.S. Cavalry in the later wars against the Indians of the Southern Plains.

A brief history of Gregg can be found at the following link:

Josiah Gregg

A great resource for those interested, is the Atlas of Texas Historical Markers.  Whenever I have the time I enjoy stopping to read the markers.  There is a lot of interesting history scattered along the wayside of the roads and highways of the Great Lone Star State.

Deeper Conversations

A part of my job is sales.  It isn't what most people think of as sales, because it requires that a relationship be developed that includes a high level of trust.  I have no desire to merely sell a product to someone, I want to make my customer's life easier and I can only do that if I can deliver value to them.

Over time, what began as a business relationship can develop into friendship.  We often claim friendship with others with whom we enjoy spending time, but frequently it is a fairly shallow type of friendship.  It is rare that you can truly relate to someone on a level which allows you to talk of important things such as faith and struggles.

I had the good fortune today to spend time with someone I consider a friend.  We met this afternoon in a business setting, but were able to spend some time together this evening talking about family, faith and some of the struggles we deal with -- much of it work related, but some of which was not.  I value such times.  They are a reminder that there is more to life than work and things.

Life is better when we take the time to build relationships that allow for deeper conversations.

1 John 4:11
Prov. 27:17

A Neglected Hobby

About four years ago I decided to try a new hobby -- watercolor painting.  Above is a sample of what I painted.  This one is probably my favorite.  I drew it from a historic photograph I found on the Internet.

It is a bit caricaturish -- I'm sure that isn't a word, but it describes it anyway.  The most difficult part was drawing the picture.  Mixing colors with watercolor seemed fairly simple to me except for the fact that I usually didn't get quite enough mixed up of the color that I wanted and then had to attempt to recreate it.  Sometimes the match was fairly good and sometimes not.

To me, watercolor seems more forgiving than many other paints.  That may just be my naivete talking.  I drew a little when much younger, but never attempted painting.  In spite of the amateurish look, I suppose I was proud of it.

It is easy to become discouraged when attempting something new like this at such a late stage in life -- especially when the vision in my head doesn't quite make it onto paper in the same way it is in my head.  I need to find time to work at it some more.  It just takes me awhile to get in the right frame of mind to be creative.  Maybe the next attempts will be a little better....