Anticipation

Marilyn is out standing in her field.

With wheat harvest quickly sneaking up on us, I (Marilyn) thought it was time to go have a look-see at my small plot of grain! So Roxie and I took a country drive last night. Each field of wheat we passed gave us hope and encouragement! Upcoming harvest is an exciting time, even for those who don’t actually own land or run the combine! The buzz of excitement is contagious and, in farm country, even the city folk are excited to see what the results of the crops will be! The fields of wheat are starting to show great signs of those famous “amber waves of grain” blowing and bowing as the wind tosses them to and fro. As we walked into my little plot of land, Roxie was as excited as I was! She took pictures of the wheat heads and of me, as I surveyed the heads of grain blowing across my field. It had been a long time since I’d been to the wheat field. I’ve become more and more of a “city girl” and just don’t get out to the country as often as I once did. Standing in the midst of the wheat, though, I felt right at home once again. Sounds and smells of the country took me back to my country roots. Meadowlarks were fluttering and singing as a soft south breeze blew the warm evening air. Thunderheads were building up towards the south, lending themselves as a lovely backdrop for the pictures Roxie was taking of the nearly-golden heads of grain. A heavy wheat smell wafted through the air as the kernels of grain are ripening. Roxie and I both thought my crop looked good, with heads full of grain still in a milky stage. But I wanted my farmer-brother’s more knowledgeable opinion about my wheat stand, so we drove a little further to the farm. After all, he’s outstanding in his field! (Yes, that pun’s intended!) Brother agreed: “The crop looks good, Sis!” As Roxie and I made our way back to town, we passed several lagoons full of water from our recent much-needed rains. As we drove over hills, we looked across fields of wheat and green pastures, and we truly felt as if we were Country Girls once again. The white elevators stood straight and tall in the distance, framed by deep blue rain clouds and lush fields. As the country roads soon gave way to city streets, I realized that my life is so different from how it once was. My heart still holds the country life dear, but not being involved in it on a daily basis any longer, makes me miss it. For those of you who are country folk, I know your hearts will understand my ramblings! If you’re one of the folks who get your hands and faces dirty during wheat harvest, ENJOY it! It only comes around once a year!

Attack of the killer rooster

Following is an excerpt from Marilyn’s book. We think (hope/pray) that we are nearly finished with it.

Dad’s dad had an ornery streak in him when it came to roosters and he set a bad example for me. Grandma always had lots of chickens and several roosters. I followed Grandpa around his farm, and one day he showed me how to make a rooster mad.

Grandpa picked up a large stick and jabbed it at the rooster until the bird’s feathers stood up on his back. As the rooster grew angrier with every jab, we stepped away from the fence and let the rooster’s rage fester.

Thank goodness, Grandma’s chickens were locked inside their fence.

Not so with Mom’s chickens. Our chickens were allowed to roam freely. They kept down the weeds and grasshoppers and grew pretty hefty on nature’s provisions.

Sometime later, I decided to tease one of Mom’s old roosters, just like I’d seen my grandpa do! Dad warned me that this would come back to bite me. He told me not to come crying to him when the rooster decided to attack me.

I ignored Dad’s wise words.

Every day, I picked on Mom’s old rooster, making him angrier each time. One day, the rooster showed me just how furious I’d made him. When I turned my back, he ruffled up his feathers, making him look twice as big as he really was. He spread out his wings, put his head down, and charged me as fast as he could! Just in time, I saw him coming towards me at full rooster speed, and ran as fast as I could to the gated yard! With him right behind me, I slammed the gate shut. He crashed full speed into it. That made him even madder!

I was terrified!

As I stared at that rooster, I remembered my dad’s strong words of caution about pestering the rooster and the price I’d have to pay.

Now what?

Even though Dad had warned me, I thought Mom and Dad would be sympathetic.

I went into the house crying and I told Mom what had just happened.

She didn’t act one bit surprised and had no sympathy on me whatsoever. She reminded me that I’d been warned!

I asked her how I was supposed to go outside and do my chores. She told me I’d have to figure that out myself. She didn’t relieve me of any of my chores.

I had to come up with a plan to protect myself from my stalker. I decided to carry a broom handle with me everywhere I went!

That rooster seemed to know when I gathered the eggs. He always heard or saw me coming and tried to ambush me seemingly every time. Immediately, his feathers ruffled and his head went down. He started strutting right towards me!

Even though I always carried the broom handle, he still scared me! As he got closer, I pounded the broom handle on the ground and he stopped. But instead of fleeing from me, he just stood there and glared me. I didn’t dare turn my back on him.

When I slowly walked away from him, he inched towards me, staying just out of the broom handle’s range. While I gathered the eggs from the chicken coop, he stood in the doorway. Every line of his body said, “Just try and get past me!”

So I didn’t try. I evaded him. I always went out the other door, slamming it behind me! I took the long way back to the house with the precious eggs and my broom handle. Most of the time, I fooled the rooster and he went back to being master of the hens.

Several times I forgot my trusty broom handle. He always seemed to know when I was defenseless. He appeared out of nowhere, feathers ruffled and head down, ready to charge! I ran as fast as I could across the yard to escape the rooster’s wrath!

One day, Dad needed my assistance to sort cattle in the corral. Dad was in a hurry and ordered me to not to waste any time meeting him in the barn.

Grabbing the trusty broom handle, I sprinted across the yard towards the barn. Out from behind the tractor came the rooster, eager to attack me. Since Dad’s wrath was to be feared much more than the rooster’s, I swung the broom handle as hard as I could at the rooster. BOOM! I whacked him squarely in the head. He keeled over right before my very eyes. I had killed Mom’s rooster! Oh, no! Now I’d have Mom’s wrath to deal with as well! Incurring my mother’s wrath was not to be taken lightly either.

I ran to the barn and told Dad what had happened. His expression told me he was not pleased with me at all.

As we started sorting the cattle, Mom entered the barn.

Oh, dear. I was in deep do-do now!

Looking straight at me, she asked what I’d done to the old rooster. She saw him wobbling across the yard like a drunk and knew I’d done something to him.

I quickly spilled my story. I told her that I had whacked him hard with the broom handle so he’d leave me alone.

She said that most likely this had done the trick, but that she’d better not see me teasing any more roosters.

I wasn’t about to tease any more roosters. Oh, no. Not after that. Lesson was not just learned; it was burned into my head. He was the first and last rooster I ever picked on!

That old rooster had learned his lesson too. He never came after me again. He still kept a wary eye on me, but from a distance.

We had called a truce.

The rooster lived to a ripe old age. When he died, he was so old that Mom feared he would be too tough to use in noodle soup!

A very redneck Christmas

Marilyn writes about her boss’s Christmas gift in her best imitation of redneck style.

As our admissions team considered a nice (or not-so-nice) Christmas present for our Director of Admissions, ideas flew through our office like reindeer on a mission! The result was the Ultimate Redneck Survival Kit, a gift we knew Gary would be so happy to receive. Not only did this gift have its hilarious aspects, most of the items were very practical, and they may become a lifesaver! As Tiffini and I put together this lovely gift set, our excitement grew. On the day we packaged the items, we were laughing so hard, we could hardly contain ourselves! (Yes, some people are easily entertained!) Of course, one needs the Ultimate Gift Box in which to place the lovely items. An old cardboard box with duck-taped edges came to our rescue! In Tiff’s best Redneck style, she wrote, “Redneck Survival Kit” on the side. Inside the box were some unusual gifts, each wrapped in their own special gift bag: a lovely brown paper lunch bag! Each gift came with a set of instructions, so that Gary could figure out how they were to be used. Hopefully, those in Redneck Land will appreciate Redneck Survival Kit instructions: A man who is outside in every kind of weather needs a Redneck Weather 4-Caster. We made it from a large block of wood with a twig duck taped to the side of it. We found some bright red yarn from Grandma’s sewing basket to hang from the twig. In our best Redneck handwriting, we listed possible 4-casts: *If yarn is swinging side to side, it’s WINDY. *If yarn is wet, it’s RAINING. *If yarn is white, it’s SNOWING. *If yarn is still, it’s STILL. *If yarn is gone, TAKE SHELTER! Yes ma’am, every Redneck needs one of those! Then you have the Redneck Wynd Chyme. Find an old board about 3 feet long, and gather those darn beer cans left in the yard from the last party there. Yessirree, then take some good ol’ wire and wrap three strands of it around the ol’ board. Then take those dirty ol’ beer cans and wrap the wire through the tabs. HEY, NOW, THAT’S ONE NICE WYND CHYME! Gary is quite the outdoorsman. He goes motorcycling in the summer and snowmobiling in the winter. We wanted to make sure that he was cared for on his outings. Every snowmobiler needs his own set of munchies. We found some Rodent Roughage that sure looked and tasted like those salted peanuts at the local farm stores. We came across some Reindeer Turdz that sure did look like chocolate-covered raisins. Then there was the all-important Fish Bate. That sure did look slimy, but it tasted just fine, kinda like those gummy worms the kids like to eat. Now Tiff is quite the city gal. So she found Gary some good ol’ sushi! Yessirree, she sure did! That was the best-tasting sushi I’d ever had. Kinda reminded me of sugarcoated gummy worms! I could eat quite a few of those myself! That Tiff was really a-thinkin’ about Gary’s safety out there in them bitter-cold mountains on that snowmobile, yessir. In case his brakes went out, she made an Emergency Snowmobile Brake. She found this red brick in her backyard, and tied some of that there bright red yarn around it. If Gary throws it out in the snow, hopefully the brick will catch something in a short time, maybe a tree root, and snowmobile will come to a screeching halt! Of course, a man could get lost in them there mountains on a snowy day. A Redneck GPS system sure could come in handy. This little bag contained what could be mistaken for sunflower seeds. The instructions said, “Leave a trail of these behind you so that you can find your way home. If the seeds are gone, hunt down that darn rodent who ate ’em and KILL him!” Oh there ya go! Sure ’nuff, no one should be without a good ol’ GPS. Of course, we all know Gary’s quite a b.s.-er. What snowmobiler isn’t?

We made him his very own B.S. Bag. The instructions on the little brown bag said, “When the B.S. starts to flow, blow into this bag. The B.S. makes good fertilizer. Spread it on your yard. Can be used around lawyers offices and political scenes as well.” Then we made B.S. Filters. They are to be used when the B.S. Bag just isn’t enough. This bag had little black pieces of what tasted like licorice. The idea is to blow through the little holes and then eat it. Oh my, that was one nice little gift. One day when we were looking around the office, we came upon a bunch of what appeared to be a stack of old wedding rings. As we wondered where on earth those came from, we realized that this Slinky-like gadget must be all Gary’s old wedding bands. Yessiree! So being the nice pals that we are, we put them in this box right where they belong! We also found some Lady Hookers. Yeesirree, you take a box of them there cute little candy canes and use ’em to hook you a gal!

And then we made up a document that Gary might need again one day. Yep, some Day-Vorce papers for ol’ Gary. Now that was quite the document. Instead of copying it all here, ask Gary to show you. You will enjoy it much more that way! So as I sign off from Redneck Land, I wish each of you a very Merry Christmas! As you work in your back yards this summer, keep in mind that many of the little things out there can be put to good use next Christmas! Everyone has a Redneck pal somewhere!

No-bake cookies or no-bake chicken feed?

I’m not one who likes to make cookies for Christmas. Or for any other occasion! Cookies are just too time-consuming for my taste.

Well, this year I [Marilyn] have a somewhat different outlook on cookie baking.

A friend of mine from church seldom has an opportunity to splurge on such things as ingredients to bake cookies. She asked me a few weeks ago if she and I could bake some cookies for Christmas.

Since it was for her, I bought ingredients for several types of cookies and some fudge. Last Saturday morning, she came to my house and we made cookies. We had a great time visiting and making cookies and fudge.

One of the recipes was “No-Bake Cookies.” I’d made these cookies many times in years past, and knew they were easy and delicious! I measured out the ingredients and mixed them. We then took spoonfuls of them and dropped them onto the foil.

I was rather mystified when the cookies didn’t hold together well. They seemed rather dry. So I added a tad more milk. They were still dry, but we continued making the cookies.

When all the baking was done, I sent home tons of goodies for my friend and her husband, with plans to give most of mine away at work on Monday.

After our family had Sunday dinner, I gave my brother some of the cookies we’d made the day before.

That afternoon, I decided to try one of those funny-looking no-bake cookies. I bit into half of the cookie, quickly spitting it out! I thought, “OH NO! What did I do wrong!” I got the cookbook out and read the directions more carefully.

“Well, I had the ingredients correct… let’s see here… OH NO. NO WAY!” The recipe said to heat the ingredients on the stove to melt the baking cocoa into the rest of the ingredients! How could I have missed that very important piece of the recipe? No wonder the cookies were dry and wouldn’t stick together!

I called my brother first thing the next morning and asked if he and his wife had tasted any of the cookies.

He said, “Sis, what did you do to those no-bake cookies? They were AWFUL! We had to throw them out to the chickens!”

We laughed as I told him that I’d forgotten one key detail: to melt the ingredients on the stove.

My brother said, “Oh, well, the chickens ate ’em just fine! But your fudge was sure good!”

When I told my boss the no-bake cookie story, he smiled and laughed, as he nodded his head. He said that my friend had taken some of her cookies to the church’s Christmas decorating party that night. She was sharing with everyone how much fun we’d had making cookies. She then said, “We must have done something wrong with one batch, though, ’cause they’re awful! But please don’t tell Marilyn ’cause I don’t wanna hurt her feelings!”

Maybe I need to make cookies a tad more often?

Tripping the chickens

Following is an excerpt from Marilyn’s autobiography, Splashes of Rainbows and Feathers.

The milking barn had been built many years before my parents bought our place. I loved the old barn, and spent many hours exploring the hayloft. The barn smelled of hay and milk, a smell I came to love.

In the summertime, the big door to the barn was left open. Mom’s setting hens would wander in there and make nests in the straw. Being a curious and sometimes-mischievous farm girl, I would wander in there, looking to see what fun I could stir up. When I saw those old hens sitting on their nests, I’d get ideas!

One particular day, Tim and I devised what we thought was a fun game with those hens!

Tim and I strung baling twine up and down the sides of the open door to the barn, one layer over another. When we were finished, the only way to get in or out of the door was to crawl under or over our twine trap!

I gave Tim an old broom and told him to go behind the hens and chase them off their nests! Tim went in slowly and the hens saw him. They hunkered down in their nests of straw and began to cluck softly. Tim pounded the straw behind them with the broom. They clucked and squawked and flew off their nests. Straw and dirt flew everywhere! The more the hens squawked and flew around, the harder Tim hit the straw. He soon had all the hens off their nests and tried to “herd” them toward the open barn door.

I stood outside the door and watched as the hens tried to fly over the twine we’d strung up! The air was filled with feathers, dirt and straw. The hens tried their hardest to fly over the layers of twine. The hens made an unbelievable racket when they either got hung up in the layers of twine or escaped, fleeing for their lives!

I laughed so hard I could hardly stand upright! Tim was laughing hysterically back in the barn! I can only imagine how this must have sounded from the house.

Of course our mother did not miss all this commotion and racket. She ran across the yard, yelling the entire time! Mom did not find our antics at all funny because these were her laying hens. She gave us quite a stern speech and threatened to have Dad tan our hides when he came home. After getting such a fright, the hens didn’t lay one solitary egg for days!

The Santa Tree

Our community is hosting a live auction this weekend to assist Big Brothers/Big Sisters. The project is designing a Christmas tree and then letting it be auctioned off at a local craft fair, with proceeds going to BB/BS.

Two little elves in [Marilyn’s] office gladly jumped on this project!

Tiffini and Marilyn excitedly went to the shopping palace in town: Walmart! There we jingled our way up and down the aisles that were laden with new Christmas ornaments! As we gave consideration to what theme our tree would be, our heads were full of lollipops and sugarplums! As Christmas tunes played over our heads, we slowly gathered our thoughts and re-focused on the project at hand!

We picked out our tree first: a white, pre-lit 5-foot Christmas tree. We then looked at all the new ornaments hanging on the display racks and decided to go with a Santa Claus theme.

As we packed our sleigh with ornaments of all sizes and shapes, we felt the Christmas spirit rise inside us! We found ornaments that were painted like Santa’s tummy, complete with a big black belt! We found red and white frosted garland, and red and white ornaments, as well as a red cozy hat for the tree topper!

Elf Tiff came up with a plan for covering the legs of the tree stand: two pair of SIZE 9 WOMEN’S BOOTS!

The reindeer flew us back to the office, where we assembled the little white tree. As we added more and more ornaments to our tree, passersby would stop and ask us why we had started decorating so early! We also got comments on why we chose a white tree.

When it came time to put the boots on the little tree, we put our heads together and came up with a great plan: we cut the boots open in the back so that they’d slide on the legs easily. We hot-glued them back together and then made cute red ribbon decorations to http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifglue across the tops of the boots. Red bows were then glued onto the sides of the boots, complete with some tiny jingle bells!

The little white Santa Claus tree is now sitting pretty inside the front door of the office, waiting for the trek across the street on Saturday. That afternoon, she’ll be auctioned off with the proceeds benefiting a good charity.

Update: The Santa Tree brought the most at the auction.

Patty the Pengoosatross

My wife left me [Steve] today. Though we live in the U.S. of A., she is headed for Argentina. She muttered something about the gauchos and walked out the door.

In truth, she is on a sojourn, not a rebellious abandonment. My wife, I call her Patty because that is what her parents always called her, was born in Argentina. She is returning to her place of birth, back to the old pampas stomping grounds.

Penguins trek back to their place of birth, too. Remember March of the Penguins
Every March, through an inborn instinct, the little penguins would start asking questions, like “Where am I from, Daddy? What is my purpose in life?” Of course, the answer to the second question was, “You have no purpose.” For the first question, though, the parents and aunts and uncles and next-door neighbors had an answer: “Here, let me show you.” So they all packed their fresh tuxedos and woolen mittens and took a long walk. They walked all month. This is what is known as The March of the Penguins.

You may think I have gone off track from the story. No. The point is that Patty is just like the penguin. Except for the nice suit. And except she is going in November instead of March.

Patty is also like the goose. How could this be? Because she is flying, not walking. Geese are forever migrating, always flying in that “V” formation. When the weather in the north gets cold, they fly south. By the time they get to their destination, it is so hot that they turn around and go back north.

Patty and her family, from various parts of the U.S. of A., will meet in Miami before their flight to Buenos Aires. Does this mean that Patty is like the flamingo? Well, she does love wearing pink. However, if she stands on one leg she tends to tip over. Thus, after due consideration, I have to conclude that Patty is not like the flamingo.

Patty will be going with her dad and her three brothers on this hiatus. Only Patty was born in Argentina, and thus only she is on this birthplace-sojourn thing. However, the family lived there for many years during the children’s formative years. Thus the inner child of all four siblings lives in Argentina. The inner child of Patty’s dad lives in Colorado, but a big part of his heart still lives in Argentina.

Patty’s mom has passed on to Heaven, but she will be so utterly close in heart and spirit, that she is truly traveling with them. Thus, the whole family will be sojourning to a very significant time in their lives, a place and time with so many memories that this beautiful family shares in such deep ways.

This will be an incredibly fantastic trip. First is the fact that the family will be on this adventure together. Secondly, the sites will be strikingly beautiful. Thirdly, they will be visiting with old friends who the sibs haven't seen in 37 years! (Dad visited them just 28 years ago, so it's just not going to be the same for him.)

One very beautiful place they will be is Patagonia, way down at the bottom of South America. It's further south than Australia or even New Zealand. For a few days they will be staying in Ushuaia. This is the southernmost city in the world! Now that’s really down under, mate.

In Patagonia they will see albatrosses. These birds have the longest wingspan among all birds! They soar gracefully through the sky as majestic as something — well, something very majestic. Is Patty like the albatross? You betcha. The emotions from the depth of her soul, from her inner child in fact, will be soaring like the albatross as she surveys the beauty all around her.

And guess who else lives in Patagonia. The penguins! Coincidence? I don’t think so.

So, to sum up, Patty is like the penguin. She is like the goose. And she is like the albatross. She is very much like the Pengoosatross.

A night in segregation

Hubby contributes this post. He works as a correctional officer in a medium-security prison.

When students of American history think of the word “segregation”, the turbulent late 1950s and ’60s come to mind. Citizens in that period united to give African Americans and other minorities equal treatment and rights under the Constitution. One epic figure associated with segregation’s defense was Alabama Gov. George Wallace. He was notorious for standing in a school doorway saying “Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.”

In a prison, “segregation” is the punishment unit, a jail within the prison. Hubby often serves as the overnight segregation unit officer. Inmates are sentenced to segregation for various offenses, including assault, threats, refusing to lock down, weapons possession, tattooing and hooch (homemade alcohol) making. Other inmates are in “seg” because they have accumulated too many points to remain in a medium-security prison. They are in seg awaiting transfer to a maximum-security prison.

This segregation unit is mild compared to those at super-maximum facilities shown on television programs. Inmates here are usually respectful to seg officers because the officer is their lifeline to forms, toilet paper, telephone privileges, books, haircuts, showers and recreation. Inmates are locked down in solitary confinement for 22 hours a day, seven days a week. They have the right to three meals a day and necessary medical services. Time is allotted for “dog pen” recreation and locked showers.

Three of segregation inmates’ favorite pastimes are fishing, window signing and “playing” officers.

In “fishing”, inmates remove long threads from their blankets, making them in to fishing line. Inmates tie some object onto the thread for a weight, then fling it underneath their cell doors toward their cells. Coffee, food and even dangerous contraband can be exchanged by fishing inmates. Some are so skilled that they can cast their lines sideways or from tier to tier. The line makes a zipping sound.

Fishing is the ultimate cat-and-mouse game. Seg officers love to snag lines, take contraband, then scoff at the inmates. Officers have been known to place a candy bar in the middle of the floor and let inmates fish for it. This is discouraged because fishing in seg goes against post operational rules. Inmates are supposed to be written up for fishing.

Inmates communicate with each other through window signing. They quickly draw out letters in their windows to form words. They also sometimes use code while flashing their lights.

Playing officers is not limited to seg. It occurs throughout all levels of the prison. Inmates are constantly trying to con officers for special privileges and item trading. In extreme cases, inmates wear down officers over time to get them to bring in liquor, tobacco products, outside messages or even nude pictures. Too often, officers have been sexually compromised.

American prisons have a zero tolerance for any sexual activity among inmates or between staff and inmates. Despite common jokes, no room for consensual sex exists. Officers work hard to eliminate prison rape. Rape is no laughing matter.

Good officers always try to do what’s right. Integrity is everything in a prison setting.

Great Fall of 2008

Early October. Indian summer. Leaves changing colors with each stroke of God’s brush. All is well with the world. I [Steve] tuck myself into bed after a glorious day.

Midnight alert. I am hungry; I am thirsty. Out of bed. Upstairs for food and drink. Going back downstairs. Lose balance. The Great Fall of 2008.

My wife, Patty, heard a loud thumping noise at midnight and came running. To her horror, she saw that I had fallen down the stairs yet again. There I was at the bottom of the stairs. I had fallen from about the fifth stair from the bottom. With gravity and physics being what they are, the fall’s effect was magnified 10 times.

My wife and I are continually suffering accidents. We’re not those extreme sports people who are expected to have extreme injuries. We are simply trying to make our way through life. People will tell you we are terrific wimps. Don’t believe them. We are true Victims of Pain.

I was transporting my beverage in a large insulated cup. The really hard, brittle plastic type. Not the soft squish-as-you-wish plastic. Upon impact the cup shattered into devilish shards which slashed long bloody scratches into my abdomen. I landed hard on the right side of my ribcage, the cage which God had the foresight to create to protect one’s heart. My knees had multiple layers of skin burned off
(i.e., they were scraped). The tip of one finger was painfully smashed. But most dramatic of all was the fork event. I had been carrying a fork which complemented the consumption of food. The seemingly-innocent eating instrument I had been carrying showed its true nature and embedded itself into my chin. I released my hand from it, but it remained in my chin. A little tug and it decided to come out under such physical duress. Its departure was followed by copious amounts of blood.

I am not making up any part of this Great Fall. The fork incident may have been the strangest, grossest thing that has ever happened to me. Ironically, it was the only injury which never caused me pain.

Patty got me to bed, cleaned up the blood, patched up my knees, and stuck cotton balls into the holes in my chin. (I am exaggerating here.) She gave me a peck on the forehead and said, in a sweet little voice, “Remember, Honey, it’s through pain by which we grow.” (Oh, I guess she said this after the visit to the doctor. What do I know what she said that night? I was nearly comatose from shock and pain.)

Though she said this, Patty and I are actually both very sensitive people, and the Witness of Pain suffers just as much the Victim of Pain.

Anyway, four full days passed with incredibly painful ribs and knees. Actually the ribs didn’t hurt too much if I kept my body perfectly still in certain positions to which my ribs did not object. Any movement, though, was knife-stabbing pain.

On the fifth day my ribs suddenly started feeling much better. I would not have gone to the doctor except I had already made the appointment.

I went to the doctor’s office. After they did much poking and prodding around my ribs, I have returned to my original pain level. I hate when they push down somewhere and you nearly jump through the ceiling. They push down again and casually ask, “Is this where it hurts?” Push. Another jump. “Right there, eh?”

In writing this, I am not looking for sympathy, though greatly earned. I also did not fall in order to have a blog entry on Roxie’s site. I am writing about the Great Fall of 2008 simply to help you, the reader. I want to use my pain for your benefit. If you should ever fracture or bruise a rib, follow these instructions:

1. Don’t move.

2. Don’t see a doctor. Other than inducing further pain, a doctor can do nothing to treat your injury.

3. Take sleeping pills and avoid wakefulness at all costs.

4. For pain, take two aspirin with Coca-Cola while listening to rock-n-roll or popular jazz. WARNING: This is not an FDA-approved treatment. Avoid heavy machinery, sharp objects and stairways during use of this treatment. Possible side effects may include, but are not limited to, runny nose, stinging eyes, systemic rash, migraine
headaches, rib pain, heart failure or death.

5. Never cough, sneeze, or hiccup. Boy, does that hurt.

By the way, I am currently pricing in-home elevators.

Broken arm equals found pet

I [Steve] grew up in a town of about 3,000 people in Northern California. Town was a major destination for Bay-Area tourists because we had a large lake that welcomed fishermen and water skiers. My dad (now retired) was a family doctor there for about 35 years.

One summer my brother, about 16 years old at that time, had a job at a gas station. Are you old enough to remember the days when they pumped your gas for you, washed the windshield, and checked the oil? That’s what my brother did. One day a lonely dog showed up at the station. Dog had no tags and he knew of no way to find the owners unless they showed up looking for their dog. When no one showed up by day’s end, he brought the dog home.

Later that same summer, my dad was relaxing at home when the telephone rang. The phone rings a lot when your father is a small-town doctor who literally goes on house calls or to the hospital any time of the day, any day of the week. This call was from the hospital saying they had a boy with a broken arm.

As Dad was setting the arm, he talked to the boy to try to keep him as distracted as possible from the pain. During the conversation, he learned the family was from San Francisco enjoying a summer vacation.

“We brought my dog, too,” the boy said sadly. ”But he got lost and we can’t find him anywhere.”

My dad asked him to describe his dog.

Well, you can guess the end of the story: “The dog is at my house!” my dad exclaimed.

That’s a small town for you. And can you imagine that a boy breaking his arm was his good fortune?

Several years later the same thing happened to my sister when she went to college and was working at her job. She ended up bringing that dog home as well. I think our family must have some odor about us that dogs like.

A Sunday drive in the country

My Soul Brother and friend Steve writes his first guest post. His wife is Marilyn’s cousin, whom I referred to in the new profile picture post.

Sunday afternoon was beautiful this week on the Front Range, so I told my wife I’d like to take her on a 15-minute drive over to the new hospital to see the finished product. “When we get back, I’ll put some chicken on the barbie,” I said.

Patty liked the idea.

After we saw the hospital, it was too nice to go home. Instead, we went exploring for a while. We decided to drive out east of town and enjoy the countryside. Although not our intent, we were soon completely lost.

We eventually found a road going “sorta west” in the direction of home. It was a beautiful drive, so who cared if it was taking a while? Eventually, though, the question came: “Shouldn’t we be there by now?” Suddenly, literally without warning, the paved road turned into gravel. Oh, dear.

However, the street did have a name, and it seemed familiar. That street turned onto County Line Road. Apparently we were still in some county. Then we came to Cowpoke Road and knew we might be in trouble.

So we’re driving on this gravel road DIRECTLY into the sun, blinded. Too far right, we’re stuck in the deep gravel and some soft sand. Too far left, we could be driving into a head-on with a flatbed. Well, carry on.

“I’m sure the road we want is up here in this direction,” said Patty.

Then she exclaimed, “Is that a cow standing in the road up ahead?!”

How did I know? I couldn’t see. Pretty soon, though, I turned to her and commented, “There appears to be a cow standing in the road up ahead.” The biggest cow I had ever seen was standing directly in the center of the road. I slowed down and eventually stopped, looking at the cow. Bessie thought about it, then slowly sauntered off the road. I drove by, staring at the cow. Then she turned and looked straight at us, with menace in her eyes. I wasted no time getting out of there, seeing as Bessie wanted her road-spot back. I chose not to point out to her that the grass was “over there.”

It was evident we were getting nowhere. We’d stop at a farmhouse and make some inquiries. As we had been traveling what seemed like days, maybe we could also get some water and food and go to the bathroom. Nobody was at the first house except a big dog with a very mean bark. I drove down a long driveway to the next house. Upon arrival, five very yippy-yappy little dogs swarmed the car. I immediately turned around, while trying not to squash the yap out of one of the dogs with my front tire.

We finally decided to call it a loss and drive all the way back from whence we came. Along the way I had to stop and make water in a deserted spot on the road (well, all the spots were deserted along that stretch, come to think of it). Further on, we met old Bessie again. She had reclaimed her place smack-dab in the middle of the road. This time she refused to budge. We had no hay to give her. The appeal of our car horn landed on deaf ears. With barely enough road on the side, we carefully and fearfully drove around her. She still had the evil eye.

A pickup emerged on the horizon parked at the side of the road. Just when I thought I’d stop (who says real men don’t ask for directions?), I saw three guys wearing hunting caps. Did they hear me honk at Bessie? I kept going.

About two hours into our 15-minute drive, we found the road back to civilization. At this point, Patty took over the decision-making. “Go directly to Wendy’s,” she said. “I’m starving, I have to pee, and I’m not waiting for any gol-dang barbecue to cook up some chicken. I’m eating me a cow.”

He leads me like a shepherd, Part II

Marilyn and Bruce after their wedding May 5, 1995.

Marilyn resumes her story from yesterday.

I can explain what happened during the wee hours of the next morning only by believing that it was the Holy Spirit’s move in my heart and in my life.

In the darkness of 4:30 a.m. the following day, I was awakened with a sense that I should call the hospital to check on Bruce’s status. But instead of listening immediately to that prick in my spirit, I began to pray for him, and lay awake going over the events of the past several weeks. The phone rang at 5 a.m. A nurse told me to come immediately to the hospital because “your husband is having a hard time breathing and we need you to come.”

As I arrived at the entrance of the hospital, Bruce’s doctor walked in with me. He said not a word, but walked hastily into the building. A nurse friend of mine met us at the door, grabbing my hand urgently. I could tell by the look on her face that something was terribly wrong. At that moment, Doctor told me that I must not go to Bruce’s room until he had seen what was going on there.

My friend led me to a waiting room, where she held my hand and stayed with me. Her face was filled with fear. We began to fervently pray aloud for God’s favor upon Bruce’s life, that he might be restored to complete healing. As tears streamed down our faces, I felt as if I’d been taken from my body. Nothing made sense. It was as if I was watching a movie screen and sobbing through the sad scenes.

Finally, Doctor came to the waiting room. He sat down, looked at the floor, shaking his head. My heart fell to my feet as he shared with me that he was not able to save my husband’s life. He shared with me that at 4:30 a.m. Bruce had begun to have chest pains and had called for assistance. Nursing staff immediately called Doctor and me. By the time Doctor arrived to his room, Bruce’s heart had quit beating. Nothing Doctor did revived it, though Doctor tried repeatedly to do so.

I believe it was at 4:30 a.m. that God sent the Holy Spirit to me to be my Comforter, my Peace, my Protector and my Guide, as He prepared the way for Bruce to go home. Not long after that, Bruce left this world and entered the Kingdom of Heaven, where he now lives forever in a totally new body!

At the moment Doc told me that my husband was not alive, I felt the arms of God surround my own body and soul. Even though I cried desperately and for what seemed an eternity, my heavenly Father held me throughout the entire process. I never lost my sense of direction, of knowing what I needed to do next. I was never in a state of confusion or doubt. Even though I felt like my heart had a huge hole in it that would never be repaired, I knew in an instant that I was not alone. Even though I shed hundreds of buckets of tears, I found an inner strength in me that I never knew existed.

I was heartbroken as I walked out of the hospital toting my husband’s personal belongings with me. It was almost unbearable to bring his shoes, his clothes, his glasses, his wedding ring, home in my hands, leaving his body behind.

As my brother and family drove me home, I watched the cars that we passed on the streets. People were going to work, taking their kids to school, just going about their everyday lives, while my life had just been turned upside down and inside out! It seemed so odd to me that the world was still turning all around me! A gorgeous fall day surrounded me with a crispness in the air mixed with that comforting warmth mixed in.

Entering my home that morning was truly like being in another scene of that same movie. All of a sudden, the house was ominously quiet and still. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound. The house was empty with the knowledge in my heart that my husband would never set foot in our home again. I was here alone from now on.

I would never walk out of our bedroom to see him watching TV or reading on the couch. I would never hear the sound of the shower running while making breakfast. I would never walk into the back yard to find him tinkering on something. I would never see him mowing the lawn again or painting the house eaves or changing oil in the driveway.

As I put Bruce’s belongings on our bed, I walked through my home sobbing. All my family was sobbing: Mom, Dad, Brother. We had lost our husband, our son, our brother, our friend. All our shared memories came flooding back in droves as we each handled our own grief.

Soon my home was brimming with friends, family and food. Our beloved pastor was with me from the moment the doctor had given me the unbearable news until some time late into the evening hours. He held our hands, hugged us, loved us and talked with each visitor who graced my door that day. I remember feeling so much love from so many people during that time, that it amazed me. The phone must have rang for days with wonderful people who wanted to know they loved me and my family.

Bruce’s family arrived and plans began to arrange the funeral service. This was to be no ordinary funeral service. This was a celebration of Bruce’s life and his move from this old earth to his new home in his mansion in heaven!

Many stories were told about Bruce at the celebration of his life. Tears and laughter were mixed together into one praise and worship service! Bruce’s life on earth was a testimony of his love for his Heavenly Father, and we celebrated that fact during that service.

Then there were the butterflies. Yes, the day of Bruce’s funeral, no matter where I walked, where I stood, there were butterflies. It seemed as if they followed me wherever I went throughout that entire day. I smiled as I noticed that. My heart ached for my beloved husband, but it also rejoiced in knowing where he was at that moment. As I watched the butterflies fluttering around me, I knew Bruce was in peace and in a place where I’ll again see him one day.

At the cemetery all of our friends and family members joined me in letting go of balloons. I stood and watched as they sailed through the sky until I could no longer see them. As my heart was broken into tiny shreds, I knew then that my life would never be the same. I also knew then that my faith would be grounded, once and for all, in Jesus Christ my Lord and Savior.

As I look back on those last days with Bruce, I feel so blessed that they were made so special for me. I believe God planned it to be that way. I believe that God was preparing me for the heartache which was only days away. He was blessing me with great memories of a deep love that I shared with this man whom He would remove from my life soon. God granted me a short 6½ years with this man. A short time, really. But in those short years, Bruce and I lived life to the full! We were almost inseparable and were truly best friends. We shared our deepest dreams, hopes and fears. We were truly content with one another. Our friends said we were like peanut butter and jelly. You can’t have one without the other!

My life has changed drastically and dramatically since Oct. 3, 2001. I am not the same person I was then. God has done some miraculous things in my life these past seven years and I’m sure he’s not done yet! I thank God for those six short years He loaned Bruce to me. I learned so much from Bruce about how to live my daily life and how to be a strong, knowledgeable woman of God. I have no regrets. God has shown me that He is in control of our every breath: we just think we are. We are not. It’s His decision when we stop breathing. He made us, He will remove us from this earth when His time is right. Nothing we can do will keep that from happening. Being the controlling type person that I am, I’ve become very aware that I’m not as in control of things as I think I am.

As I reflect on the precious days I spent with Bruce before he was taken to his new home, my heart still aches for him. In my mind’s eye, I can still see him so precisely, so exactly the way he was during those last few days of his life. I can walk through my house and yard and see where he has left his touch. The old saying, “You truly don’t know what you have until it’s gone” rings true for me. I knew our marriage, love and friendship were very special, but did not know the depth of that fact until I no longer had that relationship.

This time of the year is now so bittersweet for me. I have come to love fall more than any other season of the year. The fall colors are brighter now, the sky bluer and clearer, the air full of scents that seep into my nostrils so deeply I’ll never forget them. And my heart is filled to overflowing with life and thanksgiving to my Lord and Savior. Life is no longer the same. I don’t take myself nearly as seriously as I once did, yet I take love and life’s special moments much more seriously. I know first-hand that life can be right-side up one minute and upside down the next. I know that I have very little control over things I think I should have, that Someone much larger and stronger than me has those details taken care of. I have learned how to let go of things that just don’t matter and to focus on things and relationships that are much more important.

If I were to share one life lesson I’ve learned while walking through the past seven years without my companion by my side, it would be this: Don’t take life for granted. Don’t think of yourself as invincible. Don’t think you have it all under control.

And the hugest prayer I could ever pray is this: That everyone who reads this would acknowledge the One who is larger than you. The One who has all the answers, holds the universe in the span of His hand, and He wants YOU to come home to HIM when it’s your time to leave this old world behind.

He leads me like a shepherd

Marilyn and Bruce after their wedding May 5, 1995.

As the summer fades and fall draws ever closer, I [Marilyn] am reminded of how quickly my life is passing right before my very eyes. This very year itself has passed by at a speed that proves to me I am not in control of much here on this ol’ earth. It seems that just yesterday I was scooping an early spring snow off my deck, anxiously awaiting the arrival of spring!

This October marks the seventh anniversary of the death of my best friend, my companion, my teacher, my protector, my provider, my comforter: my husband. The man God gave me for just a very short time to enjoy life with.

Every fall as the seasons change, as the butterflies hover over late-flowering plants, as children return to school and football games resume, as early morning walks are blessed with crisp cool air and the nights lengthen and turn cool, at times my heart aches heavily with memories from that day that changed my life forever. As I stroll through my fall-colored yard, I can look up at the roof and see Bruce repairing that shingle. I hear his voice as we share our hopes, dreams and lives during those last few days of his life here on earth with me. I remember a picnic in the back yard on that clear fall day with some special friends, the last time they saw Bruce alive. I remember the mid-afternoon break in the back yard, when we lay on the grass and smiled in great contentment at our lives. I had no way of knowing that in just a few short days, Bruce would no longer be by my side.

Bruce and I were rejoicing that he was feeling better after recovering from minor surgery that had turned into a major recovery process for both of us. I was starting to breathe a sigh of relief that he was healing well and his strength was returning. He was so relieved to be able to work on our house again, that he finished up one project after another, with me right by his side.

That Sunday was special because he was well enough to attend both services with me! Oh what a day of rejoicing that was, not only for us, but for our wonderful church family! Everyone was so glad to see him up and around and involved with us again. Our feelings of joy and contentment were like a cup, filled to overflowing with blessings abundant.

Being able to breathe again did not last long however. Into the deep hours of that Sunday night, a deadly infection had begun to show its ugly head in Bruce’s body. Bruce woke me up with news that things were not as they should be. We immediately followed the same procedures we’d been trained to do after his surgery, with no good results.

The following afternoon, Bruce was admitted to the hospital. He was immediately hooked up to IVs with powerful antibiotics surging through his body. Tests were taken to determine the source of this downhill slide. News of what this infection could be made us shiver with fear. Steadily, Bruce became sicker and sicker, losing all the strength he had regained, and more, til he was no longer able to sit up alone. Food did not stay down, and dry heaves were hitting him hard.

On the evening of Bruce’s second night in the hospital, he called me at work. He sounded excited yet weak. He said that he was hungry for the first time in days, and wanted me to have supper with him. Our last meal together was Cream of Tomato Soup and a Grilled Cheese Sandwich at the hospital. Too weak to feed himself, I gave him small sips and bites of food. I was overjoyed to feed my husband and to see him eat!

As Bruce rallied that evening, my family and many of our friends came to visit us in the hospital. The room was packed with loved ones showing us how much they loved us!

The room quickly cleared though, as Bruce’s body once again turned for the worst. I watched in shock and total fear as I saw my husband’s condition worsen. The knot in my stomach grew ever larger and my heart grew tight. The doctor was called and administered some sleeping medication so that Bruce’s body would calm down and he could get some much-needed rest. As Bruce drifted off to sleep, I quietly left the room and returned to my empty house.

What happened during the wee hours of the next morning, I can explain only by believing that it was the Holy Spirit’s move on my heart. To read what took place next in my life, come see us again tomorrow at this same location, where I’ll pick up the story right here!

Those were the harvesting days

In the dead of summer when the sun beats down hard before mid-morning, when that hot south High Plains wind blows up dust that swirls from every angle, my [Marilyn’s] mind returns to my younger days. Those long, scorching summer days that were spent helping my parents in the fields harvesting their crops of wheat. Those days started early and ran late. Yet now I look back on them longingly and cherish those memories deep within my soul.

My parents started those long-ago harvest days before sunrise! They would be out in the hay fields to greet the sun, changing the water rows, moving the irrigation socks from one set of long ditched rows to the next set. My parents always did this job before sunrise during harvest. Once the harvest day began, there was no time to do anything else!

Mom served breakfast when she returned from the irrigation fields, and my brother and I would be rousted from a nice quiet sleep. As soon as we downed breakfast, we each had to help Dad get the combine and trucks ready for the day.

My brother’s job was to round up the water jugs, clean them, and fill them with ice and fresh water, then put them in the combine and each truck. I was an outdoorsy girl, so my job was to help Dad grease the combine! How I loved searching for each grease zerk and pumping grease into them until it ran out the other side!

As the day grew hotter and the sun beat down ever harder, Dad would say that it was time to head out to the wheat fields. Mom usually drove “her” truck, while I’d drive another one, following Dad. Brother usually rode in the combine with Dad until he got old enough to drive the pickup.

Even though I was allowed to drive a truck TO the wheat field, I was never allowed to drive it FROM the field to the elevator when it was full of wheat. Dad never trusted me with a huge load of wheat on one of his trucks on those many miles of graveled road. I realized many years later that he was looking out for me and for his equipment. We had a long route to haul our wheat, with several hills and curves, as well as other hectic truck traffic sharing the same graveled roads.

I was Mom’s passenger for years while she was Dad’s truck driver. Mom and I spent countless hours waiting in lines at the elevator. At times, these lines seemed to run for miles. Theses lines inched forward so slowly! Flies would attack us, the hot Plains winds blew dirt and chaff all around, and no, our trucks did NOT have modern air conditioning! We always had magazines and newspapers to read. Once I discovered how much I loved writing, I also made sure I never left home without my notebook! While we waited, we gathered around the other trucks and visited with neighbors or custom harvesters.

As I grew into my teenage years, I told my dad that I wanted to work at the elevator during harvest. I wanted to be the girl who went out and jabbed the moisture meter into the load of wheat, then go in and write it down. What that ALSO meant was that I’d get to meet all the cute truck drivers!

Guess what Dad’s response was. I never did get to work that job!

After we unloaded, Mom and I would drive back to the field. Our other truck, now full of wheat, would be waiting for us. We’d switch trucks and repeat the process.

Somewhere in each day, we made meals and rested. My dad was not one to overload his family with constant heat without rest. At lunch, he would stop the combine and we’d eat at the kitchen table, even if the meal was a simple sandwich and some watermelon. After lunch, he’d usually let us kids take a nap or at least have some down time. He’d lie down for a power nap, then get right back up and get to work.

Even though the lines at the elevator were long and time slowly crept past, memories were made there. The smell of that harvested grain permeated my soul. Now when I smell harvested grain, my heart is drawn back in time.

Every now and then, Dad would invite me to ride in the combine with him. Oh, how I loved watching the header catch those waving heads of wheat, grabbing them, pulling them into the combine, then coming out of the auger into the bin.

As I got older, Dad began to let me move the truck closer to where he was combining, so he’d not have to travel across the field to unload the grain. Once I nearly started the wheat field on fire! I was driving along when I saw Dad standing on the outside of the combine, waving at me. I thought he wanted me to get there faster, so I sped up! For some reason, the truck just didn’t seem to want to move much faster. I didn’t want Dad mad at me, so I pushed it harder.

Well, this seemed to upset Dad, because now he was no longer standing on the combine; he was RUNNING towards me with his hands waving! I stopped the truck. As he got close to me, he was shouting!

I got out to see what the commotion was about. Smoke was coming out from underneath the truck! Dad asked if I’d taken off the emergency brake before driving the truck across the field. No, I hadn’t.

I told Dad I didn’t know the emergency brake was on! Wow, did I get a scolding! He told me NEVER to drive the truck across a dry wheat field without making sure the emergency brake was off!

Ever afterward, even when I drove wheat truck for my cousin many years later, I was careful to make sure the emergency brake was not engaged.

Those days of Dad driving our old combine, Mom hauling the wheat to the elevator, and me tagging along are long gone. Modern technology has changed many aspects of harvest time.

Brother has moved into the new age of farm equipment and he no longer does his own harvesting. He now hires a Canadian crew that has powerful, huge machines that are complete with all the computerized gadgets a person could want. I was amazed when I rode along at how quiet and tight the cab felt. I was also amazed at all the computerized gadgets that the driver barely touched when he wanted the machine to do what needed to be done. And it was air conditioned! What a change from the older combines Dad used!

I no longer get to ride along in the truck or the combine for any length of time. The crew cuts the wheat so quickly that in no time at all, they’re done with our fields and are anxious to move onto the next customer’s fields.

Yes, times have changed, even in the world of the little farmer. But one thing has not changed: “You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.”

Oh, doesn’t that wheat smell good!

Adventures in fence fixing

As my [Marilyn’s] dad grows older, so does his mind. His mind has gradually drifted off the regular straight and narrow path that it once took. Our family has decided to roll with the punches and look at Dad’s mind-drifting as a kind of road trip for us!

My brother has definitely gotten to take Dad’s road trip more than once.

“Didn’tcha see me wave back?”

After long, hard High Plains winters, with our snowfalls, winds and blizzards, each pasture has at least a small portion of fence that needs repairing before we can put our cattle out to pasture for the summer. Tumbleweeds need to be pulled out of the tangled barbed wire and new fence posts put in the ground. This is a hard job, with many miles spent walking behind the pickup, which is loaded with all the tools and equipment needed to fix fences.

One particular spring day, Brother and Dad were in the far south summer pasture, the pickup loaded with fence repairing equipment and their high work boots on. Brother does most of the manual labor these days, and lets Dad drive the pickup.

Their game plan was for Dad to drive about four fence post lengths, then stop and wait for Brother to wave at him. Once he sees Brother wave, Dad can move the pickup to the place where Brother is waiting. For most of the morning, this seems to work fine. Brother walks ahead of the pickup, waves, Dad stops, waits until Brother moves up four more fence post lengths, and repeats the process over and over.

Then Brother waves at Dad and nothing happens. The pickup doesn’t move an inch. Brother waves again. Again, nothing. Brother is straining his eyes to see if Dad has some sort of problem. Since he couldn’t tell, he strode back to where Dad is sitting in the pickup. Brother arrives at the pickup and asks Dad, “Didn’tcha see me waving atcha?”

Dad says, “Yes. Didn’tcha see me wave back?“

Time to call it a day.

Snakes in the grass

The days are warming up, which means that a fence fixer must watch for snakes in the tall pasture grasses.

On this particular day, Brother is walking alongside the pickup as Dad drives beside him. With a hot south wind blowing and the morning growing ever warmer, Dad had rolled up his window to soak in the air conditioning.

As Brother walks the fence line, he realizes that he has stepped on something that is moving. He looks down and sees that he has stepped on a snake’s head. He does not move. He knocks on Dad’s window and says, “Get out and get me the shovel!”

Dad asks, “Why?”

Brother says, “’Cuz I’m standing on a snake! Now get out of the truck and hand me the shovel!”

Dad rolls up his window again. Brother knocks on the window even harder.

Dad rolls it down a tad, saying, “It’s hot out there!”

Exasperated, Brother shouts, “GET ME THE SHOVEL, FOR GOD’S SAKE!”

It’s definitely time to go home.

Getting some exercise

On another day, Brother is riding on the pickup’s tailgate as Dad drives along the fence row. The game plan is that when Brother needs Dad to stop, he will pound on the bed of the truck. Brother will get off and repair the fence. When repair is done, he will pound on the truck bed, signaling to Dad to again move forward.

This process goes on for some time. As the morning stretches into mid-day, Dad’s foot begins to get tired of holding down the clutch as he waits for Brother to do the fence repair. Just as Brother is about to sit on the pickup bed, he sees the ground beneath him begin to move. Instead of sitting on the pickup, he sits on the ground.

The truck continues to move forward. Brother picks himself up and catches up to Dad.

As Dad continues to drive, he says to Brother, “Why are you walking?”

Brother says, “Guess I needed more exercise.”

Home sounds very good right now.

Bells will be ringing

When I [Marilyn] was little, my mother’s father rang the bell in our old country church every Sunday morning. How I loved hearing that big old bell ring, beckoning all within hearing distance to come and worship! Back in those days, a rope was attached to the bell, as it hung way up high in the belfry. The reverberation caused by pulling that rope would make a slight vibration in the building. I always shivered pleasantly when I felt it. As a small child, the ringing of the huge bell made a lasting impression on me. I was always amazed at how loud the bell sounded!

Listening to the church bell ring gave me a lifelong appreciation for bells and chimes. I love them. I have wind chimes hanging all around my yard in the summer time. As the High Plains winds blow, as they so often do, I can stand in almost any spot in my yard and hear wind chimes in the background.

Some churches still ring their stately bells, announcing the start of their services. As I work in my yard on a Saturday evening, I can hear the bell ringing in the middle of town at our local Catholic church. That sound can wing me away instantly to a time long ago as I stood watching my beloved grandpa pull that bell’s rope.

My yard without wind chimes would be like a church’s bell tower without a bell. Empty. Soundless. Lost. Sad.

As my wind chimes gently jingle and sway in the breeze, peace enters my heart. Precious memories from days gone by and loved ones passed on surround my soul in love and peace.

My little farm

Marilyn is on a roll and adds her second contribution.

As a youngster growing up on the farm 22 miles from any “civilization,” I could hardly wait to leave that all behind me. I had dreams of being a city girl, of living a pampered life, quite opposite of the life I’d been raised in on the farm.

For some reason, those childhood and childish dreams never did come true. And for some reason, I never met a “city guy” whom I could relate to! Believe me; I tried! I made it a rule never to date any farm kids! Nope, I made sure the guys I dated were sophisticated, and knew nothing about hard work and farm life!

Ha! How silly that was! Sophisticated? Hardly! Hard work? Most of them had no clue what hard work meant!

I’d come home from working long, hard hours as a nurse’s aide, only to find my boyfriend still asleep, lounging around the house at 2:30 in the afternoon! He gave the excuse for not showing up for work that day, as “I just didn’t feel like it.” For some reason, that didn’t sit well with me! I found it to be quite disgusting, in fact, and the relationship would soon end. I would end up kicking these deadbeat men out of my home!

Yet I still searched for that dream I had as a child. Did I miss the farm? Oh, some. But my family lived close enough to town that on weekends I still visited them on the farm. But my heart still told me to stay away from dating farm boys.

As I matured, both in wisdom and in years, I discovered what made me so disgusted by boyfriends who had a poor work ethic. Why wouldn’t laziness disgust me? I was raised on a farm by parents who taught me to rise early and work hard all day! I was taught that nothing gets done by sitting around lazily watching the day go past. I was taught that at the end of the day, it was time to rest and play. But not before the work was done!

As I near my 50th year, there are days I long for those long-lost farm days. My heart aches for those times, for those memories to be relived once again! Just because my parents taught me to work long and hard, they also showed me how to enjoy the simple pleasures in life and to sit back and relax.

I have loved working hard forever. Well, at least ever since I was an adult, having to go out and make my own living in this world! I look back on my life as a young adult, setting out on my own in the big old world. Even as young as I was, as immature as I was then, I knew that I must show up for work unless I was truly sick. I knew that even though I may have stayed out too late with my friends partying up a storm, that when the alarm went off, it was time to drag myself out of bed and get to work. I never was one to call in sick for any reason other than if I was truly sick.

That sticks with me even to this day. As I grow ever closer to being half a century old/young, I find myself imitating my parents’ lifestyle. I am up before the alarm goes off, starting my day. In the summer months, there is always something in the garden or yard that needs attention. I like to be out there just as the sun rises, tending to my little piece of farm life, right here in town. Right here in my back yard.

I tell my 80-year-old father that he farmed in the country and I farm in town. He laughs at that and agrees with me! I show him my corn rows, which are skimpy compared to the hundreds of acres he once grew! He and I mow my lawn. I tell him that my farm is puny compared to what he used to farm, but this is the closest thing to a real farm I can get!

Dad agrees with me, smiles, and off we go, each doing our “farm work” as the sun sets lower and lower in the western sky.

Friends are like butterflies

My friend Marilyn will be contributing guest posts from time to time. This is her first contribution.

Forrest Gump says, “Life is like a box of chocolates.” I like to think of my friendships as a "garden of butterflies.”

Butterflies thrive on a nice, warm stone. They warm their wings before flying off to hover over some waiting flower petal for refreshment and sustenance. They also need little sips of clean, fresh water in order to refresh their little bodies after they have flown hither and yon all day long.

And each butterfly is its own unique creation. Each one has a spot that is different from the others. Butterflies come in 28,000 different species and each butterfly has slightly different markings, the mark of our loving Creator’s hands.

Friends are like butterflies. As a friend, you flutter from this friend to that one, doing fun activities with this one, then sitting and drinking from your friends’ refreshing, encouraging words at the end of a long day. Or maybe you just sit on the deck and watch the sun set together, basking in the last glows of the warm sunshine and in the joy of each other’s presence.

When the weather has beaten you down, the chill in the air has spread to your heart, what better place to get warmed up than in front of a friend’s fireplace with a warm cup of hot cocoa?

Or how about those times when life has hit you behind the knees and knocked you down? Maybe one of your butterfly friends drops by and takes you out for a yummy piece of homemade apple pie a la mode! When you get home after spending time with a good friend, you feel refreshed and much safer.

So, Forrest, I love your chocolate saying, but I also like my butterfly saying! When I look at each of my four closest friends in the entire world, I see a lovely butterfly in each one of them. I see them each ministering to others who are in need of love and comfort at just the right moment. I see them spreading beauty in the world. I see each of them in need of such things in their own lives at times, and I watch as each butterfly in the group stops and ministers to one another.

Dear Lord, I love the way You made butterflies for our enjoyment and for us to learn from. We can learn a lot from the life of the beautiful butterfly. Thank You!