Stone on Stone

Two on one, one on two. That's how a fieldstone wall is built.

No chink or mortar, just the stone,



stacked one on two, two on one.



The stones first pushed by ancient glaciers rolling over land



now raised again by horses' strain, by farmer's plow and hand.



Stacked one on two, two on one.



Two on one, one on two. That's how a fieldstone wall is built.

No chink or mortar, just the stone,



stacked one on two, two on one.



Grateful for

#77 the flow of words

#78 the flow of years

#79 the flow of love

#80 the flow of tears

#81 the melting glaciers in my heart

#82 the stones unearthed, each has its part

#83 the love that guides

#84 the love that holds

#85 the love that binds

#86 the love that molds

A Promise Kept

We've had our share of rain this spring, and it keeps falling. But for me, this rainy Monday is a day to rejoice.

A day of thanksgiving.



Last fall, our water well line had to be replaced. They cut a deep trench in the earth running 1000 feet from the well to our home. The trench was roughly backfilled, and a promise made to return in the spring, after the ground had settled, to smooth out the ugly welting scar left behind.

Spring turned to summer, leaving the promise unmet. Phone calls were made. No response. Hope gave way to frustration, despair. And then...



When hope had run dry, he appeared to fulfill his promise. The grinding, tamping, machine left bare, smooth brown in its wake. Soon scattered seed will cover the brown with green again.



Gentle rain began to fall as he worked the ground.  I took time to stand in the wet and watch its glory fall from the gutter,



scattering transparent pearls upon the roses,







the leaves,





the lavender,



and quenching the earth's thirst.



A promise kept,  refreshing as a gentle rain.

#66 a promise kept
#67 hope restored
#68 smoothed earth
#69 gentle rain
#70 transparent pearls
#71 roses
#72 raindrops falling from the gutter
#73 the promise of green
#74 healing of scars
#75 quenching of thirst
#76 refreshing

Are You Ready?

It's a place of quiet and beauty.

A place where earth and sky,

the now, and the not yet,  all meet.

A place where immortality and mortality hold hands.



A sacred place on a windy knoll, guarded by silent cyprus sentinels.

Few go there willingly; some, out of duty or sorrow.

But I, I go there to reflect;

to enjoy the shade, the stillness, the clouds,

and wonder  . . .at the question dangling on every blade of grass:

"No one knows the day or the hour. Are you ready?"

Pennsylvania Chainsaw Massacre

The endless, droning buzz began at daybreak.  I pulled the pillow around my ears in an attempt to muffle the annoying sound.  It was pointless.  Finally at 6AM I gave in and climbed out of bed, only to discover that my across-the-street-neighbor was at it again.

A sudden horror gripped me as I remembered the last time I had heard that unmistakable sound. . .
It was a beautiful autumnal day in the neighborhood.  Blue skies.  White fluffy clouds.  A balmy, lazy Sunday in the Frozen North.  Sitting at the computer, I noticed a distinct buzzing begin.  It went on, and ON, and ON.  I glanced out the window.  Our chainsaw wielding across-the-street-neighbor was hard at work on a huge pine tree near the road.

I returned to the computer, shaking my head in wonder at why anyone would chose to kill a perfectly good tree.  Trees are a majestic thing of beauty.  The unrelenting nature of the Texas sun teaches you the importance of the shade they provide. 

 For a few moments I considered grabbing some plastic cable ties and binding myself to the besieged tree in an act of solidarity with that helpless giver of shade.  My reverie was interrupted by sudden silence. The silence was quickly followed by a loud crack,  the swooshing sound of branches falling, then more quiet.

An ominous quiet. 

The kind of quiet that falls when all your electricity goes out.  I rushed to the window a second time.  Terror seized me as I beheld the sight of a pine tree precariously balanced across the power lines that run along the  guilty neighbor's side of the street.



I kicked myself for not grabbing the cable ties when I had my chance, bowed my head in a few moments of silence for the tree, then grabbed my camera and parked myself under the shade of an old apple tree in our front yard. I patted the trunk assuringly,  "You have nothing to fear on this side of the street my old friend."

From this perspective, I chronicled the ensuing events.

It wasn't too long before the first of many power and cable company trucks made its appearance. The first power representative seemed to be there just to confirm the fact that there was a tree on the lines, and hear first hand the sordid details of how it came to be there.



He left, and was followed by a brave man with a cherry picker mounted on the back of his utility truck.



The cherry picker guy ceremoniously donned his gear, mounted the bucket, and carefully raised himself to the place where tree and wire met.  He cut a few branches, ceremoniously removed his gear, and drove off.



For the next two hours numerous vehicles came...








saw...



and left.

Hours later, the tree was removed and the power restored, leaving me with two lingering lessons: never go up against a Sicilian when death is on the line (name that film), and never underestimate the power of a western PA neighbor with a chainsaw in his hand.

Remembering

"Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others." 

Cicero

My Daddy was not a Medal of Honor winner like Audie Murphy, nor the survivor of a North Vietnamese  prison camp like Jeremiah Denton.  The closest he came to real action in WWII was the night a fleet of warships moved through the Panama canal where he was stationed as an Ensign in the Navy.  He said everyone was issued a rifle and told to be at high alert as the big ships silently slid through the locks on their way to a showdown with the Japanese Navy in the Pacific.  He was given leave a week or so before the rest of his shipmates because his mother lay dying in his hometown.  He walked through the gate just moments after she had joined my Grandfather in eternity.

 "A people that values its privileges above its principles soon loses both." 

  Dwight D. Eisenhower

No, my Daddy did not have medals to show for his service to his country, but he kept the ships repaired and ready for those who did.  A simple duty, but a necessary one. He is buried in the Veteran's Cemetery in my hometown, the place to which he moved to marry, start a family, and work to build a future for Mom, my baby sister, and me.

It's important to remember the cost of our freedom.  It's important to remember the sacrifice of so many brave men and women throughout our country's history.  It's important to remember those who currently serve.

In re-membering, we join them, and stand united with them in purpose and resolve. All of us together.

If we chose not to remember, we fall apart, just like other civilizations before us:

"In the end, more than they wanted freedom, they wanted security.  They wanted a comfortable life, and they lost it all -- security, comfort, and freedom.  When ... the freedom they wished for was freedom from responsibility, then Athens ceased to be free." Sir Edward Gibbon

 

"The things that will destroy America are prosperity at any price, peace at any price, safety first instead of duty first, the love of soft living and the get rich quick theory of life." Teddy Roosevelt

  

Gathering the Glory

I jumped out of bed and looked toward the window.  The view was distorted by partially closed blinds.  Something didn't look right.  I drew closer and separated the thin slats with my fingers. A heavy fog had descended.  I threw on some clothes and grabbed my camera.

 What lay beneath the damp and dew?



Tall grass bowing under the weight of tiny water droplets.



The first blush of summer.  A beautiful pink rose.

 

The skeletons of last summer's Queen Anne's lace were closed curiously tight.  They had been open in yesterday's sun.



And then something else caught my eye.

Something fragile, something beautiful.





A tiny engineering marvel.  A spider web.  Adorned with pearls of hydrogen and oxygen in just the right combination to define its symmetry.



 And miraculously, one drop, larger than the others, hovered in the middle.

My camera forces me out into the world to discover the unknown, the ignored, the steady streams of glory still radiating from their Creator.  Still breathing, still yearning for what was lost in that first garden, and promised in the last.

I yearn with them too.

And in the yearning, in between the now and the not yet, I want to gather as much of the Glory as I can.

Whistle While You Work

I think I've told you about finding your way in the Frozen North.  How people around this particular geographical area never move.  How several generations of families all live next door to each other.  How difficult it is to break into such a close, small town, closed society.

All the above is the reason street signs are so few and far between (when you've lived somewhere for 17 bajillion generations you don't need no stinkin' street signs.), and driving directions are sketchy at best--"we-e-elll, you go down to the corner by the old tree and make a right.  At the first church you turn left.  Then keep goin' awhile 'til you come to the corner where the BP used to be and take another left."

I think you get the idea.  Even the GPS gal/guy would have trouble finding their way here.  And don't get me started about the detours put up in the summer when PennDOT rolls out every crane, roller, jackhammer, cement mixer, grader, ton of asphalt, and construction worker in the state  to don orange safety vests, grab a cone or two, dig up every major road, and cause traffic jams from here to Timbuktu.   (*deep cleansing breath*,  thank you for listening.)

But what I haven't told you about is the BIG SECRET, the real reason directions are so vague and roads are so hard to navigate in the summer.  (They don't need roadblocks in the winter, Mother Nature spreads snow and ice for free.)

It's a conspiracy to keep us from finding out what REALLY is hidden in the hills, hollers, and abandoned mine shafts of western PA.  Lean in a little closer to the monitor and I'll tell you, but this is highly confidential.  If you breathe a word, my Dear Professor and I will have to enter the witness protection program.

The secret is a place, a BIG place, in a HUGE abandoned limestone mine.  A place so wrapped in secrecy and security that even Jack Bauer, on a good day, couldn't break into it.  A place to which, it is rumored, Vice President Cheney was whisked away during the initial chaos of 9/11.  It's called. . . Iron Mountain.



For the last 19 years I have heard rumors of people "working in the mines", doing "highly classified" government work, but that's all anyone would say.  It's so classified, when I Googled for driving directions, I was led to the end of a dirt road at the back of a state wildlife preserve in the opposite direction.



How on earth was a common home engineer and former accidental corporate terrorist allowed access to this place?  Undercover, attending an employee health fair as the representative of a local physical therapy office.  But, believe me, I was vetted.  A month before the event, "They" required information--my social security number, maiden name, date of birth, place of birth, blood type, shoe size and name and birthdays of all our children.  Okay, I may have exaggerated.  A little.  "They" didn't ask for my shoe size.

My truck was searched for pirated VHS movies, and I was given a "guest id" that had to be swiped by the guard at the gate on entry and exit.   Camera and cellphone were surrendered before gaining access to "the mines", so photographic proof  of this event is very limited.

But the intel I garned is HUGE.  HUGE, I tell ya.

 

Are you ready for this?  When Disney announces a reissue of beloved films from the Disney Vault, it's coming from an abandoned limestone mine in the wilds of western PA.  Who knows what other valuables are kept in that ten mile, underground, climate controlled fortress. Maybe even Unca Walt himself.  "Their" lips are sealed.

But beyond all the secrecy, what I found most disturbing was glancing down at my "guest id" late in the day and discovering it was red. . .and inscribed with a big capital "V"!!!!

That, and the thought of Cheney, Snow White, the Seven Dwarves, and Bambi frolicking together underground.

Out of focus

It's not just me, it's the weather.  Yes, my prescription lenses do need an adjustment, but it's more than that.  Everything up here in the Frozen North is dripping and has been dripping for too many days.  Once upon a time, what seems like an eternity ago, we were enjoying beautiful, sun-kissed days.



Days that were so warm, the tall spring grass was dry enough to mow.

Robins scanned the lawn for nesting twigs and frolicked on the fence.



But that was then. Today we're all wet.



And cold, damp and dreary.



And out of focus.

Spring Cleaning

Please bear with us as we slap on a new coat of paint and move the furniture around for spring cleaning.  A few bits are out of place right now, but that should be fixed shortly. 

In the meantime, feel free to take a look at some previous posts.  But don't stay too long, or we'll put you to work!

The day after Mother's Day

 I can't tell you how long I've looked for it.  Everywhere I've gone I've wondered.  Could this be the day I find out?  How will I know?

I've taken test after test and each one is inconclusive--they always say something different.  But now, finally, I've found it for sure. 

And what is IT, you may ask?

My own peculiar gift.  My reason for being on this planet.  My life's mission.

And this is it.  Replacing the toilet paper roll. But how does one come to the conclusion that their life meaning is wrapped on a round tube of cardboard?

Well, there is a lot of reflection involved, and personality tests do help to some degree.  But ultimately, good old fashioned perspicuity helps.  A lot.  Pay attention to the little things you end up doing everywhere you go.  Sooner or later the sheer volume of repetition will turn on the old light bulb, figuratively speaking.  But then, replacing the light bulb just might be YOUR vocation.

I found mine by realizing no matter where I go, at work, at play, visiting the neigbors, at Walmart--I always end up replacing the toilet paper roll.  And so I bow to my cosmic assignment with humility.  It is my destiny.

Either that or the toilet paper fairies have it in for me.