Heat Waves

I'm reminded of CORE values when I experience motorcycle riding in temperatures at or above 95 degrees.

Most people realize without thinking that the real FUN times during summer heat waves are those times we get close to water. What we may not think about is how access to water, both swimming and drinking, keeps the CORE temperature of our bodies from over heating and causing serious health dangers. People die every year from heat stroke.

When I'm riding in heat the first thing I pay more attention to is what I'm drinking and make sure I drink more quantity. Soon, however, that is not enough. For the simple reason that 70 mph in 95+ degrees is like putting your body in a blast furnace. If there are no clouds, the road heat continues to intensify until one is riding on top of a skillet and inside a furnace. See what I mean? Oh, how shade is a blessing from God!

Most of the time, I simply design my travel to be in hours of the day that are under the 95 degree mark. When a trip requires that I spend more time in a high level of heat, I stop and put on a "wet-vest". I can soak it quickly in water and it acts as an evaporative cooler on my chest and back, keeping my core from overheating. It is quite effective and makes the ride extremely more pleasant.

However, the level of heat effects how quickly the vest dries out. I've had it work for over an hour and a half, and I've had it stop working and turn into thermal underwear in less than half an hour. Gotta pay attention to your CORE values.

If I extrapolate this into the Spiritual I recognize that we cannot depend upon the "letter" of a set of principles to guard our CORE values, (guard our Hearts). We need to pay attention to, however NOT focus upon, the level of 'evil' of any given day. Remember Jesus saying, "...each day has enough evil of its own...." (Matt. 6:34)

Personal devotions need to possess this same level of attention. They are fine as a discipline set at a particular time of day, but drawing upon the essence of fellowship with God is not necessarily finished just because we did our daily devotions.

If I ride in heat that dries out my wet-vest and refuse to stop and re-soak it in water, I've chosen to take my core into even greater heat due to the vest becoming excess clothing. If we try and force 'snack-size' devotions into a living relationship with God, we only increase our dependence upon flesh and become more of what we were trying to overcome.

Hey, ride safe, pay attention, and I hope to see you, UP the road. Leo

A DIFFERENT COLD MEMORY

No ice skating rink with pros's and wannabes stuffed in the corner of a shopping mall. No, it was a real live POND. Central Iowa in the winter time has many places one could slide across ice on blades. I did it as a child but the adventures were not limited to the ice.

From where I lived in a newly established mobile home park. Notably different than a trailer park, mind you. In those days (early 50's) trailers were the cutting edge alternative homes. That was before the term "trailer trash" came to be. Anyway, from our home I walked about a half mile before the first adventure and then another mile or so to the second one. It was a mile or so beyond that to the Skating Pond.

Adventure one: It was about 2 acres of partially fenced junk yard with a house, of sorts, in the middle. I knew that it was partially fenced because of the quadruped leakage. I was 7 or 8 years old when I first learned about "meaner than a junk yard dog". About a gazillion angry, barking, slathering, demon-possessed, part wolf dogs came running at me like a hairy freight train. I was frozen in place and about to be transformed into kibbles and bits, when fear turned into desperation and I began to swing my ice skates around in an arch. I held the blade of one and the other swung out about 3 feet creating a 6' circle of silver dog death. I learned that day that dogs don't like the sound of "swishing" things. All the dogs screeched to a halt just out of reach of the screaming blade.

I pulled the roots of my fearful feet up and began to walk on. I was careful to keep the 6' arch around me, hoping that the shoe strings would not come un-tied. A couple hundred yards later I remembered to start breathing again. I was tired from fear and survival exertion, but had to keep going to the Pond cuz I didn't want to do the dogs again.

Adventure two: In a desire to save energy to skate, I decided to cut through the cemetery. A beautifully landscaped and rolling hill area. Nice enough to be dead in. Along the way my mind began to think in black & white horror movies. I could see the grass on graves start to mound up and knew bony hands wanted to break the surface. I picked up the pace and decreased my breathing again. Why do we stop breathing when fear assails? That cemetery went on for about 200 miles.

By the time I got to the POND, I was a couple years older and wondered of the purpose of my trip. Out of near duty, I laced up my skates. I got on the ice with a sigh and thoughts pounding me about the trek home. Within 20' of gliding on that ice, the previous adventures were swallowed up in the joy and freedom of movement.

Energy owned only by those in decade one flowed through my limbs and when I went home I was walking with a spring in my step. The dead were all sleeping and the dogs must have been too, because no one assailed me on my return trip. Other adventures, on and off the ice, were experienced, but the thrill of the movement still fills the lanes of my memory.

THE BIRTHING of DAYS

Over five years this time. It has been that long before. The first time was twenty three years. Nearly a quarter of a century before I touched the celebration with any depth from within my own life and love. Oh, I celebrated before but I usually tracked along with generic trappings standard in my culture, so I'm not sure I celebrated or just merged with other's ideas and called it happy.

It was a third year when it happened. My wife survived as He promised, and he was born. We gave him a name together, as best we could, only to find out later that much more than we imagined was involved in his naming. I told her family only when I knew she was OK. No one seemed to notice we'd been at the hospital over two days.

When we took him home, I could hold him in one hand. I did after he could balance his neck a little better. I'd hold his little rump in the palm of my hand, and he was about as tall as a football with appendages. We use to have a picture.

I was home and lucid for the moment he discovered his hand. It was nearly an accident, but I saw the moment. I thought of calling her, but I hesitated because I felt how delicate the moment was. When it continued, I called gently. She saw it too, I think. He looked at each finger, and focused upon one, drew it toward his mouth and touched his forehead instead. Drew his hand back, scrunched his face, drew his hand toward his mouth, MORE forehead..... a second or two and the moment ended. But not for me.

Years, decades have passed. Long he's been living his own life. This year we were able to intersect and celebrate together. We understand WHO brought us together and granted us love. We know WHO is celebrated. And we appreciate how much more precious it is when we can do so together.

Thank You, GOD, for our family.

CAN YOU SMELL IT?

A quote from Oswald Chambers caught my heart's attention recently. Here it is: "The call of God is like the call of the sea - No one hears it except the person who has the nature of the sea in him." It caught my inner attention and then I realized something. I get it. I really get that.

Once as a very young boy I was in the car with my family as we drove from Iowa to Oregon for a holiday. I remember being able to sleep in one of the back seat floor boards, resting my head on the bump. That's pretty young, right?

I remember we were stopped somewhere and my mom saying, "hush", putting her fingers to her mouth and casting her eyes into the sky. "Do you smell it?" she asked. Young noses lifted and sniffed, searching the air for chocolate and cotton candy, or anything sweet and edible. "Do you smell it?" she asked again. "Smell what?" came a small chorus of grubby, hungry faces. "I can smell the sea", she beamed with joy.

I didn't know much about travel, or the sea but I was aware that there wasn't any sea around. We were in Kansas or Wyoming and a LONG way from the sea. My dad said, "boys, your momma can smell the changes of salt in the air and if a wind carries any of the sea in it, your momma can smell it. She was born by the sea."

Oh, wow, my momma was born by the sea!! "what's the sea, daddy?" "I'll show you, son, when we get there." That's a story for another time, but the thing is, I started to smell it too. Turns out I was born by the sea like my momma. Different coast, but I still got salt water in my lungs.

I heard the sea when I was 12 and again when I was 22. Both times it wasn't the sea, it was the call of God. I think Oswald knew something when he said what he did about the call of God. Do you smell it? It's ever so slight comin' in on a gentle breeze.

EATIN MY WORDS

The Red Vet poked along in front of me. "You shouldn't drive one of those, particularly a RED one, if you're just gonna constipate traffic!" My thoughts began to push. The red vet paid me no attention and my vehicle slowed with all the others. My thoughts began to create an entire universe in which this person was a total alien, and in the words of an old friend, "must be destroyed!" The little memory of humor allowed my thoughts a slice of light and in that crevice my Father's voice asked, "What cha doin'?"

I'm familiar with this scenario and took a deep breath, relaxing in the traffic. Without entering discussion with Father, I simply said, “Yes, Lord.” and began to pray for the person occupying the red Corvette. Dark windows kept me from gender or age specific prayers. I quickly began to pray in the Spirit and found myself speaking blessings over the life of the driver and their family. In a few moments I had a sensation of what it feels like to be salty. A saltiness from the King’s point of view.

Having entered peace in the midst of a metal river, I was surprised by an overpowered pickup truck that came up quickly on my left side. The truck was so abrupt that it had to break sharply to avoid hitting the vehicle in front in that lane. I began to wonder, “WHERE does that, (OK, I thought moron), think he’s going?!!” I sensed Father clearing his throat, and quickly began to pray in the Spirit, effectively cutting off the cursing flow in my thoughts. Soon I was blessing the man in the powerful truck, his family, his work, and interestingly, found myself praying with his parents with a sense of pride. I could tell his parents were proud of their son. Isn’t that just like Father, to give you an insight prophetically that can make you like a person you were just tempted to be ticked off at? Thanks DAD!

Well, after driving the 4 or 5 blocks to the Post Office in just under 15 minutes, I was thankful for the time of intercession I was allowed to have access to, and completely aware of how much easier it is to curse than it is to bless. Discipline is a root word for Disciple, isn’t it? Hmmmm? Sometimes in the midst of common things, it is tricky to remember that we are not common or OF this present world. We are salt. We are a gift to this generation. God designed each of us to be salty in the days He designed us to live.

OK, I’m ridin’ and taking my own advice.

SOUND SENSITIVITY

Ridin' South on 35, gettin' into flow on the 20 and headin' for home. As I geared down one gear I became very sensitive to sound. Not only an increase of back-fire and rumble, but also a feelin' like all the metal gears in the transmission were flying around inside the housing like ping pong balls in a lottery drawing.

Needless to say the pucker factor was way beyond just negotiating the turn. I let the bike smooth through the turn, return upright and gingerly brought it back up one gear. Worked fine. "Well, might as well try and get 'er home as anything else." The ride ended without mishap, only a few moments when sounds were NOT right.

Called the cycle shop and made appointment to come by the next morning and let the tech's check her out. Did you know that a loose exhaust pipe can make the bike feel like the motor and transmission are falling apart under the bike? I didn't. Turned out that a nut had come loose and backed itself off of my front pipe. The pipe was still on with one other bolt, but the subsequent leak, and the pressure created when down shifting, made it have all sorts of sounds that did not seem sweet.

That is just a motorcycle story. It turned out fine and the folks in Irving treated me awesome! But it reminded me of being sensitive to certain sounds. While waiting one of the guys encouraged me for bringing the bike in. "Lots of folks will just keep on riding and pay no attention to changes in sounds or vibrations." he told me. hmmmmmmm... I heard what he said, but I also heard what he said.

So, when I was thanking the Lord for watching over me, again, I was also asking Him to help me be sensitive to the sounds in life. Help us all to not become so busy with the ride that we just drive past changing sounds. Help us not become insensitive, or DULL of hearing. Someone said concerning the killings at the college recently, "well, it wasn't as bad as 911." They must be of those that just keep on riding. Hey, let's keep our ears on, OK, good buddy!!???

ANCIENT GATE

Many years ago I was helping lead in early morning prayers. I began to read from Psalm 24 and was drawn into a vision. An arched stone gateway rumbled, cracked and broke through the ground in front of me. From the right a horse and rider came into view and strode toward the gate. The horse was huge and snorted with power and confidence. I could not see the rider's upper body for the brightness that surrounded Him. As horse and rider came to the gate, they turned and marched through, right toward me. In the vision I was anxious and exhilarated in the same instant. I scurried all about to find something, anything, I could put down for the rider to be able to dismount the horse. Nothing! Finally, I threw myself down so He could climb down on my back. The horse paused in front of me, scuffing the ground. I waited, but nothing happened. The horse and rider went on. I came out of the vision.Many years later, in the midst of a worship time, I was returned to that very vision. This time I didn't bow down, but looked up. The rider's face pierced me with beauty and determination. His hand reached down to me while his voice pierced me, "Will you ride with me?" I grabbed his forearm and began to swing upward... The vision ended. I became aware that years earlier, in my immature and false humility of trying to be CORRECT with the rider, I did not even look at Him. I missed that moment of visitation due to my D.P.S. (Disciple-Peter-Syndrome). That is where we run around trying to build something for Christ rather than look and listen to Him.A verse for all of this?"LIFT UP YOUR HEADS, O YOU GATES; BE LIFTED UP, YOU ANCIENT DOORS, THAT THE KING OF GLORY MAY COME IN... WHO IS HE, THIS KING OF GLORY? THE LORD ALMIGHTY - HE IS THE KING OF GLORY.
- Psalm 24: 7, 10 -

RIDIN THE OL ROADS

For years I drove between West Texas and the Austin area. I became redundant in comments like, "Oh, this would be a great motorcycle road!" It didn't matter if anyone was present to hear my repetitions, because I would say it out loud even when alone. I might turn off the stereo, roll windows down, cut the A/C and sometimes even stick my head out the window. Doesn't sound like someone in their late 50's does it?Well, ya just gotta be there, or have 2-wheel flying-fever! These days I've ridden down most all the roads where I previously ventilated verbiage. It is even better on a motorcycle than I knew it would be. Recently I rode 71 South of Brady over to Llano and had a tough time making time. I was late getting out of Midland, in the sense that I had 6-7 hours of riding before dark in deer country. Sun was working hard to give place to moon and I rode moderately above law's letter. The colors grabbed and snatched at my vision, beckoning me to stop and snap back with a camera. Over my left shoulder, for a nanosecond, a scene so rich, so full grabbed at my progress. My right hand let off the friction cruise. I backed 'er down to 60, 50, 40 with pipes poppin and eyes scanning for enough asphalt to turn my bike around. But, realizing the time, I pulled 'er on up again and began to savor the picture in my mind. More light than a Kinkade painting. Although I didn't notice any Hobbit holes, they may have been there. A little pond, encircled by blue carpet with; Perulean, Periwinkle, Cobalt, Cornflower and royal. There were more shades but hey, I was doin' 74 mph. The amazing blue on blue field was assaulted by the deepest greens before all spilled into the little pond. This beauty battle was flanked by a slow rising hillock bursting into flames of: Alizarin, Crimson, Cardinal, Coral, Sangria and of course, Fire Engine. Oh, the glory of Spring colors that rupture through little cracks in the roadside brush line. The fact that sun was about to go off shift made the colors tune up their dying volume the way red clouds mark the end of day's light. I could not stop and avoid the dark in deer country, but I can remember and give thanks. Now you can too.

LET PHRASE ARIZE!

While I drove (it was rainy) to a morning prayer breakfast recently, I heard the Lord's voice say: "Now has come the day of the Equipped Saint!" The tone of voice was like Gandalf at the end of the Lord of Ring movie where he said, "Now has come the time of the King."

I was scheduled to give a devotion at the breakfast and I shared a little on that phrase. Most there seemed to be moved by the word. What I sense is that, no matter what we think, now has come the time of the equipped saint. We are now in a season of leaving immaturity and theatrical into maturity and authenticity. Function at your post with the Lord's enablement is the word of the day.

Saints, like real children, are taken care of in their youth. Saints, like real children, do NOT stay children, neither do they stay helpless or immature. Saints represent God in the earth and now has come the day of the equipped saint. We will see all manner of function released as God-Salt in the closing hours of man. God's Glory is being revealed.

Pray for the saints whose work is caring for the young, (new converts) Pray for the saints whose work it is to participate in the maturing, (making disciples). Pray for the saints whose work is seeing to it that God's children are released to work. (the Fathers) Pray for the saints whose work is to lay down their very lives for Father's love. May He grant us eyes to see AND hearts to walk out His own saltiness.

The verse the Lord reminded me of is:

"The Sovereign LORD has given me an instructed tongue, to know the word that sustains the weary. He wakens me morning by morning, wakens my ear to listen like one being taught." (Isa. 50:4)

PEACEFUL WARFARE

Spiritual Warfare, with weapons that are never carnal and in a battle already won, is oft difficult to apprehend by those who grasp the hilt of a natural sword.

I hand carved a huge sword once from wood. Even though it was artificial I felt the desire in the blade to hew and hack at human limbs. Strange, I thought, to feel such a violent reaction with a sculpture of wood in the image of a carnal weapon.

It soon dawned upon me that scripture did not say that the Word of God is a sword. It says it is sharper than any sword and names God's Word, "Sword of the Spirit". The picture of its use is most often proceeding from the mouth, not grasped by a hand.

Recently I was given another wooden sword. In a spiritual ceremony birthed by the Spirit through a dear friend, it was clearly not the symbol of carnal weaponry. In the same time frame, I heard a message where the speaker mentioned something like, "it's not a god of war that subdues the enemy, but the God of Peace." (re: Rom. 16:20)

May the God of Hope and of Peace be the One that trains our hands for war and our fingers for battle. Lay down arrogant ideas of our own abilities to do battle. May we take our posts in believing and trusting. He is not finished with us.

A COLD MEMORY

It was late January, 1967, a few weeks before a middle-teen birthday and we were at a military cemetery near Saint Louis, MO. COLD! Something was mentioned about it being the same plot where my brother was buried. Brother? They told me I had a brother, but he died as an infant. His name was Michael. I didn't know about my younger brother until that day. Strange to lose your Dad and discover you already lost a brother too. Makes trusting adults pretty tough.

That cold January our mom, the widow, tried to be sure everyone was being dignified, though she kept herself warm by half a bottle of 10 High whiskey as she made her way to a front chair. My brother chose to stand in the back. I wanted to stand with him, but was required to sit by the widow. She was not in Mom mode.

I remember crunching sounds. They were boots marching and soldiers lining up with rifles. The muffled grind of snow underfoot merged with huge white disks floating to the ground. Chalk like leaves floating on puffs of winter breath reminded us of the frigid air. It changed crisp to painful with each exhaled breeze.

Sharp, quick commands, then: Pap, Pap, Pap... 7 men, 7 rifle shots in perfect unison and the 21 gun salute was over by the time I understood. What was missing? There was no sound of brass hitting the ground? Snow is a quiet catcher's mitt. As soldiers gingerly crunched away I noticed my brother digging in the snow and wished again that I could have stood with him.

Then it started and I remember thinking, "Oh, no. My mother won't be able to hold it together if they play that!" But it was played and my mother did not hold it together. Her desire for dignity fled from her with each muffled scream of grief. Being sick with emphysema, she always thought she should have been the one to die. I tried to put my arm over her shoulder and others tried as well, but TAPS took her somewhere and all had to wait for her return.

Snow absorbed any idea of echo into itself, while each note reached out to pierce all who were alive with militant honor. Hippies quietly hid their symbols of peace and bowed their heads. Taps does not take or give excuses.

As the notes faded many hands lifted, then folded and then two hands presented the flag to a husk that had been mom. A diminutive and helpless shell of a soldier's widow, soon to awaken as a single mom, received it. Her arms did not lift from her lap. She just turned her palms up and the flag was laid down. I saw her cold fingers curl and grip Old Glory with wishes for her man's shoulders.

Taps ignited the fumes of personal toughness reserved for her children and burned away the broken pieces of her heart. Taps bound her to her man and then Taps cut him loose from her. For the rest of her days she would not listen to those notes unless all around became as stone and listened with true dignity. The temperature of Taps was captured by a white January and never escaped the cold.

Secret Place

It was not a secret place, it was my secret place. Actually the place could be seen from nearly any direction and from far and near. The total availability of the place made it all the more secret and mine alone. That is the power of a secret place, you know, to own it all by yourself. Maybe, sometimes, you can share it with a very close friend, but just like Jess and Leslie, that doesn't happen all that often. And I didn't meet my 'Leslie' until Mike's Frontier Burger. But that IS another story.

My secret place was only known by a few birds and our cat, Chan. Chan never went there that I know of, but he saw me sneak into the entrance a time or two. I was confident he wouldn't tell anyone, so it was OK that he saw me.

I guess I was pretty small when I first started going there. Well, because I can remember when I could not go there because of growth. Both my secret place and I grew and it came to a time that I could not get past the entrance. Oh, I could get to the door alright, I just could not get past it without doing it damage. I didn't want to wound my secret place.

I'm not sure the first time I found it. I think it was when I got in trouble or a sibling picked on me or something like that. I remember it was fairly funky because I wanted to run way away, and I could not because I was very young. They come after you pretty quick when you're young.

I went outside and started to go off into the field behind our house. You had to walk through sort of a line of trees right on the back of our yard. Instead of going out into the open field, I came back to the largest of the trees and climbed up onto one of the lower branches. I'd done that before but had not been in a run away mood.

This time, I kept on climbing. I passed some of the easy branches and came to a place where the center trunk had a crown of small limbs all the way around. It looked like that was it. It was as far as you could go. But, by stretching back to where two of the small branches made room for me to hoist up between, I was able to infiltrate this hidden entrance.

Above the crown I continued climbing onto the very tips of the top of the tree. Some of the branches I wedged my feet into were smaller than my father's fingers. The limbs I clutched in my hands were smaller than my fingers. But I had no fear and took no thought, for I was hidden from words and glares. I wasn't too young to be afraid, I had no time to think about it. I needed to be away! No one would even think I could get that high in the tree.

As I looked out over the tops of the branches I could see forever. Specially in the direction out of town. I did not know it was West, but it was. In the other directions there were houses and even larger trees so those views were not as spectacular as it was to the West.

The top branches swayed with the wind and I swayed with them. It was not long before I didn't remember why it was that I came into my hiding place. So transition from hiding to secret and special happened all in the very first trip. I don't remember how old I was that first time or how many times I went there. I can remember that if I truly wanted to be alone, I had a place very close where I could go very far away.

I remember my mother calling out our front door, "come on in, now..." If I didn't answer she'd yell harder and louder and I'd be in for it cuz I wasn't supposed to be out of 'ear shot'. So I learned to shout away from the house so she would not realize I was right over her head.

I was always very careful entering and exiting my secret place. I was always aware that my private ownership would be forever gone if anyone saw my exit from this world. As far as the house, I could swing up on the opposite side of the tree from our door, so that posed no problem. But from the back of our house, our neighbor's house was in view, so I'd always be sure to check that no one was in the yard or out in the field.

I appreciated being invisible from time to time when I was a youngster. Invisible and not breaking any rules. What a neat gift. The only problem became growing up. I grew and the gateway grew too. That crown of limbs became a knotted clump of branches that I could no longer lean out far enough to get through. I could have cut some out, but that would not be the same.

I remember saying good-by. I stood on branches below the crown, scrunched my nose at the knot of branches, and said, "well, I guess were finished with each other. Thank you for all the times you allowed me to hide in the top places. I know you'll keep our secret." As far as I know, the tree kept confidence.

VIEW FROM A BURGER BENCH

Sittin' in a burger franchise, takin' the bread off a slice of chicken that may have never walked on this planet, adding jalapeno slices to get some flavor out of this critter... and I see this young blond across from my booth.

Young, perhaps not old enough to be baby sitting the child in the high chair beside her. "Too young to have a baby, surely", I think to myself. Pony tail, a few pubescent blemishes, T-shirt with some school slogan, eating chicken planks, french fries and drinking a soda through a straw.

Again I think, "Too young to be the Mother!" Then I see it. I see that thing in her eyes as she leans over and blows kisses to her son. " Yea, this is no baby sitter", I say to myself, "This is Mom!" Young enough for this baby to really have a friend when he grows - if he takes time to see this girl that has given him life.

If she's not mom, she has that magic only women possess. That power to melt a baby face into bright smiles and hold me hugs. God is amazing and this young lady reminds me how sweet it was for Him to put Adam asleep while He excavated His wonder from us, and FOR us.

It is a good thing to celebrate Mother's Day. Here's another celebration of life happening in a burger joint. I hope she's not a single mom, but sense that if she is - she'll make it. God bless her! God bless this baby. Thank You, Father for granting me this moment in the midst of Your wonder.

"Ohhh yea... he's got his mother's eyes."

STREAMS in the RIVER

Walked the quads during lunch break today. Stopped and sat at a bench along the Trinity River and let them snag some shade. (what are they gonna do when it gets hot?) As I looked at the river I noted that current and perhaps the wind made the surface appear to have many streams within the whole of the river. I tried to count the different faces on the surface, but to no avail. I'll suffice it to say that there were more than 10.

It made me think about the River of God. His River makes glad the City of God. I'm glad that I no longer have to sit and look at His river. I drowned in it long ago and have been soaring with the current ever since. It was a good lunch break.

Campfires and '56 Fords

It was cold. I lay in a fetal skrunch on the front seat of our family car. I could see my breath when I poked my face through the layers of blankets. The windows inside the car were fogged, but I didn't get up to look out. I wasn't going to mess up my cuddly cocoon.

The door of the car opened with crunching sounds. It was not the hinges of that old Ford, but the snow under my father's foot steps. Pop's voice came in a low rumble as he began to drag the covers, with me in them, out into the bright, cold Rocky Mountain morning. "Come on son, I've got the fire going for you. Come be with me by the fire." I was glad he got me and when I noticed no one else around, I felt special. It was bitter cold, but my dad had made a fire before he got me out. I like my dad.

As I sat there getting toasty on the front side and frigid on my backside, I noticed another portion of my bodily function had awakened as well. "Oh no!" I thought, "I'll have to leave the fire and walk the snow into the woods!" I resolved to just hold it as long as I could. The gentle low rumble of my father's voice interrupted my squirming thoughts. "Come on, let's take a pee." Wow, my dad said the "p" word! Momma said I could not use that word. Well, we were alone so I guess that was guy talk. Better than that, he tossed me up over a shoulder and lugged me to the woods so we could decorate the snow together. That wasn't all that easy for I was seven and had lead in my bones. My mom had told me that a number of times. Dad was a small man at 5'3", but he was very strong and toting his youngest was no problem for him. It was cold but it was also cool. I like my dad.

When we came back toward the fire others had begun to stir around. My mom was doing something with pots and pans and making noises under her breath. My teenage brother and his school friend were laughing as they went over by the gurgling creek. It was iced over but there were spots that the water flowed around. They were brushing their teeth and getting the foam all over their mouths and hands and down on their wrists. They were actually having fun brushing their teeth! I didn't know that was possible.

Momma's murmurs awakened into a bark in my direction. "Go brush your teeth little one! And don't make a mess like those two owl-hoots!!" I just looked at her with my mouth agape, wondering at her capacity to douse moments of coolness with embarrassments. I had not done a thing but was already in trouble. I also thought how unfair it was that my mother could read my thoughts. Dad had somehow disappeared and the moments of menfolk, warmth and Pee-Caso in the snow had ended. Now we were on Momma-time and I was the primary male figure that HAD to mind her.

I like my dad.

IT ALL STARTED WITH A LEMON

Kevin leaned over our table and spoke softly, "an anonymous couple has given $20.00 toward your bill this evening and asked me to say how much they enjoyed dining in the same area as you two." We looked at each other and remembered the lemon.

It was Valentine's Day and dinner out was the extent of this year's celebration. My wife had been particularly busy and did not desire deliveries or gifts, but was very open to not having to cook. We went to an Italian place nearby and found they had a 75 minute wait. It dawned on me that the preferred language did not include the phrase, 'over an hour'. Artful articulation adjustment not unlike children that take years to grow out of months. "Oh, he's already 27 months old." uhhhh, back to lemons...

My sweet love noted an empty spot near the bar so we wove a path thither. After I had ordered a glass of wine and attempted to settle into a waiting siege when she observed some people getting up from a nearby table. "Go get that table." she urged in a forced whisper. I grunted a little resistance as I began to move over to the table. I assumed the fullness of the establishment would render all available tables to the wait list. If I hadn't obeyed my wife I would certainly fell prey to the ol' assumption rule. However, Cholocate Day had given me a booster shot of cooperation.

Turns out that the five or six tables near the bar were up for 'dibs'. So the 75 minute wait was reduced to about 5. I love this woman! We ordered some muscles as an appetizer, tasted from a new bottle of wine and enjoyed the day, our company and the grace at which we had overcome an interminable wait. Our generous appetizer arrived sporting a huge hunk of lemon in the center. I noted that it longed to be squeezed upon the surrounding sea creatures. So I gingerly picked up my butter brothed yellow condiment and tried to squeeze. But it was too large and I was holding it too lightly trying to avoid completely baptizing my hand in the warm broth. So I added a digit to the two already assaulting the citrus and put some grunt into my squeeze.

Two things happened nearly simultaneously. The first, barely noticeable, was a couple drops of fresh lemon juice dribbled into the previously seasoned broth. The second, and several eyes noticed this, a giant yellow hockey puck flew from my hand, and shot diagonally across the room landing with a sklishhh, in the center of the dining area.

My first amazement was that the projectile did not hit anyone as it flew through the crowded room. Light laughter lofted from a few nearby tables and I noticed three or four pairs of eyes upon me as I tried to slurp off any evidence of the incident from my butter-guilty fingers.

My lovely wife laughed along with the strangers and said, "you'd have thought it was a hockey puck. We're glad we didn't hurt anyone...heh heh heh". I noted a sense of relief as my dear partner claimed joint custody of the moment. After 35 years, I've experienced several moments in public that she was perfectly willing for me to have individual ownership. It felt good to truly share this slapstick moment together.

Dinner went on wonderfully after that. No spilled wine, no dribbles down the front of my shirt. I did note a glance our way a time or two and thought they might be looking for an encore from the orchard. As we finished our dinner and Kevin delivered the secret message, we just nodded around the room with smiles at any eyes we might connect with.

A really special Valentine Dinner for two, including wine and lavish desert and plenty of left overs... and all for less than if we had fast food at a drive thru, and it all started with a lemon.

FRIGID FACE FORWARD

The longing for Spring comes at different times to different folks, but it comes. The longing may come so late as to hit the dead when they notice Spring blooms only available on slides. Others long for Spring before Fall is finished, thinking to skip Winter all together.

With means, or large loans, there are those who skip Winter via multiple dwellings in various climate zones. Some walk winter's white waiting while wishing water wings wiggled wondrously in the warm. Yea, some get a little "W'd" in Winter. Spring beckons and draws our face forward.

No more profound time of Face Forward than 11:59 PM on December 31st. It is called New Year, but the energy of the moment is truly New Beginning. New, get-it-right-this-time, beginning. Since our youth, the electric moment of last year ending and this year beginning has been something to loose sleep over, literally. Face Front. We look over the past year, but only to let go of it and turn to the unknown possibilities of what lies ahead. After its short death, the seed may root for a while downward, but only for the purchase to secure it in order to spend the majority of life's energy pressing upward. Amazingly, it reaches deeper so that it can grow higher. Face Forward. Face UPWARD. All have certain cells that, by design, desire to align to light. The more suppression, the more muscle to break through. I took a short cut across a huge parking lot of a closed business. I was walking and started to be amazed at all the plants that had broken through the black-top and seemed to be thriving. Some might call them weeds, but I was thinking of them as life. Living plants, breaking through from beneath and from above, but tearing up that man made crust. Face Forward. I walked across an enormous parade ground. I was on lunch break and headed across the field to find some private place for my break. I became aware of so much space around me that I found my private place in the midst of a parade ground. I read awhile, ate a light lunch, and eventually lay down to rest in the Mid-Spring sun. The field was newly cut and I could see the fresh cut tops of blades of grass. I had a flash of feeling of the violence each blade encounters when mowed. Then of the billions of blades. I wondered at the brutality suffered to produce order in another life zone. I gazed down through the chopped grass, beyond the dead bodies of the blades, and saw tiny new sprouts reaching forth in the shadow of elder brothers. Face Forward. New Life. Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall. Winter, SPRING, Summer, Fall. Winter, SPRING, Summer, Fall. Face Forward. Face Forward, we don't need no varmint rodent to broadcast our longing for Spring. Just wait a spell, rest a little, take deep breaths, keep warm, read a little more, Spring IS coming.

QUADRUPED KITE FLYING

It is a most excellent invention. Well, for dogs at least. The retractable, 16 foot leash is nearly freedom for a collar-bound pooch. Who needs to heel a K9 when you can reel? Of course one need recognize that 16 feet is the radius and the same leash has a 32 foot diameter and a Pie-R-Squared moving mess of panting tongue, wagging tail, whizzing poop and pee anywhere in the midst. Heel is starting to look better and better.

What if a brave, (ig'nant*) soul multiplied this equation by two? In other words, walked two pups on two separate 16 foot retractable leashes, thus creating two 32 foot diameter moving circles of joy. Joy for the quad's. You don't mind if I call them that, do you? For the quads it is fun most of the time. However, after particular macramé movements there are incidents of strangulation. But, for the most part, the dogs have a great time.

What of the brave soul? If you make it home with both pets, neither strangled nor run over, then you're trooper. It is not really like flying kites. It is more like mercury on a string. Perhaps, it is like sentient mercury tied with two strings, moving in circular arcs, in between legs, round about with sudden stops and evacuations of solid and liquid waste by products. Did I mention the plastic poop gloves?

However, when all are walking in the same direction with no line entanglements, you have a thing of beauty. People gawk out from their passing automobiles. Pedestrians pause with cuddly words of praise and puppy affection. This is often when the macramé sets in. Ahhh, how can I express the beauty of the thing? It may be fleeting, and I have a new respect for that word, but the movement of two precious pups, constrained just a little, is, well, it is art! hold it a minute I'll, Woahhhh..arghh.. , hold that thought,

d.e$#@ .. dang, cord... well, come here and you won't strangle ,hey, come back here, don't you see your sister is choking.... dan#$%@@!!.. ok, ok.... HEY....get out of those flowers, ok, now, join your sister, it'll be ok.. Hey #@$&&8!!.. the button. the button, press the dag nab button!

I forgot to mention that this wonderful invention has a button on the handle that enables the human host to restrict the leash to lengths UNDER 16 feet. It is most useful when you remember to take advantage of it. Ok.. one dog is dragging the other one under her hind legs. I’ve got to come back and pick up that poop I missed.

I'll sign off for now and see you UP the road.

[ * ig’nant = to dumb to spell ignorant ]

GREEN SNOW WINGS

In Iowa I learned that snow angels turn green when Spring begins to creep under the cold.

I was on my way to school and this, this eye gouging green grabbed at my face. Yes, I was a kid and No, I didn't think like that. I did feel it, though. It might have been the angle of the morning sun hitting the slope of the yard. It is also possible that color deprivation caused my visual cortex to scream at this genesis of Spring color. I don't know the reason. I do remember the green. But that is not all.

When images of afflictions placed upon the tardy loosed my eyes from the baby grass, I proceeded on the half block to school. Looking back, over my shoulder, I abandoned attendance once again. From several yards away, virescent radiation outlined a shape that had once been a snow angel. An angel that I had made. I was stunned by the emerald beauty but realized that I did not do the making. Oh, yes, a month earlier I had laid down and flailed arms and legs and got up with giggles. But I didn't make the beauty in the moment of its beholding. Something bigger made that.

It melted in little ripples of nausea as the tardy bell began to ring. For 50 years it lay hidden. Then, about a year ago, I walked around the building that once was my elementary school. Very little had changed. Too much of what once was play ground had grown a black crusty shell of parking spaces. Some flowering bushes and a few trees had graduated and gone on, but other than that, I recognized so much that I was overcome. A flood of sliver memories. Sliver, not silver. You know, it is just a sliver of a window on a nano second in a play ground...

Looking over where the soft ball field use to be, beyond to the corner where I stood road guard, and a little further, catty-corner across the street, I saw the sloping yard. The fluorescent angel flew back into my tattooed memory of Spring Green. I stood there and wept for joy, thankful that Father keeps His glory moments from eroding in the gray matter of human clay.

I was going to talk about why we face front in the Winter, but my angel caught my eye.

See you UP the road.