Cold is to Hard as Warm is to Soft

Allllllllright!

This is the first morning of single digits that are on the "+" side of zero in a week and a'half!

Banana belt, baby!

I feel as euphoric as when I clawed my way up from a D- to a D+ in 4th Grade.  Yes!

"Weeeeeeee are the Champions, my fri-end...." (Sing it, Freddy.)

I have great expectations for today.  It's gotta be an easier, more pleasant day.  It's above zero!

Not like the last week and a'half...

It's been hard to get outta bed.  The Little-House-On-The-Corner has been cold.  Pretty cold, actually.

And when things are cold, they get hard.  D'ya ever notice that?  Take butter for example.

In Northern Wisconsin, the butter only spreads easy five months outta the year.

Car seats get hard.  Car doors open hard.  Any unattended water, beverage, or Elixir of Knowledge inside of cars gets hard.  It's hard to feel fingers, toes, and faces while scraping off hard ice and snow from windows and windshields. And it's hard to breathe when the below zero is doubled by a 35 mph wind to below-below zero.

Cold is just...hard.

Right now I'm sitting here, next to the heater, sipping hot Elixir of Knowledge...and thinking about cold.

Cold makes things hard.  Yep.  Like honkin' rocks.

Huh.

A sip of the Elixir floats up some words from the Book.

Hearts getting cold.  Love getting cold.  Things getting hard that weren't intended to be that way.

And the only thing to stop the cold is warmth.  Warmth makes things soft.

Warmth keeps soft things soft.  Like hearts.  Like love.

Things that were intended to be that way.

Another sip of the Elixir has me contemplating the dilemma.

Oh.  Yeah, I guess that'd be the thing.

The key is to find the Warmth That Never Fails.  A Warmth that is always there no matter the temperature, the circumstances, or the winds.  Yeah.

And The Book tells of the only One I know that can keep me warm, no matter what.  And He's done that.  And He's doing that.

We all hafta choose what'll keep us warm.  So, choose wisely, eh?

It's a cold world out there.

St. Valentine's Day Mess-acare

...ugh....ughhhhhhhhh

I stare sleepily out the front window.  Another night, sitting up, working on that whole breathing thing.  I grope around for the iPhone & click it.

4:11.

Somewhere in the brain fog, a klaxon horn methodically screams.

There is something...like a Darth Vader moment when Obi Wan gets on the Death Star.

What is...oh, nuts!

Valentine's Day!

And the panic starts.  It's hard to breathe as my mind runs blindly like a mid-management, mildly out-of-shape guy in mid-life crisis fleeing the bulls in Pamplona.

Heeet, heeet, fooooo.  Heeet, heeet, foooo.  There that's better.

Glad I went to those Lamaze classes.  Calmer now, breathing better.  Then a thought goes into labor.   Ah.  Ahhhhh.   Ahhhhhhhhhhh-right!

The moment of birth plops out a complete thought, nicely diapered with combed hair over a smiling face.

I'll make sweet rolls and decorate them for Valentine's Day!

Great idea.

And so was booking a luxury suite on the Titanic.

I get dressed, ninja-style, and sneak through the Dining/Living/Computer/Family Room to the kitchen where I semi-conciously nuke a leftover cup of the Elixir of Knowledge.

You ever notice that really early in the morning, a microwave sounds like a jet helicopter warming up that stops with a bell used to start horseraces?

I slam back a half'a'cup and estimate that the scalded skin in my mouth should grow back sometime next week.

Car keys in hand, I step out into the Wild. The cold wind hits me like a middle linebacker. I can't breathe.  I lean toward the car.  Heeeet, heeeet, foooooooo.   Heeet, heeeeeet...

I claw my way into the minivan and sit wheezing within my womb from Detroit.  35 minutes later I stumble back through the front door armed with a small plastic bag.

I nuke another cup of the Elixir.  As the helicopter preps for takeoff, I peel the wrapper off of a tube of Martha Stewart's best easy-bake cinnamon rolls.  I wait for the pop that pulls apart the tube.  Nothing...just the roar of the microwave taking off.

Huh.  I smack the tube on the counter edge just as the bell on the microwave starts the feature at the Downs.

And therrrrrrrrrrrrre off!  The tube in my hand explodes open, shooting a cinnamon blob out its side like a Pillsbury Doughboy cesarean.  I peel the blob out of the sink and discover it's twins.

I plop the twins into the 9" butter-greased pie pan and try to get their siblings to come out of the tube.  They don't wanna.

Peeling, probing, and pulling finally gets Martha' kids into the light of day.   All but two come out as Siamese Quintuplets, conjoined at their centers.  During the separation process, I end up with 2  handfuls of unwrapped, knotted-up cinnamon rolls.  I untangle the dough strips, kinda re-roll 'em, and stick 'em in the pan.

Huh.

Looks like I'm baking piles of really thick, wide shoelaces.

Well, love covers a multitude of ills.

And so does frosting.

Into the oven goes the shoelace piles.  Oh yeah.  I should turn the oven on.  It should be at.........

I dig through the garbage for the wrapper.  400.  Right, 400.

I take the shoestrings out of the oven and wait for 400.  I wander out to the Dining Room and fire up the laptop which turns it into the Computer Room.

Huh.  I google a windchill calculator.

-2.

20 mph wind.

The words of the Penguins of Madagascar ring in my ears.

"Well.  This sucks."

A ding from the kitchen tells me at least it's warm in the oven. I set the pan on the grate.

"Hello, Mr. 400 Degree Oven.  Here are some of Martha's kids.   You guys play nice, now."

"Who ya talkin' to, Dad?"

I glance up to see TechnoBoy and a bad case of bedhead looking at me.

"Nothin'.  Nobody.  Definitely not the oven.  Nothing here.  Move along.  Move along."

TechnoBoy turns, shaking his head before disappearing into the Reading Room.

15 minutes later, another ding, and the pan now holds browned piles of shoelances.

Okay.  Frosting.  Lotsa frosting.

I pull the foil safety top of the Duncan Hines frosting tin which is now made out of plastic.  I spread globs of butter cream frosting across the crispy topography.  Butter crème - it sounds like it's good for burns, doesn't it?

But these frosted mounds look, unfortunately, like all the other cinnamon rolls I've attempted. No pizzazz. No shock value.  No Valetine-ese.

What's this?  There's something stuck at the bottom of Martha's tube.  A baggie full of white frosting.  I stare at it as I sip the Elixir.

And the Elixir does its work.

Sure.  That'll work.  That'll look Valentine-ese.  I squeeze most of the frosting into a small plastic bowl and the remainder onto the counter.

I rummage through the cabinet over the stove.  I need The Box.

The Box is the baking version of The Junk Drawer.  It  contains all those weird baking things.  The glitter toppings.  The guava-persimmon flavoring syrup.  And the food colorings.  Specifically, the RED food coloring.

Back to the little plastic bowl of frosting.

I cautiously tip the bottle.  Nothing.  I keep tipping. And I'm tipping.  And it's not dropping.  I achieve full vertical dispensing and...nothing.  Huh.

I put a little bit of tap water into the bottle, recap it, and shake.  And my second attempt at coloring frosting visits the other end of the spectrum.  I tip it too far, dumping the entire contents into the bowl.  Ohhhh.

It looks like a Quentin Tarantino movie trailer.   Kill Bill 3 in a bowl.  That's reeeeeeeally red.

Arterial red.  Definitely a good "heart" color.  And so I take a spoon, dip it in the bowl, and try to make a heart shape in the butter cream frosting covering the landscape of shoelaces.

Uh.  Oh.  C'mon, c'mon.  There.  Oh.

There are now reddish-pink smudges adorning the rolls.  Not so much heart shapes as maybe a sporadic nosebleed.  I need to fill in the heart areas better.

Okay.

I grab the little plastic bowl and tip it over the first heart smudge.  No, I did not learn a thing from the food coloring episode and, yes, history does repeat itself.

Nuts.

It looks like a family of mice got sucked into a snowblower.

Huh.

I put The Box back and, lo and behold, there are some plastic Valentine hearts on sticks.

Okay then.

I stick them into the bumps of frosting in the pan.

Now it looks like a crime scene with the police investigating the mouse family's demise.

Oh well.

I go back to bed, a little bummed, a little discouraged.  A couple hours later I wander into the kitchen.  Half the rolls are gone, the slightly frosted plastic hearts on sticks lying on the table.

I hear the front door opening and poke my head around the corner.  TechnoBoy is on his way out.  He smiles as he pulls the door shut.

"Thanks for the Valentine rolls, Dad!"

"You bet, bud.  Happy Valentine's Day."

I head for the Reading Room and pass The Wife bringing a small plate back out to the kitchen.  It holds spots of red and white frosting and a couple of little plastic hearts on sticks.  She smiles.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

Yeah.  I quietly close the door to the Reading Room.

It is.

Rerun From February 2013: "Comparing Clouds"

I'm sitting here at the Dining Room table, laptop open and ready, while munching on a breakfast bagel.  Waiting for genius to strike.

And now the bagel's gone and I  have nothin'.  Except a desire for another bagel.

Wait a minute!  Ha ha, genius!

I'll utilize that All-American marketing expertise of network television.

How 'bout a rerun?!

So here.  I went over to the old Garage at Weebly and pulled this out of a two-year old box in the corner.

(The old Garage is at uncledennysgarage.weebly.com, in case you've never been there.  Swing by and rummage through the Putzin' boxes.  It's okay.)

Here's a February almost-a-classic that I hope you enjoy.  For you faithful five who have hung out at the Garage since the beginning, I'm almost sorry to put you through this again.

Almost...

--------    --------     -------     -------     -------     -------     -------     -------     -------     -------

"Comparing Clouds" (February 2013)

The Elixir of Knowledge and the Chair can conjure up great rabbit trails for a mind to explore.

This time my mind ran smack into the Cloud.

The Cloud.  That place where a computer goes to store things, find things, and retrieve things.

I'm wondering if that's the place where all those left socks go.  Straight from the dryer to the Cloud.  Never to be accessed again.

Huh.

A swig of Elixir brings another Cloud to mind.  THE Cloud.  THE Cloud that led Moses and his occasionally-happy band away from Egypt.

Now that's a CLOUD, eh?

A swig of the Elixir and a deeper settling into the Chair initiates the Cloud Comparison

The iCloud to THE I-AM Cloud.

One stores a lot of information. The Other invented information.

One is accessible from any computer or smartphone, 24/7, 365.

The Other is accessible, unplugged, every moment of a lifetime.

The iCloud protects my information off-site, here on Earth.

THE I-AM Cloud protects my info, my soul, and my dreams off-site and off-Earth, where there's no rust, moths, North Korean cyber terrorism, or EMPs..

Another pull of the Elixir of Knowledge plucks a thought from the clouds.

So which one?  We each have to make the decision as to which cloud we'll put our trust in.  Put our lives in.  Our eternities.

Huh.

A quick look at the list of features, benefits, and the warranty makes the choice pretty easy.  At least for me.

When was the last time the iCloud loved me enough to die for me? Has it loved you like that?

Yeah.  

The Ancient of Days Way is the best tech out there.  Always has been.

The I-AM Cloud...

And the best part?  I don't need any sacrificial RAM.

Not anymore.

Mid-Winter Seed Catalogues

It came in the mail today.  That manuscript which is second only to The Book in bringing hope to the despairing.

The annual seed catalogue.

To you in warmer climes you might think this is idiotic.

OK.  I'll give you that.

But having a burst of euphoria over pictures of green plants and brightly colored flowers is a cultural phenomenon wherever the garden is frozen and white for half the year.

(All those characters in the movie, "Frozen"?  Everyone of 'em had a seed catalogue stashed in their bathrooms.  Yep.  A guy from Northern Minnesota told me.)

One of the great pleasures on a snowy winter's day?  Strolling through the seed catalogue in the warmth of the Reading Room.

The Reading Room at our house is small but it has its own electrical baseboard heat.  Just barely cracking the wall-mounted rotary thermostat brings the room up to those wonderful mid-summer temps.  A quarter-turn escalates the air to "Finnish-sauna" level.  A half-turn and you're being baptized, full immersion, in habanero sauce.

I open the Reading Room door and step into a welcoming warmth that won't hit the our front yard for another 6 months.  I set the Elixir of Knowledge on the sink and lock the door.  After closing the lid on the Reading Seat, I grab a couple of towels off the rack to make the seat nice and cushy.  Almost ready...

...and where's the seed catalogue?

I rummage through the Reading Basket in the corner.  There's a book on prayer, one on screenwriting, and a Christian fiction with a picture of a bonneted lady looking intently across a windy prairie.  Behind that there's a clipboard with the crossword puzzle from the weekly paper.

And then...the seed catalogue.

I sit back and begin walking through the Garden of Eatin' as that peculiar newspaper-print smell wafts off the pages.  I begin at "A".

Apples.  Beans.  Cauliflower.

Ohhhhhh.  Daikon radishes!

Eggplant.  Fava beans.

The minutes fly by as the pages slowly turn.  My feet are tingling by the time I get to Plums.  The door knob rattles once then is quiet.

Huh.  Quince.

The door knob rattles again.  Then again.

I've just found Raspberries when there's a pounding on the door.  It's TechnoBoy.

"Dad.  I really gotta get in there."

"Okay, okay.  Hold yer horses.  I'm on Raspberries.  I'll be out soon."

"C'mon on, Dad! I won't make it to Zucchini."

"Alright, alright."

Actually, I've never made it past Squash without my feet falling asleep.  So it's probably a good place to stop.

Grabbing the Elixir and the seed catalogue, I gingerly exit the warmth on tingling feet.  I'm barely into the hallway before TechoBoy shoots by, slamming the door shut.

I smile as I shake my head.  Ah, the impatience of youth.

Wandering the four feet to the kitchen,  I refill the Elixir before parking at the kitchen table.

Huh.  Well...

The Elixir has a thought germinating.  And it's beginning to sprout.

Yeah.

Ever notice what's in the packet?  The picture on the front shows this beautiful plant...but what's in the packet?  Yeah.  Little dark hard seeds.   And they're nothin' like the picture.

But plant 'em, cover 'em, water and weed 'em...and there's the picture.

A picture I can touch.  That my neighbors and friends can touch.

Another swig.  And more thoughts pop up.

"Unless a seed falls to the ground..."

"Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone..."

"Only God know how many apples are in an apple seed."

Seeds.  And The Book is full of 'em, too.  But in The Book they go by another name.

Promises.

Those "If-Then" things.

If I believe that He'll do what He says and if I let Him plant His promise, then He says He'll water, weed, cover, and shine on it.    And then He says something incredible will happen.

Something that makes me so much more than just a piece of dirt.

I get to be a garden.

Chocolate Chip Cookies & A Sheep Named Leroy

The LIttle House on the Corner is still wearing that delightful smell of cookies baked several hours ago.  It's the home-style version of 24-hour stick deodorant.  And cookies taste better.

Don't ask how I know that.  I just do.

The Wife is bustling towards the door on this cold Saturday morning, heading to a Church staff training meeting complete with potluck snacks and lunch.  She has a big plate of cookies balanced on one hand while clutching her gloves and purse with the other.  I hold the door open as she squeezes by.

"It took forever to get the best ones sorted out.  We might need a new stove.  I left you some in the kitchen.  Make sure our son gets at least one, okay?"

"Ha-ha.  Have a nice meeting.  See ya later, Babe."

I stand at the window and give her a little wave as she backs out onto the street.  The minivan's taillights make it to the corner which triggers a movement towards the kitchen with a speed used only for emergencies and buffet lines.

Holding a 1/2-a-glass of milk and a fistful of chocolate-chip cookies I return to the Dining/Living/Computer/Family Room, plopping down at the table marking the Dining Room area.

Consumption begins.  In earnest.

By the 3rd cookie, I realize something is different.  The cookies have a very distinctive crispness.  More of a crunch, really.  Sorta like...yeah...that's it.

Like the outside of those chicken legs I cauterize on the grill.  Actually, it's like the outside of everything I charcoal on the grill.

(Burnt offerings.  It's Scriptural.  Look it up.)

I check the bottom of the cookie.   It was either laid out to cool on a freshly-tarred road or it was severely burnt beyond the powers of SPF30.  And its remaining friend has the same problem.

Based on my last burp, the previously consumed were likewise afflicted.

Oh maaaaaaaannn.

I quaff what's left of the milk, unable to get that chocolate-ashtray-taste outta my mouth.

Time for the Elixir of Knowledge.

While the Elixir brews and gurgles, I inspect the remaining cookies.  I find one that might qualify as a "D+" in baking school.  The rest are culinary dropouts.

I take the "D+" and leave the dropouts for our son, TechnoBoy.  His immune system is younger.  He can handle it.

A fresh cup of the Elixir of Knowledge accompanies me and the "D+" cookie back to the Dining Room table.

I take the first sip of the Elixir.

Huh.

Another sip and a thought wanders by.

Well, it is kinda like...

In the Book, the Israelites found themselves in this type of predicament.  They were only to bring the very best to the Temple.  Only the best for Him.

And He had to call them out on it.  They just weren't doin' it.  They were saving their best for someone else.  And giving Him less than their leftovers.

The Elixir of Knowledge and I suddenly imagine a conversation.  An ancient Israelite exchange between father and son.

"Benjy, go get a lamb for the Temple offering."

"Okay, Dad.  I'll get Reuben.  Be right back."

"Hey! Hey!  Why ya gonna get Reuben?"

"He's the best we got, Dad."

"Yeah and I wish we had a whole flock full of Reubens.  But we don't.  Get Leroy."

"But, Dad.  Leroy has the mange."

"Nuthin' some wool scraps and glue can't fix.  Get him...and grab the glue!"

I do this.  I give my best to those I know the least.  And to those who mean the most - those who love me the most - I give the least.  The leftovers.

The "D+ or Worse" cookies.

The "Leroys".

I care more about impressing people I don't know than I care about giving my best to those who know me best.

And, to my embarrassment,  I give leftovers to Him, the One who knows me best of all.

Well, nuts.

I take the "D+" cookie back to the counter and put it on the plate for TechnoBy.  I grab a couple of the charcoal-lined "Leroys" and head for the fridge.

I am definitely gonna need a bigger glass of milk.

Mozzarella and White Plates

Tonight I did the dishes.

This is an event that happens with slightly more regularity than a sighting of Halley's Comet.

It's not that I don't like to do the dishes - well, it's not just that.  When I get home at the end of the day I sometimes go into "standby mode" while longing for the arrival of "sleep mode".   I don't stop to think how the food got on the plate.

To me it's one of those things that happen.  Like manna.   It just...appears.

And like manna, it usually needs a little salt.

Anyway, The Wife shot by me carrying her Bible and study book while searching for her purse.  She was standing in front of the TV while scanning the room, blocking Opey and Andy.  I sucked in a breath to say something when she spotted the purse.

"There it is."

That worked out well.  And just in time to see Barney dig for The Bullet.

"Okay, I'm off to the Ladies Bible Study. Take care of the dishes...please?"

"Sure, I got em.  Have fun."

"'Bye."

"Bye."

A few minutes later the minivan's headlights flashed through the Living Room part of the Dining/Living/Computer/Family Room, bringing me back from Mayberry.

"Did I...what did I..............oh, yeah.  The dishes."

I made the choice between the old Batman show or The Wife's ire upon returning to a dirty kitchen.  I'm gettin' wiser in my old age.

Circumventing the piano and dodging the little dining room table, I wandered into the kitchen.

Wow.  A bunch of dishes.  And pots.  Skillet.  Silverware.  And glasses.

I rationalized just doing the dishes since she asked me to do "the dishes", not all the other stuff.  Then a sudden realization of the consequences hit me...IF I survived the "Wife-coming-home" experience there still wasn't a jury in the world that would convict her.

 So I started the hot water and added the Joy.

While waiting for the fill-up, I filled up my cup with the Elixir of Knowledge and stared at the birdfeeder.  About four minutes later I finished wiping up the suds on the floor.  Wow.  That stuff really foams.

It was then that I made the discovery that birthed this post.

(And thank you, dear reader, for hanging in there this far.  Um, you are reading this...right?)

I grabbed one of our plates.  We have, for the last 20-some years, used only plain white Corelle plates.  The tighty-whiteys of table settings.  If one breaks, you just pick up another one at WalMart.  Like buying white cotton tube socks.  Easy to match.  And cheap.

The plate didn't look dirty so I gave it a quick pass with the dishcloth and put it into the other sink for rinsing.  Something caught my eye.

A lot of the plate wasn't shining.  Looked like there were dull spots.  All over it.  I ran my hand over it.  Lumps.  Small chunks.  I held it up under the cabinet light.  Oh, maaaaannn.

Mozzarella.

The ninja of cheeses.  Tough.  Invisible.  And it puts up quite a fight.

Resorting to a steak knife and a Brillo pad, I chipped and muttered my way to a clean plate.

I rinsed it.  The whole plate sparkled under the over-the-sink light.  There we go.

The dishes were finished, (...yeah, yeah...all the other stuff, too), dried, and put away.

I grabbed a cup of the Elixir and resumed my perch at my end of the sofa.  But I left the TV off.

Huh.

Mozzarella and white plates.  Looking clean.  But not.

Huh.

The Elixir started to do that thing that it does.  Connecting things.  Floating thinks to the surface, bobbing ideas up like wreckage from a freshly-sunken ship.

Oh.  Really?  Well...yeah...I s'pose...

My life can get dirty.  Ignorance, neglect, and just being too busy makes me give it a quick wipe and rinse once a week on Sunday.  But I'm carryin' crud.  I don't sparkle.

If I'm quiet and still, I can hear Him.

"Come.  Let us reason together..."  (Yeah....I grew up listening to Him in King James.)

Then if I allow His Touch and place myself in His Hands, He holds me up to His Light.

Annnnnnnnnd, yeah...there's stuff there.

He loves me enough to get me clean.

Even if He has to use a Brillo pad.

And the neat part?

When He's done, He can see His Face in the reflection of my life.

I can't sparkle any better than that, eh?

"

Rules Are Rules

Yesterday before noon, I became part of the Packer Nation.

I tugged on my Aaron Rodgers jersey.  Tugged on my Green Bay "goalpost" hat.  I gently threw some chips, dip, and my Green Bay mug into a plastic grocery bag and quickly strolled across the street to Brad & Micki's.

It was time.

The Playoffs.

Lose and you've lost it all.  Win and you get another chance, another game.

Micki's brother & wife & family arrived with some munchies to add to the pile that Micki had arranged.  The announcers were doing the pregame hype.  Pearl, the Westy terrier, wandered through and left.  Bailey, the German Shepherd, wandered through and stayed.  Murdock, the cat, sat upstairs and decided not to join action.

Then the game started along the roller coaster of emotions that come when two evenly matched teams go at it.

"Yeah, BABY! - TOUCHDOWN!!!"

"Wha - that wasn't interfence! Whadda gonna..."

"Ohhhhhh, nuts."

"Who wants more soda?"

I bit into one of the wings in the bowl and immediately learned that hot wings look just like honey barbeque wings when you're not paying attention.

"Uh, (cough), I'll take one."

Everyone there, except for me and the dogs, were multi-tasking.  Watching the game, carrying on conversations, texting, checking twitters, and showing new memes about the game.

Technically, I guess I was multi-tasking.  Watching the game with one eye and using the other to spot the whereabouts of the honey barbeque wings.

And then, as it had the previous week, there was THE CALL.

"Awwwwwww, man. "

"Shoot, he caught it."

"That's gonna be six."

And then THE CHALLENGE TO THE CALL.

"WHAT? ! That's gonna cost us a time-out!"

"Way to go, COACH!!"

And then, another unexpected outcome.

"It's not a catch?!...HEY, IT'S NOT A CATCH!!!"

High-fives spread through the room faster than gossip at a coffee shop.

Four minutes later, there's one more game for the Packer Nation to watch.  Another reason to don the gear.  One more roller coaster to ride.

That was yesterday.

It's now the predawn of the day after.  The fire dances in the woodstove, slowly driving the chill out of the room.  I'm sitting here looking at the screen, swigging the Elixir of Knowledge as my mind wanders back to THE CALL.

Huh.

The general perception from both sides of the stadium was a catch.

But the rules said it was an incomplete pass.

And the rules determine the game...and it's outcome.

A refill of the Elixir and a long stare into the flickering fire brings a thought.

Whoa.

Yeah, I s'pose...

Pretty much everyone watching the game thought it was a good catch.  But it wasn't.

And if Life is a Game, I can't go by what I think, by what seems to be right.

I've gotta know The Rules if I'm gonna win and not be disqualified.

Not ruled "incomplete".

Huh.

I stare at the woodstove at the other end of the room.  Quietly, a sobering thought leaps out of the firelight, falling heavy on my mind.

Oh, man.

This Game of Life - if I lose this one, I lose everything.

Forever.

I polish off the Elixir as I head towards the bookcase.

Think I'll check The Rules...one more time.

They Said It Was Coming...

Sometimes you believe stuff and sometimes you don't.  Remember the Y2K deal - The Millennium Bug?  All the computers crash and it's back to Mad Max and anarchy?!

Or how about, (I'm dating myself here), the lasting impact of the Nehru jacket on the world of fashion?  Or the Beatles being more popular than Jesus?

Yeah.  Don't believe everything you hear.  But in this case, Channel 12 was right.

And fortunately we believed it.

Sunday was supposed to be the winter day that makes people of means by retirement condos in the deep South and those who can't think about eating their young..

Saturday found TechnoBoy bringing in more wood.  He filled the designated spot in the storage room.  Then the Wife had him fill the boot & shoe area by the back door.  And the bin by the woodstove.  And then some more available crannies in the storage room.

If the house would've caught fire that day it would've burned for a month.

I went out and widened all the paths that crisscrossed the yard.  This feat rivaled the wanderings of the Children of Israel through the desert of Sin - in a micro sort of way.

There was the path from the house to the shed.

From the house to the good wood pile.

From the house to the not-so-good woodpile.

From the gas meter at the back of the house to the electric meter to the backdoor.

From the backdoor past the birdfeeders to the driveway.

From the front door to the driveway and then I wheezed inside for a cup of the Elixir to contemplate the concept of robbing a bank and going South for the winter.

The Wife went to the store and stocked up.  She got the necessities and some fun stuff -.snacks, chips, popcorn - that would take the edge off of being stuck in the house with the family for an extended period of time.

Never underestimate the ability of a corn dog to keep one from eating its young.

And so we were ready.

Phlegm the Taurus was filled with gas and pointed toward the street, its tail into the northwest wind.  The van, too, had a full tank and slumbered near the front door.

That afternoon was in the upper teens and sunny, so we went to Saturday Church at sunset and were back rummaging for dinner by 6:30.

We went to bed that night and slept peacefully, knowing we've done our part.

And sure enough, Sunday arrived to live up to its frozen prediction.  TechnoBoy wrapped himself and his desk chair in a blanket and did computer stuff.  I was hunkered on the sofa, burrowed chin deep under the Chain O'Lakes comforter watching the NFL playoffs, crawling out from under once an hour to stoke the valiant little woodstove.  The Wife was reading a book at the kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket, drinking hot beverages, and muttering to herself.  She was already into the corndogs.

Glad we bought that jumbo pack.

Monday morning I stumbled outside and staggered toward Phlegm the Taurus.  Phlegm was not happy.  And it let me know it.

When Phlegm is ticked off it sounds like a swearing contest between Chewbaca and R2D2.  And then there's that  high, strained growling, like a flock of Chihuahuas on a steak.

I soothingly patted its frosted dash and then bolted for the house.

Forty-five minutes later, I came back out, got in the saddle, and rode Phlegm to work, stopping briefly at Mickey D's to grab some morning manna and a bad cup of coffee.  Coming out of the parking lot I saw the scrolling marquee of the bank across the street.

21 below.

Huh.

A quarter mile down the road I passed the electronic sign for the well-drilling company.

20 below.

Well, the sign was a quarter-mile farther south than the bank's.  That would explain it.  Or computer error.

The third pull of coffee had me siding with the computer.  I didn't have the faith to believe that the town 27 miles to the south was currently at a sweltering 97 degrees.

Yeah.  Nothing screws up a good hypothesis like the facts.

During the half-hour excursion over frozen concrete, I realized that things could've been much worse if we hadn't prepared for the cold.

And we prepared because we believed what Channel 12 was telling us.

Huh.  I polished off the dregs of Ronald's bitter brew as a thought fought its way into my head.

He told us that He's coming back.  And that things would get worse.  But don't be afraid.

Be ready.  Be aware.  Be faithful.

And have hope in Him.

Yeah.  We believe that...and that's what keeps the craziness at bay.

That...and the occasional box of corndogs.

A Wish on Christmas Eve

While I was rummaging through the boxes over at the old Garage, I came across this post.

It was a dusty Christmas Wish from 2012.  I pulled it out, wiped it off, and held it up to the Light of a new Christmas Eve.

It still has some sparkle and glitter.  Huh.

And now with the DAGU (Daughter All Grown Up) married and starting a family of their own, I find myself looking back over Christmases past.  Remembering.  Cherishing.

I guess that's what got me going through the Archives.  The memories.

So I found this Christmas Wish that I'd like to share again with you.

But...

Give me a minute.

It needs a little regluing...

Some rebending...

Annnnnnnd...

Okay.

Here's my Christmas Eve Wish for you -

"Tomorrow morning may we be the children we once were- 

Looking on in wide-eyed, open-mouthed wonder at the Gift of the Son,

While being lovingly wrapped in the Warmth of the Spirit,

And lifted into the Father's lap, snuggling in for a nice, long hug."

Yeah.

There's a Reason for the Season...and it's not the shopping, eh?

...May you and yours have a very Merry Christmas!...

Starting A Tradition

We're starting our 35th year in the Little-House-On-The-Corner.  Lotsa memories and good times etched into the walls and rooms.

I'm trying to remember the 1st Christmas we had here. Not even the Elixir of Knowledge helps with the recollection, so it might have been a bit more traumatic than normal.

Anyway, I thought I'd try to start some kind of Christmas tradition here at the Garage so I went over to the old place and rummaged through the Archives at uncledennysgarage.com.

And I couldn't find it.

I went through five months of dusty files and couldn't find it.

Then I thought of one more place to look.  And there it was.

A little dusting, a little scrubbing, and some minor polishing made it ready to hang up in the Garage.

It's called "The Community of Our Nativity" and its over in the "Scribblings" part of the Garage.

It's a true story.  Well, as true as someone of Irish heritage can make it.  There is a  predisposition for embellishment inherent in my gene pool.  But for the most part it went down pretty much as it is written.  It was a great, cold evening.

The story is kinda long.  Like a small-town version of "The Edmund Fitzgerald".  Without the water, drownings, or the ship.  Okay.  Bad analogy.  With that being said, you may want a cup of hot beverage and a few more minutes than you usually spend in the Garage.

I thought I  might use the story as a serial, putting a chunk in every once in awhile, to try to get people to come back to the Garage. That's what the numbers were for, delineating the chunks.

Then I realized that's the same technique that the street dealers use on the cop shows.  I'll just put it out there.  No strings attached.  Well, just one.

Consider it a Christmas gift for you and yours.  Granted, it's a copyrighted gift, but a gift none the less.

Have a very "Merry Christmas" this year.  May we all remember the Reason for the Season.

Thanks for stopping by.

Having Leftovers @ Midnight

It's almost a new day, the only illumination outside coming from fresh snow glowing under the streetlight.

I'm sitting here at the table in the Dining part of the Dining/Living/Computer/Family Room in the Little-House-On-The-Corner.

The Christmas Tree is plugged in and sparkling as I, rebelling against wise and prudent judgment, sip a cup of the Elixir of Knowledge and occasionally walk to the window to scare the deer away from the birdfeeder that hangs right outside.  They keep banging it against the window.

Which is rather distracting, and slightly unnerving, when on tries to pontificate.  Or drink coffee.

The Elixir does its initial job, gently lifting memories out of dust-covered boxes in the attic of my mind.

Oh.  This one.  Yeah.  Hey, wait.  I've seen this one kinda recently.

I flip back to the Garage on its original site and after some rummaging through the archives, find what I was looking for.  "The One".  Yeah.

Given the time of night, I am going to just pull the Scribe's version of Leftovers, reheating a previous post through the wonders of "copy & paste".  I hope you don't mind. And if you do, you might wanna read something else.  I completely understand either way.

_______________________________________________________________________________

"The One"  from the Garage Archives, 12/24/2012

I was chatting with the Sister Here about Christmas Past. 
Sister Here lives here in the woods.  Sister There doesn't live here.  She lives there. 

Sister Here recalled the Treks to HyVee to get the annual Christmas Tree.  The conversation and multiple cups of the Elixir brought back memories of a Christmas tradition I had almost forgotten.

We kids are basically two years apart with me being the oldest, then Sister Here, and finally Sister There.  It was around 4th or 5th grade my time when we began the Treks. 

The Treks began when Mom thought we could cross Merle Hay Road on our own without becoming roadkill.  
The Treks gave a whole new meaning to the idea of growing up fast.  We could duck a truck with the best of 'em.

The day of the Trek would find Mom shrink-wrapping us in coats.  It was usually a cold, windy day but speed trumped warmth.  The near-death experience of air horns and skidding tires could keep a kid warm for days.  Even if naked.

We'd take my sled since it was the biggest and off we'd go, waddling toward an adrenaline-laced game of Reality Frogger and the hope of the perfect tree.

Every year a long, double line of Christmas trees stoically waited our arrival, leaning patiently against the side of the HyVee Grocery Store, holding up the white-painted cinder blocks.

The trees all suffered from "bed head" due to being stuffed in the back of a semi trailer. This necessitated the fluffing of each tree.  Sometimes twice if we didn't recognize it again.

We would pick through this temporary forest, holding up a prospect, dropping it, propping it back up and then watching it fall in the other direction.  Balsam and pine pitch soon made our mittens as tacky as 3M PostIts.  And impervious to those backhanded swipes for runny noses.

We didn't realize it at the time, but the same thing happened every year.  Like clockwork.

An unconscious ritual that led to the finding of "The One" and the ensuing "Blessing" to make it official.

Usually it was Sister There, the youngest, who found it first.

There.

If it had been a puppy, it would be the runt of the litter with a broken tail and missing an ear.

The liturgical litany began its annual chant, building up to "The Blessing"

"It looks lonely."

"No one will take this one home.  It'll be left by itself!"

And then "The Blessing", crowning it as "The One".

"Don't worry, little tree, we love you."

Onto the sled it went, to be towed back home with happy hearts, quick feet, and more adrenaline.

Chattering excitedly as the layers were peeled away, we told Mom about the cutest, most loveable tree in the world.  She would smile somewhat sadly.

"Oh.  Another one of those."

By the third tree, she wouldn't even go outside to look at it.  She'd just bring up the drill, wire, nails, and hammer from the basement and have fresh pot of coffee ready for Dad when he got home.

Coincidentally, three Christmases after our initial Trek an American Holiday tradition was born.  Coca-Cola decided to sponsor "A Charlie Brown Christmas".

And guess what kinda tree ol' Chuck brought back?

Yep.  He found the One.

We and Charlie Brown were sled-pulling geniuses. 

But Dad had another way of phrasing it which always got a "shushing" from Mom.

I don't think he was a fan of Charlie Brown.
 

It's A. I., not a gal or a guy...

Well.  That's a bummer.

I posted this morning that the Garage has gone international with some visits from Malta, Switzerland, and Great Britain.

The visits were international.  They just weren't human.  Which is a bit of a letdown.  And kinda creepy in a 2001:"I'm-sorry-Dave-I-can't-do-that"-type of way.

I found all this out just a few minutes ago when I showed our son, TechnoBoy, the info.

"Pretty cool, huh?  The Garage has gone international!"

"Ah, Dad.  That's just a webcrawler."

"Wow. Really?"

"Yeah."

"So...why are they crawling?"

I was then schooled in the finer points of automated marketing.  I had not really been visited.  I had been scanned.

And obviously found wanting.

Time, and the webcrawler, moves on.

Huh.

You faithful five that visit the Garage occasionally...uh...you're real...right?

Sorry.

Just checking.

Howdy, Neighbors

Oh, man.  This first cup of the Elixir of Knowledge is taken from a coffeepot that still has about ten minutes to go.

I mighta jumped the gun a bit.

Remember Alka Seltzer and Fizzies?

Okay, now pop one of those in your mouth.  Yeah, right outta the wrapper.

I just took a big bite of a highly-caffeinated Fizzie.

Oh, mama.

I wish my teeth would stop vibrating.

Okay.  I'm back to normal breathing and, on a positive note, am now really wide awake.

I'm putzin' around with the different bells and whistles that the website people provide to make your website original and eye-catching.  I don't understand most of it.

But there's nothing to help with the actual content which, of course, proves Blue Collar comedian Ron White's hypothesis.

"Ya can't fix stupid."

Yeah.

Well.

An Elixir-induce bravado makes me click on all kind of things.  I click on the Activity Log and then for no particular reason, click on part of an individual item.

The page drops down to reveal a user number, how they got onto the website, and some other stuff that I'll have to ask TechnoBoy about.  But the interesting thing is found under each user number.

It's the country ID where the computer number is located.

Huh.

Now you five that occasionally stop in for coffee, I'm assuming you're the USA guys.

But unless you guys have been traveling extensively, the Garage just might have gone international.

Yeah.  That's good.

I think.

It looks like the Garage has been visited by a resident of Malta, someone in Switzerland, and a couple of Brits.  Which means the pithy pseudo-intellectualism of the Garage is hitting a universal chord...or the Garage is being setup as a base for worldwide cyber-terrorism.

I really, really hope its the inane writing.

Please let it be the inane writing.

Either way, welcome new-found friends.  The coffee is on.

Grab a cup and feel free to wander around.

Thanks for stoppin' in.

Full Moons and Friends

I was coming back to our town from Saturday Night Church in the next town over.  The night was already full-blown, the Winter Solstice only a couple weeks away.  It's that time of year when nighttime gets all the overtime and daylight goes to Wal-Mart hours...part-time with decreased benefits.

The road ahead looked clear but I was driving in the 40s, cultivating the vain hope that if I do hit a slick spot of black ice I'll have time to react.

Yeah, right.  Cat-like reflexes.  'Fraid the cat was traded in for a sloth awhile ago.  That would also explain the green moss-like stuff on my back hair.

Moving tensely through the black fingers of leafless trees and intermittent dark walls of pines, I came around a bend to see a full moon rising above the highway but not yet clearing the trees.

The black road had a silver sheen.  The white-dashed striping glowed softly, splitting the road that was now edged by glistening, faintly sparkling snow.  A few small diamond stars drilled glittering pinholes in the black sky around the moon.

Wow.  One corner and a full moon.  What a difference, eh?  Not so scary and tense.

I took a pull of almost-cold Elixir from the gas station travel cup.  Even almost frozen this stuff still shakes the hair follicles enough to energize what M. Hercule Poiret calls "the little grey cells".

Okay. Yeah.

A 4th grade physical science lesson glides by.  The moon gets its light by reflecting the sun's light from the other side of the earth.  I can't see the sun but I know it's there because there's a full moon.

Huh.

Like family and friends.  Life can be cold, dark, and scary.  Then someone reflects His kindness or shows His care.  Yeah.

Full moon people.

Everybody needs 'em.  Just like the warming air of the car defroster on a frozen night of driving.  Helping me see.  Keeping me warm.

Folks who tell us He still loves us and  we're special because He made us that way.  Weird, but special.  And loved.  Very much loved.

Its not easy to notice those kinda friends during the bright warmth of day when things are fast-paced, thrilling, and so gerbil-in-the-wheel busy.

But when the dark comes, they shine.

Those night-light friends.  Those little acts of kindness.  Those words of encouragement.  The quiet listening and nodding.  The smiling and the love.

Full moon people.

They shine with His light.  Something much bigger and brighter than themselves.  And because they're there,  the night isn't as dark.  Or the road as scary.

So shine on, guys.  Shine on.

And...thanks.
 

Last Thursday

Here I sit, Saturday morning, at one of the local dens of caffeination,  drinking the Elixir of Knowledge and hoping for inspiration to leap from my fingertips and dance across the keys.

So far, no inspiration and no dancing.  But I have developed a slight, sporadic twitch under my left eye.

That's something I guess.

I contemplate the week past.  Not bad, really.  The Badgers dropkicked the Cornhuskers down the field and across the parking lot.  The Packers did the same to the Eagles who aren't a bad team at all.  Lotsa sales on four of the days this week.  Sales which translate into income.  Yeah.  Everyday this week was OK.  Except Thursday.

Thursday was kinda different.

It was the day both the Wife and I went to work early so we could get more done.

Yeah.

Best laid plans of spouse and man.

The Wife was the first one to work and someone had locked the office door.  And the key had migrated to an unknown location.  So she had to wait until the normal time for a key to show up.

That was right about the same time when Phlegm the Taurus broke an ankle.

I was halfway to the next town when I heard a rifle shot.  Phlegm immediately dipped and pulled itself over onto the shoulder.  My first thought was that some poacher had jumped the gun on this weekend's Deer Gun Season and had accidentally harvested Phlegm.

Due to the early hour I wasn't quite cognizant of my surroundings...which explained why I exited the car with both hands in the air, waving a white handkerchief, and screaming "I give up!".  It freaked out the guy driving by in his blue SUV.  I could care less.  I was just praying that the Geneva Convention applied to Wisconsin.

The cold air woke me up enough to realize I wasn't under attack.  Dropping my hands, I stuffed the handkerchief back into a pocket.  I walked around  Phlegm.  The front tire was as flat and low as the President's approval rating.  We weren't goin' anywhere soon.

That mystical bond between man and machine told me this wasn't just a flat tire.  Phlegm had broken something.  Something really necessary for good mileage and motion.

I looked up to the sky.  I took a deep breath and muttered a prayer.  Not really one of Thanksgiving and joy.  But it came from the heart and was somewhat direct.  Actually it was more of a direct question followed by a prayer.  Which slowly dissipated into a quiet trust.

Of course the dissipation took a bit of time before the trust showed up.  Hence the word "slowly".

Once trust and regular breathing returned, I called the insurance company.  Three phone calls to 1-800-WHO-CARES  yielded thirty-five minutes of muttering to a computer who wanted to be my bilingual friend.  Finally an English-speaking human, with minimal accent, politely helped me.  A tow truck was called.  The wait began.

(I should clarify something.  The accent thing.  It's more to do with my frozen Northwoods ears than the folks I talk to.  I talk to guys from all over the country and from various heritages.  They know what they're saying.  I'm the one who's not picking up on it.  One thing is certain though.  Politeness and patience, like common sense, is universally understood.)

During my half-hour vigil by the side of the road, I had six variations of this conversation.

"You okay?  Need a lift?"

"No, I'm good.  Tow truck's comin.''

"Okay.  Hang in there.  Take care."

"Thanks."

Five motorists and a sheriff's deputy.  About 25% of the morning commute migrating by that morning.

Yeah.  The weather may blow here for 6 months outta the year but the folks are great.

The tow truck arrived and Phlegm was dragged up and locked onto the flat bed, reminding me of an old guy strapped to a hospital gurney wearing one of those worthless gowns that never really covers the exhaust.

I somehow managed, without a rope and belay, to crawl up and into the cab.  Wheezing mildly, I pushed the debris of wrappers, invoices, and paper toward the middle of the seat as the young driver levitated quietly and smoothly to his position behind the wheel.

As we bounced down the road I explained what happened to Phlegm.

"Oh.  Ya coil broke and took out ya tire.   Same thing happened to my girlf'end."

I've never heard of such a thing so I wrote it off as "wanting to impress the customer".

On the fifteen minute ride we discussed, in no particular order, the early cold snap, ice shanties, ice fishing, the towing business in general and, of course, the Packers.

Over at the Car Doctor's lot, he deposited Phlegm at the end of a row of sick cars.  I deposited a check into his hand.  A handshake later he was back on the road and I went in to see the Doctor.

I told the Doctor what happened.

"Oh.  Well, probably your coil broke and went through your tire."

"Really?"

"Yeah.  It happened to my neighbor last year.  Sounds just like a rifle shot."

My hand went back to the pocket containing the handkerchief.

Do I know anybody who drives a blue SUV?

The Doc gave me a ride home.  I gave him $600 a couple of days later.

I take another pull of the Saturday Elixir as I stare at Phlegm parked outside the window.

Huh.

Thursday.

A day that started badly... but helped me to realize that I'm not in it alone.  That He's got me covered.  And He's never surprised by what happens.  That would be me, the surprised one.  Not Him.

Another sip erodes another thought.

A bad start doesn't automatically mean a bad finish.  Just an interesting race.

Even when I shoot a coil through a wheel...and surrender to trees and blue SUVs.

Rocks

Rocks.  The sermon this morning was on rocks.

Huh.

My 2nd cup of the Elixir of Knowledge, the Dining/Living/Family Room window, and a gentle sugar-snow snowfall have me sliding through the snowdrifts of memories.

Without the hypothermia.

Which is nice.

Rocks.

They hide, looking like big lumps of snow.  Until you hit 'em.  With a toboggan full of Jr. Hi kids.  And you're the Jr. Hi kid sitting in the front.  Yeah.

Stinkin' rocks.

Another sip of the Elixir and  I realize that rocks were a big part of my growing up.

During the neighborhood dirt clod wars there was the occasional rock in the dirt clod.

Yeah.  That leaves a mark.

One time (and it turned out to be the "only time") Mom tried something to make the biscuits rise faster by flipping a switch to disconnect the drum on the dryer, setting it to "bake", and shoving in a tray full of newborn biscuits.  She forgot all about 'em until dinner time.  Flour became stone, rocketing right up the Rockwell Hardness scale, leaving the idea of "bread" in the dust.  As metamorphic as limestone to marble.  Rocks.

Dad got out his drywall hatchet to continue the experiment.  It took two sturdy taps to crack a biscuit.  Three to split it.  And they stayed hot.  The butter melted really fast.  It didn't soak in but, boy, did it melt.  Hot, buttered rocks.

Then the big national transition happened in 6th grade.  That's when rock'n'roll was usurped by rock.  Elvis, the King, lost the kingdom to a British invasion who wanted to hold our hand.  And our cash.  We gave 'em both.  Rock on, consumers.  Rock on.

Around that same time our family went on the Great Rock Hunt at Strawberry Point, Iowa.  Okay, it wasn't a trip to the Smithsonian, the Miracle Mile, or the Big Apple.  It was family and we were all in one place doing something together.  That's what I remember.

Well, that and the bleeding.

But first, a little backstory.

All of us kids had rock collections.  Dad even had one.  We were all given the inclination by the family's insurance agent, Mr. Ben.  He was a very interesting man and his wife, Mrs. Ruth, was a saint.  Mr. Ben had been Calamity Jane's paperboy in Deadwood, SD during the early 1900's.  Ben was already in his 60's when we knew him and he would outlive his beloved Mrs. Ruth by about 20-some years, making it to a 100.

Mr. Ben was a certifiable, card-carrying-if-they'd-issue-one, genuine rock hound.  He had hundreds of rocks categorized and displayed in his study.  Our family would come over to his house to talk coverages and premiums.  Mrs. Ruth always had cookies waiting and Mr. Ben would give us a small box with a dollop of mercury in it.

"You kids pick up that mercury and bring it to me and you'll each get a dime."

Him, Mom, and Dad would laugh and go have coffee.  We sat on the porch, trying to corral the evasive blob while getting on each other's nerves.  We never got it.  But, in hind sight, if we had some tuna, we coulda been rich.

Dad and I even went to a Rock Show at the Veteran's Auditorium.  There a guy asked me if I was interested in rocks.  I replied, "I'm a rock hound."  An old grey-haired guy next to me was bent over the table, examining the specimens.  He never looked up.

"Rock hound?", he muttered through his beard, "you're just a pebble pup."

So that's why my family was splashing down an October-brisk shallow stream with blazing fall colors overhead.  And flailing weapons.  The weapons.  That was Dad's fault.

Against Mom's wishes, Dad had gotten each one of us an Estwing hammer with a blunt end, a curvey end, and a bright blue rubber coating on the handle.  Which, by the way, didn't stop it from hurtling around unsupervised once it got soaked and your fingers turned blue.

The point of the excursion was to find geodes.  Not much to look at on the outside.  Just a rock.  And the stream was filled with rocks.

Give a kid a hammer and the whole world looks like a nail.

And one rock looks pretty much like any other rock.

I had single-handedly managed to turn 60 feet of streambed into fine gravel before exhaustion set in and I would finally listen.

"Look for baseballs and softballs.  Round, brown, and hollow, bud.",

And there they were.  Not much too look at on the outside.  Ohhh, but baby...once they're broken.    And...that's where the blood comes in.

Rule #1 of the Geode Hunter's Manifesto:  "Don't smash 'em while you're holdin' 'em."

Painful.  Even with numb fingers.  But the coagulation was worth it.

There on the ground were sparkling crystals and smooth, lobed clusters.  Sculptures unseen and unknown for centuries now glittering in the sunlight for the first time.

Amethyst geodes full of purple, sparkling glass.  Cleopatra's Powder Boxes with white crystals and powdered rust where moisture had leaked in.  And the most unique of all, (to me, anyway), was the grape geode, its interior coated with smooth, purple, grape-like lobes.

Yeah.

But you'd never know it or see it until...

My mind leaves the stream to circle back to the sermon before settling down at the table.

Huh.  Makes sense.

What was that verse...

Something about us falling on the Stone and being broken.  Which sounds better than the alternative in the verse - having the Stone fall on us and being smashed into powder.

Yeah.

Lemme take "broken" for $800, Alec.

Another pull of Elixir makes it pretty clear.  How is anybody gonna see what He's doin' within me if I won't let Him break me enough to let them see inside?

Yeah, well.

Broken doesn't sound all that much fun.  But I guess that's not the point.  That's why He did it.  why He chose to be broken.  So we could see inside.  And see the Father.

If I chose to be broken, the world will see Him.  And through Him, they can see the Father.

Huh.

And if I chose to stay round, brown, and intact?  If I refuse to be broken?

Yeah.  Seems appropriate.

"Dumb as a bag of rocks". 

A Blast from the Past: "The Route 23 Psalm"

The Lord is my driver.

I shall not panic.

He keepeth me on the road.

He findeth me the bare spots.

He giveth me traction for He is in control.

Yea, though I drive down the glazed, icy road, I will not fear the ditches, for Thou art with me.

Thy salt and Thy sand, they comfort me.

Thou makest a safe track before me in the presence of speeding idiots.

Thou keepeth me calm even when I spilleth my commuting coffee.

Surely safety and traction shall follow me all the way to work -

And I shall drive safely in the presence of the Lord for a really long time.

"AAA"-men.
 

Malt-O-Meal

Change has happened again.

Sister-Here and the Bro-In-Law moved to Nashville, heeding the siren call of family and a grandbaby.  The B-I-L and I tried to tie her to the mast but she's surprisingly strong for an ol' girl. Never underestimate the strength of a gramma.

So Sister Near is now Sister There.  The other sister who used to be Sister There has now been promoted to Sister Over-There.  The B-I-L is still the B-I-L.

Before Sister Here (now There) and the B-I-L left, they gave us a lotta foodstuffs.  Frozen, boxed, bagged,  jarred, and bottled.  Good stuff.  Interesting stuff.  Even some "what is this?!" stuff.

This morning, in the predawn darkness, I'm clambering around in the "pots'n'pans" drawer trying to find my favorite frying pan.  After three minutes of moving stainless steel in a somewhat pugilistic way, I had yet to achieve the charming tones of the Westminister chimes.  Hark, the gentle morning voice of my Beloved wafts down the hall.

"Oh for cryin' out loud - MAKE SOME TOAST!"

Realizing that the pin had now been pulled from the grenade, I veeeeeeery gently set the pan on the stove and begin the search for a potato.

The Little-House-On-The-Corner is called that because it's...little.  In realtor's speak it is a "cozy bungalow" or a "charming cottage".   Which doesn't make it any bigger.

We've found that the key to living in a little house is to utilize space.  So, in search of a potato, I head for the laundry room.

Yeah.  The potatoes are in the laundry room.  The bread is on top of the refrigerator.  And I won't tell you where the onions are kept.  They're next to the carrots.  Suffice it to say that when we make vegetable soup, we add a little bleach.  Just to be safe.

I check the top of the washing machine for potatoes.  Just laundry detergent, dryer sheets, Windex, and Febreeze.

Huh.  Febreeze.

A thought flashes by.

"I wonder if that would work on onions and carrots?"

I move things one more time.  Why, I don't know.  It's pretty hard to miss a 10lb bag of potatoes.  A little frustrated, I look over at the dryer.  It's covered with stuff jettisoned for the Sister'n'B-I-L's move to Nashville.  And a box catches my eye.

Malt-O-Meal.

I remember having it as a kid.  And I remember it didn't make much noise.

Malt-O-Meal, it is.

I boil the water, pushing my culinary expertise to its limit, and pour most of the scalding liquid into a bowl.  Grabbing the Malt-O-Meal box, I quickly scan the back for cooking instructions. Good.  I'll read those if things get outta hand.

I begin to pour the Malt-O-Meal into the bowl of angry, steaming water.  Huh.  Stuff looks like sand.  And all the sand is sinking to the bottom.  I keep pouring until I make a little island.  A Malt-O-Atoll.

Yeah. That oughta be enough.

I start to stir.  And stir.  Pretty runny still.  I talk myself out of adding more sand.  Nah.  Better give it a minute.  Stirring, stirring.  Still sand and water.  I even lost the island.

Huh.

I wander into the Reading Room and get 3/4 of the way through an old Peanuts book before wandering out again.

I go to the counter to stir the Malt-O-Meal.  It won't let me have the spoon. And it's not as quiet as I remembered.  Its loud sucking sound matches my gasps as I finally get the spoon free..

I chip off a chunk and taste it.  Yeah, that's Malt-O-Meal.  Needs something.  I reach over and get a spoonful of butter from the dish.  I flip the glob of curdled moos at the bowl.  It hits the resilient brown-sand surface and bounces onto the coffeemaker where it immediately slides down the hot glass of the pot and melts across the warming plate.

Huh.

This morning just keeps gettin' better and better.

There.  The clean-up has been accomplished with only a few small burns. I pour a cup of the Elixir of Knowledge and plop down in a chair at the table.

As is my bent, by the third sip of Elixir a verse struggles up from the depths to lie gasping on the beach of my thoughts.

"...and all these things will be added unto you..."

Not dumped.  Definitely not enough to make an island.  No.  Added.  Just enough to get the desired result He wants for me over time.  Not more.  Not less.  Just the right amount.  At the right time.

Too much of a good thing can be as bad as too much of a bad thing, I s'pose.

And, of course, I want it all now.  Right now.

Huh.

Another thought flops out onto the beach of my mind...a beach the color of Malt-O-Meal.

Yeah.  I guess that would apply as well.  Sure.

I wrote a script awhile back where a widow recalls something her late husband used to say.

"My Billy had a sayin -: "God knows just how much manure to add to make the best crops and the prettiest flowers."

Then she raises her cup for a toast.

"Here's to bein' plentiful, growin' beautiful, and, uh, not  too much manure."

Yeah.

Or too much Malt-O-Meal.

Winter & Wise Guys

Wednesday I got the word.  Well, heard the word.  On the radio.

It's coming.  Winter is coming.

On the Thursday night commute home from work, Phlegm the Taurus and I heard it again.

It's coming.  Winter is coming.

It is now the wee hours of Friday morning and my mature body parts have me practicing French.  Intensely practicing.

"Oui, wee...oui, wee, bon ami...OUI, WEE !"

In the darkness I shoot the door and bounce off the hallway wall.

And have an epiphany.

So that's why they're called the "wee hours".

Huh.

Crisis averted, and now feeling somewhat adventurous in a semi-conscious state, I take the Great Circle Route back to bed, shuffling through the kitchen.

Huh.

Something's weird with the birdfeeder outside.  I flip on the outside light.

Winter be here.  And it's not pretty.

The wind is throwing the flakes horizontally.  Things aren't getting covered with snow.  They're getting plastered.  Not a pretty snowfall, this one.

Imagine a wife who's upset.  Now imagine that wife putting mashed potatoes on plates.

Yeah.

That fling and plop?  The muttering?  That's what Mother Nature is doing right now.  And Old Man Winter is trying to figure out how to get himself excused from the table.

Ready or not, winter is being served.

Between the house and the shed is a stack of logs.  A logging family let me buy just one logger's cord of wood.  Usually you gotta buy a truckload.  That's nine cord of wood.  And a logger's cord consists of eight-foot long logs stacked four feet high and four feet deep.  Nine of those would be kinduva tight fit in our yard.

So I'm pretty happy with the one logger's cord.  We can still use the kitchen door if we have to.

But the harsh reality is that the one logger's cord is only about 15% cut up into firewood lengths.  And only about 20% of that is split into firewood.  And only 0% of that is stacked.

So playing the percentages and the odds...yeah, we're not ready for winter.

I wander back to the kitchen, now disturbingly awake with the realities of seasonal living.  I open the cupboard door and my hand pauses.  I can either make a good pot of the Elixir of Knowledge using the beans and grinder or I can use the rarely touched pouch of ground coffee hidden back in the corner. Since it is the wee hours I opt for the ground and silent-type of coffee.  Because I want to live.

I'm sitting with the laptop at the dining room table.  The Elixir's aroma wafts the six feet  to my chair, kicking my mind into a psuedo-caffeinated mode.

And the thoughts begin to swirl.  They are swirling much slower than if the Elixir was being consumed, but there is minimal motion.  Just enough motion, it seems.

Whatever your hands find to do,,.

Well, okay.  That little chunk of verse is all that floated up to the window in my mind's 8-Ball and stuck.

Huh.

That verse.  Now where was that?  I immediately use the Layman's Secret Weapon.

Google.

Oh, yeah.  Solomon and his book "Trying to Stay Off of One-Way Streets".   Ecclesiastes,  chapter 9, verse 10.

Whatever you're gonna do, do it now, and do it 100% because things can change pretty quick.

Like Winter getting here and the firewood is nowhere near done.

Yeah.  We only get so long to do things.  And then we can't.

No second chance.  No time outs.  No do-overs.

Huh.

Sounds like the surprisingly wise utterance of that sleeveless, blue-collared prophet - "Larry the Cable Guy".

"Git 'er done!"

Obviously, Solomon must've been a big fan of plaid as well.

Jerusalem is in the South of Israel, right?

The End of an Era...

Well.  It finally happened. And it was a shock.

The Chair.  It's gone.

I had grabbed the little side table, (made by TechnoBoy in “wood arts class” aka "shop class"), set it next to The Chair, and filled its surface with the Elixir of Knowledge and enough munchies to get halfway through the Packers game.

I stood in front of The Chair and initiated the re-entry sequence I had done so many times before.  Falling back into The Chair, I did a reflexive bounce'n'scoot.

And that's when it happened.

CRACK!

My world immediately listed to port as I did a barrel-roll onto the chair arm, stopping just inches from an intensely thermal baptism of The Elixir.  Not to mention crushing my chips.

AHHHH...  My hip!  It finally gave out.  I'll need a titanium socket and...

Huh.

I remember thinking it should hurt more than this.

Huh.

It didn't hurt at all.  I rolled back to check some favorite parts and that’s when I heard it - the groaning of broken wood and the silent scream of tortured olefin.

The Chair!

(Not thee, dear repository of my mass...not THEE!)

On my 3rd attempt  I finally got out and up.   I inspected the recliner with the thoroughness of an FAA investigator at a crash sight.

Well.

This sucks.

The game was about to start. I pulled a dining room chair six feet towards the TV which made it officially a living room chair.  I put it alongside TechnoBoy's side table and settled in.

Well.

This sucks.

Dragging a dining room chair six feet doesn't make it ‘The Chair’ anymore than pulling leftover turkey and mashed potatoes out of the fridge makes it ‘The Thanksgiving Meal’.

And now, it’s the morning after.

Before going to work, TechnoBoy and I, devoid of pomp and ceremony, drag The Chair out to the minivan, turn it upside-down, and ram it over the back seat before slamming the tailgate.  The Wife and TechnoBoy get into the minivan and drive off to the dump.

I stand in the front yard, watching them drive away.  What would qualify as The Chair's rear-end fills the back window, giving me a final, light-hearted moment as it moons me.

Then, it is gone.

I feel like young Travis at the end of the movie when he had to put down Old Yeller. The neighbors drive by on their morning commutes, looking at me with worried concern.

Hindsight being 20-20, I guess I shouldn't have stood in the front yard crying and pretending to sight down a rifle while repeatedly shouting "BANG!".

Stuff happens.  Things break.  Things change. People change.  And people leave.  Whether they want to or not. It’s called “life”.

I wander inside, not yet ready to go to work.  I plop down onto that dining room/living room chair and reach for the steaming Elixir on the little side table. A long sip puts things into perspective.

In this life, promises are broken and things change.  Except for Him.  The One that offers eternal life.

He never breaks a promise. And He promised He'd never leave.

That He’d never change.

That's a promise I can stand on.  Or sit on, as the case may be.