Peaches No More

There used to be a peach orchard and a little white peach stand with a sign that read "Fresh Peaches For Sale" across the highway from us, and once in a while we would stop there, either on the way home from work or as we were returning home from doing weekend errands. They had some of the sweetest, juiciest peaches I've ever had in my life.

Yonder Spouse and I have always loved fresh fruit, and we've made several attempts to grow our own, sometimes successfully and sometimes not. We've had battles with a disease called Fire Blight the past few years and have lost some trees as a result, but we still have two peach trees, an Asian pear tree, a cherry tree, a couple of Bartlett pear trees, a couple of fig trees, several blueberry bushes, scuppernong grapes, and a persimmon tree that produces incredibly sweet persimmons about the size and color of large yellow tomatoes.

We've been in our current house nearly ten years. At our previous (our first) house we tried growing fruit trees too, with mixed success. This story occurred at that first house.

I should explain a little about the terrain of the backyard of that first house. We lived in one of those subdivisions where it was absolutely off limits to have a vegetable garden in the front yard; it would have been difficult to do so even if we were allowed to because the soil conditions in the front yard were absolutely lousy for growing anything. The soil was a dense clay that held water ("like forever," as my kids might say). I had tried planting a cherry tree in that front yard but the tree drowned because the water never drained.

We had a ravine going through the middle of our backyard, with a creek that emptied into a thirty-acre lake to which our property adjoined. There were tall trees around the house, too, providing a lot of shade and blocking out nearly every drop of sunlight that would dare to venture through the thick foliage.

Our first winter in the house, I built a sixteen foot bridge across the ravine so that we could get to the other side, which was a steep slope back down into the ravine. We also spent several weekends digging a three-tiered garden down by the lake and we planted a bunch (sixteen, if I remember correctly) of azaleas on that hill across the bridge.

Our second autumn at that house, we planted a peach tree on the hill. We tended it and nurtured it and took care of it as though it were a baby, probably because we didn't have any kids at that time. About the only thing we didn't do with that peach tree was to change its diapers and to take it on vacation with us. I talked Yonder Spouse out of having the tree baptized, but as a compromise we did name godparents for the tree and we included it in our will.


Okay, I'm kidding on some of this, but you get the point, which is this: Yonder Spouse loved that peach tree.

Fast forward two and a half years. Yonder Spouse was gone for the weekend. She had left with me a list of things she wanted me to think about doing. She's a very list oriented type of person -- she even writes on her lists, "Make a list" -- and that's okay with me because, if I didn't have the list to motivate me, I would probably sit and read all day long. Well, at least I would have back in the days before kids came along (that was on a list too).

When the azaleas were in full bloom on the hill across the bridge, it was absolutely gorgeous, especially when the bright sun would vividly make the colors come alive. Over time, though, some weeds and small saplings grew up on the hill as well, things such as small pine trees, tulip poplars, mimosas, sweet gums, and others.

Thus, it didn't surprise me to see "weed and chop down trees" on the list, and in parentheses was written a you-don't-need-this-on-the-list-because-it's-obvious remark, "don't chop down the peach tree." Yonder spouse must have chuckled when she wrote that, knowing I would chuckle too.

I started the task of taking out the saplings. I've always enjoyed that kind of mindless task where I can sing songs or think about things while I'm moving in a rhythm, a pattern of steps leading to some final accomplishment. And I've always enjoyed being outside. With this project, then, I had the best of both worlds. I don't recall what song I might have been singing, though likely it was my favorite outdoor yard work song, "Give Me Oil in My Lamp." My sister, brother, and I used to sing that song for hours while weeding the front walk or pulling dandelions or chopping down mimosas. It was my grandmother who introduced us to the idea of singing while we worked, and we soon discovered that not only was it fun to sing, it was fun to sing as loudly as we could. The neighbors only occasionally called to complain, but in general I think they were pleased to see the youth of America outside improving the beauty of the neighborhood.

Anyway, back to the saplings on the hill ... there I was, singing and chopping, chopping and singing, pleased that I was outside and doubly pleased that I, once again, was participating in a man-versus-nature battle.

This felt like a piece of cake. I'd chop down a sapling, take a step to my right, chop down another sapling, take a step to my right, and that's how it went.

"Give me oil in my lamp, keep me burning, give me oil in my lamp, I pray (hallelujah!) ..." ... chop ... step ... chop ... step.

When I reached the other end of the hill, I stood up and scanned my progress. I had gotten every sapling in the hill along with most of the weeds too. I was done!

DON'T CHOP DOWN THE PEACH TREE.

Those words suddenly appeared out of nowhere, kind of like how the voice of God speaks to Noah in the old Bill Cosby skit.

"Who said that?"

It was my conscience, perhaps -- I'm not sure -- but at any rate, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that my plans for the day had just changed.

I scanned the hill again, hoping beyond hope that I hadn't really done what I was quickly realizing I had indeed done.

Ouch.

Peach tree, no more. There was none in sight. I had chopped down the peach tree.

I checked my watch. I had four hours to attempt to remedy the situation. I got on the phone and started calling area nurseries.

"Sorry Bud, we're out of peach trees."

"Nope, just sold the last one," said another.

A third nursery informed me, "Our peach trees arrive on Wednesday. Call back then."

You know how it goes, gentle reader.

I finally found a nursery that had a peach tree. It was a small nursery but probably the closest to our house, so I probably should have called them initially. I hopped in the car and drove to the nursery.

Their selection of peach trees comprised one meager little stick that had a remarkable resemblance to the Charlie Brown Christmas tree in that television special. If I had put an ornament on top, the tree would have bent over to the ground.

I looked at my watch and discovered I had three hours to go.

"I'll take it!" I exclaimed enthusiastically, to the astonishment of the store clerk.

"You will?" he exclaimed. "You're not going to ask for a discount or something?"

I didn't have time to barter.

"Nope, I'll take it. Gotta go. Thanks."

I raced home, grabbed a shovel, and in about thirty minutes I had the tree sitting nicely in approximately the same spot where its predecessor had enjoyed its short life in our backyard.

When Yonder Spouse arrived home, I explained what had happened. I knew that being up front and honest -- and demonstrating that I had thoughtfully provided a replacement tree -- was the only thing to do, and I knew that my loving and caring and forgiving spouse would be, well, loving and caring and forgiving.

And of course she was. I only had to sleep on the couch downstairs for a couple of months, and she began talking to me again after three months.

All right, it wasn't that bad. It would have been better though if the tree had survived. It didn't. Within six months it was dead, gone, ceasing to exist.

I'm not totally sure what the moral of the story is, unless it's to warn the reader of the dangers of "whistling while you work." Wives, if you ever put something like this on a to-do list, be sure to put a bright yellow ribbon around the tree, along with three or four flares and maybe a security alarm system that goes off if any sharp metallic object comes in contact with the trunk.

Or maybe I just need to learn to focus a little better.

At any rate, this whole saga intensely heightened my appreciation for great peaches, and I love them now more than ever.

Mario Andretti -- Not

There are a few constants in life that, while accepted as truth by the status quo, remain a mystery to the general population as to why. The value of pi, for instance, is one of those things. Now, one thing about pi that you should know is this: it is an irrational number and it never ends. That is, pi is approximately 3.14159265358979323846... and it goes on forever. How do we know that it goes on forever? Well actually at one point in my life I could have told you why -- we learned why in one of my Abstract Algebra courses (I absolutely loved those classes) -- and there's at least one reader out there whom I am sure knows why pi is irrational ...

I used to have pi memorized to ninety decimal places. I don't know why, I just did. I even have a book about the history of pi on my bookshelf, and in the back it contains the first 10,000 decimal places. I guess if you're awake late at night and you find yourself wondering what that 9,496th decimal place is, you can look it up and be relieved and happy or both.

I used to have a great aunt who was irrational, and our family was worried that like pi, she too would go on forever. She didn't, but pi does. That's something you can bank on.

Hmmm, that's another constant. I guess this would be a personal constant, not a global constant. It drives me crazy when I see a sentence ending in a preposition, such as the phrase above, "That's something you can bank on." I should have written, "That's something on which you can bank," but that's not how Robert Blake used to say it on the TV show Baretta. This is a sad case of proper English being thrust out of the way by the influence of Hollywood.

Anyway, cutting to the chase, it occurs to me -- and this will be no surprise to you, gentle reader -- that one of the constants in life is a boy's fascination with the automobile. Whether a boy is inclined toward being interested in turning into an auto mechanic or not, every red blooded boy thinks certain cars look cool and enjoys seeing or thinking about cars going fast.

When I was a kid in the 1970's, my dream car was a Pontiac Trans Am, black with a golden eagle painted on the hood and a T-bar roof. I didn't have one, but I dreamed about having one. My first car was actually a 1975 Dodge Dart, and as a result my youngest son thinks that the Dodge Dart was a cool looking car. He even asked for a model kit of a '75 Dodge Dart for Christmas.

And that leads me to the actual point of this story -- the Pinewood Derby.

For those of you who aren't familiar with this event, the Pinewood Derby is a male adult's attempt to demonstrate his savvy in the automotive racing industry through the hands and eyes of his son. In other words, it involves a group of loud unruly Cub Scouts racing little wooden hand-carved cars down ramps, and the pride of both sons and fathers is at stake.

My first year in the Pinewood Derby was sort of an experiment for Dad and me, getting our feet wet in the process and getting a feel for the competition. We learned some of the basic tenets of car racing, like the fact that the car really does do best when all four wheels rotate. We also learned that the Pinewood Derby Race Staff takes the rules very seriously, especially the one that specifies precisely how much a Pinewood Derby car is allowed to weigh.

My car that first year finished in the middle of the pack, but we made careful observations and wrote them down when we got home so that we were well prepared for the following year. The list boiled down to this one axiom, which may as well be listed along with the other universal constants:

* The coolest looking car is also the fastest

Actually it makes sense. The kid (well, father and son, really) who spends the time required to turn a block of wood into a hot rod is also going to work hard at ensuring that his vehicle is a finely tuned work of automotive precision.

While my interest was still fresh from the excitement of that first race, I started working right away for the race the following year, and I stayed focused on designing the Dream Machine. Like with most things in a Third Grader's life, this focus lasted about a day, maybe two, and then I was on to other things and I pretty much forgot about it for nearly a year.

Then one day, with about two weeks to go before the big race, Dad said, "Son, you've got to get working on this car."

"Dad, I've been so busy with things."

"Such as?"

"I'm trying to find a Hank Aaron baseball card. You know how the Seven-Eleven next to the school sells these cards wrapped in plastic so that you can see what the top card is? I go there every day looking for a pack with Hank Aaron on the top."

"I see. You have been busy," said Dad, affirming my efforts.

"Yep, indeed."

"Well son, you need to work on this car, just the same."

"Okay, Dad."

And with a focus that was unparalleled in the Third Grade World, I designed and carved and sanded a work of art, a beauty of balsa (oh, I guess the wood is pine, not balsa ... I honestly hadn't thought about that before) that looked so cool that I cleared a spot on my bookshelf to make room for the trophy I was about to win.

The final step in this car creation process was to melt a piece of lead and put it in the bottom of the car so that the car would have enough mass to pick up speed as it ran down the racetrack. Dad helped me with that. Actually I remember Dad helping me with most of it. I'm pretty sure that I painted it, though.

The fateful day came. I anxiously awaited my turn, but I was confident that my car would be right there at the head of the pack. I eyed the big trophy sitting on the table. The race would just be a formality. The trophy was going to be mine.

Finally it was my turn. The cars lined up on the track, the countdown began, and ... swoosh they were off!

My car soared down the ramp and at the halfway point I had what looked like an insurmountable lead. I was several car lengths in front of the next fastest car.

In that moment, my mind was doing all kinds of victory dances and celebrations.

And then my car skidded to a stop. Right there, halfway down the track, it just stopped. The car that had been in second soon passed my car, as did the next car and then all the rest.

"Go!" I shouted. But my car didn't hear me. It just stopped. There went my trophy dreams.

Inspection by the racing team revealed that the lead weight had fallen out of the bottom of my car, dragging the car to a stop.

My dream was targeted by that virtual fly swatter known as Life and it was squashed like a bug.

That was one of the biggest tragedies that had occurred in my life up to that point, and I was expecting to see the headlines in the Clarksville Chronicle read something like, "Joel Gets the Lead Out," or "Joel Loses Weight," or something.

I guess life does go on, but boy, with victory so close I could almost taste it, this was surely a lesson that has served me well in the days since then.

There are very few things in life that are truly "sure things," and one of those is this: Don't lose your humility and keep it within easy reach. Chances are you're going to need it.

Soap Opera

A big part of growing up is learning how to survive on your own, and I feel my parents did a good job in general with that daunting challenge so that by the time I went off to college I was able to deal with most things that came along.

Granted, I had a few goof-ups here and there, like paying for a burger at the Wendy's drive-through before my two hour drive home for spring break, only to get half-way home and realize I had forgotten to pick up the burger at the second window. I think the waitress is probably still there waiting for me to claim my food.

I grew up with a dad who still enjoys cooking and is good at it, and he taught me a thing or two in the kitchen. And it only took one episode of not reading a recipe carefully for me to learn how useful it is to follow directions. The first time I made pancakes for the family I had forgotten to add milk. The batter was moistened only by eggs and a little bit of vegetable oil. Boy were they thick. I remember my siblings laughing and walking out of the room, but I also remember Dad sitting down and eating the pancakes with me. I think he managed to eat two of them, but he didn't have to eat again for a couple of days.

Before I went to college, I even learned how to wash and iron my own laundry. I was so good at it that for a while I ironed my tee-shirts. I remember Mom telling me to always be sure that I used laundry detergent and to never ever use dish soap in the laundry. She didn't really tell me why.

I'll admit to washing a bunch of whites with one small red thing (okay, not too small ... it was a table cloth, but it had been in the family for years so I figured all the red that would wash out of it had already come out). I didn't know that Mom had dyed the table cloth before sending it to me. Every white shirt I owned turned a deep pink.

So it came to pass that I survived five years in college, I graduated, and I landed my first job with General Electric in Schenectady, New York. It was a great job in a great town, and I thoroughly enjoyed the three years I spent there. My second and third years in Schenectady, I rented a house and had a roommate named Jeff.

One Saturday Jeff had to go in to work to get some stuff done, and I played the part of the domesticated roommate for a while but I really wanted to get back to the book I had been reading. I tidied the living room, took out the garbage, and I washed some dishes and loaded up the dishwasher with the plates that were in the sink.

I was dismayed to find that the dishwasher detergent box was empty, and then I remembered I had used it up last time but had forgotten to buy more. Hmm. I really wanted to get back to my book, and I figured on a Saturday morning the grocery stores would be packed and I was thinking it would be at least a 45 minute proposition to go to the store and back. I looked around.

Ah! Dish soap. Then I heard Mom's voice in the back of my head, "Don't ever use dish soap for doing laundry."

But hey, I wasn't doing laundry. I was going to run the dish washer. And if you couldn't use dish soap in the dish washer, well hey, that just didn't sound right.

I filled up the little dispenser thing in the dish washer door, closed it, and turned it on.

Happy that the house was clean, I went back to the living room and continued reading.

It was perhaps ten minutes later that I heard a sound not too dissimilar from the Rice Krispies sound that used to be on commercials, the familiar Snap, Crackle, Pop. I put my book down a moment and listened, and then I heard the dish washer do its gurgle thing. Oh, I must have just been hearing water coming into or out of the machine. I continued reading.

Another few minutes later, I heard the sound again. It was louder. I was sitting with my back to the kitchen. The doorway to the kitchen had no door; it was an open entrance.

I turned around to see what might be happening. When I saw what I saw, a million thoughts passed through my head at once. It was something akin to what a parachutist might feel when he jumps out of a plane and pulls his rip cord, only to discover that he's wearing a backpack and not a parachute. I was in the midst of a disaster.

What I saw was a glacier-like layer of soap suds, maybe eight inches thick, oozing from the kitchen, through the doorway, and into the living room. Oh no!

I leaped off the couch and ran to the kitchen doorway. The entire kitchen floor was covered.

Taking my shoes off, I quickly waded through the soap sud glacier to the washing machine, turned it off, and pondered my next step. I ran down into the basement, found a bucket and the mop, and ran back up to the kitchen.

I dumped buckets of soap suds into the sink, but I did it too quickly and the sink filled up with soap and the soap wouldn't go down the drain. I ran water into the sink, but that only seemed to create more bubbles! So I took buckets of soap suds and poured them down the toilet, and then more buckets were poured into the bathtub and the shower.

There was soap everywhere and for a while I thought I would never be able to get rid of it. What's more, I was embarrassed about the situation, and I wanted to get it all cleaned up before Jeff got home.

For the next thirty minutes I was pouring soap suds down any drain I could find, and I was running water and flushing toilets trying to get this spectacular mountain of soap dissolved and out of the house.

At first I thought it was just a soap removal issue, which was bad enough, but it got a little more complicated because by the time I had gotten all the soap off the floor, there were dirt streaks all over from the dirt stains that loosened up during my cleaning. I ended up having to scrub the kitchen floor too so that it would look uniform in dirtiness (or cleanliness, rather).

I also had to scrub the toilets, the shower, and the bathtub. I never thought I was going to get done.

I knew how Lucille Ball felt with the conveyor belt of chocolates ... it felt like the work was building up at a torrid pace!

Jeff's car pulled into the driveway, and just before the back door opened I was back in my seat on the couch, acting deeply engrossed in the book.

The first thing he said when he walked through the back door and into the kitchen was, "Wow!"

I asked, "What?"

Jeff said, "Thanks for scrubbing the kitchen floor! I had been thinking about doing that. It looks great!"

All I could manage was a, "Thanks Jeff."

He went upstairs, and a moment later I heard another, "Oh man!"

"What?" I asked again.

"You cleaned the toilet. And the bathtub. And the shower!"

"Well, yeah, I ... uh ... I kind of had to," I humbly replied.

"Why?" he asked.

I told him the whole story, and he laughed and then I laughed. I don't know why I had been embarrassed about the episode, except that, well, I probably should have known better.

A few weeks ago, the kids and I were cleaning the kitchen. One of the kids was going to start up the dish washer and noticed that we were out of dish washer detergent. The question was then asked if we could just use dish soap.

I smiled and said, "I've got a story for you."

No Place

College fight songs can be inspiring with words like "fight fight fight!" or nostalgic like anything that says, "dear old U." Sometimes they have both. You typically want college fight songs that can be remembered and sung by the fans and cheerleaders alike, and it's got to be playable by the marching band.

We were blessed at NU (University of Nebraska) to have several fight songs, but ask any Husker fan what the top two fight songs are and you will be told, "No place" and "Hail Varsity." The latter is the song that the band plays after every touchdown. The former is the nickname for, 'There Is No Place Like Nebraska," and it's played often throughout the year but especially on football Saturdays.

The words are inspiring and strike fear and terror into the hearts of the opponents.

There is no place like Nebraska
Dear old Nebraska U.,
Where the girls are the fairest
The boys are the squarest
Of any old place that I knew.
There is no place like Nebraska,
Where they're all true blue,
Yes we'll all stick together
In all kinds of weather
For dear old Nebraska U.

Now if that doesn't make the opposing team think about running away and leaving nothing on the field except the trail of their mass exit, I don't know what will. I can picture the opposing players talking before the game.

"Hey Gus, looks like these boys are the squarest we've ever seen."

"Bud, I know. And they'll all stick together in all kinds of weather."

"Man guys, this is gonna be a tough game."

No wonder the Huskers have had such a successful and storied program.

Well actually, before we were called the Cornhuskers and eventually the Huskers, there was a time back in the late nineteenth century when NU was the Bug Eaters. Now that will make an opponent sit down and think! I think the NCAA probably got together and decided it was unfair for Nebraska to strike terror the way they did with their Bug Eaters nickname. It was a happy day in the rest of the world when the Bug Eaters were put to rest and the Cornhuskers were born.

Our other main fight song, Hail Varsity, is inspirational but the lyrics don't quite fit with the music ... at least, you have to sing the lyrics at about a million miles per hour in order to get it to fit with the tune. It goes something like this:

Hail to the team,
The stadium rings as everyone sings for Scarlet and Cream,
Fight for a Victory
Echo our Loyalty
So on mighty men
The eyes of the land upon every hand are looking at you,
Fight for a victory
Hail the men of Nebraska U.

Now look at those lyrics again. The line beginning "The stadium rings" and the line beginning "The eyes of the land" are each sung with only 3 or 4 notes. OK, I'm kidding, sort of. But it's a whole lot of words compared to the notes that you get. But like I said, it's a fun song, and because we played it after every touchdown I ended up playing it a ton of times in school.

Fortunately, due to the advances in technology, not only can we send a man to the moon but we can have car horns, key chains, and other things that play "No Place." This is cool and good. Part of this story is about a key chain ...

Once upon a time it came to pass that a friend of mine at work gave me such a key chain. If I pressed the button, it played three verses of "No Place" and there was no stopping it.

Son Eldest appears in this story twice, but to protect his identity and reduce embarrassment I will call him Son Eldest I and Son Eldest II.

So, Son Eldest I , at a very early age in life, heard my siblings and I singing No Place during a football broadcast on TV. He looked rather inquisitive and concerned, and after the game finished he came to me and whispered, "Daddy, I have something to ask you."

"What is it, Son Eldest I?"

"I heard the song. Is there REALLY a place like Nebraska?"

Boy it was tough explaining that one.

All right, so back to the key chain. I should mention that, like any good key chain worth its salt, it could play extremely loudly and it wasn't easy to accidentally make it play. One had to press the button just right to active the recording.

So here we were (isn't the anticipation killing you? Are you sitting on the edge of your chair waiting for me to finish my story? I hear you ... FINISH THE STORY, JOEL)!

Anyway, it came to pass that one Sunday I was sitting in church with the two oldest kids. Yonder Spouse was sick and stayed home. We had just finished the last song before the sermon, and it was time for prayer.

Yes, you know where this is going.

As the prayer was getting started, Son Eldest II decided that he needed to sit on my lap. I'm not sure why, but it doesn't really matter why. I was happy he decided to climb up. I realized early on in my Dad life that those kinds of events don't keep happening forever.

Son Eldest II climbed up and hopped on my lap and inadvertently pressed the button on the key chain. At that moment, I heard the opening chord to No Place start on the key chain. I had to make a quick decision ... do I stay and wait it out, or do I get up, interrupt the prayer, and walk out until the key chain song is done ...

Meanwhile, Son Eldest II sensed something was wrong. His eyes were looking straight ahead. His body went rigid. He didn't move a muscle. He was frozen until the song was over ... I knew it and he knew it.

Still, he had the presence of mind to know the best way to respond. He sat there. I sat there. We sat there together through the whole thing. By the time the song on the key chain was done, the prayer was almost done too.

It took him all the rest of the sermon to be able to relax again. And I'll bet at that moment that he wished there was really no place like Nebraska.

Dreams

What do you want to be when you grow up? That's a question we get asked frequently in childhood and perhaps early adulthood ... but we don't get asked that after we grow up because, well, we're grown up already.

So I guess another question to ask you adults out there ... when you became an adult, or when you got your first full-time job that would have been called your vocation, what happened to your dreams? Did they die with that first paycheck? Did they go into hibernation, on the back burner like that project that you always said you were going to do someday?

Remember the excitement of wanting to be something, somebody, and not really knowing how to get there? When you're young enough, you can have any aspiration and you won't get criticized just because it might not be feasible. Adults smile and nod and pat you on the head and say things like, "Of course you want to be a fire engine. Doesn't everybody?"

When I was little (five or six years old) I was going to be a cowboy when I grew up. The influence of shows like Lone Ranger, Gunsmoke, Maverick, and Wild Wild West of course played a major part in my horse-riding goals. Or maybe it was because Dad would take me on horseback rides now and then. I was going to ride a black horse named Lightning and be able to shoot with the best of them. I'd fall asleep at night dreaming about riding into town and saving the community from the bad guys.


A few years later, I decided I wanted to be President of the United States. I was particularly intrigued when I found out that FDR had a stamp collection. I had one too. So it seemed to make sense that since we had stamps in common, I might make a good president too. I'll never forget the day I came home from school and announced to Mom and Grandma that when I grew up I wanted to be just like Franklin D. Roosevelt. There are two things I remember about that day: the look of horror on Mom's face, and Grandma bursting out in a fit of laughter. I come from a long line of card carrying Republicans, and saying I wanted to be like FDR was something akin to treason.


My dreams were much more realistic after that. For a couple of years (Fourth and Fifth grade) I had my mind made up that I would be a professional baseball player in the summer and a brain surgeon in the off season. It never occurred to me that i would have to be good enough to try out and make a baseball team; I just figured if that's what you wanted to do, you signed up and you were in.


Those were giddy times. If I could dream about it, it was possible. There was no boundary really, no limit, no one saying you needed a certain level of talent or a particular GPA or whatever.


And then reality set in at some point, and I migrated to wanting to be a lawyer and then a minister and then a software developer. I was on this last one when I entered college, and it sort of stuck. I enjoy it thoroughly, but i don't dream about writing software. I dream about riding into town on a horse and saving the day.


My brother, at an early age, wanted to be an airplane when he grew up -- not the pilot, the plane itself. He was 17 years old when he realized he couldn't actually do that. His childhood had been quite happy up to that point.


My kids are going through those stages. Daughter Eldest is heading off to college in the fall and is leaning toward doing something with music. She's a wonderful pianist and I think she can do well. She's pursuing something she loves. When she was five or six, though, she and I had a talk about working hard and saving money for college, and she was thinking she didn't need to go to college because her job would simply be cleaning her room. Somehow she changed her mind and decided she wanted something challenging and rewarding.



Son Eldest's first dream was to be a zookeeper, but being pragmatic he realized he would first have to catch a bear, and he often expressed concern over how difficult that might be.


Daughter youngest wanted to be a vet and then a missionary.


Son youngest currently wants to play professional football, then go into acting, and then become the president.


Just as these kids are all unique, they also all have unique goals, independent aspirations, individual dreams.


I hope they never stop dreaming, never stop thinking that someday they can change the world.


As much as I want them to live comfortable lives, I don't want them chasing money. I want them chasing their dreams. Sure, I don't want them living in poverty either, but if they're passionate about what they do, they'll be successful enough to make a living with it.


Once upon a time there was a brilliant young scholar who was a Jewish man rising in the ranks of the elite; then one day on the road to Damascus he had an enlightening experience. He found Christ; well, Christ found him. The man was Saul, who was called Paul after that conversion.


Paul could have been a lawyer, doctor, or anything else he desired. Paul was a tent maker. He could have made big money doing anything, including preaching. Instead, his focus was on something different. He had a message he needed to share. He had dreams, aspirations, that were following something bigger than his own personal desires. Wow was he successful! Rich? No, not at all. But successful? You bet.


What do I want to be when I grow up? I still have dreams.

I hope I always will.

Chevy Impalas and Cherry Pies

With Herculean strength and the balance of a Rockefeller checkbook I carried a stack of textbooks, notebooks, a 4-valve piston King tuba, and my marching band uniform, and with a combination of a huff, a puff, and two grunts ... STEP ... I had achieved the first step home.

By my calculations, I had only 2639 steps remaining and therefore at that pace I should be able to make it home within, oh, about 400 hours. That is, if a glacier didn't come storming through town due to the next ice age or I didn't get trampled under by a herd of snails rushing to the creek.

With another huff, puff, and two grunts ... STEP ... I was on step two! Only 2638 steps left, but who was counting?

My arms began aching and I started wondering if there were labor unions for students and shouldn't there be laws against this sort of thing and whose fault was it anyway, the teachers', my parents', or my own?

Zoom! A car passed me, going down Fifteenth Street in Onawa in a hurry. Pretty soon another zoom followed. I had little hope that any of the upper classmen who had cars would stop to offer me a ride home, but still, every time I heard a car approaching I put on an extra grimace and took another step forward, making sure any passers-by would see my plight, the struggles of the academic tuba player.

Huff, puff, grunt grunt ... STEP ... I was making progress.

Zoom! Another car passed me. Zoom zoom. Two more cars passed me.

I heard another car approaching. This car didn't zoom though. It slowed down. I looked over to the street and saw my buddy Jim with his window down.

"Hey Joel," he called out.

"Hey ... Huff ... Puff ... Grunt Grunt," I called out.

"You got quite a load there," Jim commented.

"Yep ... Huff ... Puff ... Grunt Grunt," I replied.

"Don't you wish you played the flute?" Jim laughed.

Before I could respond, he shouted, "See ya tomorrow," and drove off.

Huff ... Puff ... Grunt Grunt ... STEP ... another one.

This went on interminably. Soon I was near my sister's friend Mary's house. I thought about stopping there to see if I could have dinner and stay overnight before resuming my walk home.

At about that moment, I heard a car pull up to the side of the rode. "Need a ride?" I heard a voice call out.

"Sure Mom, that would be great," I replied.

With a few more huffs, puffs, and grunt grunts, I made it over to the car, a '75 metallic green Chevy Impala station wagon, the last of the big wagons (it officially seated eight but it had room for about forty). I put everything in the back, and then I walked around to the passenger side and hopped in the front seat.

"Thanks Mom for the ride. That stuff was getting heavy."

"Oh no problem, Son. You had quite a load there."

"Yeah, I was going to tell you that they got the tuba fixed and that I'd be bringing it home, but I forgot."

"How'd your test go?" Mom inquired. She always did a great job of keeping up with our schoolwork. I guess that came naturally for her, since she had been a teacher up until when I was born.

"Oh it went fine. I got mixed up on the lie-lay-laid thing again."

"Hens lay, people lie," Mom reminded me.

"So the prayer 'Now I lay me down to sleep' is really about chickens?"

"Well no, it's really a little more complex than that."

"That's what I was afraid of. Oh, I have another question. I took the test on Tale of Two Cities today, and I got stuck for a while on the first question."

"What was the first question?"

"What were the two cities?"

"You didn't know that? But you read the book."

"I loved that book!"

"But you didn't know the two cities in Tale of Two Cities?"

"Well no ... did Dickens really specify what they were?"

"How about London and Paris?!"

"Oh ... oh yeah, well that makes sense. I guess I was kind of distracted though."

"Distracted, how?"

"Leonard got sick during the test. He covered his mouth with his hands and ran toward he door, but, well, he didn't make it. He lost it all right there in the doorway."

"Oh no. That's too bad."

"Oh that's not the best part. George had to go to the bathroom, but Leonard's ... uh ... well the doorway was blocked. George decided to try jumping over it. He took a running leap and ... almost made it. He slipped and landed on his back."

"Oh my!"

"So I was kind of distracted. London and Paris, huh, who would have figured?"

At that point we were about a block from home.

"So where have you been?" I asked Mom.

"Oh, I went to the church bake sale."

"Oh cool. Did you find anything good there."

"Well, I bought that cherry pie for dessert tonight."

I turned around and looked in the back seat.

"Where is it?" I asked.

"You ... didn't see it when you got in the car?"

"Should I have?"

I had one of those sinking feelings, kind of like when you're balance on the back two legs of a chair and there's a moment when suddenly you realize you're going to tip over but there's nothing you can do about it.

As Mom pulled into the driveway, I lifted my bottom up off the seat and ... right there, beneath where I had been sitting, was a flattened cherry pie. Not only was it flattened, but it was the flattest I had ever seen a pie. And of course the plastic wrap covering the pie couldn't contain the pie filling from leaking ... there was cherry pie filling all over.

For dessert that night I got to eat a flattened cherry pie. There wasn't a lot of filling left in the pie, and nobody else really wanted to eat the pie that I had squished.

I'm not sure what the moral is here. Look before you leap? I don't know. But when moments like this come along, you may as well accept it with humility and appreciate it with humor. I was laughing about it by the time we were ready to start dessert ...

My brother and sister, who hadn't squished any pies, didn't get any dessert. They also didn't see the humor in it that I did.

Vanilla Steamer, Bud?

Back in my carefree days of only three kids, there was a while there where I would try to take one kid out for breakfast each week ... sometimes we'd go to the Riz Raz Cafe, where the waitresses always greeted you with a yell across the room, "Mornin' Honey," and sometimes we'd go to a local coffee shop.

Son Eldest especially enjoyed going to the coffee shop and ordering a vanilla steamer, though sometimes he'd go exotic and get a raspberry steamer. The guy behind the coffee shop became friends of sorts with Son Eldest and always called him, "Bud."

The guy -- his name was Gus -- would see Son Eldest and would ask, "Vanilla Steamer, Bud?" and Son Eldest would nod and break out in a big smile. Gus would always deliver a perfect Vanilla Steamer to Son Eldest, with extra foam.

It came to pass that one morning for whatever reason we decided to go to a different coffee house. We walked in, and Son Eldest approached the counter cautiously. He's not one to embrace change easily.

I placed my order and then it was Son Eldest's turn. He looked up at me, and I bent down and whispered in his ear, "Do you want a Vanilla Steamer?" Son Eldest nodded. I then told him to tell that to the man behind the counter.

Son Eldest did just as I asked.

The man leaned over the counter and said, "One Vanilla Steamer, coming right up, Bud."

In a couple minutes our drinks were ready, and we sat down at a table. I could tell something was bothering Son Eldest.

We said a prayer first and then Son Eldest looked and asked, "Daddy?"

"Yes?" I replied.

"How did that man know my name?"

You know, wouldn't it be neat if everyone really knew your name? I'm always amazed when I'm sitting at a traffic intersection and I look around at the people in the surrounding cars and I discover that I don't know anybody. Numerous times I've told my kids that I'm astonished at how many people in this world I don't know.

It feels almost like we should have weekly gatherings -- maybe even daily -- so that we can get to know each other better.

But we know one thing for certain. There is someone who really does know all of our names. He knows the number of hairs on your head (or in my case the number that I used to have). He knows all your sorrows and worries and concerns; he also knows your joys and victories and dreams; and he knows your sins, as well as whether you've forgiven the sins of others who have wronged you.

He cares about you. Someday when you come face to face with him, He won't call you Bud (unless that's your name). He'll call you by your real name. And He'll look you in the eyes, He'll look you in the heart.

And that will be even better than getting a perfect vanilla steamer with extra foam from Gus.

TV or Not TV? That Is the Question.

After dinner on evenings when our calendar doesn't dictate that we have to be somewhere, after our bellies are content and the dishes are washed, the table and counters wiped, and the floor swept, one of the kids will ask, "What do you want to do tonight?"

It pleases my heart to hear those words, for a number of reasons. First, it indicates that the kids want to do something with their parents. Second, it indicates that there are a number of choices of things we could do together, whether it's play a board game or go out and play in the backyard or (in summer) go to the pool. And third, it indicates that watching television is not an automatic event in our family.

Sometimes I'll feel out of it when I'm in a conversation with a colleague at work who talks about "their show," meaning of course the show that he and his wife faithfully watch every week. There are so many shows that I have not seen ... and I don't know who the characters are, what the themes are, and how the plots go ... and I really really don't care.

It's not that we don't own a TV set. In fact, Yonder Spouse does a wonderful job of ferreting through lists of documentaries and other educational films and shows, finding things that would be beneficial to watch. This past year we've watched shows on the Lewis and Clark expedition, the Trans-Continental railroad, Theodore Roosevelt, Benjamin Franklin, the Medici family, and others, and it's a great way to get exposed to some of the facets of American and world history.

And I'll have to admit that I do have a show, only it's not on regularly. Any time there is a Nebraska football game being broadcast, I'm there, and typically it happens three or four times each fall. But when I watch, I prefer to have my kids with me. And more often than not, if the game is being played during daylight, the kids and I will go outside at halftime and play our own football game in the backyard.

See, time watching television is time that could be spent doing something else, something worthwhile. And while I'm lashing out against this television time sink, I may as well throw video games into the mix too.

And again, I'll have to admit that sometimes, late at night, I'll go play some video games after the kids go to bed. I can call it mindless entertainment, but that's the problem with it -- first, it's mindless, I'm not really learning anything; second, it's entertainment, which in and of itself isn't really a problem, but it's a problem that our society believes we need and deserve to be entertained. But I'm doing video games a lot less than I used to.

For years, my kids thought that television was only for watching tapes and dvds of documentaries, Nebraska football games, and Veggie Tales. They've grown up watching "regular televison" rarely, and it's always a special event when we announce we're going to watch some movie or perhaps the Andy Griffith Show.

As a result, my kids spend more time reading or playing piano. I'd like to see more time spent cleaning and tidying too, but hey, two out of three is a good start. The reading and piano will serve them well in life, in my opinion, and the fact that they don't know the latest pop stars and teen idols doesn't bother me (or them) at all.

My kids watch a whole lot less television than I did as a kid.

Remember Dark Shadows? For those who aren't familiar with it, Dark Shadows was a sort of horror show and soap opera combined; with vampires and werewolves and a hand that floated in air by itself and an artist whose paintings would come to life, it had all the ingredients to appeal to little kids with active imaginations.

I would watch Dark Shadows every day after school when I was in Second grade, followed by Gilligan's Island, Beverly Hillbillies, Maverick, and Wild Wild West. Those were my shows. Then we'd eat dinner, and then Dad and I would play outside.

Imagine how much more productive that year would have been if I hadn't spent two and a half hours -- TWO AND A HALF HOURS! -- every day watching television. I don't know how much television you or your kids watch, but this sounds like an excessive amount to me.

So back to Dark Shadows for a moment. Besides the fact that I was burning up valuable minutes of my life watching TV, the content of the shows wasn't good for me either. I started having nightmares, and these dreams increasingly became scarier. What's worse, I still remember the dreams vividly.

My brother and I shared a bunkbed in those years, and a nightmare woke me up one night. I was so scared, I jumped out of the top bunk and stood in the middle of my room screaming. Well, I tried to scream, but I was so scared that no sound came out. I ran to my parents' bedroom and shook them awake, but I was so scared I couldn't talk.

I remember the dream, and it still scares me, even in broad daylight. I don't want to think about it.

My mom didn't have to be a trained psychologist to realize that Dark Shadows was causing problems in my life, so she banned me fom watching it. In fact, she put a hard limit on television time in general -- one hour per day.

One hour per day seemed brutal! We kids griped and whined. Back then, children weren't allowed to sue their parents or report them to the authorities, so my folks held firm. One hour of TV. And no Dark Shadows.

Well, what happened over time was that we discovered the great outdoors, and we discovered reading, and we discovered music ... and soon, by the time I had finished Third grade or around then, we found we could go a whole day or two days or sometimes three days without turning on the television.

We had discovered life.

Of course, there were those memorable moments in our family when we all gathered around to watch something. I remember watching the broadcast when Neil Armstrong stepped onto the moon. Oh that was exciting!

And the night before the 1972 Orange Bowl, where Nebraska would be playing Alabama for the colleg football national championship, Dad went out and bought our first color television. Watching the game in color was absolutely amazing! Nebraska won, 38-6.

Anyway, my mother still apologizes to me to this day for allowing me to watch Dark Shadows and other shows when I was young, but I am so grateful that she realized the problem, took corrective action, and stuck to her guns with the television limits. That was the right thing to do.

And as I like to tell my kids, "See how I turned out?"

Do You Have the Time?

Before my kids were born -- yes, back in the days before life really began and I had all my hair and it was all the same color -- I would see dads walking around with these contraptions that reminded me of something a kangaroo might use. I'm talking about the baby carrier, both the front type of carrier and the backpack.

I swore to myself that I would never ever carry a baby in one of those things. After all, how long does it take a baby to learn to walk? Just a few weeks, right? And how will the baby ever learn to walk if you carry him around all day long and don't give him a chance to learn?

When I thought about fatherhood, I thought about meaningful conversations with my son or daughter such as this, "Run a post pattern, right side, and I'll hit you with a pass," or perhaps, "Try casting just to the right of the lilly pads ... I'll bet there's a lunker in there." It didn't really occur to me that for the first two or three years of a child's life he wouldn't just "sit there and act pretty" while we parents waited for him to grow up.

Something in the male physiology changes after a baby is born, and the more I think about it the more I believe that a hospital nurse injects the unsuspecting dad with a Daddy Serum that makes him responsive and nurturing. At least, something changed in me with the birth of our first, and that something was recharged with the births of each of the next three as well.

The first morning after we came home from the hospital with our first newborn, I remember thinking, "I'm not going to wear a baby carrier. I'm not going to wear a baby carrier. I'm not going to wear a baby carrier." I opened my eyes and looked over at my wife, still sleeping, and right next to her -- in fact, right next to me too -- was this little bundle of wide awake joy, looking right back at me.

Her eyes were open! My first surprise was that I hadn't realized that babies aren't like puppies. Their eyes don't stay closed for the first three days or six weeks or however long it is. Babies are ready to rumble from Day One.

I sprang out of bed and ran to the closet, rummaging through a pile of stuff, and I found a contraption of cloth and straps and rings, and ... I put it on. I rescued our baby from the bed and inserted her into the carrier, and we walked downstairs to make breakfast. Less than twenty-four hours old and my daughter and I were making buttermilk pancakes together.

I was hooked.

This story isn't really about carriers though. I'm not trying to sell you any products. I'm not saying you have to carry around a baby like a kangaroo.

You do need to spend time with your baby / infant / toddler / young child, up and up and up as they grow.

The days of Ward Cleaver are over. A dad no longer has the luxury of coming home from work, sitting in his easy chair, patting the kids on the head and sending them off to bed. The world is far too busy a place to spend time being Mr. Cleaver.

But get this. Even if a dad had the time to be Mr. Cleaver, he shouldn't. It's wrong, all wrong.

Dads, if you want your kids growing up secure in the knowledge that you love them; if you want them to understand and appreciate your values and perhaps someday claim them as your own; if you want to raise a child who grows up with happy memories of home life; if you want to raise a son or daughter who isn't afraid to be seen with you in public at the mall or the swimming pool or wherever, then you need to spend time with your children.

It's not the school's place to teach a child that he is worth something; it's not the church's place to give the child a healthy self-image; it's not the government's place to teach the child how to treat others; and it's not Hollywood's place to teach the child moral values. All those things come from the home. And all those things take time.

I don't mean a token hour or token day scattered here or there, I mean spending so much time with them that their mom comes to you and says, "Hey when do I get a turn?"

Dads, teach your kid how to cook; teach your kid how to help out with cleaning or pulling weeds in the garden; read to your kids; listen to music with your kids -- point out when the tuba is playing; teach your kids to enjoy hiking and fishing; and if you must watch that football game on television, make it interactive and teach your kids what's going on there up on that big screen ... who the players are, what the rules are, the different plays teams are running, the whole nine yards.

I can tell you stories about each of the kids and things we did together with them in front carriers or backpacks. Bear with me a moment to get a taste of some of what the kids and I experienced.

With Daughter Eldest, we went Orienteering (this is a sport in the woods where, equipped with map and compass, you try your best to crawl through poison ivy, get tangled up in vines, and end up as hopelessly lost as you can) on a four or five mile course, with her in a backpack. Out in the middle of the woods, not quite lost but almost, we saw a deer, a male buck that was one of the largest deer I've seen in my life. We stopped in our tracks and looked at the deer. My daughter was pointing and trying all of the animal sounds that she knew, trying to get the deer to respond. The deer didn't respond, but those minutes together were magical.

Son Eldest loved the front carrier, and on Sunday mornings when I was teaching Daughter Eldest's Sunday School class, Son Eldest would be right there too, like an extra set of arms and legs facing outward and enjoying the class. He loved picking up things that I set down, and often I would go looking for that roll of tape or that pencil or that songbook, only to discover that he had picked it up and was carrying it in his little hands. After Sunday School, he and I would go to orchestra warm-up before the worship service, and he would sit on my lap while I got the tuba ready to play. There he would be, squeezed between my tuba and me, having a great time. Once in a while he would lean to the side and look out at the music director, but mostly he just liked to sit up next to the tuba, listening to the low rumblings and warm tones of the brass behemoth.

Daughter Youngest loved to cook with me, and like Son Eldest, the front carrier was her favorite hangout. She would help me measure the flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, and other things that we would put into the pancakes or the cakes we were baking. On more than one occasion, I would be trying to do too many things at once and not necessarily paying attention to what she was doing -- after all, she was attached to me, so how much trouble could she get into? -- when all of a sudden there would be a cloud of powder and I would look in the blender and some portion of the amount that I wanted in the blender would also be on the counter or on the floor. We ended up with some interesting concoctions for breakfast. But I guess that's all part of the game.

Son Youngest loved to go fishing with me in the front carrier or in the backpack, back before he was too young to hold a rod himself. He'd get so excited when I reeled in a fish. We moved to a house with a large yard right after he was born, and there are two ponds within walking distance. I think the time we spent together fishing is a big reason that he still enjoys fishing today.

Nighttime was always a special time with the kids, too, and for each of the kids a unique pattern of "daddy / child" time would develop.

Daughter Eldest, for the first year of her life, didn't like to be set down. "Up, up, up," she would protest. And I certainly didn't object to holding my little girl. She also didn't like to just "go down" and fall asleep at night, and that was fine with me. For nearly every night for the first year and a half of her life, she and I would dance to sleep. I tried dozens of different music CD's, some classical, some jazz, and some rock, and I found only one that she really liked. Stevie Ray Vaughann, thank you for putting together a CD that my daughter loved. We danced to that same CD every night ... sometimes she would fall asleep by the third or fourth song, but sometimes it wouldn't be until the eighth or ninth song. But it always worked. What's more, it often would put me to sleep too, and there were countless nights where I would wake up in the rocking chair, my daughter asleep in my arms, the music long since stopped, and the house would be silent. There I was with my first born child, savoring the moments together.

Son Eldest didn't really want to be danced at night. In fact, he didn't need to. He could fall asleep on his own, and the first time it happened he was sitting on the floor at night and he just closed his eyes and fell asleep. It scared us to death! No, he didn't need hours of dancing. What he liked especially was to be read to, so night after night he and I would bundle up on the floor or crawl into bed and read books, often with Daughter Eldest right beside us. We read through the entire Chronicles of Narnia together -- twice -- along with numerous other books.

Daughter Youngest was born right after Nebraska had just won the college football national championship, and I had purchased a video of the 1996 Fiesta Bowl game in which the Huskers annihilated the Florida Gators. And, for the first six months of her life, my daughter and I watched that video, over and over and over. She loved watching, even though she had no idea what was going on. I don't know if it's because she could feel my heartbeat racing or what, or if she sensed how much I enjoyed watching Nebraska football. But it doesn't matter why. It was time we spent together, and she would fall asleep in my arms.

Son Youngest and I somehow got hooked on Veggie Tales videos, and at night after all the other kids had gone to bed, we'd go into the room with the television and watch one of the three Veggie Tales videos we owned. We loved the Silly Songs along with the other skits, and even to this day when I hear a Veggie Tale song or see one of the episodes, I think about the time that he and I had together. And like with the others, often I would wake up in the middle of the night, asleep on the chair with him in my arms. Silent moments, sweet moments.

Housework, yardwork, playing outside, playing inside, talking, hugging ... if the child grows up knowing that you feel he or she is worth the time, his confidence and feelings of self-worth will tend to be stable.

My teen-age kids aren't shy about asking me to join them to play ultimate frisbee with their friends or to play a pick-up game of water basketball at our local swimming pool. They're not afraid to hug me in public or to say, "I love you."

And that's where I've wanted the relationships to be.

I guess it takes work to end up like this. And I've made mistakes, and there are times when I haven't been patient or loving or even haven't been around enough.

But I think it's true that in general, if you as a dad spend more time with your kids, the outcome will be more positive than if you hadn't spent the time.

Maybe it's kind of like how when you spend time with your heavenly Father, the more, the better. Funny how that works.

Mittens in July

The sun beat down on the pavement with a relentless and unforgivable brutality that would make any bystander think twice before declaring that man was winning the war against nature. Heat was radiating from the black-topped streets in a blurry haze that blanketed the state for most of that month of July back in 1993.

The best part about the heat was that you knew it would be something you could talk about for years to come, maybe even tell your children and grandchildren.

But in all honesty, to me the heat didn't feel that oppressive. After all, I had grown up in the Missouri River Valley in western Iowa. Ask anybody who's lived there and who has also lived in central North Carolina, and he'll tell you that western Iowa is colder in the winter and hotter AND more humid in the summer. Perhaps the average temperature in North Carolina is higher, but Iowa has more days over 100F than Carolina does in any given year.

It shouldn't seem quite as odd, then, that on this particularly hot day in July I decided to go for an afternoon run. I used to participate in a lot of road races back then, and I loved training in the heat because I felt it gave me an edge in the races.

I had a jogging stroller so that I could take a kid with me, and we would even run road races in the jogging stroller category. But that's not really where this story is headed.

Yonder Spouse and Son Eldest were off running an errand, and I was home with Daughter Eldest. We finished our chores around the house, and Daughter Eldest and I had the following deep conversation.

Dad: Punky, wanna go for a run?

Daughter Eldest: Yeah Daddy.

Seeing that she was almost three at the time and I had just reached 32, that seemed like a pretty deep conversation for both of us.

I put on my running shoes while she got into the stroller.

I looked up at the sky. The sun was bright. Being fair skinned that I am, I decided to go in the house and get something to cover my thinning hair. I announced to Daughter Eldest that I was going to go in and get a hat.

I stepped inside the garage and entered the kitchen before running upstairs to my bedroom, found a ball cap in the closet, and ran back down the stairs two at a time. I ran through the kitchen to the garage, meeting Daughter Eldest who was also stepping into the garage.

She was wearing a stocking cap.

Dad: Punky, what are you doing with that hat?

Daughter Eldest: If you need a hat, I probably do too.

Dad: But it's 95 degrees outside.

Daughter Eldest: But you're wearing a hat.

Dad: Yeah, to keep the sun off.

Daughter Eldest: Me too.

So I made a deal with her ... if she got too hot with the hat on, she could take it off. And I told her I would do the same if I got too hot. She agreed to that.

As we started running up the hill and out of our neighborhood and into the next, I saw her reach inside her pockets. She pulled out a pair of mittens.

I sighed. Then I laughed. I was trying to picture this image ... it's a hot 95F day, early afternoon, and I'm running with this jogging stroller, pushing a two year old who's wearing a winter stocking cap and woollen mittens.

I kept running ... and running ... never mind that people were pointing and chuckling as we ran through the streets of our town. I was running with my kid, and every run with any of my kids was always a special event for me.

She knew how to encourage me on our runs. "Go zoom, Daddy! ZOOM!" And I would sprint faster.

Or on particularly long runs on hot days, I'd sometimes hear, "Daddy, are you running or just walking?"

Whatever the case, that run also was a reminder to me on several counts.

First, we have to remember that we set the example for our kids. We need to be as consistent and transparent as possible so that there's no question in a kid's mind what our motives and intentions are.

Second, we have to remember that God does things his way with his timing. We may think we know what God is doing, and we then respond by doing what seems to make sense for us, where in reality we sometimes totally miss the boat. My daughter thought she knew why I was doing what I was doing, and she tried to follow suit. Her actions seemed so outrageous to us adults, but to her it seemed logical.

How many times have I done something logical, only to look back and realize how wrong I was?

Anyway, that particular day, when all was said and done, we had run ten miles. She fell asleep for the last two or three miles, and when she did I removed her gloves and the hat.

It was a hot day, sure, but it especially was a day I would remember and cherish for a long time.

Hallelujah and Good Night

Years ago when Son Eldest was three or four years old, we celebrated Christmas at my brother and sister-in-law's house in the picturesque town of Crozet, Virginia, nestled in the Shenandoah Valley. My parents had flown in, and my brother's in-laws had driven up from North Carolina, and my sister and brother-in-law had driven over from Falls Church, Virginia.

There are few pieces of music as stirring as Handel's Messiah. From start to finish, from top to bottom, it stirs the soul and acts miracles on hearts world-wide. Growing up, my parents and my siblings and I would participate in the town's sing-a-long Messiah. Doing it once captures the heart of the singer; doing it twice makes the capture permanent. At least, after you've sung the Messiah a couple times, you can't walk way from it. It becomes a part of you from that time ever more.

We have a family tradition of singing the Messiah pretty much straight through when we get together during Christmas. All it takes is for someone to mention Handel or someone to put the CD in the player or someone to say a keyword from the Messiah, such as "surely" or "worthy" or (surprise) "hallelujah."

My kids have always enjoyed singing, and they're much better at it than I am. Son Eldest's first memorized song was "Peanut," and the lyrics go something like this:

A peanut sat on the railroad track
It's heart was all a flutter
Along came a choo-choo train
(choo choo) ... peanut butter.

He loves singing now, and he loved it back then. If someone started singing, he would join in whether he knew the words and tune or not.

And it came to pass on that Christmas Day that we finished Christmas dinner and someone (I think it was Dad) used the word, "Surely," and my sister nodded at my brother, who nodded at me, and in a few seconds we were all gathered in the living room with a CD playing the Messiah and we were all singing along (we have several copies of the songbook in the family).

We started at the top and went pretty much straight through. Oh, I should mention here that when we sing this, we sing it standing up. You just can't sit down and sing this the way it's supposed to be sung. Anyway, by the time we got to Hallelujah Chorus I had tears in my eyes. This was one of those meaningful moments for me ... it so moved my heart.

I glanced over to my sister, with whom Son Eldest had been standing. She had a glow about her, and she smiled and nodded downward. I looked, and there was Son Eldest, still standing but sound asleep, leaning against his aunt.

He was obviously relaxed around her and trusted her enough to assume that she wouldn't move.

Isn't it supposed to be like that with us and God? Shouldn't we be talking to God so frequently -- like all the time, Paul tells us -- so that we're comfortable enough around him that we could fall asleep? (I should be quick to point out that this isn't the same as falling asleep in church!).

And shouldn't we trust God enough so that we can lean on him -- REALLY lean on him -- and let him support us while we're sleeping?

The glow on my son's face -- and the glow on my sister's -- told me there's something right about this.

Squeaky Bottom

I've never been particularly handy around the home, but I haven't let that lack of ability stop me from breaking things as I try to fix something else or to create more problems than I solve.

At least I try (Dad always told me, "Don't just stand there, do something," and I guess I take that literally). I'm also trying to instill that "try hard" ethic in my kids, so when opportunities come up at home to fix or repair something I try to involve one or more of the kids so they can use it as a learning opportunity.

Last year our water heater was acting up ... it would still heat the water, but it was slow and the water wasn't getting all that hot. It seemed like one of the two heating elements wasn't working. I went to the hardware store, found a matching element, and took it home to try.

Son Eldest and I went into the crawl space underneath the house where we keep our water heater. I had a wrench that looked like the right size, but after about ten minutes of not getting the element to turn I acknowledged I was having trouble getting the thing out. It looked like it may have partially rusted into the body of the water tank, so I decided to go get some WD-40 and see if I could loosen it up.

I left and returned a minute later.

I sprayed the WD-40 and set the can down. I waited a minute or two, and Son Eldest and I chatted about random things. I picked up the wrench and tried. Nothing.

Then I decided to get serious, so I put my whole body into it, bending my knees and putting as much of my weight on that wrench as I could. Suddenly I heard a, "Shhhhhhhh," sound.

"Son Eldest, did you hear that? I think we have a leak somewhere."

"Dad ..."

"Son, I'm going to pull down on this wrench again. Listen for the sound."

Shhhhhh, the sound repeated.

"Yep, we've got a leak, Son.

"Dad ..."

"I wonder if it's a leak in the drain valve."

"Dad ..."

"I hope it's not a leak in the base."

"Dad ..."

"What is it Son?"

"When you kneel, you're sitting on the can of WD-40. The spray is what's making the noise.

I reached back and felt my bottom.

Son Eldest was right.

And my bottom didn't squeak for months after that.

The Facts of Fish

Every father at some point, in some way, deep down, wants to have meaningful conversations with his children. Of course, we can't have those conversations all the time, for we live in a pragmatic world that demands information transfer in real time.

For example, doing the drive-through at Wendy's, here's not what I need.

Dad: Hey daughters, do you want a junior cheeseburger or a junior burger?

Daughter Eldest: Dad, do you think Hamlet was really insane?

Dad: (sigh). Daughter Youngest, how about you?

Daughter Youngest: Oh I think he was clearly insane.

That's not a useful conversation at that point, though at another point in the evening it would be a fascinating discussion. For the record, I don't think he's insane, but my Uncle Tom is certain that Hamlet has gone off the deep end.

Dads also look for opportunities in nature and/or in daily life situations to help educate their kids.

For example, sometimes the kids and I do "family band," with each of us playing our particular instrument as we try to make a joyful noise. Once recently we had a conversation that went something like this.

Dad: Okay, let's play song #4 and we'll take it from the top. 1-2-3 ... (an awful noise follows).

Dad: (Stopping). Okay kids, wait a second. We're out of tune.

Son Eldest: Dad ...

Dad: (continuing). It's important to train your ear so that you can detect the subtle nuances.

Son Eldest: Dad ...

Dad: (continuing). For example, on brass instruments, the lower you go the sharper your sound is going to be, and you may have to compensate either with your lips -- also called your embouchure -- or by lengthening the slides for the valves you're playing.

Son Eldest: Dad ...

Dad: (continuing). On most brass instruments, the second valve will lower the fundamental pitch by one semitone, or a half step. The first valve will lower the pitch by two semitones, or a whole step. The third valve will ...

Son Eldest: (interrupting). Dad ...

Dad: (annoyed at being interrupted) What is it, Son Eldest?

Son Eldest: You're playing the wrong song. We're all on song #4, but you're playing song #5.

And so it happened that I took Son Eldest and Son Youngest fishing at a nearby farm pond one sunny Saturday afternoon, and we brought home a couple of fish. Son Eldest was perhaps nine years old at the time, and Son Youngest was three years old.

I figured it was time to teach Son Eldest how to clean a fish, so we got a knife and together we started filleting the fish. One of the fish was clearly a mommy fish with a big egg sack. Son Eldest asked what it was, and I told him and explained how the process works for fish.

He and I hadn't had the "facts of life" discussion in detail, other than touching on it now and then. At least he knew that babies didn't come from a stork.

So after I explained how fish reproduce, he looked a little confused and he asked, "Now, how is this different than when people want to have babies?"

I thought to myself, "Aha, this is the perfect opportunity," so as we were cleaning the fish I described the husband and wife process.

Partway during the conversation, Son Youngest came back outside and watched us clean the fish and, of course, he listened to our discussion.

The discussion was at a reasonable high level, but Son Eldest seemed to get it, and I was proud of myself for using the opportunity of cleaning the fish to present some basic biological facts to my male offspring. In fact, I nearly dislocated my shoulder trying to pat myself on the back.

But then, as we were carrying the fillets inside to prepare for cooking, Son Youngest turned to me and said, "Dad, I'm confused. Now tell me again ... when a mom and dad want to have a baby, exactly what does the dad do with the fish?"

Christmas Morning

It's Christmas morning, 10:15am, and we have just finished opening presents. We started at about 7am, opened a few presents, ate a delicious breakfast of Moravian sugar cake and an egg sausage casserole, and then opened the rest of the presents.

We take our time opening presents on Christmas morning, going one person and one gift at a time so that each person can see and appreciate what everyone else received.

Opening presents is fun, but the real joy of course comes in seeing the smiles on the kids' faces, not smiles because of the presents but smiles because it's Christmas. We're celebrating Jesus' birthday today. It doesn't matter whether his birthday really occurred in April or June or whenever; we're celebrating it today.

And oh my did we celebrate it at church last night with our Christmas Eve services! Our whole family went to the 5pm service with contemporary music and a puppet show, and then the three oldest kids stayed because they sang in the choir and played handbells at the 7pm service.

While they were in the 7pm service, the rest of us drove through some local neighborhoods and enjoyed the Christmas lights and decorations. It was a beautiful night to be out, nearly 60F!

We had dinner at home and then the older kids returned home as well. At 10:15pm, the three oldest kids and I turned back around and went to church for the 11pm service.

I just can't get enough Christmas music, and the music at the 11pm service was spectacular. Besides singing many of the traditional hymns (and of course Silent Night by candlelight), we had a piano / organ duet for the Offertory that was wonderful. I don't remember the composer, but the song was "That Endris Night." The postlude at the end of the service was Hallelujah Chorus.

Christmas comes, whether we're ready or not. Some of us have been ready for weeks, but Son Youngest wasn't feeling the Christmas spirit yesterday afternoon. He was moping and seemed down and sad. I told him that the Christmas Eve services would get his heart fixed. He sat on my lap for the 5pm service so that the seven of us could all sit in the same row of six chairs, and I enjoyed that. I won't get to hold my almost ten year old son on my lap much longer.

And his heart found the joy of Christmas again before the evening was out. He was a fireball of Christmas spirit this morning.

The beautiful lights juxtaposed against the relaxing darkness of night ... the peaceful calm of Silent Night leaning against the majesty of the Hallelujah Chorus ...

We expect something at Christmas. It's not the presents, it's not the food. We want our hearts to be touched. We want God to heal whatever is aching inside of us.

And when we come to him with an expectant heart, when we open up and tell him that we don't feel the Christmas joy and would He please do something about it, He does.

Every year for me there's a moment where He touches me and sends a tingle down my spine. I never know when it's going to occur ... it often is at the Christmas Eve service, it often is on Christmas morning when the family is together around the Christmas tree.

Twice this Christmas season I've been touched in a way that's indescribable.

Last week, the first occurred when Son Youngest was singing the solo part of Morning Star at the Moravian Love Feast at our church. Hearing his sweet child-like voice ring out over the microphone and hearing the warm congregational response to his call worked wonders in my soul.

And last night at the 11pm service, looking up during Silent Night and seeing the glow of candlelight in Daughter Eldest's eyes, Son Eldest's eyes, and Daughter Youngest's eyes as those three kids sang in the choir ... I almost had to stop singing. It was beautiful.

What am I trying to say? I'm not sure. But I do know this. God is faithful, and if you tell him that you need to know that He's there ... He will let you know.

Silent Night, Holy Night, All Is Calm, All Is Bright. Hallelujah!

Merry Christmas everybody!

The Perfect Christmas Dinner of 1969

Christmas dinners in my childhood were always been a source of joy for me, a time to reflect, a time to be grateful, a time to be humble, and a time to look forward to what's in store for the coming year. As the blistering cold and wind joined hands to remind us that the world could be a tough and inhospitable place at times, the Christmas dinners had the opposite effect, a reminder that God loved us -- including me -- so much that He sent his only Son down to this planet called Earth. Just as the snow makes everything look fresh and new outside, so Christ makes everything fresh and new inside our hearts. Our Christmas dinners were a celebration of the birth of Jesus, and we relished our annual sumptuous meal and delightful conversation.

Mom was (and is) talented in many facets of life, not the least of which was her ability to host a warm happy Christmas dinner. She would usually invite a few guests, not so many that it was overwhelming but enough so that we kids always enjoyed listening to the conversations and stories, the songs and the laughter. She also knew how to invite the right blend of folks, people who did not necessarily know each other but who would get along and enjoy each other's company.

The Christmas dinner of 1969 in Clarksville, Tennessee was no exception. I was eight years old.

Mom had invited a family with two kids from Dad's office and another couple that we knew from church, so with the five of us that made a total of eleven people sitting at the table. My parents had bought new furniture that year, including a dining room set, and for Christmas Mom had the room decked out in festive regalia. Decorations were artistically placed around the room and there was a beautiful new tablecloth on the table, highlighted with a nice floral centerpiece with candles and accented with holly clippings from our yard. Mom had put a lot of effort into finding that tablecloth, and the one she ended up buying was perhaps a touch over sized but it was gorgeous and looked perfect in the room.

The morning progressed nicely as we kids helped out with cleaning and some of the food preparation. The aromas wafting from the kitchen were superb, and I was drooling as I eagerly awaited the meal.

As the guests arrived, we kids politely and dutifully met them at the door, inviting them in and hanging up their coats in the hall closet. My brother, sister, and I were wearing our church clothes and we looked nice for this special day. We attentively listened to the opening conversations until our parents dismissed us and said we could go play. Mom had prepped us on how to behave at such social gatherings. This wasn't a stuffy rules based thing, it was just treating the adults and other guests with courtesy and hospitality.

We kids played quietly in one of the back rooms while the adults were conversing in the living room. One of our favorite games to play involved playing my parents' old phonograph albums on the record player. We would take turns pretending to play piano (in sync with the music playing in the background), and then we would vote on who was the most realistic piano player. I could do a mean rendition of Gershwin's Prelude #2. Jennie and I usually stacked the votes so that Barry (the youngest) would win, but when we had guests we just played the game straight up.

The smells from the oven eventually made it to the back room where we were playing, and all of us were commenting how hungry we were getting. Just when we thought we could take the deprivation no longer, Mom came in and told us that it was time to eat.

We didn't run - we walked - but that was about as fast a walk as I've done in years. When we got to the table we discovered that Mom had put name cards out, indicating where people should sit. However, I also knew that I couldn't sit down until the women and children had sat down, but as soon as they had, I whipped out the chair, jumped into my seat, and tucked my cloth napkin into my belt so that it wouldn't fall onto the floor during the meal. I remember thinking how nice and thick the new cloth napkins felt.

Mom and Dad brought out the food: an appetizer of fancy crackers with choices of pickled herring and a package of cream cheese covered with a spicy mint jelly; a beautiful ham with a light mustard glaze, enhanced with chunks of fresh pineapple; a tray of my favorite, twice-baked potatoes (the potato skins of baked potatoes had been hollowed out, the potatoes were mashed and blended with cream and cheese, and then the skins were filled with the potato mixture and baked); homemade sourdough rolls that Dad had made; a large bowl of Pink Fluffy (a decadent "salad" consisting of whipped cream, cherry pie filling, cottage cheese, and a whole package of miniature marshmallows); Dad's homemade watermelon pickles; a corn casserole; cranberry relish; and several other things that I'm probably forgetting.

I had no trouble being quiet and respectful during the meal. I ate and ate and ate and ate. It was delicious.

Dessert included pecan pie and coffee, though of course we kids didn't drink the coffee.

As we were finishing the dessert, one of the guests commented how polite and well behaved all the kids had been. This had been a perfect day, and I could tell from the gleam in her eye that Mom was proud of her kids especially. The gathering had been absolutely flawless. I remember being rather proud myself. I was turning into a nice young man.

After we had taken the last bites, Mom asked the kids to help clear the table.

In one motion, I backed my chair out and stepped away quickly from the table, determined to lead the way.

CRASH! SPILL! CRASH! WHOOP! CRASH! PLOP!

All eyes were staring at me.

All mouths were agape.

I was standing with a pile of plates and dishes, food and drink, at my feet.

And Mom's new tablecloth was still tucked into my belt, underneath the cloth napkin that I had so conscientiously tucked into my belt.

For the next hour or so, I had the privilege of demonstrating my cleaning skills, and of course I was grateful for the lesson in humility. I knew it would serve me well later in life -- not.

A lesson in here? I'm an optimistic person by nature, but even I have to admit that I find myself thinking that when things seem to be too perfect for too long, watch out, tread carefully, and be prepared to do a whole lot of cleaning.

A Rather Silent Silent Night

I love Christmas music, always have, always will. I love hearing it, whether it's Pavarotti singing O Holy Night or it's a red and green neon necktie that plays Away in a Manger when you push the button. I love singing it, whether it's the annual community sing-a-long performance of Handel's Messiah or it's a stirring rendition of What Child Is This while I'm taking a shower. And I love playing Christmas music, whether it's I Saw Three Ships in a brass quintet or it's a one chord arrangement of Silent Night on piano.

I play tuba in our church orchestra and have been doing so for fifteen years. Well, I should explain that I haven't played non-stop for fifteen years ... our orchestra plays on Sunday mornings and rehearses on Sunday evenings. The other days of the week I do other things, like sing What Child Is This in the shower.

That does remind me though of one afternoon about twenty years ago when I decided to go jogging. I was running through a new neighborhood and passed a house with a young boy, perhaps twelve years old, out playing in the yard. Well, I think he was playing. When I first saw him, he was standing still looking right at me and I thought he might be a lawn ornament. The house just before his had featured two plastic deer in the front yard, so I figured maybe this next house had a plastic boy who was a friend to the plastic deer. But then the boy moved, and I was thinking either this is an amazingly life like lawn ornament, or it's a boy who's been paid to act like a lawn ornament.

Either way, he called out, "Hey," and ran across his nicely manicured lawn to greet me at the curb.

"Hey Mister, mind if I run with you a while?" he asked. I was flattered, not because he wanted to run with me, but because he called me Mister. This was a couple weeks after I had gotten married and it was the first time somebody called me Mister for real.

"I don't mind," I replied, always confused about what the proper response should be if someone asks you if you mind. If you say, "No," it means it's okay but it sounds negative, and if you say, "Yes," it sounds positive but it means it's not okay.

So he joined me. We ran two or three blocks and he was huffing and puffing, and he asked, "So ... (huff) ... how long ... (puff) ... (huff) ... (puff) ... have you ... (huff) ... (puff) ... been running?"

Now, this was the summer of 1987, and I had started running and getting in shape in the spring of 1985, so I responded, "Oh, a little more than two years."

His eyes turned as big as saucers, and he stopped dead in his tracks.

"Without stopping?!" he exclaimed.

So back to the church orchestra ... I've been playing in that group for over fifteen years and have thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. Interestingly enough, our church's choir director had no interest in starting up an orchestra until I expressed an interest in joining the choir.

I used to sit in the front row at church, near the choir and right behind the choir director, and I always sang with gusto -- always have, always will. From the way the director would glance over at me now and then, I could tell that he heard me singing. Sometimes he would have a rather ghastly look on his face, and I knew he meant that just for me, as if saying out loud, "Joel, our choir's not doing so well. We could use a voice like yours."

I thought about it a lot and finally decided it would be a good idea to join the choir. I'll never forget the one Sunday after church when I approached the director.

"Mr. S," I asked, "Have you given more thought to the idea of starting an orchestra?" I wanted to give him one more chance.

"Yeah, I have," he replied. "I just don't have the bandwidth to do that right now. Sorry."

"Okay then," I said, "I'd like to join the choir."

He coughed. It was in the winter, so I guess he had a cold. His eyes looked watery too, almost like they were tearing up.

He coughed again and then said, "Wait, let's see. Yep, I can do an orchestra. Let's start rehearsal tonight, 5pm."

And that's how the church orchestra got started.

So anyway, last weekend the orchestra played at our church's rendition of the Moravian Love Feast, a beautiful worship service of celebration for how God has blessed us during the past year.
And also, these past few days, I've been playing in a brass quintet featuring three trumpets, a trombone, and myself on tuba. We've played at several of our places of employment during lunch on each of several days and have had a grand time.

I love playing on Christmas Eve, too. There's just something uplifting about the low weighty tones of the tuba. I get goosebumps when I play, "O Come All Ye Faithful" at our Christmas Eve service.

And all this brings me to a story that occurred when I was in Junior High school in Iowa, living in Onawa but going to school in Blencoe.

It came to pass that it was time for the annual school Christmas program. This was back before we called it a Holiday. Back then, Christmas was really Christmas, with real snow and mistletoe and everything, and at the school program we always sang songs that really had to do with Christmas. I was in the choirs, both the boys' choir and the mixed chorus.

Our choir director was a diminutive elderly woman -- diminutive as in "well under five feet tall" and elderly as in "she was old when she was my mom's choir director" years before -- who, though diminutive and elderly, was tough as nails. You didn't mess with her. I'll call her Ms. M for this story.

Now, Ms. M decided that we needed a pianist for the final number of the concert, which was to be Silent Night, and she picked me! I was rather proud that she had selected me to play. After all, there were several girls in our choir who were very good piano players. Actually, she had selected one of the girls to play Silent Night at first, but she changed her mind shortly after I volunteered to sing a solo for one of the verses, saying something about needing my piano skills more than my vocal skills. I don't know. I do know, though, that I practiced the song enough so that I was quite confident. I worked hard at it because I really didn't want to disappoint Ms. M.

Now, being the forward thinking young man that I thought I was becoming, I also guessed that during Silent Night the lights might be dimmed for dramatic effect.

In the performing arts world there are few certainties, but you can always count on having to dim the lights in the following two events: in any performance of Hamlet when the ghost of Hamlet's father appears; and during any performance of Silent Night, whether in church or in school.

With that in mind, I figured I should be proactive and memorize the piece. And so I did. At our first rehearsal, Ms. M was surprised and delighted that I played it without the sheet music in front of me.

The night of the concert arrived, and the bleachers of the gym were packed with parents and other relatives and friends. The program was going smoothly, and after we finished singing Away in a Manger I stepped down from the risers where the choir was standing and started heading over to the piano to play Silent Night.

CLICK!

All the lights went out. The lights weren't just dimmed, they were O-U-T.

I could not see a thing. I knew approximately where the piano was, so I headed slowly in that direction, arms out-stretched so that I wouldn't run in to anything.

CRASH!

I knocked over what I guessed to be a music stand. I could hear papers flutter and shuffle as they all landed on the floor.

THUMP!

I found the piano. I felt my way around one side, found the bench, and sat down.

For just a moment, I felt relief because I had memorized the music. But that was for just a moment.

The very next moment, I realized two things. I couldn't see Ms. M at all, and I couldn't see the keyboard at all. I needed to see Ms. M so that I would know when to start, and I needed to see the keys because even though I knew what notes to play, I needed to find the keys to play those notes.

Ms. M solved the first problem for me. I heard her count out, "1-2-3."

At that moment I knew I needed to come in. I quickly put my hands on the keyboard and tried to find the notes the best that I could.

I played the opening chord.

CLINK!

Wrong chord.

The choir came in mostly on the right chord, though a few of the voices were trying to match the chord I had just played.

I don't know what chord I did play, but it wasn't like it was close. It was about as far off as you can get but still be on the keyboard.

At that moment, I made a decision for which I am still proud. I quit playing. I thought it best to do no further damage. I would just let the choir sing acapella.

The choir sang beautifully.

As for me, I was only half mortified. Afterwards, when the lights came on, I was looking at Ms. M and she was looking at me.

And she smiled and shrugged. She knew I did all I could do.

Well, next time I'm asked to play Silent Night on piano, I'll find a pair of those infrared glasses and bring them just in case. You can't be too prepared, I guess. Meanwhile, choir directors, it's a good reminder to always be ready to do Silent Night acapella.

Run to the Son

And here's another I wrote last night ...

http://www.authspot.com/Poetry/Run-to-the-Son.417763

It's Cold Tonight

Here's a poem I wrote last night ...

http://www.authspot.com/Poetry/Its-Cold-Tonight.418279