Dad's Brush With The Bible

When I was about sixteen or so, I found my Dad sitting in a chair by the window that was my Mom's usual place. That in itself was odd. That he was reading the Bible was doubly odd. My father was a deacon at the First Christian Church. Every couple of Sundays he'd do the interest generating dances of communion and offering that I believe are peculiar to that denomination. Maybe peculiar to that particular congregation. 

I don't know for a fact but I suspect he was raised in a good ol' Baptist church down in Texas. He didn't talk about it much. But until I was about sixteen I had to go to church of a Sunday. I liked the communion and offering dances, even when I was older. The deacons would go down the pews, one would drop off the wafers or grape juice—no alcohol here, no sir!--or offering plate then move to the next pew as the deacon on the other end moved back one so the could both get the tray and move on. The operation fascinated me. It was the most interesting thing about Christianity.

Sometime after that I became a rather rabid born-again Christian to the point that I went to college as a pre-seminary student. But, that's a different story. My father was a good man, considerate of others, a fine provider, supportive, generous, a good cook, entertaining with a good sense of humor, loving. All those things a father is supposed to be, mostly. In his way he believed what he'd been taught about God and Jesus and the Bible. He wasn't particularly rabid in either his beliefs or demonstrations thereof. Like the man himself, they just were, not to be argued over or given undue consideration, just allowed to exist.

So when I found him sitting in the wrong chair, reading a book I'd not seen him open in a long time, no, come to think on it had never seen him open, well it was obvious something was very wrong. He didn't actually come out and say he was going to die. That really wasn't his way. He just said, “I'm very sick, Johnny.” I was concerned as you might expect and asked him what was wrong. He told me he had shingles.

I looked it up. Much more difficult in those days when we were waiting for Al Gore to invent the internet and wreck the planet with global warming. You had to actually go somewhere, find a book and look up the information you wanted. Well, no you didn't. The more enlightened of us had found the research desk at the library wherein one could call and ask most any question which would quickly be researched by the staff and duly reported. Think of it as a sort of analog, biological internet. Needless to say I found shingles to be a nasty response by the chicken pox virus to being ignored in a body for forty or fifty years. It was not, back then, fatal. Still isn't. Painful as hell though.

But none of that would console my father. He hurt bad and that meant he was going to die and if he was going to die, he was gonna research the trip as best he could. So he sat there in the wrong chair reading the Bible. I never did find out which passages he read. Knowing him, he just flipped open to a page and started reading. I never did figure out if he found any solace in there. For him, often, just the act of confronting your problem would be enough to get him though it. That seemed to be the case with shingles. He looked at the situation, decided he was dying, researched the situation and it was solved.

Now, some would say this was a classic case of divine intervention. I think not. God did not infect my father with chicken pox so fifty years later he would read random passages in the Bible in response to a very painful disease. God also did not cure him miraculously of his 'fatal' disease. After recovering the whole thing was relegated, as all events major and minor are in our family, to a 'story.'

My Dad's brush with death and subsequent brush with the Bible would some years later help me to leave the Christian Church. You see, God neither made my father sick, nor made him well. Oh, you can argue that God created the chicken pox virus in a moment of boredom or perhaps to vex randomly his other creations, but that's not really very likely is it? It could be said God arranged for my father to read that book and gain insight, understanding to bolster his faith. But none of that happened. After it was all said and done my father wasn't changed in the least save for some scars and a new story to tell. What does all this mean and why should I tell it? Beats me. I do try to tell all the family stories though. 

(c) 2017 John P. White

I Said Forever

If I said forever

Would you believe it
Could it be forever

Can there even be forever

Everything ends

Withers and dies

Falls to corruption

Fades to oblivion

I am earnest
I love deeply

It feels eternal

But it is only me

They say we are flawed

Created imperfect by

A perfectionist God

I do not feel defective

I feel uninformed

Misinformed

Curious

Contemplative

I will say forever

It may not be possible

In crushing

Uncaring reality

I will say forever
I will mean forever
You can understand forever
So for us, it is forever

(c) 2017 John P. White

I Don't Like Spiders and. . . well, snakes are alright mostly.

Some years ago I decided to make a deal with the spiders in my house. You see here in Southwestern Colorado we have these wee gnats. They don't bite or anything but they are small enough they can come through window screens. Then they die in scores in the house, usually under a lamp. Now I'm not grand housekeeper but I do like to keep the obvious random dirt and dead bodies off the floor. So I made a deal with the spiders.

Now for those of you that didn't follow directions and read “Talking to Hammers” first, I'm an Animist. It's my belief that everything is animated, that is, has a soul and is capable of at least rudimentary understanding of communications from other beings. So I made a deal with the spiders.

I went into every room and told them, “Ok. If you guys will stop the juniper gnats coming into the house I'll not molest you. Unless you're in my bed or biting me.

They said, “Whoa. Cool.”

Time passes, seasons change, generations of spiders are born, live, and die. And the goddam gnats are still dead in droves under the lamps.
So, I went to the spiders and I said, “Hey, you guys aren't holding up your end! What are you gonna do about it?”

The spiders said, in multi-part harmony, “Tough shit, sucker.”

So the war was joined. Mostly I used the vacuum. I sucked spiders to their death left and right. Spiders caught in the open were attacked with strategically placed dish towels and snapped into oblivion. It was marginally successful. But that's not what I wanted to talk about.

I wanted to talk about my new windows. The ones replaced were probably decent windows, maybe with a ten year guarantee but they were brand new in 1988. I've three large windows in the front of the house that measured near 3' x 6'. I noticed a draft coming from that area last winter and found it coming from the top of those windows. Seems the mullions holding them had alternately rotted or dried and split to the point the panes in all three had slid down about an inch. Well, me being redneck-ish I fixed it with about two gallons of silicone and duct tape. But, the writing was on the wall—gonna need new windows.

I called Renewal by Anderson and ordered 'em up. Not cheap. But they're probably the best there is. And they fit into my new parameters for buying stuff: How long will it last? If long enough that I'm either gonna be senile or dead by the time they need replaced, buy 'em. Those windows are nearly installed now complete with 20 year guarantee. They should be all in today. I really like 'em. Unlike those they replaced, there is no London Fog between the panes. The wind doesn't whistle around and through them. It was expensive, but worth it.

And the spiders. Turns out that some 70-90% of spiders living in a house live in the windows. Those windows that provided hearth and home to hundreds of generations of spiders are now in the dump. The new windows lack the nooks, crannies, splits and gaps that provided such lovely accommodation for spiders. The outliers in the corners and niches elsewhere will quickly meet with Mister Dyson. And so it goes.

Morals. There must always be morals.
1. Make sure you are as secure as you think you are before you
    negate a treaty and start a war.
2. New windows are cool. . . in summer and warm in winter.
3. You get what you pay for.
4. This the most important: Be accommodating and forbearing
    but do not allow yourself to have the advantage taken of you.  

Autumn Day

Autumn Day

Dusty and smoky out

Even though there's not much wind

Considering on it, not much dust either

Smoke from distant fires

Autumn has a way about her

It's not as hot out but the look of the air

Autumn air looks hot, dense . . . Thick

The smoke heightens the look

Geese fly up and down, seems early

Old timers would say, “Early winter”

I think like me and my ways

Jus' force of habit

Wet summer it was, plenty of water about

Yet the leaves here and there turn anyway

Maybe like the geese, you know

Jus' force of habit

We sat on the porch days like this

In the evenings, sun reluctantly slipping down

Quiet conversation, thoughtful pauses

Cold glass of Jack 'n water by a glass of red wine

It was good. . . we were good

Autumn was the time we met

Both in life and in seasons

Easy in the twilight, easy in my arms

Autumn has her ways

So do we, every one

I was winter, harsh but charming

She was summer, easy and fierce

Summer and Winter, 
We meet in Autumn, twilight times
Cooling heat meets gathering cold
It was good. . . we were good

Dusty and smoky out

Colder days coming

Jus' ask the geese

Winter has his ways, too

(c) 2017 John P. White

The Boat, The Water and the Lesson

The Boat, The Water ,and the Lesson

If you should find yourself in the high country most anywhere you might notice the quality of the air. It has a peculiar quality. Very. . . mmm. . . crystalline. Things seen through the air at high elevations are somehow sharper. More defined. High def, even. When in the mountains the light from the sun reflects off of ripples in a stream, more so on a lake, the resulting sparkle is magnificent. It speaks of wondrous possibility, of adventure, of sport, of life.

On such a day as that, light dancing a gavotte to the music of the water, I was fishing. We had a boat dock then, with a dozen or so rental rowboats tied to the dock with chains a foot and a half long. Those boats could dance as well, but being boats their dance was much more reserved. Boats are a dignified race, generally. Rather than trip gaily through the ripples they slowly let the wind press them to the end of the chain. Then in weighty, boat-like fashion, jerk back up to give the dock a solemn kiss. Endlessly this was repeated. Well, at least until the wind quit blowing

Now I was standing on the transom of a boat, that bit that forms the rear or stern of the boat. Transoms on rowboats aren't very thick, about two inches, but I was young and spry and worried not. The boat was doing its stately dance, the light flew through the crystalline air with joyous abandon. . . and I got a strike. A fish hit my lure, just as the boat jerked. Focused on the fish and not on boat, transom, jerk, water or light, I lost my balance and went off the back of the boat.

I came up underneath the boat. 

All I could see were bubbles—the light was having a grand time with those also. I couldn't find the edge of the boat. I struggled with all the passion and strength of youth but was unable to find the air. I fought like a demon all to no avail. I just could not break into the full light and get back to that wonderful, crystalline air.

It seemed a long time I struggled. Finally I realized I was not going to get out from under that boat. So I quit. I just stopped. Conserved the tiny bit of air left to me and went limp. I resigned myself to watery death.

Quite quickly after having done that, I joined the dance and drifted on the current out from under the boat. My head broke through the surface giving the light even more ecstatic water with which to dance, and my aching lungs wonderful, crystalline air to breathe.

I remember that day with great clarity and fondness. 

There are morals to be drawn from my tale. 

But I shan't be the one to dole them out to you. I'll trust you to find them yourself. If you want you can tell me what you learned and we can see if we've come to the same conclusions.

Oh, one thing more. After I came up for air, took inventory and found I wasn't dead, I dove down for my fishing rod, swam and waded over to the bank and went to reel in my lure, to find the fish was still on. I'm sure there's some moral there as well, but I'm not quite sure what it is.  

(c) 2016 John P. White

I found a red rock.

I found a red rock the other day.

It was embedded in the driveway. Dark red, like a brick. More polished, nearly shiny. It was really attached to the driveway. I had to get my leatherman out and use the screwdriver to pry it out. I took it home and my grand daughter and I washed it off. Seems bits of the driveway were quite attached to the rock as well. I put it on the windowsill above the sink. In the morning the sun shines on it. The rock likes this. While it was so very attached to the driveway, it's better to be in the windowsill where the sun shines on most all of you in the mornings. The sun doesn't reach everywhere though. Not underneath. Not on the side facing inside the house. This is as it should be. There should be secrets. The rock doesn't want the sun to see everything. The rock doesn't want all it's hidden bits to be illuminated for all to see. We all have our dark bits. We all like to sit in the sun sometimes. It seems we're all red rocks sometimes, attached and embedded in the driveway. Torn out, scrubbed up by old hands and tiny hands. So we can sit gloriously in the sun. Sit there in the sun but still keep our secrets. Hide our dark. It's a dark red rock. I like it quite a lot but I don't exactly know why. Maybe it's part of my heart. That part that turned to stone. Maybe not though, just maybe not.  

(c) 2017 John P. White

It's hard.

It's hard.

You want it so badly. 

A constant ache.

So you go. 

Out to the bar. 

No joy there, only forced hilarity fueled by chemicals.

Online. 

It's all the rage. 

Some truth. 

Some lies. 

A strong undercurrent of desperation.

It's hard.

They have warts. 

Ailments. 

Hope, dreams, desire.
We take tests and surveys and are collated. 

We are paired.

Off to Starbucks. 

It's only a cup of coffee. 

But in reality an inspection. 

Rife with suspicion.

It's hard.

With her, it was youth. 

Fumbling with words.

Fumbling with feelings. 

Fumbling in the dark.

There was beauty. 

Joy. 

Real actual, human hilarity.

There were years. 

Never seeing. 

Youth to maturity to age

It's hard.

Now those warts. 

Ailments. 

Broken hope, dreams, desire.

They stand out so boldly. 

Like grey edging out the black. 

Dark spots against the pale.

I never saw her warts. 

Ailments. 

Hope, dreams, desire. 

All real. 

Vibrant.

It's hard.

She's gone. 

Now there's no time.

Can't grow into someone. 

Can't gain the blindness.

That thing makes it work. 

It's missing, not there. 

There's no time.

It's hard.
Too hard.

(c) 2017 John P. White

Ah, Monica. Why?

I sense that Monica is upset with me. She mostly seems alright but now and then, goes all on and off and flashes malicious looks. I've done as much as I can for her right now. Oh, I know there's more to do in this relationship but a guy can only do so much at once and then there's the money issue.

Anyway, she's unhappy. I know it. Seems like about once a week she'll throw these codes at me. Like I'm supposed to know what all that crap means. Seriously. And now she's started to smell bad. <sigh>

So, what I've been doing is sticking that thing in her and resetting everything. What the hell is that thing called. . . oh, an OBD II reader. I talked to Dennis about it and he thinks the coil pack might be bad. We already rebuilt her engine and most of the time it runs like a top but now and then the cruise control will quit working and the check engine light will flash. I stick in the reader and it's usually cylinders 1 & 2 misfiring. Or cylinders 3 & 4 misfiring. The odd thing is it seems to run fine when the light goes on. But then it ran fine when the damn squirrels chewed up the plug wires too. And truly it's my fault she stinks, I could have cleaned the spilled oil off the headers better than I did when we pulled the engine. I dunno. I guess I'll get the coil pack.

If I think about it I'll let you know how she's doing after that. Maybe not. I'm gonna have a long talk with her about all this and see if she can tell me what's wrong. After all, listening is the most important part of keeping a good relationship good. So that's what I'll do. As for those damn squirrels, we're gonna have a talk about personal space and chewing on stuff that's not yours.

Cheers.

While in the Woods. Or the World.

You gotta be careful. Pay attention to what's in the bushes. Check your back-trail. Don't just stomp through the woods, blithe in the knowledge of your own goodness. The woods don't care if you're good. Good isn't really a part of nature you know. Morality is a human concept and out here there aren't a lot of humans. And the humans that are here are a helluva lot closer to the wild than the civilized. You gotta be careful. 

Just the other day I saw a squirrel. Cute little grey squirrel. The kind that packs his chubby cheeks with nuts and saves up for the winter. Cute li'l guy.He sat on a rock in the sun, happily chowing down on the meat and bones of another squirrel. Maybe that other squirrel had been unkind. Maybe he was just too slow and hunger was in the air. You gotta pay attention to what's in the bushes. 

They told me it was all going to be alright. We would all come together. It would all be good. Again. But while I can be fooled, I've been too much in the woods to be fooled by this. It's always there, quiet, deep underneath. In Sweden they take care of their own. They help the less fortunate from other places. They work and they learn and they do civilization really well. But down there somewhere in those Swedes, under the compassion, the sophistication, the enlightenment, somewhere there in the land of the Nobel Peace Prize, lives the soul of a Norseman carving the blood-eagle out of a monk's back. You gotta check your back trail. 

Sometimes walking through the woods you can feel it. Not exactly malevolence, that's a very human thing, more like opportunistic, expectant watchfulness. It's not just an animal or a wildling human. It's all of it. The woods, the animals the humans. Everything out there in the woods is primarily interested in its own survival. The woods as a whole, as a system, as an ecology is far beyond willing to sacrifice you for its own good. You. The pinnacle of civilization, of caring understanding, of enlightenment, of humanity, you are intrinsically an offering to the survival of the system. Don't just stomp through the woods blithely. 

You're only hope is to become what you fear. No, don't jump into that raging Genghis Khan mantle and rage like a fool. Become the watcher in the bushes. Embrace the wild and let the Genghis-ragers be wary. Don't give in to the wild, the Norse carver, the wildling, but acknowledge that it lives within you. Acknowledge it is there, available for when the wild seeks to destroy you. Be secure in that feeling, there below the surface. Maybe buried deep, deep, but maybe not all as far below the surface as your veneer of civilization had you thinking. You gotta be careful. Pay attention to what's in the bushes. Check your back-trail. Don't just stomp through the woods, blithely.

But while you're doing all that, let the woods, the wild, the watchers, wildlings, ragers and carvers be careful. Let them pay attention and check their back-trail. Let the madness be wary of you. 

Twitter (T). Yeah. About that.

This has become a big thing. I remember when it came out a friend was all excited about it. "You talk about stuff and can only use 120 words!" Or something like that. If you've been here before, you know that's not near enough words for me. I'm deep. Or full of shit, could go either way. However. . .

I know I'm not in the mainstream with my thoughts on this. I does give me to wonder though if low these many years down the pike from the introduction of Twitter if we're using it correctly? Should this be the medium in which we declare the basis for our deepest beliefs and policies? Don't we need to say more about these things? Don't we need to provide attributions for our quotes? I don't know.

I do think that tweets are great for stuff like, "Getting hammered at the dive bar with a woman I think I know!!" Or, "I'm done with that sonofabitch and leaving for Tibet to become a monk-ess!" Very cool for mini-rants, describing your latest epiphany, bragging about your bitchen new girl/boy friend. Very good indeed for all that.

But do we, possibly, in the not distant future want to read the State of the Union Address in a series of tweets? I don't think so, I mean, if nothing else it lacks the gravitas that such an address should have, no?

#WTF you talkin' 'bout fool?