Please write a story or paragraph that says something. Not a 3 word phrase that doesn't count for a whole heck of a lot. Show a bit of who you are, or make it totally fictional to fool us, scare the pant off us, whatever. If you are adverse to posts with >25 words, please skip to another thread.

I plan to post a multipart story over several days, (depending on how deep that snow falls...), partly inspired by Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers. I probably won't respond to comments, to keep thought flowing. Although, comments are welcome.

And yes, I still have my relic of a computer. I can't hop from thread to thread quickly, and want to make this thread count. (Aside: have you seen the trashed computer parts at the landfills? A sea of tan Gateway, HP and Dell plastic blocks awash on the landscape? I'm going to feel real guilty when I have to throw mine out. Have thought about making a planter out of it...But we need more practical computer part recycling options! Wonder how this is country-wide. This old bird seems to contain 1PETE plastic, and must have some recycled content...)

If you like anything you read here and want to borrow an idea or two, go ahead. Just know that I haven't cleared any copyrights (Gateway, HP, etc.) and don't plan to. I do try to disguise names/brands where it seems prudent.

So, let's give this a try. You may go first. I plan to return in a while.

One more thing: titles of chapters may not mean anything. I could have named them anything I suppose (Tilting At Windmills...Pimento Loaf...) Chances are that when I sat down to write, I really wanted to tackle that topic. As it was, I just politely danced all around it. Maybe.

What a great idea for a thread Bluegill! I promise to use this opportunity to attempt to write something worthwhile. As soon as I have some free time. Mind exercise! Can't wait to read what you have written.

when you get ur new compute thru most stores they will take ur old one.
If not insist they advise you where to take it
there is more than plastic in there!!
lots of heavy metals that should NOT be in landfills

recycle. save the planet

(Thanks, Cos.)

~Moving Through Confusion~

Sometimes band practice just isn't fun. We have a joint concert in 3 days. The lunchtime rehearsal has been moved from Tuesday to Wednesday. Don't know if I'll make it. Our band hasn't rehearsed in two weeks. Sounds like it. I'm sitting under the watchful gase of Robert Shubert who claims that music is the perfect expression of the soul. I ponder whether a soul can throw up.

The chair is hard. She says I'm a measure ahead. As we try again, I deliberately count with my finger to my seatmate as I play. He nods in agreement with me. Maybe because he has to sit beside me? He's mooning over a new horn that costs about a grand more than the excellent one he owns and is playing. Our other first player has a split lip and is relegated to the base drum for the night. Its raining. The fog is thick. I don't wanna be here. I'm tired. Besides, my favorite buddies didn't show.

As rehearsal time draws to a close, she says, "How about one more?" The sax player picks up and leaves. She suggests an impossible march. Murderous to the lip after playing 90 minutes. We make it through, quickly pack up stands and instruments. And there is this old man sitting at the exit. I say "Hi" and ask him if he plays an instrument. He said no...he rode along with the conductor and her husband (a 50 mile drive...). "I just had to hear the music", he says as his eyes well with tears and he starts crying.

"Oh. Okay. Thanks for coming." as I squeeze by eagerly striding into the fog. I've got no time to sort that one out. (The way it felt and sounded tonight, I could cry too.)

You will never see the forest for the trees. You will never have all the pieces to some puzzles. You will never know how some miserable tune touches another. You just keep at it, doing what you feel you should, little by little, without malice.

now that is what I call good writing.

^^Brought tears to my eyes Bluegill. Happen to be partial to saxophones. Something to do with family in New Orleans and being shown the inside track to true jazz.

Diamonds. Learned something today about them. If you blow on a real diamond it doesn't fog over. Nor can you read text through a true diamond. Not glass.

My only darkness story of the moment isn't appropriate for a thread as highly motivated as this. Soon. Perhaps Susie and I can document a particular dark road trip this weekend (in code/incognito) and post the story here?

(Socrates was quite a guy. Will look for that story of yours.)

~Some Make Life Worthwhile~

Assigned to cover a different town...a good practice for the office to suffle things up a bit every few years. But learning the ropes in a new town can be arduous. This is a nice town, but I wouldn't wanna live here. US Rte 1 runs smack dab through it. Parking is a horror. its off putting when you are driving down Main St., one eye on the computer screen address, one eye on the store fronts, which never post their numbers...and oops, you are 4 blocks beyond the address you were looking for. Can't turn around. Can't park.

I decided to find a centrally located church parking lot and hoof it. Even that was odd. "Parking by permit only". "Reserved M-F 7-7." Okay. I came upon one church with small but prominent signs: "Free all day parking. Welcome." Next door, asphalt was being jackhammered as construction went on...

I walked to 2 sites, returning to my car to save my computer battery and print reports. One business owner was very nice. "I'll come with you to your car. You won't have to make a return trip." He arose from his desk. The braces on his knee made and audible "clank!" as he lurched unsteadily toward the door.

"Noooo! Thank you..." I said. "I'll be just a few minutes." I wheeled after him with his desk chair.

"The screws come out in just 2 more weeks..."

"That's exciting." I was breathing easier as he was again seated. "Truly fine...If you walk to my car and back it might be 5 weeks more."

For my next foray, a store several blocks away, I decided to pack my equipment and power source so that I wouldn't have to return to the car. I stowed it all into a small box, and tossed my computer on top. I went up Union and turned on Centre, passing an old ivy covered municiple building, and turned up Gunther St. The housing changed from stately old homes converted to office space, and became apartments. More modern straight line buildings with no fences, only much asphalt for parking. I walked into the store with my box under my arm and did my thing.

I decided to walk back to the car via another route. I wound up coming down Union. Since I was closer to the center of the city, the houses again were more ornate. Some had wooden fan slats in the roof peak. Decorative. You wonder who had the time and talent to make homes appear regal back then. I was avoiding a sidewalk puddle when I saw her in the corner of her fenced lot. She looked so cute. A lady with a white page hairdo under a hat with a brim in front. As I got closer, I noticed that there was a heavy orange extension cord leading to her spot. Upon closer examination, she looked at me like Carol Channing with a small chain saw.

A little surprised at this, and because she was so close, I burbled a "Hi!" and stopped striding.

"Hi to you!" she put the saw down, which was really a hedge trimmer, and leaned on the white pickets. "So many spiders!"

I wasn't really interested in being embroiled in a lengthy chat, but couldn't resist replying. "Spiders? You are going after spiders with hedge trimmers?"

"Oh no! I don't wanna hurt them. I like spiders. But when I work out here, they bite me for some reason. I think its the tiny red ones. But...I like spiders!" She started to pull up the leg of her capri pants. I thought she was going to show me her latest spider bite.

There, on her right side calf was a tattoo of a rather large brown recluse spider. "Wow! I guess you really like spiders! Maybe, if you get bit on your tattoo by a red spider, it might be attracted to the tattooed one!"

"My children think I'm crazy. I'm just enjoying life. You'd never know I'm 74."

"Well...happy spidering...!" What a lame assed thing to say as you walk away, I told myself. But I think about the lady. (and I recently ran into the man with the bad leg. Full recovery.) And I think about how we often covet the things that bite us. If you can learn that from a stranger, she deserves elevation to being a minor angel. Even so, if you don't chose to learn from her.

~ Ambassadors Of Love ~

Rough draft. More to be added later as the story unfolds.

No one really knew what wild force pulled them together and compelled them to join the caravan. Following a pied guitarist wherever he and his merry musicians might be playing next. All they understood was that they dreamt his songs, heard his haunting lyrics in their mind, and swore wails of instrumental licks were winding through the hallways of their lives.

Each new concert brought a deeper inner realization as to why they were always there. Something spoke to their souls in a silent whisper as to their "mission from God", enticing an eternal devotion to the Sound Of All. Soon, they would come to recognize by heart every song title, then every lyric, soon every note. No one doubted magic.

As the tunes became clearer, the understanding deeper, they knew their true purpose somehow was to be the 'ambassadors of love' for this mangy group of musicians. It was to swallow their lives up, leaving them with no other desire to do anything except plan the for the next tour. When not doing this, they spent every breathing moment 'logged in', 'hanging on', and 'waiting' for any announcement when their normal lives would be thrown to the wind and they would pack up in anticipation of many nights of no sleep, miles to be travelled and love to share and shine out into the world. Always standing and staring up at a stage set with electric guitars, drums, keyboards, and any other form of interchangeable instrumentation.

What else was there to live for?

AWK!^ Sounds like Revenge of the Body Snatchers!

"...so they followed Trey Anastasio whereever he went....and when he got cited for possession...crowded into his jail cell with him as best they could...as if it were a phone booth of sorts...Meanwhile the roadies who had set up in another town...heard a knock at the stage door. Since they were all asleep on the floor, some wondered if it was Christmas morning and Santa with his sleigh. But it was Popper with his armoured car full of harmonicas..."

How inviting to poke fun at another. Especially if what they do seems effortless. Poking fun is so easy. "Tom Petty found it difficult to edit his latest movie down to a mere four hours." Ha!

"You think that I sit right down and write these stories." Ha!

Actually, this summer I enjoyed doing a lot of writing. Let's say I worked on these stories 10 hours/week x 12 weeks. Forget "four hours". That's 120 hours worth of stories in my computer. (Have I told you about my old computer?) I requested the computer spit out the next story in chronological order. Instead, it provided me with the 3rd of a 3-part set that I wrote in September.

I can't type for you what my computer won't print.

Its so hard to be impartial about what you write or create. But...the ax has fallen. I guess we'll be cutting to the chase. I hope to have the time to type it this weekend. ...depending on how the weather goes.

And OWV, I hope you'll continue with what looks like an exciting and instructive tale of life.

^Which tale Bluegill. The ongoing 'Ambassadors Of Love' or the new one I mentioned last night, the illustrated Hopi On The Homestead. Will defintely give them each their due. Simultaneously each has engulfed my life.

What a fun thread. Never had a place to just throw my writing fears to the wind and let it all hang out.

That first piece ^^ came spewing out of my gut in about five last minutes of class the other day. Wanted to capture it before the essence disapated. Now I can meld and mold it into who knows what.

Either tale. Any tale. With me, when I get the excited urge to write, I go back every so often over month or so, polishing and thinking about if I want to share it. Why or why not.

The 1st in this series was entitled "Hold The Romance...I'd Prefer a Miracle Please". The 2nd: "How We Work". This final one:

~How We Play...and Pray~

Back at the packing plant Monday morn, I supervised as they divided the cold carcasses, cut meal from the bone and ground 500 pounds of hamburg. During break, we went to look in the old barn across the street. There was a double decker livestock hauler in the yard with South Dakota plates, so I knew something exciting was in there. Sure enough, 12 rodeo bulls were to be billeted there until the weekend rodeo at the coliseum. The bulls were relaxing under roof cover and divided into 4 pens. There didn't look that mean. You cinch up any beast's jewels and climb on top, and you have a totally different demeanor displayed. Still, the staff refused to go in and feed and water. They wouldn't let me in there either. Special cowboys who travel with the show bulls do that. "Wouldn't it be cute if the cowpokes came to tend to the bulls and you all met them at the door with 17,000 pounds of fresh gound hamburg? All in pink plastic bags with the blue twist ties? Like you are making today?"

Nobody laughed.

I tried again. "What do you suppose those bulls are thinking?" I asked as we leaned on the steel barn gate.

Everett, a seasoned meet cutter, gave it a bit of thought. "They have been here before. We housed them in an emergency a few years back. They are either thinking 'Hey, this place looks familiar.' Or 'Let's not see what's across the street!'" He gave me a rye look.

I made a last attempt. I told them of my sister-in-law and her love for goats. On the internet this weekend, I found an event about dressing goats in undergarments. It happened to take place at a Los Angeles rodeo...The Gay Rodeo.

That got a reaction.
Seems that many guys and gals who grow up in the Midweat learn to rope and ride as easily as we learn to chuck baseballs and ice skate in the Northeast (or used to anyway). As they grow, if they discover that they are gay, the macho atmosphere of the regular rodeos turns them off. The alternative rodeo focuses on much of the same rodeo skills, but throws in plenty of dancing and oddball activites.

Some packing house staff waondered if some of the bulls in the barn were gay...
_ _ _

I finished there for the day and thought about that movie again as I was driving along to my next stop. I think that from what I've observed, whatever kinship I felt with that artist is waning. His activities indicate that he's increasingly of a different culture. A West Coast, free wheeling, self centered, art at all costs culture. Some of the things he used to sing about I doubt he would even recognize if they crossed his path. That sounds demeaning, yet I write it, understanding how it happens. Life to him is a game in many respects. He lobs a ball in my quarter of the court. This is his job. I either bat it with distain or buy it. It's my choice of pastime...mixed with an odd loyalty. He pretends he doesn't know the response or care, but he does, on both counts. He then frames up his reply or new interpretation based on the trend he observes, or which is pointed out to him. Lately, his responses, his art, has seemed grasping. And while I don't like it, I understand this too. You get to a level and you can only rely on a memory of common things. His memory and way of relating is not mine. "A joke in your language doesn't come out the same." Increasingly and sadly so. His life is insulated, protected and not his own, althought it is still "free wheeling" on some level. I'll keep him in my prayers. It's the least I can do, and its the best I can do.

We are swiftly becoming a society of multiple cultures that don't really understand each other and seem to only use each other. The "melting pot" of common good necessity that came from close proximity (housing, factory work) is gone. We are indeed unable to cross social strata. Depth is missing. Time isn't injected. Value judgements are made, rightly or wrongly. If wrongly, and someone proceeds, what do you get? Not much I can care about. And enough wrong turns, then the one you felt such comraderie with now goes his own way, unobserved. It's almost as if you have been slighted. But you haven't. The one sided, nonexistent freindship you created has simply fractured. There was no bond of trust to start with. Life goes on. You will move onto another musician who has a sound and message you can relate to. The sadness and emptiness will happen again. "You keep looking for another place to find that saving grace."

I choke on that lyric every time. As you know, the only "saving grace" comes from a consistent and abiding spiritual belief. No matter what happens, no matter who lets you down, no matter how low you sing for whatever reason...know that GOD loves you. Enouth the He/She or It sent His Son to teach us, love us, and die on a cross to take away the sins of the world. Jesus made good on His promise to rise again the thrid day after His death. He's prepared a place for us when God calls us from our earthly bodies. I can't ask you to beleive this or make you beleive this. I can only have faith that God has something planned for you. Lok at you! How could all this preparation go into something that is over and finished upon death?Just as birth is an unknown adventure to an infant, death may be a similar adventure. Back at the paking plant, the way things work is: you raise a steer, fattening it until it is in its prime. Then you bring it in and in an hour, its a hot carcass in the cooler. A loving God doesn't do that to His children. Not those who humble themselves and ask Him into their lives. Even if they have unwittingly messed up over and over. Not those who try and live the remainder of their lives aware of and in harmony with His love.

My life may not be much to a Toby Keith...or an Ozzie Osbourn...or a Ted Nugent...or ____(fill in your selection). And that's as it should be. (Yet, the concept pisses me off sometimes when they seem to high above me. Duane "Dog" Chapman, ex-con and falmboyantly successful bounty hunter since 2000, whose life seems one of endless foul ups and redemption says, "The more powerful and famous you get, the more you try and run the red light. You think you can get away with being bad for a moment." Power. Umbrage. Taking unsurrendered liberties. Overstepping bounds not yours to overstep. This is only the tip of the iceberg with some celebs.) These guys are all fine entertainers. You can shake their hands and tell them they are fine entertainers. That is about where it starts and stops. Sometimes, music can be grander than grand. But never forget who loves you, baby. God. He or She or It is the ONLY One with saving grace. Never be fooled.

to be continued ("tbc")

~How We Pl/ray~ cont'd

May that be music to your ears. And with that, who needs 4 hours capitivity amid tens of thousands of feet of celluloid? With tickets costing how much? And the value you take away is _____? Thank you, but I'd prefer spending time with someone I can relate to.

(Now...I just have to interject: There is a curious item which has been hanging around our home for about a month. Nothing has been said. Its about the shape of a DVD, wrapped in Christmas paper. Its sitting in the glass fruit bowl on the dining room table. I glance at it sometimes, and when Steve sees me, he gives me a big smile. Why, I would say, his smile is much like Steve Ferrone's. I smile back...my best impression of Mr. Tench...and scurry away. Nothing ever gets said...)

For the one or two of you who may be reading far too much into this, let me remind you that this wouldn't have been written if I didn't care deeply about you. It's doubtful that you will ever know how much. That, you will probably never kill in me.

I came upon a newspaper article by Gregory Rodrigues, columnist for the LA Times, Sept 23?'07. grodriguez@latimescolumnists.com He was investigating Mother Teresa's darkness and feeling of abandonment by God. These very personal recent writings of her's were supposed to not be released to the public. However, we can learn from them something of great value. It was a good article, where Rodrigues tried to contact an old friend of his, Sister Mary Rose at the Sisters of Mercy residence in Burlington, Calif. where she lives. "I wondered what she would make of the Mother Teresa story. But I was told she was too frail to talk," he writes.

"Truth is, I'm pretty sure I know the answer. The dark night of the soul is no reason not to act as if the good can outweigh the bad. By the way, her organization (Sister Mary Rose's orpahanage) in Romania flourishes."

So, never be fooled. In fact, stay far away from fools. And even if in doubt, do good things. Always have faith it will work out.

Getting back to the movie. Four hours is a long time. I once went to a concert. Mor than once. I felt my time was somewhat wasted. Feelings differed with the circumstances. How much of my time would be wasted in a four hour movie? Any four hour movie? I didn't think that Schindler's List was a waste. But that was free on TV, sponsored by Ford. To this day, I think favorably about Ford because of Shindler's List. Am I suggestible? Easily swayed? I prefer to think of it as open to reason, and able to form an opinion.

The Christian radio station that I rarely listen to ("God's Country!"...How can they be so sure?) is playing a provocative song, "18 Video Tapes". The lyrics are quite good:

A young boy comes to his mother when he is about 4 years old and asks where his father is. She leads him to a closet and shows him 18 video tapes. "This is your Daddy." The father died of terminal illness before his son was born. Tape One is how to hold a baseball bat and how to stand at the plate. And all the while, you hear the father narrating how he wishes he could have been there in person, and as soon as he learned his days were numbered, he picked up the camcorder, and how the son should know he's loved and how he should wear his helmet and protective gear riding his bike because it will keep his mother happy. And if he feels the need to learn about the opposite sex from his buddies, go straight to Tape 18...because when his children come along, and he wishes he could be there to see his grandkids, a father has to be available to answer all their questions about life and growing up right...even if it has to be on 18 video tapes.

That song did not waste my time. Those 18 video tapes I'm quite sure (hypothetically) did not waste that young son's time. I hope those 4 hours really say something. Maybe I'll never find out. Maybe its for the best. If somebody "throws" a show, wouldn't you be stupid to go back for more? Isn't it all about the music?...well...kinda...What else could be involved?

I should write such a song about Anna, I think. (Anna Politkovakya, accomplished Russian journalist who uncovered lies in Putin's government and was murdered for her trouble. Thirteen jounalists have met a similar end in Russia since Putin took office. Maybe that's just what happens when the new chief used to head the KGB.) I sit with that a while, but no melody comes. This ain't gonna work. I'm not Garth Brooks. It wouldn't see the light of day. I would be a waste of time. Mine and others. Maybe I'll write a letter to the newspaper editor instead. Amen.

~ MSGIVENS~

Seated by the window in the dark, staring at the bright cold moon, she marvelled at the mysteries of life. By morning, the panes would be frosted over. The landscape would no longer be bathed in violet moon beams. The total change in hue would make the dooryard almost unrecognizable. How exactly does this happen? But as soon as the theories of science came forth, there were other notions to focus on. She wanted to watch this frost-over happen. Once, she wanted to watch a flower blossom. But swathed in the old afghan, she knew she would soon doze off like so many nights before. Somehow, it did not seem fair.

Well, at least she could enjoy gazing out at the moon for now. She stood and stretched, leaning on the window, and peered through a pane into the gloaming. Could those be deer at the field's edge? The apple trees in that old orchard were long past their prime and being reclaimed by the forest. Maybe she was seeing a large herd banded together for the winter. She watched as the ghost-like does, necks gracefully bent, pawed through the scattered snow cover, grazing. One raised its head and seemed to stare straight back at her. She faintly saw some of the arching tines of his antlers etched in the moonlight. The rest were in black shadow. She didn't hear any warning snort, but in an instant, all that remained of the hinds were violet white flashes. And then nothing. The excitement was over for her.

She longed to share it with someone, but there was no one to listen. She probably could not completely relay the event and her precise feelings anyway. Perhaps no one would believe her. But she knew she had seen it. It surprised and pleased her, like a good omen.

She turned away from the window satisfied, gathered her afghan about her shoulders, blew out one candle and took the remaining one as she climbed the stairs to bed. That night, she dreamt of running through a dark forest like a sleek gazelle, with crackling leaves beneath her, and snapping limbs giving way before her, heeding the guidance provided. Reaching, stretching, breathing hard, knowing that with each leap, danger must be further behind. Fully alive, down to the very single fibers of her fur.

My 'Hopi On The Homestead' story has been brain-jelling Bluegill. Soon...and I told another blossoming writer friend about your experimental thread here and will pass a link on...

I can almost detect the stale scent of "Ms. Givens" home Bluegill; thanks for the early Christmas present -- hope yours is Merry!

-A Christmas Poem-

It isn't the reverence, it isn't the care
Its not the caress nor the faith we swear,
Nor constancy, dear, for I'm here and you're there,
So I know that these things aren't love.

Its not just accepting the fact of my birth,
Nor paying you homage by proving my worth,
Nor bringing the world's praise to our family hearth;
I am sure that these things don't mean love.

It means, if at nightfall I breathe the clear air
Of the moon-shadowed ocean, I feel you are there;
When I thrill at the song of the surf at ebb tide
I share it with you for you're there by my side.
The beauty of nature, the glamour of life,
The joy of living, happiness, strife,
We live them together, for my heart tells me, dear,
That sleeping or waking you always are here.

For our deep understanding surmounts each long mile
Of distance between us; and so with a smile
I journey along, and the breeze from above
Means your lips brushed my forehead, and to me, dear, that's love.

(Penned in 1942 by Pat Crommett of Millinocket, Maine, for her mother.)

^Wow. How lovely. Thanks so much for sharing that Bluegill. Uplifting and heartwarming.

I have to add an amazing coincidence here. The wake I went to on Friday for my friend's father taught me that he was born in Millinocket, Maine. I am going to email this poem to my friend.

Feeling guilty that I haven't gotten around to writing and contributing yet to the thread. Busy weeks back there. More time for the moment. Hope to get something penned soon.

For now I can tell the story of an image I am visualizing to contribute to an art auction in Philadelphia. Since they are using the hand holding a heart as the logo for the benefit I am going to paint the original Shaker symbol of a palm with a heart in the center (hands to work, hearts to god) and then add my own touches of sacred symbols on the fingertips and bases on the palm. A magic hand. Managed to pick up a sweet matted frame yesterday which my own palm fits perfectly into. Thought I would use my own hand as an imprint.

That's a story of sorts, isn't it?

Wanted to pass word and thanks onto Bluegill for posting that lovely Christmas poem written by a daughter to her mother in Millinocket, Maine. I did email it to my friend's whose father died recently and had been born in Millinocket. Both brother and sister were very touched by the coincidental poem arriving in such a timely manner. Magical twist of fate for Bluegill to post the poem within a couple days of their father's funeral here in So Cal. Crosscountry lightning.

Working on a short story called 'The Cracked Heart'. Still coming to mind. Shall be thinking on it while I mud today.

The Cracked Heart

A heart that stretches can snap.
If if never tries though,
it will crack.

Taking those chances to see if a heart
can swing,
is the thing.

See, love can only bring
light into a world
on a string.

If your heart cracks,
no worry.
Open it wide.
Take the ride.
Worth a try.

Thanks to you both
~Haste, Waste, Life's Purpose~

My printer is being repaired.
Let me tell you about recent events.
This may waste your time, but it says lots about me.

This place has become a winter wonderland. It seems to snow all the time. Now, when you get up in the morning, you don't peek out the window to see if it snowed...but rather how much. If my Stevie isn't working, he's plowing snow someplace. And I do mean "some place". He's finding it harder to stow the snow, and the season is just beginning. It's going to be a long winter. That's okay. We need it. Replenish and raise the water table and all that.

A few days ago he had to leave at 3:30 am. When I finally got up, I called him for road conditions, wrote some late Christmas cards, and decided to start my coastal route at 10 am. I found the going moderately slick. Okay if you leave plenty of room between cars and watch for other drivers sliding into your path. A cop waved me down for doing 35 in a 25 zone. Others were sliding all around me. Guess it was okay 'cuz they were doing the limit. "Hey, we all have our jobs to do."

It got worse as the coast had more ice than snow. I made my destination, parked in a icy snowbank and noted only one set of footprints to the door. Closed. How odd. These people are so hardy. Same at stop #2. I then went to the general store. They were third on my list. It was a bright, cheery place with the 2 ladies in the kitchen looking a bit put upon. I told my tale of ardous driving to get to a bunch of locked doors. They laughed. "So like a bureaucrat." One man having breakfast chimed in, "A real bureacrat must have routed you down here, lady."

As I was driving white knuckled down to check the safety of his food supply, funny, I didn't feel like a bureacrat. I tried to tell him, but it was no use. He wasn't attacking me per se, he was having fun. I think I stammered something like, "We all have our jobs to do."

Gilda Radner's Roseanne Roaseanna Danna used to say, "If it's not one thing, its another." Sure enough, sometimes life is hurry up and wait...or you arrive late to the 3 alarm blaze holding a half full watering can. I went to visit my friend in the area. I called and parked at the top of her drive. She fed me warm Christmas cookies she had made. She had rolled and piped and sugared them. Suddenly, everything was better.

As I write this the next day, I'm having lunch beside the tributary to the big river around here. Its racing by with minor class rapids. Its 40' or 50' feet across. Looks like something from Currier & Ives. Bubbling, silvery with pristine white steep banks, bare trees, a concrete bridge from the 1930s, old mill foundation and stones. Sounds comforting as it rushes by, no worries as to its destination. Although its cold, it looks like a kayak would be fun today. And then I stop.

A seasoned young kayaker perished not far from here. Wanted to ride during a storm and got pinned against a tree, rolling into a spot where he couldn't be reached in time. Very sad. Had a promising future. Everything in moderation. Everything. If at all.

Was he arrogant in the certainty of his skills?
I don't know. Here's something to ponder on this first day of 2008. "Awe" can come from bubbling rapids, a really good musical performance, walking with your love on New Years Eve as the yellow moon sets and snow blows from a branch down your neck:

Beyond the Arrogance of Certainty

Awe makes us feel powerless and insignificant yet at the same time also strangely empowered, because we feel we've been uniquely blessed by being given a brief challenging glimpse of a deeper significance to life that we may never understand but must keep trying. It's as if the universe has given us a special privilage-that it sees us as worthy and deserving enough to trust us with a look at its secret, whatever that may be. Awe is when life grants us the chance to think differently and deeper about itself, so that we are not left squandering its gift by languishing it away.

Being in awe can make a real mess of our lives by disrupting our certainty about ourselves and the world, but it also enlivens and invigorates our living and can change how we decide to live. Ultimately, the decision between and easier, fascinating life and a harder, trmendously mysterious one is a choice between the solace of certitude and the aggrivating invigoration of unending inscrutability.

With the fuller, deeper awareness and total engagement with all of life that awe brings, the highs are higher, the lows lower, and the sadness will be as deep as the moments of rapture are profound. There will be far more doubt than certainty, so what happens after life's end will always be a part of the tremendous mystery-the mystery that, bit by bit, is revealed with each awe experience. It will be much a struggle as a celebration and as filled with tears of grief as tears of pure joy.

-Paul Pearsall, "Awe; The Delights and Dangers of our Eleventh Emotion" p.xix c.Communications Inc. 2007

Happy 2008.