Truth be told?

    I watched a documentary about the octopus and came to the conclusion it is one of the most intriguing characters on this planet. It changes colors, has no bones, can be trained to do tricks, and eerily interacts with humans. (The show profiled a pet octopus named Heidi, aptly named for her ability to hide.)

    About halfway through the program the narrator delved into the origin of the species, explaining how it “evolved.” He did not mention Creation or God or that God might have contributed in the least little way to the existence of the octopus. But I did not buy into his evolutionary tale. Instead I sat on the sofa marveling at the Genius; aka God, who created such magnificence.

    I am sure that many who watched the show believed the narrator's words as truth, which by the way, seems to be a relic in this particular era in which we are living, when so many myths are being told as fact, and not just about the origin of an octopus. 

    Truth seems to be a thing of the past, like precious artifacts on display behind glass enclosures at the Smithsonian. I will look for it the next time I'm there.

And a time to give stuff away

    He gave me his songbook. I didn’t ask for it; he just gave it to me. One day when our group finished singing at the Center, my friend said he had something for me, so I walked out to the van with him and his wife, and he handed me a binder filled with songs he’d sung over the years with different gospel groups.

    This might seem like an insignificant gesture but it isn’t, and the reason he gave it to me almost brings a tear to my eye. He gave it to me because he is old. He gave it to me because he knows there will come a day when he will not need his songbook anymore. He’s lived more than a few decades; his voice is raspy; and although he didn’t say it, he’s doing the math.

    I have some other friends who are doing the math, too. Some people I know are making preparations for the future in different ways than before. Where they used to buy stuff to use up, now they’re using up the stuff they bought and never used.  

    Some are depleting stashes of fabric by sewing dresses for little girls in Africa. Some are emptying palettes of paint by filling up canvases with splashes of color. Still others are purging their houses of clutter accumulated through fifty-years of marriage and deciding on suitable heirs for possessions once held dear. Some are choosing executors to carry out their last wishes and close out their bank accounts. And some are giving away their songbooks.

A favorite summer scene

It’s one of my favorite scenes of summer -- when a neighbor cuts his field and bales hay. It reminds me of growing up on a farm. Our bales were not nearly as big as these; ours were smaller and rectangular and tied with rope. I remember my brothers working hard in sweltering heat to load each bale by hand onto a trailer. 

On the day I took this picture, I watched (in sweltering heat) as these huge bales were swiftly loaded by only two guys. One drove a truck with a flatbed trailer and the other drove a piece of fancy equipment that fork-lifted the bales. Both men were in air-conditioned comfort behind roll-ed up windows. This is known as progress; innovation; but those guys didn’t even come close to getting the physical workout my brothers did. And they weren't bantering back and forth either.

My brothers might not have enjoyed it then, but I imagine they are grateful now for slinging bales way back when.                                        

                                                          

Bigger and better comes with a price

    I read the announcement in the newspaper and took particular interest in the location -- the fire station close to my house. Perfect. Motivated partly by proximity, I decided to go. When Saturday morning came, I headed to the station about 15 minutes from my house. 

    I drove down country roads through lovely scenery, sharing the road with only a few other cars, if any. I pulled into the gravel driveway and went in to find a small group of friendly writers at a table. I sat down; introductions were made; they seemed to know each other; they welcomed me. We talked about our writing passion. We shared past writing experiences and our expectations of the club. This is heaven, I thought. I left inspired and grateful.