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One And Two Hundred Forty-Five
In my younger years, today was always significant, as it marks the birthday of the United States Marine Corps. This year is the 245th birthday of Mother Green, the Killing Machine. And while I have mixed feelings about my beloved Corps and the path she’s taken in recent politically-correct years, I will forever be proud of my association with the epitome of masculine insanity I lived and breathed for six years. Happy Birthday, Devil Dogs! But today marks a sadder anniversary. One year ago today, our beloved Bonnie left us in the early morning hours and left a void that will never be filled. I am grateful for my rambunctious…
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Cries Go On
Last year, a male goldfinch at one of the feeders caught my attention with his unusual behavior, and I realized that he was blinded in at least one eye. I’ve seen him a couple of times since then, and each sighting rings in the halls of my heart because it reminds me that, for some reason, he stays near our farm, and that he seems to recognize me. I fill the bird feeders in the evening. We have various types of feeders — the cheap cylindrical kind that are easy to fill but also easy for squirrels to raid, the metal mesh kind that are impervious to rodents but do…
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Mystery, Life, Syllables
My dear friend Father James, the Trappist monk who lives at Our Lady of Gethsemani Abbey in Kentucky, has been much on my mind lately. I wrote him this morning and hope to hear back from him soon. He has been having some health problems lately, and at his age, his remaining time is speeding up, is precious, is like the dust on a butterfly’s wing: fine and invaluable. I watched a video about the abbey on Youtube and noticed near the end a series of photos taken in the woods surrounding the monastery. Some of the pictures were taken near Thomas Merton’s (Father Louis’s) hermitage on the grounds there.…
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Once Was Open
At the foot of our mountain sits an abandoned auto repair garage. I pass it twice daily on my commute. Gary owned and ran the place. He was a lean, friendly fellow with an open face and direct manner. Shortly after we bought our place years ago, I had need of a mechanic and decided to give Gary’s place a try. It was a good decision. He was honest right down to the ground, a master mechanic, and remarkably fair. He once kept my old pickup truck an entire day, ran it up and down the mountain roads, crawled all over and under it, in an attempt to locate the…
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The Strange Power
“Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.” ― Cormac McCarthy, All The Pretty Horses Yesterday marked six months to the day that our beloved dog, Bonnie, died in her sleep. I don’t ponder it as much as I once did, but each time I remember the moment that I realized Bonnie was gone, I feel as if I have been kicked in the stomach. The sense of her being stolen from us is as raw and punishing as it was half a year ago. My grief for my dog caught me by surprise. I never expected to mourn an animal the way I did Bonnie.…
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Even Within A Mere Ninety-Six
At the end of a trying day, I was driving home through the late winter mist, watching the cars near me for the too-frequent signs of someone texting while driving, thinking of the long walk I would take Jinx on after I got home and fed him supper, determined to find a way to control some of his excess energy. My phone rang. My wife was calling. “I have some sad news,” she said. “Okay….” “Helen [our nearest neighbor, from the next farm over] called me. A man came by, and he was looking for his dog. It was Jinx.” I felt my throat close like a fist. “Oh…
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Forever And A Day
We met today after not seeing each other for almost a year. She was subdued and hesitant, and I waited for a pause in the conversation so I could ask her about what I was perceiving. She told me of her brother, just a few years older than her, and how he’s been caring for his wife for the past few years after she had a series of massive strokes. Her sole caregiver, he has dedicated all of his energies to taking care of the lady he’d once courted, married, fathered children with, and built a home for. But just a few weeks ago, he showed up at her…
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Goodbye, Neil
With age comes loss, and it’s interesting to observe one’s own reactions to loss. Even loss involving people not personally known can surprise a man with its punch and bruise. When I heard the other day of the death of Neil Peart, the drummer for the Canadian rock group Rush, I was struck dumb with grief. Very curious. I never knew the man except through his lyrics and masterful musicianship, but I felt as if a friend had been taken away. I first saw Rush live in 1977 and became an instant fan. During my Marine Corps years, the band was massively popular among fellow leathernecks, but hadn’t achieved the…
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Vital Glory
Driving through my beloved South, I have often seen empty homes and gas stations and barns and restaurants completely covered by kudzu. Even in wintertime, the leaves go brown but they remain intact on the knotty vines. Through the years, my reaction to these scenes has been one of sadness, especially for the little abandoned businesses. I have always thought, “That was once someone’s dream. And now it’s ruined, and where are the owners now?” Lately, though, my thinking has changed. These failed enterprises are scars. That is, they are part of the map of battles of someone’s life, marking the territory of hope and ambition and dreams and focused…
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Farewell, Miss Barbara
I stopped at the grocery store on the way home yesterday to pick up a couple of things. The store, part of a small, local chain, sits at the foot of a mountain next to a bank, a gas station, and a fast food joint. The adjoining mountain is part of the store’s charm; in all weathers, the sheer slope with its trees and crags rises up in a dramatic sweep when one steps out of the store to return to one’s vehicle. The mountain looks almost like a dormant volcano, with its near-perfect cone shape and its accompanying sense of looming and watching. Waiting. Patient as a jove. When…