Author: Ken A Locke

I live in Wichita. I worked as an air traffic controller over 25 years. I retired from that into this new life of writing. My wife and I spent over 2 years in the Peace Corps to start our marriage. Our 3 amazing kids have turned into actual amazing people. This blog gives me a place to share with you what matters, and somewhere to put my spirit into words.

The Point of Decision

· Leave a comment ·

I watched a several professionals in action the other day.  It brought to mind a truth that is common and critical to ALL professionals, no matter what their field is.  Every professional makes a choice about which direction the business (or task) needs to take.  That point of decision determines success or failure.

At a cattle auction the other day, I watched the owner of the sale barn decide what price to start the bidding at.  They sold over 1300 cattle that day.  Some were single animals, some were a cow/calf pair, and some were in groups of as much as 30.  In every single case, though, he had to DECIDE the starting price.  The age, weight, teeth condition, pregnancy progression, breed, and temperament ALL factored in to what he thought those animals would eventually sell for.  Start too low and the buyers would lose interest before the animals reached their true value.  Start too high and some of the buyers wouldn’t even bid in an effort to be conservative.  Horns on a cow make that animal a little less desirable to a rancher, for instance.  It doesn’t mean they won’t eventually sell for as much, but it is a consideration in the auction ring.

The owner would say, “Sell ’em right there…. $1750”.  He would say that every time he had to fix a price point for a group of cattle.  After the phrase, off the auctioneer would go selling each of this set of cows for $1750 per cow as the starting bid.  It is that initial price decision that it takes YEARS  of fully-committed ranching and selling to come to understand.  Most of the cows ended up selling for $1900-2350 per cow, at least during the time I watched the sale.

I also watched one of the ranchers while he bid on some cows.  (By the way, cows are females that have had calves; heifers are females that, even if they are pregnant, haven’t had a calf yet.)  He could tell what quality of animals he was looking at each time a different group of cows came into the auction ring.  They all looked the same, or very nearly the same to ME, but each of these ranchers could tell the differences.  The particular rancher I was watching (out of the corner of my eye) probably had set several pricing limits, but I bet they were subconscious.  Once the auctioneer saw his first bid, the rancher would only need to barely nod his head to accept the next higher price.  (Lower your chin half an inch.  Then return it to its original position.  You just bid on cattle.)  He bought some groups of cattle and he let some groups go to a higher bidder.  $25,000 per group (11 animals at roughly $2300 per head); that takes some guts to stay steely-eyed through the bidding.  It is those subconscious price limits that it takes YEARS of experience to come to understand.

I am reminded of my air traffic controller co-workers when I think of this “point of decision” theory.  One particular controller would hum about 3 notes of a melody while she was formulating her control strategy.  After the 3-note melody, she would issue a stream of instructions that sent all the airplanes on their way with an efficient ease.  I watched another air traffic controller, working the Denver arrival flow, assign speeds to aircraft still 60 miles away from the airport.  He assigned speeds that were different by only 10 or 20 knots (about 12 -23 mph) in order to build a gap between planes to fit an extra plane into the flow.  25 miles and about 3 minutes later, sure enough, there was a 7 mile hole in the “train” to fit in an extra airplane.  It is those initial control strategy instructions that it takes YEARS of air traffic experience to come to understand.

Command of data.  Precision.  Intuition.  Instinct.

Now think about YOUR field of expertise.  What is YOUR point of decision?

Air Traffic – Signing Off

· 44 Comments ·

Being an air traffic controller is about being bossy. Being assertive (way more professional than bossy) BEFORE the pilots realize they could use help avoiding each other. Out of every 8 hour workday (around 6,325 of them) I spent behind a microphone, I figure there were 30 minutes that I truly needed to be there to help airplanes fly past each other without incident.  Most of the time is typical and routine.  “Cleared for takeoff”, “Cleared to land”, “Cleared Visual Approach, contact tower 118.2”, “Cleared direct Kansas City, contact Kansas City 120.2”.  That one time, though?  A misheard directive, an UNheard direction, two captains answering the same instruction – THEN is when a controller must listen, straighten, save the day, smooth over, confirm instructions, wish them well and send them on their way.

 

I should have reviewed the tape to find out whether the Lear jet pilot read back his hold short instructions that day when United departed runway 32, rotated early to avoid what the pilot thought was a ‘taxiing-too-quickly’ Learjet, and called Fort Worth HQ about the incident.  The controllers on duty saved the day – they saw it happening and firmly instructed the Lear jet to stop his taxi immediately.  Kept it from being worse than just an eye-opener.  I  remember the P-51 that didn’t have his gear down in Santa Maria, CA.  I told the Local Controller to tell him about his gear.  The pilot leveled off at about 50 feet, put the gear down, and landed about 400 feet farther down the runway.  That saved a WWII war bird from the junk pile.

 

People often talk about the many thousands of lives we have kept safe over a career of air traffic.  It rarely occurs to me while working how many people are on those airplanes that I am directing.  It is certainly more serious than a video game, but way less serious than what I imagine a doctor would feel in the ER.  There isn’t blood spurting everywhere that I have to personally stop with a clamp on the correct artery, for instance.  I do, however, remember the pit in my stomach from situations gone wrong.  The beginnings of the pit when the Cessna departed runway 19L to turn west and the T-38 off runway 19R was catching him. To the Cessna – “don’t climb anymore and level off on your current heading; A T-38 will pass above you from your right”. To the T-38 – “there is a Cessna off your left that will stay low so you can pass above him”.  It turned out fine, but they deserved a better plan from me.  Watching the Malibu at Oshkosh turn base to final and fall out of the sky sideways on his wing.  The fireball from the wing that broke off.  Not seeing any passengers get out of the airplane.  Later learning that they all got out, but that their faces were “full of profound fear and grief”.  Answering the phone the morning after Valentine’s Day a long time ago when the grown daughter of the C152 pilot called to find out if it was her dad on the plane. That plane had crashed the night before.  When America West said “that was close; I could see his smile”. And I had no idea what he was talking about.  Turns out a flight of two Citation tests had gotten separated, the second one saw the glint of an aircraft and turned towards it.  It wasn’t his wing man, it was a B737 on its way to Wichita.

[Author’s note added 2/17/16. to read more of my time at Oshkosh Airventure as a controller, click here: My Oshkosh Blog]

I believe that I was more often part of the solution than part of the problem.  More part of what WORKS in the federal government, rather than the type of government we all complain about.  I believe we all work towards that reality.  I believe the great majority of air traffic controllers take a fierce pride in providing “top shelf” control instructions in the safest airspace in the world.

 

I now have this single day of work left.  I already feel the true blessing that comes from completing a job.  I embrace the magnitude – the sheer atomic weight – of meeting, learning from, mentoring, working with, counting so many people as family in my 25 years and 7 months.   The roots of this mighty oak that is air traffic have taken hold in my bones.  And, though I will indeed make my last transmission tomorrow, I will never truly quit analyzing each airplane I see in order to discern its reason for flight.  My tribe will be in charge, and I will look skyward knowing that.

 

I leave you, you controllers still working, with these words:  Purpose your energy to the good of our customers.  Push yourself to a vigilant and conscientious awareness.  Stand and take notice – there will come a flight that doesn’t look right.  THAT is your opportunity to save a life.  It may only happen once.  It may be glaringly obvious – as in when an airplane actually declares an emergency because the flight crew KNOWS something is wrong.  It may sneak up on you; a student pilot wanders off its line and into the flight path of some other student pilot – and before you know it, they are at your attention’s mercy.  Be equal to the task – you must be.

 

I step aside in humility.  My heart is filled with grace and pride at the task, now faithfully completed.  Controllers: thank you in advance for continuing the work – I trust you.  Passengers: you may climb aboard your flight with peace – my people will guide you home.

 

We Have Room For 3 – #refugeeswelcome

· 1 Comment ·

Could someone please put me in touch with whomever is coordinating the Syrian refugee invitations to stay in the US?  We have room for 3. 

800,000 refugees – my brain simply cannot make sense of how many people that is. Almost three times the population of Wichita. 32 times the size of my hometown Hastings, NE. That’s a LOT of people. 

Also, have you looked at a map of the walking journey most of these people have taken to get OUT of Syria and INTO Europe proper?? It’s a really long way, and it is already muddy, cold, and not always friendly. The kind of unfriendly that, even IF you had money left (and hadn’t spent it bribing your way not a bus or train or across a quickly-closing border), people didn’t want to sell you water. Or food. 

I am sure that not every single one of those refugees is a cheery, pure-hearted person determined to make MY life better by coming to America to pursue a dream, or at the very least, take up residence in a building that has NO chance of blowing up in the next few weeks. 

I am also sure I will be inconvenienced more than once by offering 3 of them a place to stay and food to eat and a piece of clothing or two. 

But, geez, I know it’s the right thing to do. So that is our offer. Room for 3 – and we’ll work out the details as we go. 

Also, does anyone have Rosetta Stone for Arabic (Arabic, right?)?  If so, loan it to me for a while. We might need it. 

#refugeeswelcome

Adrenaline

· Leave a comment ·

Adrenaline flooded my system just before my peripheral vision detected the leaping Dalmatian.  I saw him leap, silent and intent, over the wheel of my riding companion on that night ride.  My co-rider had no idea the dog was coming at me; no idea why the dog had chosen me as a target rather than him.  In the dark, the Dalmatian had completely surprised us.  The cast of our night lights extended in front of us but there was very little light to the sides, and none behind us.  The dog had approached from my companion’s right rear, about 5 o’clock, if the rider’s front wheel is high noon on a timepiece.  I had nowhere to go – no way to outrun a canine 4 feet from me in mid-leap.

The ‘water horses’ that Glorfindel formed from the river at the Fords of Bruinen in Tolkien flashed through my mind.  Those had risen quickly and relentlessly as a defense against the Black Riders.  This Dalmatian had leapt just as quickly and remorselessly on offense.  Complete surprise.  Battle over, then and there.  All the animal had to do is complete the attack.

My legs churned on.  What other option did I have?

3 seconds later, a LIFE time later, I realized this was merely pebbles from the gravel road being thrown into the light.   Somehow, my most primitive brain had created a predator where none existed.  The discomfort of a night bike ride had put my subconscious on full alert.

As the adrenaline drained, gratitude at safety took its place.  I said nothing.

We rode on.

Peeing In The Snow

· Leave a comment ·

I pee in the backyard every chance I get.  It grounds me, connects me, and re-aligns me.  I figure it is saving the planet.  Eventually, even in Kansas, there will be a water shortage.  Why waste 2 gallons of water to flush away a pint or two of urine?  That just does not seem responsible.  I walk out the back sliding door (after I open it) towards the fence where I have landscaped with railroad ties.  I balance on two ties and water the earth.  I could be Lewis and Clark spanning the Missouri River way up in Montana at the headwaters.  I could be on the Continental Divide, blessing both the Pacific and the Atlantic with my life water.  I could be in the desert, helping a dormant seed flower at the advent of a spring rain.

I light fires now and then, too, for the same reason. Smoke, as from a fire, signals to my inner caveman that I am safe.  Always in an appropriate fireplace – never in a hallway or living room.  Remember James Michener’s story about the tribesmen who built a fire in the aisle of an airplane while flying to Mecca? Also, I bought an incense burner last spring in New Mexico.  It is built like an oven, or horno (Spanish for oven, pronounced OR-no).  We used a similarly shaped oven in the Peace Corps for bread baking (out of the very helpful “Appropriate Technology” government publication).  This incense burner is only about 3 inches tall and I use small blocks of pressed sawdust as the incense.  Bode’s in Abiquiu (http://www.bodes.com/ ) sells the burner and the blocks as a set.  There is a tipi and a pueblo dwelling.  They sell mesquite-, sage-, and juniper-scented blocks.  They probably could ship one to you, but, as you may come to understand in reading, it will MEAN more if you go out there and get one.

There are many benefits to living in this modern age (there is even newer stuff than electricity and penicillin!) and in the comfort of the suburbs (almost guaranteed access to law enforcement and emergency services).  We can go get food anytime (does Walgreen’s ever close?).  We can go exercise almost any hour of the day (Anytime Fitness, after all, is for anytime).  Our jobs are secure for the most part, easy to get to, safe from injury, and last only 8 to maybe 12 hours (thank you, firemen, for pulling 24 hour shifts!).  New and used clothing is easily acquired inexpensively.  Heck, the other day in the grocery store I realized I had to KNOW what kind of turkey I wanted for sandwiches.  You can’t just go buy turkey; you have to get a particular seasoning.  Like a wine pairing.  That is a lot of pressure for just a sandwich.

Here’s the thing, though (One of my favorite people often leads with this phrase; I use it to pay homage to him).

Our brains and bodies were built to overcome adversity and to gain safety.  We are made to conquer and tame and subdue and THEN live in harmony with others.  (I know, it doesn’t make sense to me either.  But that is how we are)

I do not believe it is always a healthy thing for us [for men, anyway (for ME, anyway)] to be able to solve our adversity with simply a checking account.  There must be a need to strive against nature.  My belief is that, at some point, we must set down our technology, remove ourselves from our cultural insulation, and face ourselves.  We must face ourselves in such a way that we then know what we are made of.  We do not have to be happy with what we see, but we have to KNOW.  From that knowledge, we then proceed with life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Witness Jack London’s character Humphrey Van Weyden.  Humphrey is a pampered writer from San Francisco who falls overboard from a ferry in the course of his writer’s existence.  Wolf Larsen, modeled after a real sea-captain that London knew about, and borne out of Nietzsche’s ‘super-man’ theory (which Hitler then twisted into his mania), plucks Hump out of the sea and forces him to stay on the schooner hunting seal.  Weak and pale Hump is eventually transformed into a warrior who protects his woman, defeats the captain, and triumphs over shipwreck at sea.  My apologies for giving away the plot of “The Sea Wolf” (honestly, though, you should have read this by now).

I do not presume to suggest to you that you go find yourself or go on a ‘vision quest’.  I only tell you that when I, forced by circumstances, went on that same journey I came back stronger, re-aligned, re-focused, and clear of purpose.  I travelled to Ghost Ranch (http://www.ghostranch.org/ ), in northern New Mexico, for a writing workshop which literally changed the course of my life.  The pairing (juxtaposition) of the serene wild of the Ranch and the intellectual demands made by the workshop helped me strip away dead wood that had been inhibiting my spirit (Luke – ‘if this is what happens when the wood is green, what will happen when the wood is dry?’).

Think of a tree trunk – a mighty tree with firm roots but many branches that no longer serve the health of the tree.  A tree itself cannot remove its dead or dying limbs.  A tree must rely on external forces to renew itself – wind, fire, rain.  Witness the Sequoia’s whose pinecones only turn to fertile seed after a forest fire heats them past a certain temperature.  Only then are conditions right for new growth – more sun will reach the ground, fresh nutrients will be available from the ash of the burnt trees.  If we continue in our comfortable, nestled, suburban, first-world, life we may not be exposed to forces that temper us into a keener weapon.  Someone once said, ‘a ship is safe in a harbor, but a ship is not built for the harbor – it is built for the sea’.

I noticed, a few days ago, that when I went out to pee, it had snowed.  Peeing in snow makes a visible mark.  “But people will SEE that I have peed here”, fussed my inner Hump.  I then added to my hypothesis – I must be willing to let the world see my transformation.  No transformation can be totally healthy if it is totally hidden from view.  I must claim my changes.  Humphrey had to remove Wolf Larsen from captaincy and take command of the ship.  I must be willing to stand for what I have changed into.

Stand.  Survey.  Know.

Spiritually Comfortable

· Leave a comment ·

I do not know why I do or do not feel spiritually comfortable at different times in my day.   I noticed, though, in church the other day, after not going for a while, that I was uncomfortable.

I am turning 50 years old; I should have all this figured out.  I know I am not trying hard enough.  I know I do not crack open my Bible (hardly ever) to seek comfort from God’s word.  I should have a routine that protects me from the tough things life will throw at me.  Our marriage should be insulated.  Our children should be protected from harm.  I should tithe 10 percent.  I should have extra money left over to give as my heart leads.  I should rail against the moral erosion of this country.  I should decry the politicization of caring for the poor, homeless, downtrodden, hungry, pregnant, ostracized population of our fine country.  I know, when I sing, that my heart is not truly abandoned; I have not accepted that Jesus paid it all, and all I owe to Him.  I do not embrace the chorus with true peace and acceptance.  I should be glad (and not judgmental) that all those other sinners are in church with me, even though I know what their particular brand of sin is.  (Am I not just a little better than them, if compared side to side?).  I feel like a hypocrite inside the walls of the church.

I hear ALL of that.  All those voices clamor in my head to chase me away from a place where I can meet God spiritually.  The easy answer is that Satan has established a foothold in my mind.  This is surely true – and I do not have the right ‘god’ on the throne I worship.  C.S. Lewis said in “The Screwtape Letters” that all the devil has to do is to get us thinking about how the other worshippers sound when they sing, or what they are wearing, or what they smell like (I paraphrase, of course, but that is the gist).  The easy answer is that when I “pray about it”, it will go away and I can have peace with my savior.  The easy answer is that as soon as I “turn my life over to God”, all things will be made clear, my path will be made straight, the rough places planed.

I know all the pat, rote, memorized answers.  They worked for me for many years.

God and I are still a team.  Jesus and I are still together.  We lately just need a different venue to meet effectively.

By contrast, when I step onto the ancient, timeless, accepting earth of Ghost Ranch, I feel peace.  When I walk the trails, even the easy ones (especially the easy ones) that Ghost Ranch has to offer, I feel healing and hope and promise.  Those voices that drown my Zen (probably an oxymoron; at the very least a contradiction in terms) in church are not speaking to me out there.  I started my latest re-invention of self out there last spring.  It was quite possibly the only place where I could have found that much truth about myself and what I needed to face my future.  I awoke on my 49th birthday to a cold, clear desert air that filled my lungs with a purity I have rarely known.  I faced myself to realize what impact I HAVE had and what impact I have NOT had (Zuzu’s petals!) on my sphere of influence.

My realization to share with you is that God never changes how much he loves me.  He never changes.  He always loves me.

Never.

Always.

Safe words to use about God.

My discomfort in a church building is because I hear voices (old tapes) that are not God talking and are not what God is trying to get me to hear.  My comfort in the wildness of Ghost Ranch is not because God is more present but rather that there are fewer distractions to muddy the audio.

I do not presume to tell you how to find spiritual comfort.  I can only (barely) tell you where I find a quantum of solace.  Ironic that Daniel Craig’s Bond found a quantum of solace only after he killed the bad guy, as revenge for the good people killed.  I use the phrase not as a killer, but as a seeker.  A seeker on a pilgrimage.

Like a sign post.  Cartographers of old said, “Here there be Dragons”.

Here (where is that for you?)… There be Peace.

Finding Home Run Pizza

· Leave a comment ·

Our son recently asked Grandma and Grandpa if we could go to Home Run Pizza.  This restaurant was a staple of our early visits to Bartlesville, OK.  They had a buffet, and basic salad bar, and would make pizza to the specifics of the customer asking.  It was not a huge place, it was not a chain, and the pizza was just what Jacob loved.  We had not gone there in years, so it was fun and nostalgic that he asked if we could go there.  Jacob, being the middle child, does not ask for much, and when he does ask, it is not very loud.

It turns out that Home Run pizza had closed some time ago.  The question really being asked was, ‘can we go somewhere to eat pizza, laugh, enjoy each other’s company, and relive old times’?  Although no one said that exact phrase out loud, the sentiment that pulls us together through history is an unseen, yet urgent, current in the river of our lives. Can we recapture the sepia of our youth?

Friends who shared a weekend at the lake – they never forget what happened, who did what, how much fun it was, the campfires and stories into the night.  Camping trips up into the mountains – do you still remember what you gave up to get what you gained?  We traded comfort for challenge and accomplishment.  The policy at Philmont Scout Ranch is to ‘human sump’ the dinner dishes – basically swirl water in our cooking pot after cooking and then drink that water. The thought of that gross water ruining the taste of dinner will never go away.  Did it get cold at night? A few of us camped by the Great Sand Dunes one January to commemorate Pike’s journey through that area200 years earlier.  We slept with our water bottles so we would have water, and not ice, in the morning.  Did a tent pole break?  My lover had to repair a tent pole with Band-Aids once so we could put the tent up in New Mexico.  A grin unchains my face at the memory of those times.

We all remember once in a lifetime trips; those are understandable.  Paris in July with the sun setting through the Arc de Triomphe?  Amsterdam at the Anne Frank House with on a cool, sunny morning?  The high-speed train (224 km/h – seems fast) between Koln and Paris – we repeat to this day what I said THAT day, ‘wow, this baby HAULS’?  The indescribable power of the water over the Falls at Niagara?  ALL of those memories are indelible – a reference point to take one back in an instant.  Surely you have a stuffed accordion file of these same recollections.

Perhaps you have read or listened to someone describe the approach to filling your life with the “fill this jar with rocks, pebbles, sand, and water” allegory.  Only a few huge rocks fit (God, family, work), then some pebbles fit (friends, outreach, neighbors), sand (hobbies, diet, exercise), top off with water (breathing, storytelling, video games).  Your jar is not truly full until the water has risen to the top.  Listeners are amazed that they can fit so much into their lives when they decide what size rock each thing in their life should be.

A request for Home Run Pizza is a hearkening to the smaller stones of our lives – the ones you pour into the jar AFTER you put the biggest building blocks of your life in.   It calls us to think of the daily joys we share together.  It is not the grandiose, or the majestic, or the life-defining memory.  By its very normalcy, this indeed is the sinew that builds our family, our ties, and our love for each other.  Once we find a point of commonality, our tribe – be it blood relatives or friends – uses that memory as cement or bungee cord or twine or superglue to pull closer and grow stronger.

Our visit was full of enduring traditions; we like sitting in the TV room watching movies that we choose together, having dinner in the dining room, sharing a few gifts.  We did clear new ground for growth – we finally went to the Phillips 66 Museum where grandpa worked for many years.  There is a picture of him with his crew of aviation gas salesman and the planes they flew to reach their customer base.  It is good for the grandkids to see what their people have done.  He is from that generation that will never bring it up, let alone brag about it.

I cannot help but think that when we passed on the opportunity to find a NEW pizza place with the grandparents, we may have missed a chance at a new tradition.  If, per chance, a voice asks about that ‘old pizza place we used to go to’, perhaps we should listen.

It could fill the jar in a whole new way.

The Caged Finches of Perkins

· 1 Comment ·

Maya Angelou – “I know why the caged bird sings.”

“A small bird will drop frozen from the bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.” – D.H. Lawrence.

The other day, we went to visit my grandma and my aunt in Perkins Pavilion rest home. In the lobby, they have a glass-enclosed cage that is full of finches. Birds provide a sense of comfort and a spot of nature for the residents, many of whom rarely go outside. These finches are of several species, and they always make me think of both Darwin and captivity. When Darwin visited the Galapagos, he was more interested in geology, and had tasked another with cataloging the many bird species on the islands. At the time, cataloging meant shooting them and taking them back to England. Once back in England, an ornithologist realized they had different beaks to open the shells of the nuts they found. Different nuts for different islands, apparently. This led to sub-species that were better suited to each micro-climate.
Once I begin thinking about adjusting to micro-climates, I wonder if it is difficult. Do we not, in fact, do that all the time? Don’t we have to “read the room”, “feel the mood”, or “know your audience”? Matter of fact, instead of developing a specialized “beak” for social interaction, we have developed an “all-purpose” interface so we can get along with the greatest number of people possible.
The Finches of Perkins seem happy. They do seem upbeat. They do appear to be content. But are these not human emotions? I have a sneaking suspicion that all they care about is that there is a steady supply of food. Their swift and nimble travels between the straw nests they have built and the seed boxes placed throughout the enclosure brings joy to a watcher. Though mostly dull-colored birds, they have an unmistakable vitality.
As I consider these sweet birds, I draw a parallel to the human residents of Perkins Pavilion, a full-care retirement facility. Grandma and Aunt Rosemary live there. My dad refers to them as “the sisters”. They eat every meal together, just like when they were kids. They are happy, although they both wish for better health. I wonder if they feel trapped. I wonder if they long for the wide open farmscape of their youth, or their fertile gardens so lovingly tended, or the open road at vacation. Do they remember the sweeping pastures of the flint hills? Do they remember the stink of the hen-house? Do the dream of the chilling winters, the searing summers, or the perfection of a spring evening before the mosquitoes have hatched?
I know Grandma has said she is ready to go on to heaven. It is not that she hates living, it is just that she does not feel well, misses Grandpa, and is not having a ton of fun during her days. She appreciates her family and loves keeping up with friends, grand kids, great-grand kids. She still looks at pictures, reads cards, listens to my dad read her letters and keep up with all the news from our extended family. She still prays for all of us. She turned 100 years old last November. We celebrated both her birthday and my aunt and uncle’s 50th wedding anniversary with what amounted to a family reunion. The most that had gathered in several years, in fact. Grandma not only made it to the venue, she stayed for several hours. Her clear and evident joy at seeing her people together was worth any amount of miles driven, plane tickets bought, schedules re-arranged. Her prayer at Christmas Eve dinner this year had all our eyes stung with tears – words, just a few, of humility and grace. In part, she said “we need to forgive, to love, and to care for each other”. Forgiving each other for our hurts – how we wish we could master that.
Aunt Rosemary does not remember too many specifics about all of us, or where she is living, or where she used to live. She is really happy, though, and always has a smile on her face when we go to visit. She enjoys hearing about our few chickens and can tell a story about when she cared for chickens back on the Gfeller farm. Although Rosemary does not go out (except for medical appointments), she loved hearing about the gathering for Grandma’s birthday. Even when she is not feeling well, she still smiles when she says where it hurts. Smiling through pain – how we wish we could master that.

I believe the finches daydream of wide open spaces and trees to roost in and nuts to crack and bugs to catch. I believe the sisters have a lifetime of memories to sustain them through the slower hours of their days.

I do hope the sisters – do the finches? – know what lessons we learn from them about contentment in life.

Do the sisters – and the finches – know how much joy they bring us still?

Published.

· Leave a comment ·

I wrote a post for this great travel website – www.yourlifeisatrip.com

Here is a link to it:

http://www.yourlifeisatrip.com/home/cowboy-boots-on-chimney-rock.html

A Treehouse for Adults

· Leave a comment ·

We have decided, now that we are either 50 or almost 50, that we want a treehouse. I was lucky enough to have one as a kid; 3 old bedroom doors as walls, and steps cut out of old telephone poles to get up there. I don’t think Ang ever had a treehouse – she had to be happy with climbing trees all the time. It’s a collateral benefit that our daughter is still at home to enjoy it. Too bad the trees weren’t big enough to build this when the boys were still home.

We’ve made a list: “Want” and “Don’t Want” for our treehouse. So far, we DO want low walls and real wooden steps. We DO want twinkly lights, which means electricity, which means mini-fridge (and you know what THST means). We DON’T want a roof, high walls, or a rope ladder.

Isn’t it just as important to know what we don’t want is what we do want? How else will we be satisfied with the final project? And Isn’t it about time YOU built a treehouse?