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Buck Young
Arrows-The Novel
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Apples to Apples
Birthdays - Relentless. And since numbers don't always make for a memorable perspective, I'll take a shot at an image instead. This one, from a true story.
I grew up on a farm. Our water came from a spring that flowed out of a limestone bluff about 75 yards from the house. In fact, that two inch column of iron-free life-pulse was the primary motivation for the original homeowner's choice of location. That was 1833. Back then, a fully enclosed brick springhouse was built with stone steps down to the little stream so water could be bucket-fetched to the house. There was a limestone ledge just above the water level so cans of milk and tubs of butter could be 'refrigerated.' Our mid 20th Century upgrade was a concrete reservoir and a pump. And until sometime in my college years, that was the home's single and sufficient supply.
That made function a priority. The Charge Master of that and many necessities was Rabbit. Rabbit and his wife, Lilly lived on the farm and cared for us for over 23 years. They were childless - in biology only, considering the regard the four of us kids had for them.
My apprenticeship began immediately, at age three. There were fences to mend, horses to shoe, stalls to clean, a garden to plow (with mules named Laura and Eda) and countless trips to places like the Co-Op, Anderson's Hay Barn, and Miss Maggie Duke's Store for an RC and Moon Pie. I was allowed to believe myself essential to all things agricultural by the time I turned five. I was pretty sure school wouldn't be necessary.
On one particular fall day, somewhere between my 4th and 7th year, Rabbit and I were at the springhouse making some repairs to the wooden door jam. The cool, damp environment is pleasant but accelerates decay. We took a break and ate an apple apeice. When I got finished, I took a rock, scratched out a deep divot and planted the core. It actually sprouted, and I remember watching it grow over the years.
Yesterday, on my birthday, I took a walk. And since I still live on a five-acre remnant of the old farm, I set my sights on the old springhouse, which is no longer on our property. As I got closer, I noticed a void in the landscape. The apple tree was down - from the base. Judging from the rotted roots and lack of disturbed earth, it had been dying for some time. I looked along the prone trunk. It had made it to 18 or 20 feet in height, probably four feet in girth, and supported a half mile of branches. But what it shouted was my age. Not in numbers, but in the reality that I have now outlived a tree. Woah. I cracked the shell of a door to the springhouse. The musty smell of the cool, damp spring was unchanged - as was the two inch stream.
The surge of memories of Rabbit and childhood was knee-weakening. But I was reminded of the multiple bonuses of marriage, kids, and experiences that could only have happened by leaving the apple tree in it's spot and moving on.
I grew up on a farm. Our water came from a spring that flowed out of a limestone bluff about 75 yards from the house. In fact, that two inch column of iron-free life-pulse was the primary motivation for the original homeowner's choice of location. That was 1833. Back then, a fully enclosed brick springhouse was built with stone steps down to the little stream so water could be bucket-fetched to the house. There was a limestone ledge just above the water level so cans of milk and tubs of butter could be 'refrigerated.' Our mid 20th Century upgrade was a concrete reservoir and a pump. And until sometime in my college years, that was the home's single and sufficient supply.
That made function a priority. The Charge Master of that and many necessities was Rabbit. Rabbit and his wife, Lilly lived on the farm and cared for us for over 23 years. They were childless - in biology only, considering the regard the four of us kids had for them.
My apprenticeship began immediately, at age three. There were fences to mend, horses to shoe, stalls to clean, a garden to plow (with mules named Laura and Eda) and countless trips to places like the Co-Op, Anderson's Hay Barn, and Miss Maggie Duke's Store for an RC and Moon Pie. I was allowed to believe myself essential to all things agricultural by the time I turned five. I was pretty sure school wouldn't be necessary.
On one particular fall day, somewhere between my 4th and 7th year, Rabbit and I were at the springhouse making some repairs to the wooden door jam. The cool, damp environment is pleasant but accelerates decay. We took a break and ate an apple apeice. When I got finished, I took a rock, scratched out a deep divot and planted the core. It actually sprouted, and I remember watching it grow over the years.
Yesterday, on my birthday, I took a walk. And since I still live on a five-acre remnant of the old farm, I set my sights on the old springhouse, which is no longer on our property. As I got closer, I noticed a void in the landscape. The apple tree was down - from the base. Judging from the rotted roots and lack of disturbed earth, it had been dying for some time. I looked along the prone trunk. It had made it to 18 or 20 feet in height, probably four feet in girth, and supported a half mile of branches. But what it shouted was my age. Not in numbers, but in the reality that I have now outlived a tree. Woah. I cracked the shell of a door to the springhouse. The musty smell of the cool, damp spring was unchanged - as was the two inch stream.
The surge of memories of Rabbit and childhood was knee-weakening. But I was reminded of the multiple bonuses of marriage, kids, and experiences that could only have happened by leaving the apple tree in it's spot and moving on.
Rock Candy and Bell Jars
When is Less More? Just about every time. The tricky part is - when do you learn enough to feel it? My first chance was an encounter with rock candy, at age four. I guess I could look up the recipe on line, but I think I'll give you the impressions those memories left on me. The slurry solution in the big pot obviously had some goody in it. But you couldn't see it. It just looked like hot water, steaming on top of a wood fired, iron stove. The home was tiny and very simple. No indoor bathroom. It was 1960 or so. I think we hung a string or something in the middle of the pot and just waited. Crystals formed and grew. They were IceCapade beautiful and as sweet as sugar cane. And all out of nowhere. I remember my focus being enhanced by the absence of 'store-bought' candy in that house. I didn't know it then, but just a few pretty wrappers and I would have missed the whole show.
My second shot at this anti-western reality (less is more) came in 9th grade Science. Bell jars have an authentic old style lab appeal with their thick glass dome and heavy black base. Remember the balloon trick? You fill a balloon to about the size of a goose egg, tie it off and put it in the Bell jar. The teacher would ask how you could make the balloon bigger without untiing it, or even taking it out of the jar. And in public school, in 9th grade, magic didn't seem reasonable. (We were decades before Harry Potter.) Then she turned on the vacuum pump. The air that was inside the jar, but outside the balloon came out the little tube in the base. That's all it took to make the balloon bigger. It wasn't more air in the balloon, it was less obstructive pressure around the outside. And it was no illusion. That balloon was indeed bigger. In fact, it filled the jar. Cool.
My reminder came this week when a friend told me his household was going to have a Rock Candy Christmas in 2008, thanks to the wacko economy. He went on to say it would be considerably smaller.
I wonder . . . could this economy enhance our culture to gather a sweet crystallized Christmas on the simple string of now? OR - could it even stage a Bell jar effect in our Spitits? But instead of a balloon in the center, the Cross gets bigger when you vacuum out all the invisible, obstructive pressure Stuff. That might be a Bigger Christmas than I've had in several Market Cycles.
Seasons
Fall tickles my anticipation. I love all the seasons, but since I'm a Son of the South, summer feels about six months too long. (Seriously, if we had two Augusts, I'd be rethinking words like home.) So, in a sense - fall means we survived the inverse hibernation of factory air and fortified sports drinks. Then comes the fresh feel of a rejuvenated spirit. So, yeah, fall is my favorite. This year's harvest is full. In a word, brilliant. And this time, I'm not talking about leaf colors.
Our oldest daughter is in a win-win state of life and mind. Still in a city, but now just a walk, short hop, or four-hour drive from Most things Family. Man, was I ready for that! She party-planned us on one of these Favorite Fall weekends for an evening of dinner, Fox Theater play (complete with a backstage tour) and dessert. More than 20 of us. She's really good at stuff like that, and can put on a show like no maple tree dreamed.
The next daughter has approved a request for a name change. Not that she didn't wear hers well, but The Guy has asked her to put his on in June. Talk about a Harvest of prayer! And while I can't believe it's time - there's no doubt in my mind of their genuine maturity and readiness.
Our son let me share his high school football (again) as a volunteer coach. These kids invest 150 hours in weight room and personal training commitment . . . in the Off Season! Not to mention the 300-hour regular season demand. This year's crop was as fruitful as any in our small, 7-year program. We won 4 games, including 2 regionals. Plus, we were in contention till the last second in two more. And moreover, were granted individual growth and personal victories. For me, his contribution was the bright spot. He kicked nearly 30 extra points, several field goals and even added a couple of TD catches - including one for 74 yards, with his big sister in the stands. Wow. Cornucopia, Maximus!
There's a fine line between admiration and adoration. It's a Spiritual line. And it blends the subtle spectrum of our image-bearing design . . . transitioning beauty to blessed. It serves as our reminder that we can plow, plant, water and fertilize. But the magic of germination is still reserved by the Lord of the Harvest.
Our oldest daughter is in a win-win state of life and mind. Still in a city, but now just a walk, short hop, or four-hour drive from Most things Family. Man, was I ready for that! She party-planned us on one of these Favorite Fall weekends for an evening of dinner, Fox Theater play (complete with a backstage tour) and dessert. More than 20 of us. She's really good at stuff like that, and can put on a show like no maple tree dreamed.
The next daughter has approved a request for a name change. Not that she didn't wear hers well, but The Guy has asked her to put his on in June. Talk about a Harvest of prayer! And while I can't believe it's time - there's no doubt in my mind of their genuine maturity and readiness.
Our son let me share his high school football (again) as a volunteer coach. These kids invest 150 hours in weight room and personal training commitment . . . in the Off Season! Not to mention the 300-hour regular season demand. This year's crop was as fruitful as any in our small, 7-year program. We won 4 games, including 2 regionals. Plus, we were in contention till the last second in two more. And moreover, were granted individual growth and personal victories. For me, his contribution was the bright spot. He kicked nearly 30 extra points, several field goals and even added a couple of TD catches - including one for 74 yards, with his big sister in the stands. Wow. Cornucopia, Maximus!
There's a fine line between admiration and adoration. It's a Spiritual line. And it blends the subtle spectrum of our image-bearing design . . . transitioning beauty to blessed. It serves as our reminder that we can plow, plant, water and fertilize. But the magic of germination is still reserved by the Lord of the Harvest.
FOB
FOB, but Not About Me
My daughter is getting married, according to the ring on her finger and the knot in my gut. Now, anyone with the ability to identify with Daddies of Daughters (I have two) knows the premise --- No son of Adam is worthy, right? Well, this one is about as close as you can get. They've been friends and/ or "an item" since the gangly age of adolescence. And we all - my wife, other two kids, and extended family couldn't be happier.
He took me to the traditional lunch 2 weeks before the bent knee. I had known him since 7th grade (his, not mine). I even got to share his high school football as a volunteer coach. It's a blessing to see your daughter grow from girl to lady. But to watch the guy go from boy to man is a bonus few FOB's get. He walked into the restaurant with a relaxed smile. I was the nervous one. It took less than five minutes to get to the point. I blurted approval in the midst of a distinct surge of ecstatic nausea. Like putting one foot in the fire and the other in a bucket of ice - hoping to be comfortable on the average. This is a Great thing. These kids are Ga-Ga over each other. I knew that my little girl was going to be Giddy to get his proposal in a couple of weeks. I knew that my little girl was going to be . . . Gone. Whoa.
The role of FOB (in case you haven't decoded, that's Father of the Bride) is that of ballistic novice. After a lifetime of participating in a graduated scale of insightful decisions, you put on a blindfold and run barefoot through a mine filed of exploding expectations. Enter MOB. My wife and I built a house together 17 years ago. With a tight budget, we acted as our own contractor and cut a variety of frugal angles. Miraculously, we got to keep the marriage and the house. Now, we have almost as much time to pray for the Wall Street bull to whip the bear. If that fight continues to shrink resources, it may effect this memorable occasion. But, it'll be June, so we have options. What could be prettier than honeysuckle? And for the reception - I'm thinking Pot Luck. Why not? These kids grew up in the same church - in a fried chicken courtship. Shouldn't their launch be consistent?
I'm less than a week into this. One step at a time, right?
Fox and Hound
Well, I can't believe this. First, I actually feel a political opinion forming. And second - I'm going to pin it up. I watched the Republican Convention Wednesday night, Sept 3. We heard a variety of speeches, including the VP candidate, Sarah Palin (Not Sarah, Plain and Tall, it turns out).
First, consider this source. My political insights rank second only to my techno skills from the bottom up . . . somewhere between a rock and a toad. So, when I'm 'feeling' a tilt in any direction, it's usually from impressions of a candidate's motive - as I'm informed by his or her method (knowing that motive matters most, but is toughest to unmask). Personally, I have been disappointed this election year, in my shallow search for a conservative. Sure, the term is still thrown around liberally (sorry). But the definition of Conservative is starting to blur. Those opposed to conservative thought cut and paste a condemning collage with images of renegades bombing abortion clinics and radicals bashing gays. While those in favor face a compromise of standards once common to our culture. Imagine being accused of Barnacle Brain just because you think marriage is a gender-limited event.
Back to the convention. I didn't have a clue who Sarah Palin was on Tuesday. And I'm no authority now. But I don't want to play hockey against any of her kids. And apparently, what the old McCain Hound was lacking in my definition of Conservative . . . well, enter the Fox.
And I love the outdoors. Though I'm admittedly not eco-savvy enough to be messing around with habitats beyond my sports closet. But it's reassuring to hear the priority of our energy crisis, set against a logical perspective of caribou comfort. And if Alaskans don't know wildlife, I'm a Silver Salmon.
So . . . I'm not as excited as I would like to think voters should be, but I feel better. Honestly, I'd about decided I wouldn't even vote this round. (That's more of a confession of a pout than a justification of a plan.)
Test Launch & Invitation to Blog
Test - First Blog attempt - No Reserve Chute. Scary. Born too early to have learned computerology with a malleable mind - too late to live without the blooming things. What's an Old Dog to do? My niece bailed me out. Thanks, Andrea!
Step One - Why? Before the How of What gets deliberation, the Why of If should be determined. In this case, a Blog Site has grown from the seed of a Magazine-Size clip. Making a Long Story short is a Free Fall from a perfectly good plot. Side Note - I think I'd enjoy certain aspects of that sky dive analogy, but the likelihood of my first-hand perspective is low. I can't afford a ride in a C-130. (And it would take that many men to throw me out.)
So, why Blog? Well, if you're Paul Harvey - you can tell the Rest of the Story while you're still talking. But No-Names have to find less expensive column inches to expound. This is my solution. Submit the article to the periodical, then sweep up the cutting room floor and piece together a Mosaic called a Blog. I Love this culture!
Seriously - More than Expansion, I'm motivated by Interaction. I want to hear from Readers. I don't know for sure how you would Blog on this site, but if you want to give it a shot, by all means, let 'er rip. And feel free to leave a bread crumb trail of instructions for others who might want to do the same.
Step One - Why? Before the How of What gets deliberation, the Why of If should be determined. In this case, a Blog Site has grown from the seed of a Magazine-Size clip. Making a Long Story short is a Free Fall from a perfectly good plot. Side Note - I think I'd enjoy certain aspects of that sky dive analogy, but the likelihood of my first-hand perspective is low. I can't afford a ride in a C-130. (And it would take that many men to throw me out.)
So, why Blog? Well, if you're Paul Harvey - you can tell the Rest of the Story while you're still talking. But No-Names have to find less expensive column inches to expound. This is my solution. Submit the article to the periodical, then sweep up the cutting room floor and piece together a Mosaic called a Blog. I Love this culture!
Seriously - More than Expansion, I'm motivated by Interaction. I want to hear from Readers. I don't know for sure how you would Blog on this site, but if you want to give it a shot, by all means, let 'er rip. And feel free to leave a bread crumb trail of instructions for others who might want to do the same.
