My Two Sons

It had been a week we would definitely not have chosen.  Truck troubles and costly delays in Idaho.  Issues at home we hadn't planned on. This gal was nearly at the end.

The morning was spent helping a friend with her mammoth weeding task.  Yes, mine were being ignored, but it's always more fun to do someone else's than your own.

She gave me a precious gift, allowing me to enter her world for a short morning and forget my own.

Back at home, and on the mower.  This is a time when I can talk to God.  No one else hears or sees.  The sun was shining, puffy clouds overhead.  Fields on three sides were full of aromatic drying alfalfa.  Horsepower, on large bouncy tires and on steel wheels, roared around me bringing in the harvest.  Hills were green, flowers were blooming.  The view would almost rival the Trucker's recent photos of Montana.

So why the tears?  With all the beauty and abundance around me?

"Lord, I am so tired.  I'm a sweaty, sunburned, grass stained, tear streaked mess.  My muscles ache, but all that would be a good thing, were it not for the hurt in my heart.  We have waited so long, tried so hard, and still no change.  Every time we dare hope we are crushed again.  Please Lord, show yourself once more.  Help us carry this burden."

In addition to the emotional pain, two practical things weighed on me:  despite my best efforts, a shaggy-around-the-edges lawn and property.  It needed a strong dose of weed whacking, but yours truly doesn't have a big enough jerk to start the whacker.  And a septic malfunction was backing up into the tub every time water was used in the house.

"Lord, I am inadequate for these issues.  I would like to fix them, but I can't.  I want to be the Trucker's help-meet, but I am not "meet" for these.  The Trucker has been gone for ten days.  He is coming home exhausted in body, mind, and soul.  I feel so badly hitting him with these.  Please give him just a little more strength??"  It seemed God was silent, but He already had my answer prepared, just in a different way than I expected.

Mowing completed.  Back in the house for a drink.  A car door slams.  Boots were heard in the laundry room.  Son number two?? Off work so soon?  

"Hi mom!  I went in early this morning, so I am off early and can do your weed whacking."  And while I  planted corn in the garden, he proceeded to do just that, and was gone before I could properly thank him for getting up early and doing this for me.  He didn't need a crying mama anyway.  

On to the next task, long overdue pruning of the lilac bushes.  Wrestling with obstreperous vines, being jabbed by dead sticks, I finally emerged from behind a bush to find - Son #1???  Where did you come from??

"Oh, I was working near Philadelphia today, and decided to stop in on my way home!"  We chatted over cold meadow tea, and he showed photos of his current job, a high end bathroom construction/remodel.  Wow wow.  His ability impresses me more than the snazzy bathroom.  And speaking of bathtubs...I laughingly told him of his brother giving me a "Three Bears Moment" earlier in the week, and the cause of it.

Immediately he was on his feet, striding to said bathtub.  Within a half hour, the problem was diagnosed, and repaired.  Then, like the Sneetches' Sylvester McMonkey McBean, 

The Fix-it-up-Chappie packed up, and he went.

I don't know if

he laughed as he drove, 

but this mama went on to the next thing (a shower!) with a lighter heart, even though tears - of thankfulness - were on her cheeks.  As Miss Clara prayed in War Room,

"You've done it again, Lord, You've done it again.

You're a good, good, God.  Praise you Jesus!"

Visual of a Habit

For fourteen years, a certain feline has made multiple trips from lawn barn to back porch, where the food shows up, and where there is a door that. just. might. open. to let her sneak into the house.

A closeup look at the lawn will show that every paw step is placed in the exact same print along the path every time - those soft paws have worn the grass away over the years.

Habits will do that. What habits/patterns are ingrained in me unawares, softly imprinting on my life and thinking? For good or otherwise?

The path.

Keeping the Trucker company on a rare day off.

A Three Bears Moment

It was a Sunday of many things.  Going from one event to another without down time to process is harder than it was a few years ago.  Add a few emotional jolts, and the reserve is depleted and running on fumes.  Leaving the house after a brief stop for a phone conversation, I decided not to bother locking the front door.  Why be paranoid?  And I wouldn't be home THAT late, just a little after dark.

A pleasant evening with the in-laws, standing in for the Trucker (who was stranded in Idaho with a non-functioning truck).  I arrived home with  a van load of mementos of Dad.  With illumination from just the outdoor light and the small indoor lamp left on at night I carried in the mementos, then headed down the hall.

In the bathroom, after flicking on the overhead light, I noted the closet door (which leads to the bedroom) was locked.  I never do that.  The shower curtain was pushed all the way open.  I always close it.  And a towel I didn't use was on the hook.  It and the tub were wet.

Now, who breaks into a house (or walks in, as the case may be) to take a shower?  In spite of the fact that a logical explanation must be available, I was uneasy, home alone at night.  In a house left unlocked.  If the youngest (and largest) bear cub had been in the family den, he would have used his own shower downstairs.

I phoned the Trucker.  He calmed my fears.  Suggested a text to the youngest cub.  "He called me a few hours ago, but he didn't say from where.  Maybe he was at home?"

The text was duly sent: 

"Having a 'Three Bears' moment here.  Did you stop in for a shower tonight?"

Minutes later, the response came back:

"Haha, yeah.  And I ate the 'little bowl' of casserole.  It was juuuust right!"

Oh, he is so funny.  Goldilocks he is not.  Twenty years old and still giving my heart an aerobic workout on a regular basis.

Love you son.  Glad you are in my life, and that you return my love.

Mother's Day Convoy 2016

This was written two years ago.  Little did we know the intense grief and loss that would rip apart our family just three short months later.  Little did we know that it also was indeed the GrandTrucker's last convoy.  Indeed, five short months later, he was in heaven with Jesus.  It has been a struggle to continue resting in God for our future and for our family.  But we know that He is the only one worthy of our trust and able to mend our hearts and our family.  We trust ourselves to Him, and rest in His everlasting arms.

Mother’s Day 2016

 Mother’s Day is the annual Make-A-Wish Truck Convoy in Ephrata, PA. Mother's Day 1998 fell on May 12. It was this year the Trucker was driving a truck in the convoy, with five year old DS#1 as his passenger. The Trucker's father also had a truck in the convoy. 

 After church, I left infant DS#2 in his Grandma’s care, and took my girls on some back roads to a bridge over Route 222, where we settled in to watch for the Trucker and the GrandTrucker to pass by underneath. 

After a seemingly endless line of trucks, fire engines, and emergency vehicles, blasting their horns and sirens, we saw and waved at the trucks we were looking for. By then we all had had enough of the noise and excitement.  Back in the car in blessed quietness, we returned to Grandma’s house. There we found DS#2 still as asleep as when we left him, much to Grandma’s dismay. She had wanted him to wake so she could hold and play with him. I actually would have preferred that she wake him, so he would be more likely to sleep that night!

Fast forward eighteen years to 2016. Once again, the Trucker and the GrandTrucker are both running trucks in the convoy. I am the Trucker’s passenger, GrandTrucker has a small grandson filling his passenger seat (when he sits). 

The GrandTrucker has been on the road for sixty years. Will this be his last? We don’t know, but the knowledge that this could be his last convoy makes it extra special. This year the Make-A-Wish Foundation has the preparations in place to take a shot at breaking the world record for longest truck convoy, which stands at 416 trucks. (And they did, with 590 trucks officially recorded.)

As we ride, we are looking for DS#1 and his wife, who are set to take photos of our trucks in Brownstown. DS#2, with sister DD#2 and some friends, are on the ramp between Routes 222 and 272 at Brownstown. When we get to the ramp, crowds of people line both sides of the road. I tell the big guy behind the wheel to keep watch on his side, and I will eyeball my side for our offspring. 

 At the Trucker's “There he is!” I look straight ahead and gasp. Our son is standing in the center of the ramp, by the guardrail, holding a large sign above his head that reads “MOM,” with a heart drawn around the word.

A quick glimpse and we were past. Through tears, I grabbed the air horn cord and pulled hard. Bystanders were laughing and cheering. I barely had time to wipe my eyes before we were around the corner and daughter-in-law was stepping out to snap photos, with her husband standing behind her waving both arms and cheering. We are so blessed.

Eighteen years ago I had a little boy thrilled to ride with daddy, and toddler daughter on each arm, and a newborn in Grandma’s arms. Today they are grown and independent, and supporting us with their presence and their love. A blink and the years are gone. How do we come to deserve this? What will happen in another eighteen years? Only God knows, and I am content to let that knowledge with Him.

Orange Nightmares

A cool, quiet room in Tracy, California.  A welcome space, though small as motel rooms go, to relax.  A great improvement over 18 hours in a truck, most of those parked in the California sun.

"Is this OK with you?" the Trucker asked as we pushed through the door with bags and baggage.

"It is wonderful!  Thank you!"  his Passenger replied, then added teasingly, "As long as I don't get nightmares from the orange paint on the walls!"

Next morning as we packed to depart, the Trucker inquired. "Are you planning to have nightmares today?"

Confused, I stopped and searched his face.  He grinned.

"Your shirt and the stripes on your skirt are exactly the same shade as the walls of this room."

Oh, me.

Dawn on the Mojave

Watching a new day dawn on the Mojave Desert.  The sky was clear, and star studded; one by one they were wiped out by the encroaching sunlight.  Temperature was in the low 70's til the sun was fully up.

Photos courtesy of the Trucker.

Divide and Conquer

"Indeed in nothing is the power of the dark lord more clearly shown than in the estrangement that divides all those who still oppose him.'

Haldier, of the Lothlorien Elves
The Fellowship of the Ring

The Enemy's strategy, one of many, and arguably the best, is to divide and conquer.  If we can be sidetracked from our purpose and calling by a perceived injustice or a selfish desire, the urgency and necessity of our purpose fades, and our selfishness takes uppermost importance.  The purpose  fades, even in such cases as when it is cited as a reason for holding onto our claim of right; it becomes merely a means to an end instead of the end goal itself.

Donner Pass in May

Six weeks ago we stopped on Donner Pass.  It was a Sunday afternoon.  Snow covered the ground.  Parent types sitting in the parked cars watched as children rode sleds down the snow covered rock by the building and landed on the cleared sidewalk.  Tourists wandered about with cameras.  A lady held a straining Labrador on a leash, preventing it from joining the children at play.  The poor dog was wearing socks on his paws, held in place by rubber bands.  Ah, lady, just let your dog be a dog as God intended!  He can't lick those socks dry, and will be wholly uncomfortable from here on out!

Unfortunately The Passenger has no photos of that day.

But today, after hours of driving through the mountains and into the afternoon sun, the Trucker guided his green Kenworth into the Donner rest area.  The children are gone, as is the snow on the rocks.  The thermometer reads 47 degrees at 7:30pm Pacific Time.  The pond is thawed, though snow still rims the edges.  Snow is also on the mountain peaks, and in little heaps around the building. 

A corner of the building where

sun doesn't shine.

The children had a perfect slide between these rocks to the 

sidewalk in their little toboggans.

Indoors, there is heat, which is lovely when it happens in a rest area.  For those in need, they also have one of these relics, with instructions for use below.

Out on the sidewalk, plaques  to educate on the area's history.

We stood by the pond and watched an osprey soar above the trees, then suddenly bank and drop feet first into the water.  The dive came up empty; not deterred, he soared to a tree top, fluffed his feathers to shake off the water, and fixed a piercing stare on the water's surface.  Supper's got to be in there, he will nab it eventually.

He is up at the very tip of the tree,

blending in quite nicely.  How can he see
into the water from up there??

Here he is, a shot borrowed

from Wikipedia.

11pm EST, and the sun has dropped behind the mountains.  The rest area is quiet but for the low rumble of refrigeration units on the  truck trailers.  The day is done.

Breakfast with the Seagulls

A Monday morning.  Near the southern shore of the Great Salt Lake.  A misty morning, on the edge of chilly.  The smell of salt and the harsh cries of seagulls was in the air.  What attracts them to the Salt Lake?  Are there creatures that actually find a living there?

The Trucker and I had overnighted at the Travel Centers of America truckstop in Tooele, Utah.  Breakfast was in the truck, though this Passenger's appetite seemed to be missing in action.

While the Trucker was in the store, it was noticed that the trucker two spaces over appeared to be sharing his breakfast with the gulls.  

Hmmm.  Baked oatmeal had been on the menu in the green Kenworth.  Might they be interested?

They were.  A bit too interested.  Up close and personal seemed the be their style.  

They were not even deterred by the arrival of the Trucker, who shared his perspective on facebook.  "It seems my wife has been feeding the birds again."

And then it was back on Route 80 West.

Through the Salt Flats.

Past the salt processing plant.

And westward toward the mountains.

Climbing at the Echo Rest Area

Ten PM EST brought us to the Echo Rest Area on Route 80 in Echo, Utah.  Evening light softened the landscape in this pocket between the hills.  The Trucker parked on the edge of the lot, facing a small hill with a narrow path leading to the top.  Could we climb it to see what is on the other side?  He didn't think so.

This night, the Passenger retired to the upper bunk for a bit of reading and study before lights out. Sliding the upper windows open and feeling the cool breeze brush her face was a pleasant way to drift off.  During chill predawn hours, when the thermometer dropped to 40 degrees, the Trucker flipped the heat switch.  While he was comfortably roasting down below, on the upper oven rack the Passenger was broiling, and those little windows were a blessing.  Now what might happen, when the warm air from below collides with the cold air from above?  No thunderstorms here, unless one counts laughter, a rare occurrence, but the more precious for that.

The facilities were welcome n the morning, though brushing one's teeth with no available paper towels, and only an air dryer on the wall was rather tricky.  Add to that the water faucet whose sensor  was confused, causing water to gush out every minute on the minute, whether or not soapy hands were waiting.

The walkway outside held a plaque which educated readers on the construction of Route 80, the Dwight D. Eisenhower Highway.  It seems we have President Eisenhower to thank for initiating the plan for a nationwide road system.  As a young man in the military in 1919, he was part of a convoy that traveled from Washington, DC, to San Francisco, CA.  That trip took 62 days.

An idea was born.  And in 1956, the soldier turned President signed a bill to set in motion the building of a network of highways to knit this nation together.

Back in the truck, at 8AM EST, day was breaking.  The Passenger was still intrigued by that uphill path.  The Trucker suggested the paved path instead, and was willing for his Passenger to become a Disruption, for a few minutes. Phone with camera in hand, I start up the path, then pause by the curious holes along it.  Gophers??  Maybe.  Snakes??  Hope not.  Further on, more holes.  Front doors, back doors, air vents, some neatly packed, some with signs of recent excavation.

At the top, I meet a trucker in flip flops and gym shorts.  He greets me with a smile.

"Good Morning Ma'am."  Gotta be from the south.  No respect like that elsewhere.
"Where y'all from?"
"Pennsylvania, Sir," I replied with a grin.  This is catching!
Turns out he was from Georgia, and "We don't got no views like this down there!"

Photo by Michael Grass

Together we appreciated the view, red/orange, wind-carved hills, and the canyon below, through which railroad tracks ran.  As he turned to leave, with a wish for our safe travels, he pointed to a second path that led upward to our right.  "Y'all might want to try that one, Ma'am!"

Yes, I would.  "Further up, and further in!" as the Lion said.  Trotting up the steeply curving sidewalk, heart rate accelerating, I come round to the top, and learn what that white object is, that we saw glowing in the moonlight in the night.

Looking back down the path.

First, a paved area, with a bench, a glorious view in all directions.  Mountains, canyons, sky, glowing red, orange, gold, in the sunrise.  No words came to mind, but - "The hand of the LORD has done this!"  Down below, the row of trucks slumbering in the lot looked like my sons' matchbox toy collection.  In every direction a view that defied description.  Did I check out the possibility of an echo in Echo, Utah?

No, this was a time to be silent.  It was a time for silent worship in the still morning.  Not for the first time, gratitude overwhelmed me, and I was bereft of words.  The Psalmist said it for me,

I will lift mine eyes unto the hills.

Where does my help come from?

My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.

And if my help comes from Him, I need no more,

And behind the bench, a life size  statue of an ox, and behind it  a real, original, covered wagon.  With warnings not to climb, sit, or stand on the structure.  Though quite weathered, it was in surprisingly good condition.  The white canvas cover is what we saw reflecting last night's moon.  Wishing for a tape measure while tiptoeing around with camera in hand, I was in awe again of those who packed up family and possessions to make a cross country trip.  With no roads or amenities.  There was less room in that wagon than in the Trucker's bunk. 

Wikipedia says the average Conestoga wagon was 18 feet long,

11 feet long, and 4 feet wide.  Looked right for this one.

My head came up to just below the H.

A bit rusty on the gears, and the caulking 

between the boards is gone.

The canvas and ropes looked nearly

new, except for a few holes worn

on the lower left side in back.

Littering, even here at an historical landmark.

And the high seat was a tad askew.

Then, down the steep, curving, path.  Back to the paved lot, and back to the green Kenworth and the patient Trucker.  Back to the highway, through the canyons toward Salt Lake, with the sun rising behind us.

30 Years Later I Still Don't Understand Why...

....so said the Trucker as we again passed the....unique, to be kind....sculpture on the Salt Flats of Utah.

Meet Metaphor, the Tree of Life.

It stands on the north side of Route 80, forty miles east of Wendover, Utah.

This monstrosity was conceived in the mind of one Karl Momen, a Swedish sculptor.  It seems he was driving through the desert of Utah, and had a vision (mirage??) of a tree.  He arranged for Metaphor to be constructed in the early 1980's as a representation of his vision.  I guess on the Salt Flats of Utah, zoning isn't a really big deal.  Though, this vision of modern art is rather a jolt for conservative Utah.

Wikipedia tells us,

The sculpture, which is constructed mainly of concrete, consists of a squarish 'trunk' holding up six spheres that are coated with natural rock and minerals native to Utah. There are also several hollow sphere segments on the ground around the base. The sculpture currently has a fence surrounding the base to protect people from falling tiles.

From treeofutah.com, I learn that Metaphor is comprised of:

100 tons of chrysacolla rock, 

40 tons of epoxy, 

160 tons of steel, 

15 tons of colored cement and sand, 

18,000 imported ceramic tiles, 

5 tons of welding rods, 

7 tons of timber, and

20 tons of plaster.  

The foundation is supported by 25 steel encased concrete piles, each driven 90 feet down into the loose soil and sand of the desert.  Finished weight is 875 tons, having consumed 21,000 man hours of labor and $1,000,000 of Karl Momen's personal funds. It is built to withstand desert winds of up to 130 miles per hour, and earthquakes up to 7.5 on the Richter scale.  

Interestingly, the Tree of Life was also meant to be a "veiled reference to the concerns with environmental issues prevalent in the 1970's," and "a symbol of preservation and survival."  My mind struggles to line that up with the cost and materials of the construction project.

Karl Momen himself, in one of the 

spheres, during construction.

Metaphor is 87 feet tall.  Just three feet short of King Nebuchadnezzar's golden statute.  

Inscribed on the base are the words of Freidrich Schiller, also used in Beethoven's 9th Symphony.  The last few lines caught my eye,

Brothers, above the starry canopy

There must dwell a loving Father.

Do you fall in worship, you millions?

World, do you know your Creator?

Seek Him in the heavens;

Above the stars must he dwell.

Did Karl Momen know the Creator?  Somehow, I wonder.  Though I do hope he did.

And, I might add, Beethoven's 9th has also been used to put music to words written by Henry Van Dyke in 1907, of which this is the second verse,

1. All Thy works with joy surround Thee,
   Earth and heav’n reflect Thy rays,
   Stars and angels sing around Thee,
   Center of unbroken praise.
   Field and forest, vale and mountain,
   Flow’ry meadow, flashing sea,
   Singing bird and flowing fountain
   Call us to rejoice in Thee.

I like these words better.  Anything created by man is a poor attempt to mimic what our Creator has already, in His vast wisdom, done.  

Karl Momen dedicated his sculpture to the state of Utah in 1986, and returned to Sweden, from whence he came.  Though he did reappear briefly in 2011 to suggest that a visitor center be constructed around Metaphor, the funds for which, he thought, could be paid for by donations.

"30 years later, and I still don't understand why," the Trucker said.  He's been driving this route since 1985, and before that, riding it with his father.  He saw the Before, After, and During, of Metaphor's construction.

Through the windshield, May, 2018

The Trucker and I have some huge "Don't Understand Why" giants in our own lives just now.  For some they are curiosities, to visit and discuss on occasion.  For some they are reasons for prayer and fasting.  For some, they are sources of deep grief, and they weep with us.  The giants seem as unreasonable as Metaphor, and just as insurmountable.  

But even in the desert, in the Salt Flats of our lives, God is.  And about the question, is there really a God? we don't wonder if He exists, we know.  If for no other reason than this  in Romans 1, 

18For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who hold the truth in unrighteousness; 19Because that which may be known of God is manifest in them; for God hath shewed it unto them.20For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead; so that they are without excuse: 

God has ingrained who He is in the minds and hearts of men and women, created in His image, whether they are willing to acknowledge Him or not.

Someday, we will know the why.  For now, knowing Who He is, is enough.

When You Call Me That, Smile

The Trucker planned a stop this afternoon at the Historic Virginian Hotel in Medicine Bow, Wyoming.  His Passenger would have foregone the food just to explore!  

The kitchen is modern, and the eating area resembles a diner.  The staff is very casual; if they forget part of an order, or a refill, diners stand up and holler.  The soup is self serve, the salads looked yummy, though the salad bar was non-existent today.  Our waiter was a courteous young man in sweatpants and a football jersey.

But the decor and furnishings were Victorian, original, authentic, and very "busy."

The front of the old hotel. Diners enter the second door from the left.

Built in 1911, it still offers Old West hospitality.  It is on the National Register of Historic places.  In the day, it was the largest hotel between Denver, Colorado and Salt Lake City, Utah.

Wikipedia informs me,

The original building is a 3½ story structure.  It is constructed of concrete blocks containing sand drawn from the Medicine Bow River and fashioned at the building site. Along with the significance of the size and architecture of the hotel, it boasts the first electric lights and sewer in town.

The hotel proper is papered in Victorian gold and burgundy medallion wallpaper, has velvet draperies and pressed tin on its 12 foot high ceilings.  The main floor has an "Eating House," the formal "Owen Wister Dining Room," and the "Shiloh Saloon," which still has bullet holes riddled throughout to remind guests of some past shootout.  The rooms have antique brass beds, tulip-shape lights are still heated by steam radiators. Only the suites have private baths, replete with claw foot bathtubs. The other rooms have access to separate bath facilities located in the halls.  True to its time, the rooms in the original hotel do not have modern amenities such as telephones or televisions.

The name is derived from that classic novel, The Virginian, by Owen Wister.  Did Owen Wister ever stay there?  I could not find confirmation of that, though the largest and grandest suite in the hotel is named after him, and appears to be set up for the convenience of a writer.  The Trucker seems to remember his name on the register, and a plaque stating that he did indeed.

The Owen Wister Suite, camera glare notwithstanding.

Those floor to ceiling windows were

wonderful.

The only accommodation in the 

place with a desk.

A closeup of the vintage Victrola.

The bed, with period linens, listing slightly to

the south.  Would not have wanted to Trucker

 to try it!  All beds were single or double size.

The private bath, a plumber's nightmare!

A small sink behind the door.  No space to spare

in these rooms.  Folk must have been smaller back

in the day!

Every room had doors to the adjoining 

rooms on either side  

This room, however, was part of the Owen Wister 

Suite.  The door shown led back into the hall.  All 

rooms had three doors.  One on each side, and one

 to the hall.  Add a large window on the fourth wall,

 and fitting furniture into these tiny spaces led to 

some interesting arrangements!

This one had a vintage Singer (just like mine!)

 tucked behind a door.  Wonder if Owen Wister 

did his own mending?

No AC, but the screened windows could be 

opened at will to admit the dust, heat, and 

noise of the street outside.  And the trains

whistled and roared through town three

times every hour.

The Trucker has read The Virginian several times over the years, and a copy resides on his office shelf.  This experience brought new visuals to the story.

And the quote?  "When you call me that, smile."

It seems that was a phrase an acquaintance of The Virginian was wont to use; he and only he, could get away with using it.  Any other man would risk death.  In the story, another man did.  "When you call me that, smile," The Virginian told this man, presumably so he could discern how the statement was intended.

This Passenger was smiling.  She absolutely loved the stop, the tour, the experience.  In addition to the surprise, as the Trucker had not told her to expect this, and indeed she did not know it existed!  And, he patiently gave her all the time she wished to explore.

The only thing needed was period dress.  Jeans and flip flops just didn't quite mesh with the surroundings.  Oh, and maybe a shootout or two.  Owen Wister's suite was just above the bar, after all.  Maybe he did his best writing, waiting for the 2AM closing time?