There Comes A Time

The day had arrived.  The last day of work in a local office, for the Passenger.  A part time job that in some ways ended too soon, and in some ways not soon enough.  With mixed feelings, she intended to leave quietly, after the last assigned project was completed.

Promptly at 8AM, her coworker, the very patient trainer/supervisor/cleaner-upper-of-mistakes, arrived.  Bearing a gift to go on.

An iced coffee.  At least the Passenger thinks that is the official name of this sugary, caffeinated concoction.  With chocolate syrup and whipped cream.

Now you need to know, that in all of her half century on this earth, the Passenger has never once ingested coffee.  In any form.  She has briefly entertained the idea on numerous occasions.  Especially on long days in front of the screen, or days following the all too frequent sleepless nights.  

But the smell didn't appeal or impress, so why would the taste be palatable?  And to order one these days would appear to require the learning of a whole new language, as well.

But this was a gracious gift.  Offered in friendship.  A perfect opportunity.  How could she refuse!  She didn't.  And so she and an iced coffee settled down at the computer again to list online, of all things, travel mugs.  As she ferreted out information and details, applying them to blanks on the computer program template, a first tentative sip was taken.

Not bad. A tad bitter, yes.  But definitely not a hardship to drink.  Maybe not this gal's first choice of beverage, and most assuredly iced would be preferable to hot.  

Task completed and remaining coffee in hand, she said her goodbyes and punched out her time card for the last time.  Driving home, she mused over the morning's interesting twist and new experience.  How many people (other than the Trucker) can say they tasted their first coffee in all their 53 years?  And did she really and truly dislike coffee, or was it just prejudice?  Which leads to the question, will she order coffee again, on her own?

Rolling up her own driveway, the thought struck.  After a mostly sleepless night, no breakfast, and three hours sitting in front of a screen, she was awake.  Or, as Jeff Foxworthy would say, "She. Was. A-WAKE!"  Really and truly!  No sleepiness, yawning, or difficulty focusing.  When had she last felt like this, except in a crisis situation?

All day and into the night, alertness persisted.  No complaints, just a wry grin.  

Maybe she'll need to try this again.

After all, there are 53 years to make up for.

Random Texts on Summer Day

A warm summer day in August.  The Passenger spent its first eight hours in a windowless, air conditioned office, communing with a keyboard.  Comfortable and enjoyable, but sleep inducing. 

Upon arrival at home, emails needed responded to, which meant more screen time. 

Then, as day waned and the blazing sun began its downward slide, time to hasten to the hens.  "Down the road and down the road she went" as Bunny did in the Little Golden Book.  They would be waiting for their daily release into the meadow, to snip grass blades and clover leaves, and snap beaks at insects on the wing.

Rounding them up into their enclosure for the night, away from hawks, weasels, coons and such, took a bit of persuasion.  Therefore, a treat was in order, to lure them back in more easily.  Having done this the first few times she was brave enough to turn them loose, they now expected the offering of a delicacy as a matter of course.

This time?  Milk on the south end of fresh, absorbed by old bread, flavored with a smidge of salt and pepper.  And a few ripe tomatoes from the volunteer plant that took up residence in the garden.

But first, to unlatch the gate, refill water and feed buckets, gather eggs.  Then putter about the meadow's edge while the cluckers perambulated, conversing among themselves contentedly.

The last few days, she had spent this time pulling tall weeds and tough fall grass away from the barn wall.  A few of the younger hens, rather trusting they seemed to be, had noticed.  Especially noticed that crumbly brown dirt being exposed, and even more especially, bugs and beetles, arachnids and annelids. 

So much so, that now they worried around her ankles, eyeballing her inquiringly, and making pointed application for more of the same.  So much so that every time she reached for a handful of greenery, brown feathered necks and pecking beaks immediately stretched in to participate.  Moving slowly, talking quietly, it was such fun to explore with these fowl friends. 

"...with a cluck-cluck here and a cluck-cluck there, here a cluck, there a cluck..."

By now the Trucker was checking in from points west.

Is the Working Girl back home? he wondered.

Yep, she'd been.  But not at the moment.

Hen-rietta, Harriet, Hattie, Hester, and me are weeding.  Seems it's now my job to unearth crawlies for the ladies....

You could bring them up to help you in the garden, he suggested.

That was the next task on the list.  But no, the feathered folk wouldn't travel well.

I wish!!  Tried to get a photo of a crawlie but SuperBeak here was too fast.  Talk about things that wiggle and jiggle inside her.....

And the Trucker sent back a laughing face emoticon.  He was thinking what she was thinking, the little story book and song that their children had so enjoyed in years gone by.

"There was an old lady who swallowed a fly.

I don't know why she swallowed a fly, perhaps she'll die.

There was an old lady who swallowed a spider, that wiggled and jiggled inside her

She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.

I don't know why she swallowed a fly, perhaps she'll die.

There was an old lady who swallowed a bird.

She swallowed the bird to catch the spider, she swallowed the spider to catch the fly..."

And so forth.  Well, Hen-rietta had swallowed the fly and the spider, though being a bird herself, that is where the song application stopped.

But apparently she had taken too long with the weeding and texting, as a few hens were beginning to wander back into the enclosure, tip their heads, and point an eyeball at their old-and-as-yet-empty cake pan.  The heads then tipped toward the Source of Treats, and beady eyes studied her while quiet conversations ensued among them.  "Awwwk, waaaaawk, waaaawk...."

As she walked back to the barn door, hens fluttered in from all corners of the meadow, colliding and jostling through the gate to cluster underfoot.  And there was always that one who parked IN the cake pan to get first dibs on the choicest morsels. 

A feast, and surely Hen-rietta is getting a better deal than Harriet....neither can eat without worrying about her neighbor's portion...

Bowl emptied into the pan, she stepped back to count before closing the gate for the night.  She would count heads, or beaks as it were, but none were visible.  Only fluffy bottoms pointing skyward around the aforementioned cake pan.  She would count the part that goes under the fence last instead.

Strutting inefficiently round the perimeter, the white Rooster was engaged in his best FogHorn LegHorn imitation, taking full credit for the repast his hens were enjoying.  Now and then he pinched a morsel for himself, but mostly cared for the advertising department.

"Up the road and up the road she went," to the next responsibility.

Nailed some Lantern Flies.  Now Felinius and me are hacking in the garden.

The summer's experiment was wildflowers sown in a quarter of the area.  Which had grown happily, bloomed, and drooped.  Too well established to pull out, and too sturdy to mow down, they required a scythe to lay them low, and a fire to burn.

Always nice to have help he commented.  

Yep, and with this kind of around-your-ankles "help", a lot of driving he'd get done.  Better steer clear of the scythe if she values that waving appendage called a tail.

Flaming flowers, fussy feline, she texted.

Singed whiskers, he replied.

And she brought in the last bouquet of rescued blooms for the season, to grace the kitchen table.

Now dark already.  Me n the genealogy chart gonna play a lil while the sweat dries.  Then a shower.  You tired of the play by play yet?

Apparently, he wasn't for an hour later came the next query.

How is ya?

Ummm....don't open a can of soup for supper when the cat is listening....

It appears to sound in the feline ear quite the same as a tin of her specialty, much desired but seldom offered.

And then, Sandman wins...G'nite....love you...

And he replied, 40 miles to go before I sleep....love you...

God Does Things Perfectly. Us? Not So Much.

August 16, 2019

We prayed for a load coming out of Chicago area, to deliver in Pennsylvania. And if God willed it so,

- a good paying load

- a “dry” load so the reefer wouldn’t have to run all weekend

- a load that picked up Friday and delivered Monday, reasonably close to home

He answered all the above prayers as we prayed them!

The load was of sea salt, and .7 miles from where we were parked overnight in Northlake.

By the time we got out of the lot and onto the street, the distance was .4 miles. Down the street we went, to the entrance. Where a sign proclaimed “NO Trucks”. Oh. So the Trucker drove on, immediately realizing he’d made a mistake. (The sign was turned, and meant for a different driveway.)  Down the street and down the street we went, though no opportunity to turn the big rig around presented itself.

This means we go around the block. In the city. Past a plethora of dead-end and no-turn-around streets. Suddenly the Trucker spoke urgently. 

HE:  What does that sign say up ahead?!?

ME: Which of the two dozen signs?

HE: There! That one! The height limit one!!

ME: OH! 13’ 8”

HE: Whew!

And we sailed under the low railroad bridge with 2” to spare. Ai-yi-yi.

Til all was said and done, “around the block” added 8 miles to our .7 mile commute. But we are here!

Now there are four trucks ahead of us in line. The Trucker dismounts and enters the warehouse. He returns directly, with a lanyard hanging round his neck, holding a tag displaying the door number at which he was to receive his load. What is he, in kindergarten? Oh well, wearing his number also certifies he is legal to be on the property…

And the lovely thing? His load is waiting round the back of the building, so he can bypass the line and back right up to the door. We blutz over the railroad tracks, he turns the truck around in a tight corner, and backs up to the door.

Interestingly, the railroad tracks cross the lot, and run right up to the building, under the door, and inside. This must be a side track on which they can run cars right into the warehouse and unload, protected from the elements. How nice!

Now, ten minutes until the whole warehouse crew goes on break. Sigh. Will they load us first? We can only hope. (Nope, they didn’t. ‘Nother hour to go, now…) If it wouldn’t have been for that 8 mile tour ‘round town…

Meanwhile, this Passenger will just enjoy the cool breeze and the fact that she is still close enough to O’Hare to watch planes….

Miracle in the Night

Again, the Trucker and I are on the road.  A short run this time, thoughtfully arranged by the Trucker, with his wife in mind.

The last weeks have not been easy.  God had a detour arranged for our family.  More than that, a permanent lifestyle change.  Not what we wanted; in fact, specifically prayed against it often.

But God allowed it.  In this we must rest, knowing that for everything He allows in our lives, He will provide for our needs.  Generally not by preventing the unpleasant, but by walking through the unpleasant with us.

Three nonstop days of appointments, arrangements, added frustrations, and departure time was at hand.  Half an hour early, to be exact.  Fresh off an emergency dental appointment for an infected tooth, the Trucker assured me that he could indeed still eat, though Mother Hubbard's Cupboards were nearly bare, intentionally. 

Slapping together a few grilled cheese with ham sandwiches, and lifting a small bag of chips from the freezer, that extra half hour was filled with a quick but filling meal.  The Trucker winced only once when an errant bite, bit back.  Meanwhile, he was checking the drugs newly obtained from the local pharmacy.  Plenty of water with this one, and don't lie down after ingesting.  OK.  "Can cause drowsiness."  Not OK.  Will work on the timing of this one.

Truck packed, house locked, and the Nephew apprised of the key's location in the interest of gathering mail and seeing to a certain feline's comfort, we were off.

How strange it felt to be riding in the Passenger seat again, though old routines quickly surfaced.  So did a host of flies, having seen open bunk doors earlier in the day as a literal invitation.  At least they are not lantern flies, of which suddenly there are many around the property as well.  Time to break out the sprays again...

Life is full of decisions, the choosing of priorities.  Much as the Passenger felt the pull to remain home and be available to parents and sons, the Trucker must receive priority this week.  A short but good haul to Chicago, then time with friends with whom his Passenger needs to become better acquainted. 

Shortly after dusk had settled into night, rolling westward on Route 80, near Kylerstown, PA, it happened.  A ballgame was filling airwaves inside the truck, along with several incessantly annoying flies.  The Passenger, enabled by her clip-on Mighty Bright Light, was deep into the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745, feeling again the emotions of gallant rebel soldiers as Bonnie Prince Charlie attempted to regain the British Crown for his father, James Edward Francis Stuart.

Abruptly, time appeared in slow motion.  A strangled exclamation from the Trucker, as he came down hard on the brakes.  The truck lurched, and cut sharply into the right lane and onto the shoulder, as the truck ahead had done moments before.  A dark car hurtled, out of the blackness, eastward in the left westbound lane, where seconds before the Trucker had been motoring along at the posted 70 mph.

Praise God there was no traffic in the right lane when the Trucker needed that space for his rig.  Praise God the road and shoulder were level and the truck did not roll. He and his Passenger paused, listening for the screech of brakes and the shattering of metal and glass behind on the highway.  Nothing but a pulse pounding in their ears, and cheers emanating from the radio as the Phillies trounced the Cubs, adding a fourth inning grand slam to an already lopsided score.  Slowly, traffic resumed.

What of the wrong way driver at night?  Did he or she innocently make a wrong turn?  Hardly.  Was their mind impaired by drugs, alcohol, or illness?  Our minds turned to the "what if" this had been a re-run of last summer, and the financial setback of another accident which insurance didn't begin to cover, let along the physical and emotional toll.  Not to mention the horrible risk to life and limb.

Thank you Lord, for sparing us this time.  

How is it that we give God credit when we are saved, when things go our way?  Yet when things go wrong, we question His goodness?  

"Shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil?”  Job 2:10

And may we never sin with our lips as Job was credited, either by spoken word, or unspoken when it should have been.

Be A Chicken. Save Your Feathers.

It was a sun drenched Sunday morning.  The glowing orb in the east was already well started  on its day's march through the sky, drilling rays of light down upon the meadow, creek, and barn, promising a toasty day.

Hearing  a vehicle rolling in the lane, chickens were  gathering round their door, discussing what delicacy the human would be bringing today in exchange for their eggs.  Aged lasagna that survived the trucker's most recent west coast trip?  Baked oatmeal that likewise no longer held human appeal?  Watermelon rinds with a bit of red left upon them?  Maybe even fuzzy blueberries.

The white feathered rooster strutted among them, saying nonsensical things, just making enough noise to remind all hearers he was there and in charge and most definitely not accepting any challenges.

Abruptly, he interrupted his monologue with a warning deep in his throat.  The sense of urgency it conveyed was not in doubt, at all.  All  twenty-one hens (one was already on the nest) instantly dived for the small doorway leading into their section of the barn.  Two at a time jamming the doorway, some flapping beak first into the wall, squawking mindless frightened warnings of their own.

There were no questions, no hesitations, no backward glances.  The rooster has warned; we go first and learn details later.

The human stopped, shading her eyes against the brilliant rays, looking eastward and down the small hill.  A cluster of trees, among them one mostly dead, its bare limbs reaching to the sky like scrawny claws.  At the very top, a motionless shape, silhouetted black and menacing against the morning sky.  Was it a hawk?  An eagle?  No white head, so a hawk it is.

The rooster had known he was there.  Did he see, or just sense the presence?  Did he not understand he and his ladies were safe within their wire enclosure?  Still, the alarm sounded automatically, instinctively.

And then a shift of the dark bird's perch, morning breeze ruffling feathers.  An eerie scream ripped into the calm of the morning.  A harsh call echoing round the meadow, scraping its way out of the bird's throat.  This should spark terror into the heart of any feathered folk.

This time though, no response from the hens.  Or the rooster.  Surely they heard.  Is not this scream much more inspiring of fear than the rooster's warning?

She pondered this as she flicked a dish of scraps into the enclosure for the hens to dive after, then discuss contentedly as they digested.  She thought of the rooster's role in the flock as she refilled water buckets and gathered eggs contributed by the early risers.

The hens are not conditioned to look out for their own safety.  To scratch and peck, to compete for choice morsels, yes.  To lay an egg every day.  But the rooster, for all his preening and posing, was the guardian.  His eye was turned toward the hill, the tree, where the hawk found his vantage point.  

It wasn't noise and screaming that caused his fear and his flock's run for safety.  It was the silence, the shadow, the stealthy darkness against a bright morning sky.  The instinctive knowing when time was ripe for danger.  

The hens didn't need to know that.  They only needed to understand one thing - respond without question to the rooster's throaty warning for safety.    That was enough.

You Haven't Lived

You haven't lived until you have pulled hubby in his truck tractor outta the mud they got stuck in.
With the pickup truck and some rope.
On a dark empty road.
At midnight.
In your jammies.
At the end of a very long, stressful day.
And he has three hours of work before bed.
Tomorrow begins at 5AM.
Yes, well.

Picking Potato Bugs, and Associated Thoughts

Colorado Potato Beetles.  We just called 'em potato bugs.  Needing no encouragement, within a week or so they would decimate our little potato crop by eating all the plants' greenery right down to the stalk.

I remember Daddy walking the rows of Mama's large garden with a bag of lime, dusting the plants.  That helped, and Mama's potato patch was too large to pick the bugs off each plant.  I remember Grandma strolling through the garden at dusk, when the cool air brought the beetles to the top of the plants, catching the ones within reach between her thumb and forefinger and squishing them.  Ewww.  And the ever present apron was there to wipe her fingers for the next round.

That first year on my own, the beetles caught me unawares, and a row of stalks was all my inaugural garden produced.  After that, I picked them off the plants by hand.  It was kind of fun, actually, to search them out. Collected in a paper bag, disposal was the simple matter of striking a match and the beetles were history.

When our children came along, most of them delighted in picking the bugs.  Either way, it was a necessity for healthy plants.  Never could we catch them all; the next near always brought more.  We discussed the mystery of where they come from and how they survived winter and the garden being plowed.  A friend, we learned, actually paid her children a penny for each potato beetle lifted from her potato plants.  Fine for her, but no way was I taking time to count those little critters - may as well just glean them myself!

Last night, at dusk, I walked through the evening's damp grass to dump vintage leftovers from my fridge on the garbage pile.  Noticing the bushy potato plants beginning to bloom, I strolled down the rows looking for potato beetles. (I have become my Grandma!)

A thought settled down around me, as surely as the gathering darkness on the garden.  The mature beetles, those rounded stripedy hard shelled crawlers, would sense my hand hovering over them, and drop.  Drawing in their legs, they would fall like miniature marbles and roll into a crevice of garden dirt, out of sight and reach.  To outwit them, the container needed to be first slid under the leaf to which they were clinging, so they would drop into the container instead.

The immature hatchlings and "teenagers" could be picked off the leaves, or brushed into the container.  A light touch was necessary, to avoid them squishing.

Notice I am mentioning a container here.  Not a thumb, forefinger, and apron!

The underside of leaves where clusters of bright yellow eggs were laid were easily managed by folding the leaf in half and pressing the two sides together.

Immature potato beetles have one goal and one only.  Eat. As much as possible, as fast as possible. Nothing else matters but their insatiable appetites.  They are oblivious to danger of any sort.

The mature adults, however, have a different outlook.  That of preserving their lives.  Any shadow, be it a hovering hand or a cloud, sends a danger warning, and they drop.  No, they do not sound the alarm to others of their kind, but instinctively act in their own defense.

So like the human variety.  When young, our own desires are paramount.  We have limited ability to see the future.  We value instant gratification over planning ahead.

With age comes experience, and hopefully wisdom.  The ability to see where we've been and where we are going.  Wisdom to sense the clouds of danger overhead.  And unlike those beetles, care enough to warn those around us of the threatening shadows.

Yes, I will continue to pick potato "bugs".  But the memories will walk the garden rows along with me.  And just maybe, a bit of wisdom will join us.