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.

We Never Know, When We Pray, What God Will Do

Winter 2015 - 2016.  The Last Student was finishing his senior year credits at our little home school.  It was difficult, those last two years, to stay focused.  His still-at-home siblings were working full time.  Mother was working part time from home.  Weeks that Dad was home, days siblings had off, the house buzzed with activity he could not share.  School had long since lost its flavor.

February 2016.  Credits for graduation completed.  The diploma would not arrive until May.  The Last Student was ready for a full time job.  Specifically a truck driving job.

An application was duly completed at the local feed mill.  A phone call later that same day confirmed his acceptance.  Plans were made almost immediately for him to begin the process of obtaining his CDL in preparation for driving the Kenworth tri-axle delivery truck.

Through the demanding summer that followed, he diligently carved out time to study.  Three weeks after the trauma of losing his sisters, the first test was taken, and failed.  The earliest re-test option was two weeks later.  This one he passed.

It was a busy time for the mill.  Almost immediately, he was sent out on his own, loaded to the maximum of 17 tons.  Added to the physical stress of handling the 80 - 100 pound bags each day, was the learning of routes, the driving of a large truck on narrow back roads frequented by bikes and buggies, tractors and tourists.

Throughout this time was the additional emotional strain of a Grandpa undergoing treatment for leukemia, and sisters who believed lies and rejected their family.  It all seemed unreal.  This was to be the best time of his life.  Instead it was the worst.  Betrayal, confusion, abandonment, loss; all that represented security was coming loose.

Three weeks after his CDL came through, on October 3, 2016, the word came.  Grandpa was dying.  Did he want to come to the hospital to say goodbye?  Yes he did.  But no, he did not.  And he was at the southern end of the county.  Unaware then, that Grandpa would actually not be taken off life support until 10PM, he declined to come.

The next morning, driving south  on Mine Road with a full load, the grief, the stress, the pressure caused by his sisters' betrayal, all came to a head.  Added to his relative inexperience as a driver, and the heavily loaded truck, it was too much.

His truck drifted off the right shoulder into ground soft from recent rains.  Feeling the surface begin to give, he over corrected back onto the roadway, completely losing control.  Realizing his helplessness, he threw himself across the seats. God's mercy prevented any other vehicles from being in his path that morning.

When the runaway truck came to rest, it was miraculously upright, in a wooded area just off the left side of the road.  Stunned, and now with the humiliation of a wrecked truck added to his emotional burden, he called his boss. 

During the hour it took for assistance to arrive from the company (no emergency calls were made) he stood alone among the trees, leaning against the mangled truck body for support, and wept.  Wrenching, wracking sobs ripped from his chest.  Tears streamed down his face, soaking his beard and drenching the dusty shirt already wet with sweat from physical labor and shock.  All the stress, all the suppressed emotion of the past months, was unleashed.

Only the Heavenly Father and His Angels heard the agony of a young man, hurting more than he knew was possible, yet unwilling to make that call to his parents for support.  Knowing their deep grief, ashamed of adding to it with what he mistakenly deemed was his own incompetence.
______

Several weeks later, on a sunny afternoon, the Trucker and his Passenger drove to the scene.  Few words were spoken on the trip.

What they saw weakened their knees.  Between a gap in the trees, a gap just wide enough for a tri-axle truck, deep ruts remained.  The ONLY such gap between mature trees in more than a mile of woods along the road.  Any other place would have presented a head on collision with a tree substantial enough to crush the cab.  And it was the ONLY place where the ground was level with the road, where a truck could cross the road's shoulder without rolling.

A few small branches had been stripped off the trees on either side.  Scars on the trees where the sides of the truck scraped were evident.

Scattered around, pressed into the soil, were broken lug nut covers, bits of chrome, paint chips.

Once again, tears were shed in this place.  Once again, the Father and His Angels looked on as grief, and gratitude for life,  ran down faces like rain.  And gratefulness for the Heavenly Warriors who guided that out-of-control Kenworth to the only level ground and opening in trees to be had.  For the grace that prevented two funerals instead of one, that awful week.

They gathered a few fragments, and drove home in near silence.

_____

April 10, 2019.  Still driving that tri-axle for the mill, still handling those 80-100 pound bags.

Three weeks away from leaving this job, again in a very busy season at the mill.  Loaded to capacity, our Dear Son #2 was on that same road in the southern end of the county.  Driving 40 mph on the narrow, winding stretch.

A crack pierced the air.  Gunshot, he thought.  In the same instant he realized, no, not a gunshot.  A blown tire.  A front one, which caused complete loss of control.  How he brought that heavily loaded truck to a safe stop, why there was no other traffic in his path, are acts of God that cannot be explained in human terms.

This time, no tears.  Yes, grief and loss still very much a part of life.  But 2 1/2 years had brought with them a measure of maturity and acceptance, an increase in skill.  And this time the damage to the truck was beyond his responsibility and control.

Again, the call to his boss for assistance, and more than an hour of wait time for said assistance to arrive.  This time?  He pulled out his phone, which in these digital times held his notes, research websites and Scriptures for the upcoming Sunday School class he was teaching, and studied.  And then napped.

______

A few days later, he stopped by the house, and in a casual conversation shared the story of the blown tire, and the marvel of being able to bring the truck back under control and to a stop safely afterward.

The Passenger's heart twisted, once more, as grief and gratitude struggled for the upper emotion.  She turned, walked to a shelf, and extracted a small box from behind the row of books.  Holding it out, she showed him the collection of lug nuts, chrome, and paint chips from the wreck 2 1/2 years earlier.  Explaining what the pieces were from, and why she kept them.

Tears misted his eyes.  "May I have one?"
"Absolutely!  You may have all you want, just leave me one piece as a reminder to pray."

We never know, when we pray, what God will do with those prayers.  All we know is that we are commanded to pray, that He will hear, and will uphold us, whatever the answer He deems best.

When Mama Is Distracted

Definition of distraction:

In an attempt to be helpful and get the Last Chick to leave the family nest off to a good start, you mixed up some of your favorite, all purpose, three ingredient, easy-on-the-budget cleaning spray to send with him.

Except that you used witch hazel instead of alcohol.

Oh well.  At least his fixtures and windows will not suffer from skin irritations, inflammations, or infections.

Whishy-Washy Whoopsy

Thursday morning in Ohio.  The Trucker and his Passenger are both in "get 'er done" mode.

But first, a wash for the truck, which is carrying a week's worth of road salt, grit and grime from snow in the west and northwest.  Snow has dropped off, though temperatures up til now have not been conducive to a wash, unless the Trucker wanted to proceed inside an ice block. The weather forecast at home, complete with rain and melting snow, does not give much of an option for a wash there.

The wash bay lines were long, but the Trucker decided a wait to be worthwhile.  He remained in the driver's seat, periodically moving the truck forward in line.

The Passenger used her "sitting still time" to organize and pack up the bunk in anticipation of returning home.  That completed, she settled back in her seat, laptop and notebook open, and began fine-tuning the coming week's school menu, and preparing an email to the cooks.

Reaching the head of the line and pulling into the wash bay, the Trucker turned his key and hopped out to pass time in the waiting area.  His Passenger opted to remain, continuing to type in the dimmer lighting.

High pressure hoses were turned on and employed along the trailer, and up the right side of the cab.  Apparently the Passenger's window was not tight, as a spritz of soapy water squirted around the edges and dotted her laptop.  Yikes!

She speedily set the laptop on the Trucker's seat, and reached for paper towels.  Almost simultaneously, the high pressure hoses hit the left side of the cab.  The Trucker had forgotten to check his window, which was actually open about a quarter inch.  A wave of soapy water shot through the window, drenching the open laptop, the notebook, the dashboard, the Trucker's headset, AND his cell phone, which he had so thoughtfully left for his Passenger to use as a hotspot for WiFi access in his absence.

The Passenger hit high gear, scrambling to close the window and mop up the mess.  Carefully and quickly, with a prayer that all electronics would survive their impromptu bath.  Sigh.  She could have chosen to do this another time, that would have saved the laptop, notebook, and phone.  Yet, the Trucker could have remembered to close his window, that would have saved the seat, dash, and headset; the Passenger could have remembered to check both.  Then again, the truck could have waited for its bath, and we'd all have been done and home that much sooner!

The Passenger, as she wiped bubbly liquid from small places not equipped to handle it, thought about all the small choices that led to this minor catastrophe.  And the events beyond human control, like the snow, which gave rise to the road salt and muck in the first place.

Whether to avoid responsibility or search out a scapegoat, one can always find someone or something on which to lay the blame for inconvenient happenings.  Following that thought down its road, the Passenger could eventually find herself blaming the Almighty for allowing her electronics to be compromised by water!

In reality, God has given us all free will to make our own choices, for good or for ill.  Our lives are comprised of a multitude of small choices, one leading to the next, that affect our own lives and the lives of those around us, continually.  The challenge is to recognize where our actions will lead, and take responsibility for their consequences.  Whether it be remembering to close a window, choosing a project at a given time, stopping a thought before it is shaped and released into words by the tongue.

With His help, our lives can honor Him, and benefit those around us.  Or not.

Twenty miles down the road....snowflakes filled the air, and scudded in waves across the road.  Ah well, it was good while it lasted!

Montana Winter

It was midnight before the Trucker guided his rig into the Saltese Rest Area off Route 90, on the Idaho/Montana line.  One space remained on the hard snowpack that was the parking lot.  The day's miles were etched in his weary face.  

No quiet to be had, this night.  The thermometer stood at -2.  The engine would run all night to keep its fuel and its passengers warm.  Streetlights cast a yellow glow over the area, silent but for the the low rumbling growl of the eighteen wheeled dragons, exhaust billowing from their nostrils as they slept.

(Speaking of nostrils - those fine hairs inside one's nostrils freeze quickly in these temperatures, and crackle when one breathes.  And the Passenger learned it's best to keep one's mouth closed in such weather.  The cold is painful on sensitive teeth. ) 

  

Plows had done their work over the course of the winter months.  A good three feet of solid snow capped the building's roof.  More than that bordered the drive, in fact the building snuggled into snow up to its eaves, where the roof's cap took over.

The photos have a yellowish cast due to the streetlights.

Snow as high as the roof.

Trash cans dug out for accessibility.

The Trucker, patiently waiting.

Taken from the cab; the color change is from the headlights of another truck just pulling in to park.

At last, the Trucker's day is complete.  His truck grumbles contentedly under its breath, vibrating gently.  The bunk is warm.  Steps away is an equally warm building containing ample "facilities."

And tomorrow is another day.