Bushings replaced, one bearing redone, and the steering on the Road Rhino is no longer as questionable as Obama’s birthplace.

Rabbit trail time … as I was writing the title of this post, I remembered an English teacher in ninth grade, at Greenhills High School, had us keep writing journals. I have no idea where mine ended up. I do remember that on the first page, on the first line, we had to make this entry:

a______________________________________________________lot

to help us remember that they are, in fact, two separate and distinct words. I cannot, for the life of me, remember the name of that teacher. She was a very good teacher, and it was my loss when the family moved from Greenhills to Palestine, Ohio, at least it appeared to be a loss at first. I had a couple of good Enlgish teachers at Tri-Village, the one I can remember is Greg Senf, who was also the drama coach. (surprise! i was in some plays in high school!) I also distinctly remember the art teacher, Dave Brown, and the science teacher, Lowell Storer. The summer after my junior year, I earned some money by painting houses with Dave Brown, and last I knew Lowell Storer was involved in a plane wreck and stopped teaching. Shame, really – he had an interesting style, and one that I was comfortable with. The summer after I graduated, I moved to Arizona. Greg Senf hitched a ride as far as Boulder, Colorado. I haven’t heard of him since. Interesting trip – I was driving my older brother’s F150, which he had left at the farm, loaded up with all kinds of stuff from the house. My two younger brothers went with me, and we ended up staying at LeaAnn and Mel’s house in Mountainaire. Dave drove down from Monterey (where he was stationed, and where I ended up for a while also) with some of his Army buddies to pick up the truck. Mom and Dad moved out, and took over the renting of the house that LeaAnn and Mel were in when Mel built a duplex just off NAU’s campus and moved into half of it. My brothers and I helped Mel that summer in his contracting business, and then on September 24th, 1980, I shipped out to boot camp in San Diego.

OK – enough remembering. It’s bedtime for this bonzo.

Chat ya later…

Thank you for stopping by, In GOD We Trust, God bless you all, don’t buy or breed cats or dogs while homeless pets die (spay, neuter & adopt a pet, one by one, until there are none), Wear Red on Fridays, and support Warriors for Innocence!

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, I used to drive a truck. It was after the era of the Good Buddies, but before so much government regulations you have to have a permit from each state you are thinking about driving through for the next week in order to sneeze. The time when log books were paper and as truthful as a campaign speech.

One fine January morning, having driven all night, I pulled into a truck stop, fueled the truck, grabbed some grub, and jumped back into the seat. As I was pulling back onto the interstate in Kentucky, headed west, the news broke over the radio and the CB – Shuttle Challenger had exploded after launch; all were feared lost.

I was a big fan of the space program. Had been ever since we landed on the moon in ’72, I think – and I didn’t get in trouble for having my little AM radio turned on, listening to the news, in class, while the landing was happening. The teacher had a mixed look on her face – “why you little – what a wonderful learning experience” and she held the radio high so everyone could hear the news. Now that I mention it, I don’t recall seeing that radio after that …

ANYway – out on the road, dead silence on the CB (which was a minor miracle in and of itself), then something happened that probably hasn’t happened freely since – the trucks started forming a procession at the posted speed limit. Wherever they were headed, they would start grouping up and rolling along, lights and flashers on, and talking back and forth about what had happened. Most of us had a crush on Christa – that cute teacher chick that was going to ride to the outer reaches of earth. All of the astronauts were mentioned, talked about, their careers mulled over. Truckers, having a lot of time, tend to be more informed than most people would like to admit. We have hours and hours in which to turn over every detail of a news item, and dissection of the news was a pastime for most. Sports stats? Baby steps. Knowing who is sitting in what capacity in the government, and their decisions? No problem. Following the careers of major players in the space program? Hobby!

As the day turned into evening again, the procession I was in had grown to well over three thousand trucks, according to the news van driving alongside and talking to us on the CB. Now and then trucks would pull off to get fuel, but then would drop back into line in the same procession, even after taking the 45 minutes to an hour to get fueled, paid, fed, and back up to speed. As we approached certain states known for their overzealous application of traffic laws on trucks, we would notice a sudden lack of police anywhere. I think they were afraid of us. The procession kept going, a huge blob of trucks stretching out through several states – and since I”m talking western states (where the counties are bigger than the eastern states) you know I”m talking about a lot of trucks. The second evening, the head of the procession was approaching California. Normally, midweek like this, the scales would have been open and weighing everything that looked like a commercial vehicle – but again, no scales were open, and the only sign of law enforcement were the tail lights of the cruisers as they departed the interstates.

No, we didn’t “accomplish” anything – except to honor those who lost their lives that day, twenty five years ago. And, it seems we scared the punk out of quite a few cops, too. None of them wanted to mess with that many trucks all at once.

Twenty five years. Man, I’m feeling old today.

Chat ya later…

Thank you for stopping by, In GOD We Trust, God bless you all, don’t buy or breed cats or dogs while homeless pets die (spay, neuter & adopt a pet, one by one, until there are none), Wear Red on Fridays, and support Warriors for Innocence!

I was cleaning out some old notebooks (trying to find some I could use to hold my music) when I ran across a piece of paper.

It wasn’t just any old piece of paper – I don’t think I could come up with a post based on any old piece of paper, although that sounds like a good challenge – this piece of paper came from a very special person.

You see, a Long, Long Time Ago, In A Galaxy Far, Far Away, I used to belong to a group of people. Not just any group – but The Valley Cathedral PowerFull Praise Choir and Orchestra. It was a group of about 125 voices that had a very wide range of songs, under the leadership of Dwayne McLuhan. I ended up being the administrator for the Worship and Arts Department for a while. There was a lady who was part of the group by the name of Pat Fischer. Actually, I am convinced that she was an angel here on a special undercover mission. No matter what day or time you ran into her, no matter what kind of news she had just gotten from her oncologists, she always turned the conversation to you. How are you doing? Can we pray about anything for you? How is your family? She was designated as the “Warm and Fuzzy Coordinator” since she was warm and fuzzy for all of us anyway.

Yes, oncologists. Pat had cancer. She lived with it for many years. Lots of people say they fight cancer – Pat lived with it. She lived with it because God gave it to her, and as with any gift from God, Pat cherished it. Not because it was cancer and it would eventually take her away from us for a time, but because it allowed her to refine her walk by helping her to focus on the important things in life – God, service in Jesus’ name, and those around her.

I still have the last e-mail I got from her (not the piece of paper I am talking about) where she actually said something about herself: “Dear Cary, I have some not-so-good news. My doctors say there is nothing more they can do for my cancer. It’s OK, though, because it means that I get to go to sleep and when I wake up, I’ll get to see Jesus!” What a heart for God.

Anyway, here it is – I thought of Pat, and my sister LeaAnn, and all the people who have been dealing with cancer, and how this piece sure takes the sting away and puts it in perspective:

TENTMAKER

It was nice living in this tent when it was strong and secure and the sun was shining and the air was warm but Mr. Tentmaker, it’s scary now. My tent is acting like it’s not going to hold together. The poles seem weak and they shift with the wind. A couple of the stakes have wiggled loose from the sand. Worst of all the canvas has a rip. It no longer protects me from beating rain or stinging flies. It’s scary in here Mr. Tentmaker. Last week I was sent to the repair shop and some repairmen tried to patch the rip in my canvas. It didn’t help much though because the patch pulled away from the edges and not the tear is worse. What troubled me most, Mr. Tentmaker, is that the repairmen didn’t even seem to notice that I was still in the tent. They just worked on the canvas while I shivered inside. I cried out once but no one heard me. I guess my first real question is, Why did you give me such a flimsy tent? I can see by looking around the campground that some of the tents are much stronger and more stable than mine. Why, Mr. Tentmaker, did you pick a tent of such poor quality for me, and even more important what do you intend to do about it?

“O little tent dweller, as the creator and provider of tents, I know all about you and your tent, and I love you both. I made a tent for myself once, and lived in it on your campground. My tent was vulnerable too, and some vicious attackers ripped it to pieces while I was still in it. It was a terrible experience, but you’ll be glad to know, they couldn’t hurt me. In fact, the whole occurrence was a tremendous advance because it is this very victory over my enemy that frees me to be a present help to you. O little tent dweller, I am now prepared to come and live in your tent with you if you’ll invite me. You’ll learn, as we dwell together, that real security comes from my being in your tent with you. When the storms come, you can huddle in my arms and I’ll hold you. When the canvas rips, we’ll go to the repair shop together. Some day, little tent dweller, some day your tent’s going to collapse. You see I’ve only designed it for temporary use. But when it does, you and I are going to leave together. I promise not to leave before you do. And then, free of all that would hinder or restrict, we’ll move to our permanent home and together forever we’ll rejoice and be glad.”

I’ll just be sitting here missing Pat and LeaAnn and a few others for a while…

Chat ya later…

Thank you for stopping by, In GOD We Trust, God bless you all, don’t buy or breed cats or dogs while homeless pets die (spay, neuter & adopt a pet, one by one, until there are none), Wear Red on Fridays, and support Warriors for Innocence!