The uncle had responded quick -- “Not tonight, young man, not tonight, but I will return, and we’ll have a sleepover on your trampoline, under the stars, and the floating wildcat the moon.”

Next week passed.
The sleepout remained a verbal promise.
Another uncle married.
Church camping camped.
The uncle remembered the promise given yet not fulfilled, of sleeping on the trampoline with the nephews.

Finally Sunday he’d texted their mother.
“Tuesday night work for a sleepover?”
“Yes, definite, come on over.”

The day of the sleepover arrived, and it had been the summery day of ordinary, filled with cleanings and running, writing and bouquets, a friend swinging by and dropping off chai. The uncle had cleaned the office, stopped in at the brother’s house, dined with him and the bride.

He came home, cleaned up, packed his car.
He filled that backseat with his blanket,
the sleeping bag and two pillows and snacks,
plus sugar for the sister in law.

He arrived to find the house in a rush, all the nephews, even the babe, busily cleaning up the bedrooms, the living room, the dishes. He grabbed the armrest and tipped the couch while Seven grabbed the fly swatter weapon to seek and slay the spider. The hunter’s mother reminded them – “hurry up now. The sooner you get done, the sooner you can go out and play with the uncle.”

Seven and Five finished.
By proxy, the baby finished too.
The three swept outdoors and flew to the trampoline, uncle in tow, to go jump jump jump.

They began packing the trampoline full.
“Uncle why is your sleeping bag purple?” “Well because the factory made it?”
“Uncle did you buy it like that?” “No I didn’t; Grandma gave it to me.”
“Uncle do you like purple?” “It was a free gift so yes?”

The troop of nephews moved – from the trampoline to the car to the lawn to the garage.

“No, NOOOO, IIIII want to get the sleeping bag for the brother!”

<never mind the wood chips, the blanket, the hanging basket AND the tote all stacked on top of the box holding the coveted sleeping bag> Seven and uncle removed the offending items, and Five dived into the tote, seizing the sleeping bag.

Eldest (9) arrived to the trampoline scene, trailing a harness of ropes draped over his lean form. “You MUST come to the tree and watch me climb.”

The uncle agreed, and they all moved up the yard, where the child slung the rope over the tree, gripped the end, and walked vertically up the trunk. Seven joined him a minute later, as did Five, but only for a brief few seconds before returning to the soft earth. Uncle remained on the ground, face lifted.

Five raced to the middle of the field, a race of one.

“I need a lightning bug I need a lightning bug!
I see it I see it I see it!
GOT IT!”

Seven returned to earth and caught a bug, holding it aloft. The bug lights his hand, lights the sky, then is dropped to the ground. Smash smash goes Seven’s foot.

“Hey bud why did you DO that?”
“Cuz I hate them, I don’t want to see it and it’s still lighting.”
Sure nuff, the bug lay stationary on the ground, still lighting up despite its closing breaths.

Eldest walked gingerly down the trunk.
Uncle: “Hey man, you’re wearing snakes over your shoulders.”
Eldest crinkled his nose: “Am not!”

Seven informed uncle he’d like to see God.
Five shouts “me too me too.”
Uncle pursues this line of thought.

“So Five, what will you say to God when you get there?”
Five ignored the question. “I need a big ladder, a ladder.”
He waved his hands up, demonstrating to dull uncle,
HELLO, ladder.

“Seven, what will you tell God upon arriving?”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you?”
“Yes, thank you for letting me come see you.”
Thank you indeed.

They migrate back to the trampoline and rearrange the myriad of pillows, sleeping bags, blankets. The mother claims the baby, who is overcome with FOMO. He makes his desire known with a great wail but he is overcome and hustled inside where he sleeps on a bed of clouds.

Eldest, Seven, and Five ponder sleeping arrangements.

“I want to sleep beside uncle!”
“No I want to!”
“Ok uncle you must sleep in the middle.”

So he spreads out in the middle and the four of them: Eldest, Seven, Five, and Uncle, lie down, tossing first towards the east, then towards the west, and then towards the moon, before settling.

They request stories.
“Tell us when you were a little boy!”

He obliges and tells them stories, the story of himself and their own father, riding together on a side by side back when they were kids and it was snowy and they were on a hill and the thing tipped over on its side. Neither of them was hurt, and they jumped out, and their father tipped up the side by side and they rode home. It was years until they told the parents, aka Grandpa and Grandma.

A rare silence lands at tale’s end, until a plaintive “now how long was it that you didn’t tell them?” ensues. It’s a new thought, the idea of something scary happening but it all turning out ok and not telling the in house authorities ‘til the wayward are grown. Uncle ponders the wisdom of sharing this tale, but naught to be done but tip upright and MOVE ON.

He pivots, to the time in El Salvador and sleeping in a double bed with his brother, their other uncle, and one dark night he himself awoke and he was bitten and he flew out of bed with a shout, shaking and flailing his arm and a dark something flew off and hit the wall. His brother jumped out of bed and rushed to the kitchen, lit the light, and a scorpion stared back from the floor.

“Was it biting you?”
“Sure was.”
“How big was it?”
“About so big” and holds up a thumb and index finger.
“Did you smash it, like I did the firefly?”
“Sure did.”

Silence renews.
Seven squeaks, “a scorpion bit me!”
”Where?”
“Right here right here!”

Uncle says it can’t be so, but Seven insists.
Uncle shrugs.

Eldest and Seven turn towards the dark side.
“Tell us the ghost story of the house!”
Five shouts, “No no, no ghost stories.”
Uncle honors five’s wishes.
No ghost stories are told.

The orange moon hovers, higher and higher.

“Why is the moon orange?”
“Cuz it’s a blood moon, silly.”
“I don’t like it; it’s looking at me.”
“Just turn the other way bud.”
“But WHY is it still orange?”
“It’ll turn white eventually.”

All is still, but not for long.
“I can’t sleep the moon is shining right into my eyes.”
“Well let’s move.” They all slide their beds further down the bounce mat.
Midnight the cat purrs in Eldest’s arms.
Uncle observes: “That cat smells funny.”

“Well DUH, he’s a cat, so of course he smells like that.”
Uncle stands corrected, but cannot stand, because sleeping bag.

Five reaches the end of his sleeping bag.
“I’m going inside to sleep.”
“Alright my guy we’ll miss you.”

Five is scarce off the trampoline before Eldest and Seven jump back on the ghost story train. Uncle obliges, telling the same one he told them two months ago at another campout. The story ended with the couple fleeing the house and never returning to buy because of the slamming door upstairs.

Seven and Eldest ponder.
Seven pipes: “But I thought there were two doors slamming in the upstairs.”
Uncle scowled in the light of the moon.
Uncle reminds himself – details matter.

Uncle wonders if they will ever settle down. Seven is determined to use him as a mattress. He puts a stop to that, and with a sudden flip, all is quiet. Eldest and seven’s breathing lengthens, the stars blink in the heavens, against all odds the moon has turned white, and the uncle is slowly becoming more sandwiched in the middle.

Uncle dozes in and out of slumber, to be awakened with the toss of the nephew and the thieving of his pillow and a numb little finger. <the scorpion an hour ago>

Uncle moves himself to the head of all, and gingerly withdraws his sleeping bag from the middle of the sleeping young. They stir, they sigh, then fall into deeper slumber.

<He sees their faces in the dark.
Such little people, so entertaining, so profound>

They make it through the night.
The morning dawns; the moon flees.
Eldest flits to the house to catch a cat nap on the couch.
Seven says, “Uncle you shared my pillow in the night!”
Uncle smiles and winks. “You’re right, but you shared mine so what could I do?”
Seven grins, knowingly.

Five exits his living room bed. He rejoins the bounce mat crowd, and then there are games. Games with the pillows, games flipping the blankets, and games where one gets into the sleeping bag at the edge of the trampoline and uncle slides them into the middle of the heap and they all go crash. There are giggles, there is merriment and all is joy until the slammed elbow.

Then there be sorrow.

The mother wears a shirt saying, “Support wildlife, Raise boys.”
<she has four young men; this shirt is a joy and she is a force>
She makes breakfast, a German pancake, a huge cast iron skillet full of goodness topped with yogurt, with peaches, with maple syrup /// Five dumps an ocean of syrup on his plate, mother shakes her head, Five finishes pancake and leaves the table. He returns shortly, and plops himself down on the table, by the plate, and mother asks if he would like to have sticky buns for lunch, and Five crinkles his nose, and again shouts “no, NO!”

Breakfast completes and they whirl outside with shouts of “uncle uncle come jump with us!”

He obliges, grabs the baby, treks outside and sees a ladder set by the trampoline. The young stuntmen are jumping from the top, performing flips, landing on pillows, as they toss in the air.

But his favorite, his absolute favorite, is Eldest, who’s found a stick of wood, tied three gray Walmart bags on each end, so when he jumps he is held aloft with the bags full of air, but only brief, before his feet crash into the spring mat.

The mother plucks garden things from her abundance, and she fills his hands with produce: zucchini and green beans and peaches and flowers. He gives her the baby. It is a good exchange.

The nephews fly to the shed to wait in ambush, and uncle rounds the corner, hands full, and spies them hiding.

They cannot be concealed in the leaves (“I see you in the BOO-shes,” their uncle says, and Seven screams “no no, BOOSH-els),” and uncle hurries towards the car as they race and attack with their pillows, walloping him, each other, the Fit, the veggies.

He escapes and throws the bounty into the front seat, claims the drivers’ spot, makes attempts to mollify the marauders with offers of gum. But it is the spicy kind, so only Seven accepts.

He starts the car; the raiders are present and continue to wallop the poor Fit.
He turns on his backing camera and creeps down the driveway.
The brigands keep chasing the Fit.
He makes it down the lane, turns out the driveway, accelerates as he departs.
He catches a glimpse of flying pillow in the rearview.

He drives home.
The perfect July day has no blood moon.
His house is quiet, after the energy of four nephews.
Uncle takes a nap, and dreams of the next sleepover.

A wedding was contemplated, last weekend.
I talked with a friend, who asked how the wedding went.

I informed the friend that I’d had fun, such fun, and what a good time I’d had — talking to the guests, bridal partying with the party of a younger brother, and celebrating the brother himself, on this his glorious wedding day. Celli is the last of my five siblings to tie the knot. I am the last of six siblings to remain unknotted.

I’d told the friend: “I have more memories, and I’ll be able to remember more from this family wedding, than from others previously.”

The friend, a few years older than me but wise beyond my years, commented:
“Yes. It’s because you’re more grounded.”

The wedding day dawned — crisp, overcast, sultry.

I run with my feet, and Saturday morning we gathered at Celli’s house at 8:30. We were invited to run a 5k, and run one we did, the father cycling merrily along, while the in-law lagged behind post a half mile. We were proud of him, though, and the brother shouted encouragement. Specifically, Micah the energizer brother weaved throughout the crowd, yelling encouragement, circling back to the in-law, ever moving always encouraging. Non runners doing a run with the running crowd = respect.

We arrived back to the groom’s house, and the subsequent bruncheon coulda lasted for hours, and if I was an essential oil making man, I’d capture the morning and label it “Joy Bomb.” We’d all make a killing, for the celebration flowed and the jests were many and there was that sense, tough to describe but still very present, a mix of wonder and awe, glory over the wedding day and post running high, and that side-kick ribbing evident only among men who have spent time previously in each other’s presence and are comfortable, so very at home, among one another.

Josh had come in clutch, for the food. The schedule had been sent out weeks in advance, but only the previous night did the text slide into the groomsmen chat – “sorry my guys, food somehow got overlooked, could someone take care of Saturday morning brunch?”

I’d had a lark, upon reading this message. I found out later that others had appreciated it too. But Josh came in clutch and provided a breakfast, palatially lavish. Not one, not two, but FOUR breakfast pizzas. Little baked oatmeal cups. Two kinds of grapes, including the fresh washed ones, ready to burst in their dark red glory. Bananas plunked on the end, with red raspberries sprinkled about. Cheese tarts and blueberries, orange juice chocolate milk and enough espressos from the never ceasing ever moving machine ensconced on the counter.

The tarts had been referenced as duffers, and I’d inquired of Josh of the origin. “Oh, so ya know Keim Lumber is just up the road? Apparently, they sent a new guy down there one day and told him to get a dozen duffers at the sweet shop. The guy goes, requests a dozen duffers, and the unsuspecting plebeians behind the counter are so confused, so uncertain, apologizing while informing him they have no idea what he means. He returns, empty handed, only to be slapped on the back and told he’d been had, they’re called cheese tarts, now can you please go again and get us some.” The groomsmen appreciated the local legend, especially when they learned that even today, at Charm Sweet Shop, one can go in, request a duffer, and be served a proper cheese tart.

Ryan inquired if we’d heard about the dude who was inventing many kinds of granola, and did we hear he’s making a killing on it? Apparently the man is a “cereal entrepreneur.”

Interlude: getting ready. I donned my wedding gear, and to my chagrin realized I forgot to pack a belt. Five minutes drive to my house was five minutes to drive too far. One of the groomsmen graciously offered two of his belts. However, my waist was greater than his, so despite being on the very last hole, his belt still pinched me. I used it for 10 minutes, and decided this ain’t happening. I finally snitched a belt from the groom’s own closet, unbeknownst to him, and happily wore it all day. Better, they say, to ask forgiveness, than permission in the very moment.

The bridal party bridaled down to the park at Berlin Resort, whence they commenced picture taking. I spied, with my little eye, a rather stiff and unsmiling man approach the cousin. He was also dressed up in suit and tie, reminiscent of security, and the man and the cousin held a hurried 30 second conversation. Soon the man sidled away. I asked the cousin what went down. Apparently the man was another groom, who had paid good money to be in that exact park at that exact time for the first look, and in other words: You shouldn’t be here could yall please LEAVE.

The cousin was not to be cowed, and she reminded the groom that he had best talk to whoever he had booked the place with.

The cousin’s children, when they heard the story, commented how they felt sorry for the woman who would be marrying that man.

The fam pics went as fam pics do, with the adults performing and the littles creating their own small act for the classic couple/nieces/nephews pic. (Granted, my kids would probably be those that would lose their minds over a twenty second separation. Grace, y’all, grace). I’d had my own moment, post family pictures, when siblings were splitting up into groups of their own families for hurried pictures with the kids before said ninos lost their minds even further. I’d wished for my own family there, for a picture, before hitting on another idea – take pictures with the nieces and nephews. So I did, and the littles were thrilled to picture take. The niece from the plains inquired, asking me why I’m such a fun uncle. I’d chuckled, paused, whispered: “cuz I’m single.”

She squinted her eyes, then named a man from the other side of the family. “Well why wasn’t he the fun uncle when he was single?” I’d keeled over, and the niece never did receive a full and proper answer.

The groomsmen had lots of time to hang out, back at the church, admiring the view across the road of another fireman festival in full swing, with the Amish congregating from across the Holmes county nation. At the groomsmen hangout room, two of the firefighters were engrossed in a video detailing a fire rescue from a tower a hot air balloon hit. These two somehow had the foresight to pack a laptop pre ceremony. (Apparently, when six of the brother’s seven groomsmen are involved in the fire/ems world, one will pack things in preparation. #safetyfirst)

At one point I popped out to the lobby for a brief drive-by of the current guests. The out of state uncle and aunt were there, and I bounced up to greet them, only to be met with a confused look from the uncle: “Didn’t I just talk to you?! Aren’t you the one with the wife?”

“No you did not, good sir.”

The mother chimed in helpfully: “That was his younger brother who was here five minutes ago.”

Uncle: “Ahhh. I asked him if he was the one who worked at the thrift, and he set the record straight. Clearly, no.”

They chatted, some more.

They parted, still friends.

This confusing of the brothers reminded me of the morning, back at the groom’s house. I’d said hi to the videographer, for the video man’s sister had been in my own grade. The man had been civil and had commented something about being neighbors. I’d tilted my head, uncertain, and then set the record straight. “No that was the younger brother who lived on the same road as you.”

I’d walked into another room, and sadly did not witness the subsequent interaction. Apparently the elder brother had walked in, and videographer man greeted him with a “hello neighbor who I never see!”

Elder brother: “Wait where do you live?”

V man: “Just down the road; I’m your neighbor!”

“Neighbor?”

“Yes I see you working outside all the time.”

“You what?!”

More dialogue. The videographer discovered that, once more, he’d pegged the wrong brother. (Author’s note: we four brothers get mistaken for each other. It’s interesting, having people know where you belong but unaware of the details of that belonging).

The bridesmaids let out steam right before the ceremony, madly singing tunes to the beat of “Here Comes the Bride.” (K, so I don’t know what songs they actually sang, but they were loud and they were proud and the groomsmen enjoyed). The groomsmen walked out in from of the crowd, and eyes landed upon us — weighing, sifting, measuring. The brother’s dog made waves as he bore the rings down the aisle. He stopped occasionally to receive accolades from the guests, nearly stealing the bride’s thunder. Then again, the dog wasn’t wearing a white dress, so she was saved. The bride walked down the aisle to the tune of “A Thousand Years,” while tears were wiped from the eyes (uncertain whose tears, but certainly they existed in the last thousand years). The groomsman behind me kept asking “Do we turn? How bout now?” That soul had skipped out on rehearsal night, so was kept aflutter in his attempts to turn and burn at the proper intervals.

The groom bore the bride, post marriage, also down the aisle (how can opposite directions be the same way?!) and stopped midway for a dip and kiss. From my vantage point, there was a bit of a stumble kerfluffle, a slight laugh swept the crowd, and they stopped and redid the dip and kiss, this time making it a go. The bridal party hurried after, and I was one of two groomsmen who escorted one woman down the aisle, and again there was a hesitation, before she grabbed one arm, rearranged bouquet, grabbed the other, and we bore her barefoot down the aisle.

The photographer photographing the booth had camera problems. Groomsman informed me if one is taking pictures one should ALWAYS be prepared with a backup camera, so he loaned them his. I grabbed my stately cousin for a picture, because who wants to be shot alone. As we were posing, the toddling nephew came and gazed at me adoringly, thinking I must surely be his father. I swept him up and we posed as a happy little Mennonite family, barring the cosplay with the tie (can one be Mennonite and wear a tie?!). The adoring nephew repeated his act multiple times between ceremony and reception – the child would come, gaze admiringly upon me, and I’d lift him up, only to have him weep for freedom shortly thereafter.

The reception arrived. I made my way to the bridal table to deposit iced coffees, pre the official walk in. On the way up one uncle attempted to flag me down, and I kicked the proverbial conversation down the road (after all, the bridal party was waiting…on ME). I returned, and stopped briefly at his table, where he took a few moments before finally informing: “Markus. Markus. Markus. Can I just say, you clean up NICE.” I squared my jaw and flew back to the entrance, shaking my head.

The reception was beautiful, the music boomed, and the couple fed each other cake and smeared their lips with frosting. The crowd cheered.

The brother and I vibed at the bridal table, while Mr. Photography Groomsman beside me tossed grapes at the ladies and received them in his mouth. And to think, he wasn’t even throwing at his girlfriend.

I made my rounds to talk with the side of the reception that I knew. The two cousins, one from Florida and one from Sugarcreek, laughed with me over the difficulty of finding proper pillows for the head. I informed their mother, “Wow, these two are just crazy.” Aunt Leona had a quick response: “Well,” said she. “You are their cousin, after all.”

I make my way to the fire station table, where sat two firemen and a cousin with their lovely spouses. I greet them, I am greeted as Dr. Beachy, and one of the ladies thinks I should come be her farmer husband’s therapist in the spring, at the point when it is raining and he is cooped in the house and pacing and there is nothing, purely nothing, to do. I point out that it seems to me he already has a live, in-house therapist. The wife is unconvinced.

The farmer cousin reminds me that it will be my turn, someday oneday, and wonders about my dating life. I tell him nope, that’s no longer a thing, but I lean in, the table automatically leans with me, and I tell him my former girlfriend is here today. His jaw drops, his mouth opens, he emits a hoarse “No way!” followed quickly by a “I need to meet this girl!” I hear my name, I turn, and she is standing three feet away, smiling. I am surprised, at the in person arrival of the topic of conversation. I pivot, I hug, I ask her if she’s cool with meeting my cousin who dearly desires to meet her. She consents, they meet, she takes her leave, I take mine. Farmer cousin will remember this reception.

The crowd lines up in two facing rows outside, holding bubbles, to blow a bubble blessing upon the bride and groom. I feel my oats and inform the photographer that she has a great vibe, a great energy. She runs with the compliment, exclaiming “Thank you thank you my day has been made! Some people take me seriously, and I’m just sarcastic, and it’s so sad!” <earlier in picture taking, I selfied with the family. The photographer was standing in the line of photo, and when I asked her to please move so we could selfie, her response: “Adopt me!”

The crowd continued to wait for the merry couple. My oat sowing grows stronger. Across the way stands Marc, a casual Columbus acquaintance, and I shout: “Are you two a thing?” as I point at him and the woman by his side.

He wildly shakes his head, the lady blushes, and their friends all giggle madly. I am cracking up, the people around me also crack up, it’s a good night to blow bubbles and not be a thing. He attempts a recovery by asking if the woman beside me (my dear sister) and I are a thing. It falls flat. I continue in this time of delight.

The couple walk out, they are strewn with bubbles, they attempt a seat in the vintage restored truck. First, the groom has to remove balloon after balloon (I take no credit for this. Tho the mischief makers invited me, I was having too much fun mingling with the guests, so I said nyet). The brother finally makes enough room, starts the truck, moves a foot, stalls. They stall out twice. It is challenging, for sure, to steer with one hand, hold the wife with the other, and leave one foot(?) for shifting the clutch. So much for starting the vintage truck beforehand, to warm the engine. But they proceed at last, balloons hurl forth from the bed, and the littles stream after the balloons, their own dance party at the end of a long good day. The balloons pop in a riot of color and sound, and my siblings gaze upon their offspring with amusement leaking from the own faces.

Fireworks fire a half hour later, and the few guests remaining are convinced of the fitting end to a wonderful day.
shalom!
have a sibling get married.
it’s a joy.

p.s. the fam on the wedding day, minus one brother.
don’t that happy couple look GOOD?
Why yes. yes they do.

P.s.s. This was the poem I presented at the wedding.
It remains untitled.

Two stories I have
To share and recite
One of the groom
And one with the bride.

The first one was where
The groomsmen converged
On a restaurant in
Historic Coshocton town.

It was the first night
Of the bachelor event
We came to the restaurant
The day had been spent.

Those who’d arrived
Did enter the place
I glanced at the hostess
Saw a wild gleam in her face.

She looked at celli
Who had come in first
And then peered back
To the halls she’d traversed.

She made some strange motions
And waves with her hands
Then shoved the menus
Into Celli’s arms.

She told our group
“Go sit at your table”
Pointed us forward—
“Hurry up, you’re able”

We all stood amazed
The bro clutched the menus
He was a bit unsure
What he should then do.

BUT There was naught to be done
Just lead on in the way
Celli with the menus
Us following away

I didn’t know,
I’d be a spectator
But that night we enjoyed
Celli acting as a waiter.

My second tale comes
From just this past week
I delivered Indian
To celli as a treat.

I arrived at his house
The couple was absent
I was quite pleased;
Charged in to the entrance.

I dropped off the food
In the fridge in the center
I then took my leave
By the door I had entered.

The next day the man texted,
Thank you so much.
We’re thrilled w/this gift -
I shot back: you got it

I arrived at the church
On Thursday the evening
The couple was sitting
And eating Indian.

As I sat down
I asked him right then
“How did you know
I the gift to you given?”

With a smirk on his face
Celli informed me:
“I have a camera
On THE property.”

I was disturbed
My confusion was great.
I turned to his lady—
And said: “wait wait wait.

Where is this thing?
It’s been there how long?
Do you get notified
Whenever you’re gone?”

And people arrive
You didn’t expect
Does your phone go ding ding
With a smart little text?

Hannah was quick
On her feet that night
She bypassed the questions
Ignored them outright.

She laughed with her man
I was left in the dark;
To the camera location
Wherever its parked.

I squared off my jaw
Deep down I determined
I’ll do this again
With no camera seeing.

A flash of inspiration
Went off deep inside
I thought to myself
Just wait my guys

The next time I come
You won’t know it’s me
I’ll just wear a costume
as a dog – you see?

The bro has so many
Golden dogs galore
I’ll simply blend in
When I beat down his door.

Floral blouse drives a car.
The Honda’s trunk — miniscule.
She informs us she will take the nightstand with her this very day.

I lug the nightstand out to her car. Her wooden nightstand looks decrepit. Its age is the vintage of the 50s, not the cool kind, but the type that should be chopped up for firewood.

I look at the trunk. I don’t bother to lift. My shoulders sink.
I wonder why people can’t bring a truck, an SUV, even a bus.

“Your trunk is too small; it’s not gonna fit.”
She tilts her head. “Can we stick it in the back seat?”
Her beady eyes beam hope.

I sigh and move to the side of the car.
I heave the nightstand up; it is close, but again, this thing. shall not. pass.
“Well maybe you can push it in?”
My head lurches in astonishment.

Does this woman know what she is suggesting?!

She smells the doubt wafting around us.
“It’s fine, it’s fine, I’ve had this car foreverrrrr.” She slaps her hand across the hood to accent her point. I lift again; I begin to push. Thirty percent of the nightstand enters the car. The other portion lands in nether world, that rubber seal space that wants the door to fit. I continue to push. A bit more goes in. The wood goes stuck; the nightstand sticks.

The car has become a traveling art exhibit.
We title it “Nightstand between two worlds.”

I stop pushing. “What do you want done?”
The seal is gouging dangerously.
I fear pushing it further in.
My mind shivers.
Who will get the joy of removing this nightstand?

Floral blouse shuffles around the car, where she has been taking a smoke break.
“It’s halfway in, it’s almost there, surely we can do it.”

I note her use of the word we.
I scowl inwardly.
What a loada crud.
“We” indeed.
There is no we in me pushing.

I begin anew. The nightstand slides further. It is now 80% of the way. She takes one final puff and tosses the cigarette to the ground, crunching it neath her feet. She adds an unsteady hand and gives the wood a shove. It is oddly, strangely, enough. With a gentle whoosh the thing slides right on in to the backseat.

“We did it!” Her shout rings across the parking lot.
She raises her hand for a high-five.
I give it to her.

She thanks me profusely.
“I couldn’t have done it without you!
Sure you don’t wanna come home with me to unload it — you were so good!”

I respond in the negative.
I have a job to do.
I could have done it without her.
I don’t mention this fact.
Woe to the one who will extricate this piece.
They’ve got a job on their hands.
I neglect to remind her of this.

A smile crosses my face.
I bid farewell.
The art exhibit is over.

The Chainsaw.

It is fall. Fall is fading, the leaves are falling, the sun is famished — it is beyond beautiful of a day to auction. The brother is also present. He too is auctioning.

This classic estate clean out contains rows of a lifetime, boxes of jars and lids and furnishings, décor and vases and cleaning supplies, a flexible flyer wooden sled and a road sign and an absurd number of tools. This auction is worth being at. There is always the chance of eureka, when you buy a box for cheap and get home and discover the WOW of cool junk you have won but didn’t know you were winning when actually bidding.

The auctioneer takes forever to sell anything. We are used to Kaufman Auctions, the premier company of our area. Their auctioneers are efficient, moving at great pace, great rates, great speed to bid, bid, sold, before moving on to the next thing. This man is taking twice, three times as long to sell anything. This auction will last til midnight. He’s a one man show, used to doing things his own way.

I spy a Stihl chainsaw in the lineup. I make my way to its side. I am impressed. I grew up in a chainsaw wielding family. Dad used only Stihl. I have vague dreams of possessing a chainsaw all my own. I yank the starter cord. Nothing happens. I call my brother over, and he looks at it but does little to help. I press the primer button to help it along, make sure the master switch is turned correctly, move the other lever to choke, yank again, still nothing. I stare at the thing. How long should I actually try?

I decide to give one final pull, more solid and enduring than any yanked before. The chainsaw ends its vow of silence and roars to life. It rises in a shrill arc, a scream so loud I cannot hear the brother, the crowd bidding, the auctioneer man. He is completely drowned out. He yells something, but no one can hear. The chainsaw has effectively muted the entire auction. The crowd turns and stares. My cheeks match the leaves in the autumn sun. I fumble with the saw. The chainsaw bellows for an eternity as my fingers flail. The eternity lasts less than five seconds before I haltingly flip it to off.

Auction man is livid. “Don’t you dare try that again! Next time test it before the auction starts!” His voice holds the fury of a small man clawing his way back to power. This is HIS auction, and he will NOT give up the block. I stare back at him, disdain filling my eyes. A bird flipping sort of man woulda given him a double. He takes his own second look and realizes I’m just a teen. Harmless but shifty enough to know how to start a chainsaw. He resumes selling with a humph.

I mosey down the row.
I act as though nothing has happened.
The brother joins me.

I make eye contact with a woman in the next row. I notice her shoulders are silently shaking. She leans across the Mason jars. I lean as well.

A shady deal is about to go down. “Dude that was awesome!” Her shoulders continue shuddering. “I’ve been to this guy’s auctions before. He thinks he’s just a gift to the whole world. Takes forever to sell anything. I’ve never seen him so startled, such a total loss for words. Justttt awesome!” She shakes her head and walks away, still laughing.

I am my own version of startled.
Huh.
Suddenly I can’t wait for my next auction.

The baptism.

My friend goes to a conservative conference church.

It was a good day to be part of this church. It was a baptism day. Baptisms were special. People loved celebrating applicants’ commitment to God, the church, and the leaving of this world. You showed up. You celebrated who was getting baptized. Only weddings and funerals rivaled the capacity of these services.

Paul the preacher got up and began his sermon. He began preaching into the pulpit microphone. Five minutes into the sermon, the sound man came up, tapped him on the shoulder, and extended a clip on microphone. They performed that awkward dance, where a Mennonite minister gets touched by another man, first his ear, then his back. Sound man handed the wee black box to the preacher. He clips it onto his own waist. Sound man cannot touch the preacher’s waist.

Everything seemed fine. The mic and loop were good. Loop round the ear. Touch the back. Put the cord down. Extend black box. The microphone cord had not gotten the memo. It kept twisting up. As soon as the black box attached to waist, the cord materialized at his neck, bunching up, doing its own massage. Sound man needed to assist after all. (So much for hands off policy). Finally, finally, after multiple attempts, the cord settled, the black box again placed on waist, all was well. Sermon got preached. Time for the actual baptism.

Here they practiced pouring. Not the immersion of days gone by, but the pour pouring. Paul the preacher received the duties of doing the actual pouring, while his fellow pastor Lloyd held the stainless bowl.

Pastor Lloyd held the bowl steady for applicant one, then applicant two. Things bent to the south for applicant three. The bowl, instead of being held level, had somehow managed to tilt, just slightly, in the man’s hands. A short stream of water had begun leaking over the side, down his pants, cross the top of his shoes, onto the carpet. Only a trickle, only a wee bit. He was wearing his Sunday best trousers, the black slicky pants that lasted forever, were hard to iron, and were vaguely waterproof. The man felt nothing.

The water continued to trickle.
The congregants’ eyes popped.
The baptism manual didn’t have a “how to correct tipping bowl” section.

Finally one brave soul in the front row managed a strained “LLOYD!”
Who jerked his head.
And looked down.
Overcorrected the bowl.
Water sploshed out the other side.
The bowl leveled out.

The third applicant gaped up from the floor.
Smirks appeared behind rapidly raised hands.
Lloyd’s face held a small grin the remainder of the day.

The Lowe’s toilet.
I renovated a house, a couple years ago.
Renovating a house taught me many things.
Starters: find a good plumber.
Secondly, find a plumber brother.
Third, go toilet shopping with your plumber brother.

We entered Lowe’s one fine summer day. The sun beamed down as we strolled inside to shop vanity, sink, toilets. The day held perfection. The brother found the proper Mansfield toilet (USA made). I needed two toilets; plumber brother also needed two toilets. Better yet, if one bought four of Mansfield toilets, Lowe’s gave a discount. We found three Mansfields on ground level. We searched adjacent stalls, the vertical shelf, the surrounding aisle. The fourth Mansfield had hidden itself.

Plumber brother continued to look around.
He spied a pallet of toilets on the very top shelf.
We requested assistance from Employee Egbert. Egbert exuded grace and helpful vibes, but shortly received a phone call. Egbert walked away. We casually strolled over to the box smashing machine, where James was hard at work.

“Can you help us?”
James replied: “oh, NO, I can’t help you. I’m very busy.”
The brothers shrugged.

Meanwhile, Egbert had ceased phone operations.
“Hey, can you help us?”
“No, I’m so sorry, I can’t help you, but HERE’s the guy that will” — indicates Paul.

Paul said: “Oh no, no, NO, I definitely can’t help you here. But let me call the guy who can and he’ll be over in five minutes.” Paul called employee number four.

Five minutes depart.
The brothers strolled around, admiring the variety of vanities.
Finally, plumber brother had enough.

“Here’s a portable ladder. I shall go up myself.”

I assisted plumber brother in wheeling over said ladder.
I sneaked furtive glances over my shoulder.
Do we have permission what if someone sees us?
Plumber brother climbed the ladder, stepped onto the shelving, then crawled all the way to the top shelf, sliced the plastic wrap, and after moving four other toilets, managed to claim the correct one.

I observed from the safety of the ground.

“Would you like assistance?”
“Why yes, yes I would.”

I climb to the top of the ladder and receive my prize.
I have slight difficulty maneuvering this box of toilet, which is about half my weight.
I am Delta. I make my initial descent.
We are no longer alone.
Employee Grandpa, employee Middle-Age, and employee Millennial are circling the runway.

Grandpa is angry. “You get down at once! You’re not supposed to be up there!”
Middle age is shocked.
Millennial cannot keep the laughter off his face.

The brother leaps into the melee: “Yes sir; we’re coming down right now!”
Grandpa continues grumping: “Wow, this is so bad, you are definitely NOT allowed to do this!!”

I land and walk by. “Well sir, we asked four other employees to assist us, and no one would help.”
Grandpa’s jaw works; no words come out.

We march away, toilet in tow.
We claim our waiting three toilets.

Brother turns around and states:
“We were just practicing for when we decide to apply for jobs here at Lowe’s.”
Grandpa’s face grows hard. “That’s not funny!”

Millennial breaks into appreciative laughter.

We lug our cart of toilets to the checkout.
Cashier Rhonda cheerily greets us and begins scanning.
She looks at me.
“You look like the cat who ate the canary!”
I shrug, my face not quite containing my smirk.
Rhonda keeps looking.

“Man, you really just look like you the cat who ate the canary.”
I give in. “Well let’s just say we asked for help, which did not come, so we helped ourselves.”
Rhonda’s grin grew even bigger.

“Oh my word, yes, I know exactly how that is!!!
We’re just so short staffed here, and really what can you do?”
Plumber brother and I look at each other.

We exchange knowing grins.
We wheel our toilets out to the truck, whence they made their way to Dundee.

Those toilets are still used today.

Black cat at midnight.

And this story from ten years ago.
The family lived in Kenya for three years, and upon a time we vacationed in Mombasa, a coastal town on the south. The younger brother Micah narrated this one — let’s hear it for the boyzzz.

Mzungu = white man
Choo = outhouse

Earlier in the evening I was sitting by the pool reading, listening to music, and voxxing. The mosquitos started biting me so I went inside, up the wooden steps, and into my spacious bedroom. I was gonna just read under my mosquito net for a bit and then migrate over to sleep in the big open room with tv and sofas.

Before reading I got up to get another pillow. Upon rising I heard an ill-fated “meow” emerge from the corner. Normally I like cats, but upon further investigation of this puss I discovered it was an unfriendly black cat (two bad things in one cat). I arose and performed a hurried scouting to find the hole the cat had come in. Apparently the rafters of the house were not tight. I found the hole, up near the top of the wall, and tried to chase the cat back through said hole. The cat determined to vacation with us and refused to vacate the hole, giving me a lengthy scratch in the process. My displeasure rose, so I chased him downstairs and it dashed into the kitchen with me close behind.

We entered the kitchen, whereupon it realized it could not fly through the locked outside door. It made another dash at me and hissed mightily as my hands grasped for the fleeting black of its back. The thing slimed through my hands and fled in hopes of watching tv, whereon I renewed the chase back up stairs. I had now decided that if I was not to catch it this time I would show it to the open door on our return trip from up stairs.

We made a mad loop around the bedroom, through the tv room, and down the stairs, me in legged pursuit. Once again the cat made the choice of dashing for the kitchen. I flew into the kitchen and it felt my presence from behind. The puss catapulted for the counter but failed to gain a hold.

Once more it dashed straight at me, but this time I was ready. My foot pinned the black bugger to the island. Immediately I sought to catch the critter with my own paws, whereupon our fight to the death ensued. The cat dealt the first blows by biting me smartly on both hands. Thanks to my reflexes I pinned the black cat to the ground. The grabbing took some 10 seconds. One hand clasped the gut, while the other hand held head and neck in a death grip; all the while I was pressing down with most of my mzungu being.

As we sat there, me hugging cat huffing breath in a deathly way, and the cat struggling and struggling wishing it were even in the choo, we both waited each other to see who would win. I briefly considered calling Markus, but decided he’s not the hunter type and that I should be able to kill a cat. But then too, how does one kill a cat with his bare hands when the cat doesn’t want to be killed? My answer came within 15 seconds as the cat relapsed into the previous century, collapsing limply on the floor and joining my red blood there.

Quivering I arose, grabbed the cat, unlocked the door, and threw the subdued devil out. Having finished I called to sleeping Mum to please assist me. Mum arose and found me by the sink, rather shakily washing myself and feeling a bit jittery. We shared a hug, and Mum kindly got salt and assisted me.

I decided to return upstairs after my shower to sleep again. I was going to watch a short video, but when the show host started out by saying “Now everyone I want to discuss cats,” I PROMPTLY left the page and soon settled down at the chosen hour of midnight. Some two hours later a night-puss (not to be confused with a nightmare) woke me and forced me to enter the safer room of big brother.

Good day people. The biggest thing I’ve gained from this terror is to never ever allow a black cat to cross you. forever yours, Cat Dumping Inc. CEO, Micah

It’s been good y’all.
The picture is from the archives of the fateful day in Lowe’s.

Thanks for reading so far.
May your wild moments become pure delights.

call 1,
title “Breath”

“yo I can’t breathe I CAN NOT breathe!!!”

The call had come in on a Wednesday morning, smack in the middle of work week. The lady had graciously waited until 4:00 a.m. to call. We’d screamed down the road, through the valley, up the hill and into the woods, to the little trailer shack on the one straight stretch close to the factory. There had been slight confusion which place it was, as she had no number on the mailbox or the shack house. Blast it already.

One of the firemen arrived before the squad. I hopped out of the driver’s seat and footed to the door while the others gathered equipment, monitor, gloves. I joined fireman inside. “Tell me what’s going on ma’am.”

Wide eyes, fish mouth, “I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!”

She’s talking. Excellent sign.

“How long has this been going on ma’am?”

“Ehhhh, four or five days! I just woke up and it was way worse. WORSE!” I inwardly added air quotes. Everything repeated, everything dramatized, everything interspersed with a lack of breath (all were gasping at this point, also trying to breathe). We took a hurried set of vitals inside the shack.

Her oxygen levels had certainly tanked. A good reading looks between 97-100% on room air. Hers was below 90. Not good. The other providers had pulled the cot onto the porch and tugged it thru the narrow doorway. She shambled to the cot and plunked herself down. It’s easy for EMS (including self) to get tunnel vision in such scenarios and ignore details; I managed to grab a blanket and cover her up. She yowled when her face hit the outside blast. “It’s so cold, I can’t BREATHE!”
We hadn’t known; we were grateful to be told once more.

We bounced into the squad, turned up the heat, gave her O2, began to ride. We switched to code 3 (lights and sirens) shortly into the trip. It was a fast ride, with curves and nerves and just hang on will ya for the patient was the only one strapped in. Oxygen levels rose. The frenetic energy around the patient subsided. We arrived safe at the hospital, trundled her into elevator, arose to second floor, deposited her onto the hospital bed. Promptly she began standing up. Nurse Max, hulking arms: “Hold on hold on, where you going?!”

<mumbling> “need to pee, not comfortable, gotta stand up.”

“Well you stay right there, ma’am, right there on that cot.”

I glanced at Tim, fire fighter miracle worker. His eyes danced.
My eyes got bigger. We hit the elevator.

As we went down,
our mouths filled up with joy.

call 2, titled
“To wait and to lift”

This one’s slightly more formal.
Written on assignment for a current English class.
cheers.

The call came in just before midnight. It was a warm summer night. The crickets sang, the moon shone, and the stars gleamed bright on our small town. He was enjoying the evening, reading a book, with the windows open and the night sounds coming in.

The familiar sound of medical tones dropped. He was part of his local volunteer fire department, and he ran calls as an EMT. He dropped his book, blew out the candle, grabbed the radio, threw on his shoes, swiped his keys, and floored it the quarter mile to the fire station. It was always a race, to see who could get there first, except he drove with due regard, even to the station. (One call, a year ago, at the four way stop, he’d stopped though in a rush to get to station and the car to his left didn’t stop and he blared his horn as car careened through the 4-way, only to realize it was his fellow volunteer also rushing to station. He’d apologized, later. So did she).

He wasn’t the only one home that night, ready for action in the community.
A total of seven people showed up. Four on the squad, three to the scene.

The call had come in as a sick person. Sometimes dispatch gave an epistle of details – what happened, age of patient, history of illness. There was no such luck, this time. Dispatch simply said sick person.
Well. This could be anything, which meant it was going to be FUN.

They arrived, lights flashing and sirens wailing, descended from the squad, swarmed the house. At first they thought no one was home. It took a little while for someone to come to the door and let them in. The someone had been the nephew from the nearby house, calling to say his aunt was ill and needed help. The nephew introduced them to his aunt, then left and went back home.

The lady of the house had not aged well. At seventy some years of age, she didn’t make much sense when spoken to. “No, I don’t want to go to the hospital now, but I might consider it. Well could they call her nephew again? He’s such a nice boy. Actually can I take a brief nap?”

The providers sighed. They don’t teach this in EMT school. There one learns about the wild calls, like the one where the kid flies down the steps and smacks her head and you get to call in the helicopter for them. Or when the intoxicated teen loses control, his truck sliding around the curve mid summer, flipping end over end, the fence post smashing through the windshield and missing not only him but his passenger, just so. School didn’t teach what to do with confused old ladies.

They don’t tell you about the waiting, the gentle persuasion you try to do for the patients who really should go in but hate doctors. They didn’t mention the tough ones, like the retired farmer who insists that he’s fine after capsizing his tractor and getting partially pinned but manages, through sheer dint of will, to squeeze his way out and brush himself off all the while proclaiming “I’m good, it’s good, this piece of forsaken trash has been on this earth longer than I and if I can walk I’ll get it fixed.” They don’t teach you how, when you’ve tried to bring someone back through performing CPR, and it doesn’t work and they are dead and you have to wait for the coroner to come verify the death, that you may be waiting an age. Death comes when no man is ready, but the coroner arrives only after an eternity.

The providers wandered through the main floor living room. The place was obviously lived in, but without a regular housekeeper. The trash, the stacks of stuff, the laundry heaped everywhere on the floor all spoke of neglect. The exposed wires and bare bulbs shed their own light on the matter. Liz nudged a pile with her foot and jumped as a form went skittering. Kat grabbed her arm: “C’mon, let’s go to the next room.”

Chief kept talking with the patient, trying to persuade her to go to the hospital and get checked out. She was obviously confused but seemed to realize they were there to help her. He thought he was making progress, so he told several of the providers to go out and get the cot. They wandered back outside to the bright lights of the squad, only to stop in dismay. Someone had left the rear doors open, thinking it would be a quick load and go. They had underestimated the time spent on scene, and now the interior had filled with dozens of bugs, flying about and circling the lights and making soft swooshes as they flew. (They definitely did NOT learn about bugs in EMT school. Basic 101: close squad door on summer night). Nothing remained but grab the cot, make a few bug swipes, shut the doors. Better to put a stop to the number of bugs inside, then leave the doors open for more.

They maneuvered the cot over the gravel, up the wooden steps, through the narrow doorway, into the living room where the nameless had skittered into the dark. The cot carriers were met with thin lips by their fellow providers.

“She needs to go to the restroom; it’s gonna be a minute; just stick the cot in a corner.” So they did. Minutes went by. “Where’s Chief and George?”

“Oh, they’re in the restroom, helping her out.”

“Say what?!”

“She needed help getting back up, and she requested that Liz and I help her, but I said no way, she’s too large, get the firemen to do it.” Kat informed him.

He stuck his head gingerly around the corner. The tang of urine hit his nose, which wrinkled on reflex before he could smooth his face expressionless. Sure enough, there was the patient, bundled up in scarf, jacket, overcoat, headwrap, sitting placidly on the toilet, two hulking firemen standing adjacent, looking grim. “How’s it going fellas?” He smiled gently, and they narrowed their eyes at him.

He turned to the others in the living room. “Well folks, anyone want to find any more creatures?” No one said a word; they’d been there an hour already and the night kept dragging by. “What’s taking them so long in the bathroom?” he wondered. Mercy chuckled, “She said she was ready to get up, but when we ladies refused to go in and the firemen showed instead, she glared and decided to sit a bit longer.”

He heard Chief tell George to get ready to lift.

Apparently the patient had decided she was finished.

They lifted.

A scream emerged from the bathroom.

Kat clapped her hand over her mouth, preparing to stop her own shout of laughter.

The patient tottered out, a fireman gripping each arm. “I wanna go to my bedroom, sit a minute.” They deposited her there.

Chief and George returned.
Liz asked, “What was the scream all about?”

George sighed. “When she stood up, her bloomers fell all the way to the floor. She wasn’t a big fan. Crazy, huh?”

Kat narrowed her eyes. “I think not. The scream we heard was Chief, and when the bloomers plummeted down, he screamed because of what he saw.”

“o ya RIGHT!” Chief shot back.

Kat smirked. They stepped outside into the warm night air. “Well how long shall we wait?” Chief wondered as the providers clustered at the bottom of the steps. The bugs flew in merry circles inside the squad. The crickets continued their song as the night ticked gently by.

call 3, titled “Full Arrest”

Each verse could be its own poemette.
This is a reflection on the very first full arrest call I ran, wherein the patient’s heart stopped and we tried to bring them back. Full arrest calls are action-filled and often sad.


Sleeping soundly, dreaming bits -
Pager shatters — silent night.

Up in flash fly out of bed.
Zoom around, throw clothes o’er head.

Yank the pager grab the phone,
Snap the lights — enter zone.

Thunder stairs race on thru house.
Slide in shoes throw door — get out.

Haul to car and start it up.
Map the route. driving start.

To the station or direct;
It’s a tossup which is best

Converge on scene while bags get grabbed
Drugs in hand, airway nabbed.

Fly up the steps and bang on door.
Wife weeping points down the hall.

Sweep through space and find bedroom -
Our patient flat, he does not move.

Check the pulse he breathes no more!
Take from bed to hallway floor

CPR begun and airway placed;
compressions moving KEEP THEM PACED.

Let’s intubate it will give air —
Direct access way down in there.

We work away and try to shock
But heart rhythm is a flop.

Eventually, efforts cease.
We have tried but not succeeded.

Death has won and so it goes;
To each man comes a time to go.

EMT school did not show us
nuded bodies, blood and guts.

Fragile skin purple tissue
On the chest, from the bruising.

Blood foaming, at the mouth.
Eyes rolled back, freeze at the touch.

Kiddos arrive, grief is theirs.
We hold their hands we sit we care.

The remainder crew, clean the squad
Shoot the breeze under the stars.

The deputy arrives to check
The body out. Post which he leaves

We load the body, on squad cot,
Chief informs me of my job

Ride in the back, right by the dead
While to the morgue we take his bed.

I fix my eyes upon this jester.
And scoff direct – no thank you mister!

A dead shell needs no company,
Now that the spirit is free.

Despite outcome, itsa good night
For this crew who’s come to fight.

We’re 911.
We’re Dundee.
We’ve showed up:
COMMUNITY.

P.S. If you need a smashing read on small town America, fire depo, belonging, and calls, check out Michael Perry’s Population: 485
As Goodreads says: Against a backdrop of fires and tangled wrecks, bar fights and smelt feeds, he tells a frequently comic tale leavened with moments of heartbreaking delicacy and searing tragedy.

We talk about many things.
Finding community and friends to walk with you is super important.
How do you do that?

I sit amazed. What the chances?! This random guy sits beside me, and we get started in honest conversation, whose eyes exude kindness and warmth and an ease of acceptance. Who happens to recognize one of my good friends from my area. I like this story.

We talk. About church and singing and work, belonging and vulnerability and community. Recovery work, counseling, helping others. Public school and college and family. We talk the entire 2.5 hours. We walk together; we arrive in the terminal. He shakes my hand. I ask and he consents, and we lean for a hug, strong and firm and with no knowledge of being strangers some short hours before.

This pup has done well. I carry it and meet the customer, a professional dressed to the nines, who notices me eyeing his suit and says “Ha don’t worry bout this thing, I have a hundred others at home that the puppy can’t dirty.” I ponder that. He signs the paperwork and I ask, as I always do, if I can take a picture of him with his new dog.

“Absolutely yes.” The picture blurs. I cannot get over this terrible lighting. I say goodbye and send the picture to the brother who responds with “maybe there’s something on the lens?” I check and sure enough one of them is smudged chocolate style. Frickle-cake. I wipe and presto all clear again.

I meander over to the ticket counter, where I request if there are any earlier flights to be had. “Well sir your ticket is a basic one, so if you want to upgrade you can but it’ll be for the low low price of 275.” Good gravy, money to the wind for a measly two hours home earlier? I thank her, decline, depart. I wander past a CLEAR employee, who notices my carrier, wonder what’s in it, feels sad to have missed the dog.

“By the way ma’am, where is the Uber pickup?” She points downward as she says, “Follow the orange bubble,” which I happen to be standing on. I shake my head and apologize.
She chuckles.

I uber out to a restaurant.
I ride with a man originally from Ethiopia.
I strike up conversation.
“What do you think of Trump?” I query.

“Oh wow, wow, wow, wow, that guy! Well, he’s doing the best he can. You know, all politicians are the same. They are neither bad nor good. They are all the same. But at least here in America you have rule of law. Where I come from, if the government wants something, they always get it. They always are getting it.”

I ponder the thought of politicians being good nor bad. I like the thought of people doing the best they can. I wouldn’t want their job for sure.

The driver keeps talking. “But how do you actually represent? Who is it you’re representing? Think of the people in your town. Half rent, half own, and the ones who rent may not be around in six months. Who will you listen to? The people working or the people not working? The long timers or the new arrivals or the ones who don’t look like you? How is this supposed to work anyway?”

I tip the man, cold hard cash, cuz nothing says thanks like one of the bills being a two dollar bill. Will he believe it’s real? He’s lived here fifteen years after all.

After chilling for hours at the best restaurant, I order another Uber ride. He bonds with me over all the foolish drivers on the road. “Look at these bright white headlights! They were almost blinding me. Why were they almost blinding me?!” I shrug and mumble “don’t know.”
He keeps going. “Why, WHY is this? See, even you, all the way from the back, you were almost blinded. These foolish people! What is this world?!”

I ask him about his family. His grown artist child lives in the same city. Do you get to see said child often? The streetlights sweep by, one two three. “Well maybe every few months. Basically love from a distance.” Ahhh ahhh ahhh, I see I do.

“Do you have other kids?”
“Yes, one. THIS my son. He’s finishing his master’s program at Harvard.”
“Oh my fritz wow!”
“Ya, that’s what everyone says. But this my boy, he is getting lazy and is going to need to get a real job and face the real world.”
“Well,” I insert. “We all have choices.”
“Oh my word I love that I love that!” The man squeals. “I absolutely believe we are all the sum of our choices!”
I shake my head in the car dark. Not what I said. But your version works too.

I sit at the gate, preparing to board my final flight back to the cold. The gate rep gets on the microphone, fumbles around, finally states “that the plane is almost there but we’re gonna let the passengers unload before we get on.” A solid idea for sure. The gate rep continues: “I feel like I’m all over the terminal tonight.” I nod inwardly. Yes ma’am. That you are. “And by the way what is that thing they say in Ohio? O something? H something?” A feeble chorus rises from the assembled passengers. “Iiiii” “Ooooo.”
“Ahhh!” The rep is pleased; her fog lifts. “Got it!” she shouts. “Let’s try it again! OOOO. HHHH.” The crowd’s response rises an octave. “IIIII! OOOO!” The assembled crowd breaks into smiles. I laugh, lady across the way laughs, and the ticketing agent laughs.

We board, we take off, we sail smoothly. In Ohio we fly through a storm, right before landing. We bank, preparing to drop. The plane shakes a bit. We are twenty feet off the runway, descending fast. I glance out the window and see the lights of the ground near level with the plane. The plane tilts sideways. Suddenly the engines shift. They whine, they rev, and we soar skyward. I clutch my armrest, tighten my seat belt, breathe, remind myself to breathe. Mutterings break out behind me. The Korean lady two seats over looks pale.

We level out, circle, descend. This time we land safe and sound. The voices in the back sound relieved. I chat with my Korean seatmate, whose high pitched voice startles here at midnight.

“Oh my goodness, I didn’t know what was happening, they never do this, this has never happened, I was so scared, I WAS SO SCARED!”
I shrug, I agree, I say it is good to be landed.

“Oh my goodness, I was clutching my seat, I thought we were going to crash, I thought we weren’t going to MAKE IT!” She is a Walmart of words.

We ascend up the jetway. Words continue to Walmart from her mouth. My ear has become Great Value. She has purchased before I’m aware of the sale.

“I’ve never been to this airport before, I don’t know which way to go, I need to pee, can you wait for me?” I am surprised. Never before has a stranger asked me to wait as they pee. So I dutifully pause, she departs, she comes out, we proceed down the terminal. She tells me about visiting her family, her extended cousin, the one who never comes to any family events. We are besties for two minutes. We coulda been besties the whole plane ride. She makes moves to waltz by the exit, but I gently steer her true. I direct her to baggage claim and the correct carousel as I veer up the steps.

“Oh my goodness, thank you so much, I couldn’t have done this without you!”

I smile and nod.

I find my Fit.

I drive and arrive home at 1 a.m. and run two miles before bed.

I arise in the morning and do it all again.

That wonder,
that mound beneath my fingers,
that amazement of
flour and yeast,
milk, water, sugar
egg
plus some butter.

All mixed together, to the correct degree, and when the feeling is right, as my mother taught me, I knead it together for one last goodness, and fold and refold, and then place in the bowl and cover with tea towel and take to the bathroom to the cold wood floor but right beside the heat vent for surely surely the heat shall blast all out, all right, all up, and the dough shall rise, up up up.

As the son ascended,
So ascendeth my dough.
One more slowly than the other.
But both rise.

An hour passes.

I go, the tea towel has risen,
the dough has risen, the herbs within the dough have also risen, it is riz.

I take towel off, I place dough on table, I punch, I knead again, and I split.
I split dough in half, then split one half into thirds,
then shape the thirds into something resembling a twist,

ahhh, it is a braid.
the bread is braided,
the braid is breaded,
the braiden is breaden
and the other half dough sits.

Which half splits again, each into thirds, and the dough is combined into thirds and two small loaves have appeared. Three loaves altogether, onto the cookie sheet, sitting atop the parchment paper, for the parchment purchased in a fit of luxurious extravagance for really who needs such parchment wildness in life but I do I do. but mostly it sits in my cupboard now, forgotten, unless coffee cake is made.

The sheet goes to sit in the vent room bathroom floor again, and 45 pass, and I check and they have rise. The oven ascends to 375 and the bread enters the oven and once again wonder of wonders do happen.

Again there is rising, the dough turned bread, and the ingredients, the pure simple ingredients of two hours ago, have transformed into something glorious, something wondrous, something tasty and gratitude to the belly, but more so,
let us take the earth and subdue it and continue to work at making portions of the land into portions of us so let it be in this time and place, this day and age.

I melt butter with more herbs.
The bread has browned, beautifically.
The bread sits,
the bread is done,
I butter the top with holy mix of dairy and herb.

I wait more time.
I slice each loaf.
It is after 9 pm.

My neighbor needs a loaf. My neighbors be a sweet couple, and she the one who gave me gifts, not one not two but THREE wrapped Christmas gifts over that gorgeous holiday, and here I am, carting bread over to their house at midnight. It’s not midnight, but it may as well be, somewhere.

Rich is surprised I bake bread.
Rich accepts.
I trundle back across the alley, happy in my gift giving.
Two more loaves sit on the counter.

The one is preparing to be eaten this weekend with my friends at a cabin in the woods. And the last loaf? It goes to live in a fridge in the big city, before being inhaled by lovely beings far more fair than the loaf maker could ever be.

glory glory glory


Photo Credit: Margretta Yoder

What a good way to be involved in the church.
What a blessing he could be to the people.
What grace he would shine forth as he opened the service, Sunday after Sunday.
What a beacon he would be.

The face, the church, the welcome, the light.

<for you unversed in the Mennonite tradition, the superintendent opens the church service with a welcome and prayer. He is the moderator for the first half of the service, in charge of dismissing for Sunday school. He helps things go smoothly. He also handles the logistical back end – organizing speakers for devotions, ordering teaching materials, solving problems.

Well.

He’d not been aware of the many no’s he would receive throughout 2025.
The congregants were superb at boundaries.
Or was it an unwillingness to help?

He’d not known the odd details needing to be worked out.
When should kids move up to the next class?
Perhaps he could ask his own kids their preference?

The devotions. (Devotions in the Mennonite church is when a man gets up, talks for ten minutes on a topic/what they’re learning/how God is showing up. We will not dive here into why women do not devote).

He’d worked it out, so the devotions schedule went out quarterly. He was proud of this move. His predecessor’s modus operandi was tapping people two days (if they were lucky, one day) before the actual SUN day. His success rates varied (about as popular as tariffs).

He steered a tight ship; the superintendent flag waved high. He made it clear to his fellow church attendees – if you cannot devote upon your Sunday, find your own replacement. Inform superintendent. We shall be happy together. (Only once did he bail out his music friend, bemoaning the fact of three programs on the weekend and he really shoulda gotten a replacement but he <somewhat typical fly by the seat of your pants and why did I wait til the day before to figure this out> didn’t know who to ask. He liked this man, so he broke his own rule and offered, just this once. What could it hurt).

It was the other stunts, the ones where the communication broke down, that fired shots at his ship. Rogan was on for Sunday devotions. They’d had a conversation earlier in the week, where Rogan casually mentioned,
“Yo I’m gonna be out this weekend should I get a replacement?”
“Why yes please, that’d be great. Just lemme know once you figure it out.”

The week came. He messaged a reminder.
Rogan texted “I got Aaron.”
Well and good.

He messaged Aaron.
“Ya Rogan talked to me but he said he actually got one of the other guys, Raylan.”
OK.

He messaged Raylan, who tried to voice call.
He missed the call.
Raylan messaged: “Rogan spoke with me, but actually Aaron agreed to do it.”

Delight.
Rogan allegedly asked both Aaron and Raylan to have devotions.
They both thought the other was doing it.
Aaron said he was out for the Sunday. “Raylan are you in?”

“Tell you what bro. If you can’t find someone else by tomorrow I’ll do it.”
He fumed.
He contacted Brody, whose devoting plans had failed twice before.
Brody said yes.

He messaged Raylan. “Thanks for offering. Brody agreed to go ahead.”
Raylan responded: “I’m sorry for the confusion.”
Him: “No worries, it happens.”

He realized then all he’d wanted was an apology.
And to blow up over the foolishness of it all.

Then there was the Sunday when he’d been inspired to perform a ten lepers’ skit.
All he needed was ten lepers, a narrator (he volunteered himself), and Jesus (a reason, or THE reason church gathers, after all).

This shouldn’t be hard.

What he didn’t count on was the negatives he’d receive.
“Outta town. So sorry.”
“Would love to help, but I don’t do skits.”
“Actually taking care of the kiddos so my wife can help.”
“Nope, no can do.” <I’ll can do YOU>
“Hosting this Sunday. It’s a lot?”
“MMM, what’s this for again?”

He hit desperate. He’d tried to pick carefully, people who would enjoy themselves while skitting. Such lofty ambitions vanished; the whole congregation became fair game. He asked ten, twenty, thirty. (Christ this is hard. You found ten lepers by a road. I can’t even find pretend ones in church).

The morning came; the ten lepers arrived to practice. Well, seven, because he still didn’t have quite enough. The one leper was a no show. The plumbing leper had bowed out that Sunday morning thanks to a family chicken house leak (he was sorry to see that one go, especially as he had expressed excitement about helping). He requested if a husband to one of the lepers would participate, who agreed on the spot. He passed out the papers, grateful for the ones who had showed. He wondered what he was gonna do for the missing lepers.

He was still one short, or two, depending on the no show.

Practice went off, scarcely a hitch. Jesus had a few suggestions for leper placements. He covered for the two absent lepers during narration. He had to work on his lepers, to get them to shout. The lepers even laughed as they presented. The late leper arrived. He handed the latecomer the (leperwork) paperwork and did a final switcheroo, so one female leper wouldn’t be running home to wife and kids.

He breathed and regretted bringing the doughnuts for the leper crowd. Apparently the lepers had carbed earlier that morning. The congregant’s children arrived and promptly wolfed the entire dozen before the welcome was said. (So much for the lone flat cookies).

He got up and opened the service.

Song leading and devotions proceeded nicely. The devotee sat down, he arose and gave a little speech about being outcast from society, missing people, how would you feel. He breathed and invited the lepers to come forward. As they gathered round the podium, he informed the crowd of the grace the lepers extended to participate that morning. “But unfortunately,” he told them. “There’s one wee problem. We are one leper short. Who would like to be a leper for ten minutes?”

The congregation reflected surprise.
They hadn’t read of one missing leper in their own gospel accounts.

And the pastor’s wife, the very one who’d said no thanks to hosting, shot up her hand in volunteer. She raced outside for her glasses, came back in, received the script, and off they went. He was inspired, over her kindness. He was grateful, for her volunteerism.

And so the skit presented, and so the skit ended.
He collected the papers, breathing a breath of relief.
Thank God this is done.
Never would he ever skit again, this year.

Halfway through the year, he thought he needed to be there to superintend each Sunday. His friend had texted him and said, “My choir is singing at your sister church. I’d love to have you come listen.” He’d shot back a noncommittal, due to superintending plus a new pastor preaching for the first time. Proly won’t make it.

She understood.

Then he looked at the schedule again. He realized THIS Sunday had scheduled baby dedications during Sunday school (yes, his church did this. Not the baptizing of babies <heresy> but the recognition of this child being God’s own. Besides <insert inapplicable joke here> did everyone at church know who John the Baptist’s wife was? Anabaptist!). He rapidly reevaluated his plans for superintending that day. He realized he was not indispensable, after all. He could stand one baby dedication, bless the child’s soul. But five!? This was too, too much; he couldn’t hack that repetition, that ritual, that many kids. In each dedication the congregation was asked if they would stand to show their support to raise this child in the fear of the Lord and back the parents. He knew he would stand to support, but this time from afar. After all, music was important too.

He retexted his friend. What time is the service? So he peaced out and over to hear the group Tehilla, or, more befitting, nicknamed Tequila. It’s basically the same. One sang sacred music. The other made people sing.

Tehilla was beautiful.
Tehilla brought tears to his eyes.
After all, no superintendent is indispensable.
Especially on baby dedication Sunday.

December came. This was the last month of his duties, the Sunday of reorganizing, this first Sunday of December. Bleak and cold blew the wind outside. Pitter patter pat went the beat inside. The stunt he was prepping to pull would be unlike any this church had experienced.

It had been a wild Sunday. He’d talked to five different people before the service began. All the details, all the Sunday school. The coffee makers pulled him aside. “Would you consider taking over the making of the coffee each Sunday? We’re ready to be done.” He narrowed his eyes. “Well. Lemme just get through this Sunday.” The man nodded and grinned. “Fair enough.”

He opened the service. What were these two brass sticks doing on the pulpit anyway. He sat and the song leader moved forward. The man lit the candles, led the congregation in meditative song. Another man got up to devote. At this point he himself arose to empty his bladder. His friend caught him in the back. “What’s the scoop with Sunday school and how is it going to be and when will it be switching back to normal?” They held a hurried three minute convo. He left, he peed. He came out, the devoting man was praying, and boom done. He gathered his things and went forward.

“Bo, thank you for the songs, and thanks for the devotions. I literally didn’t hear a word you said, but the prayer you prayed was beautiful (moment of honesty, apparently. He’d been gabbing in the back after all).”

He dismissed the kids. “Welcome to reorganization everyone! Sorry to the visitors who are here; bear with us.” He swallowed, and kerfluffled connecting the laptop with the projector. Assistance given, he got going. Well. He requested the first volunteer for the day, someone to come forward and help him. Kent graciously volunteered. He outlined how this would go. If no one volunteered for a position, then he would accept names given for a given position.

The first position came up. One of his friends was the first to volunteer for this preschool kids class. Bless her heart. He smiled. He reached under the pulpit as he spoke: “This church has chosen not to practice the holy kiss. (curious looks on the faces). But here (raising the bag) is a bag of kisses. Madam would you like one?” And he tossed her one, to the surprised chuckles of the crowd.

Then another teacher nominated. This one happened to receive the winning vote. He had an unpleasant oh crumbs moment in the back of his mind. Who was she again? He spoke into the mic as he rustled in his bag and made eye contact: “Oh my word, this is terrible, are YOU Kayla?” He knew the names of most people in church. He interacted with Kayla almost never.

Then there was the Peter confusion. There are two Peters in church. After voting for the one, someone asked which Peter they were voting for <the other votes had not been cast yet for the other nominees>. He didn’t know, so he backed up and asked who nominated and which Peter they meant. It turned out to be the OTHER one. He said, “Well. We SHALL redo the vote. If you like this Peter better, then vote for him.”

And the mom who nominated her own son for a Sunday school teaching position – it’s a fair assumption they had more than roast beef for lunch that day.

People enjoyed themselves, and the half hour reorganize flew by. As his friend put it, “That was the most memorable reorganization I was ever part of!” His hands were kept rather occupied with throwing kisses, taking nominations, and writing down the winner. He’d had fun, going out with a bang. His final takeaway from the morning? Outsource the kiss throwing.

Looking back, he laughed over the shenanigans of the year.
It had been a good one, after all.
People were blessed, and so was he.

Besides, there were the fun moments, after the Sunday school teacher sat down. The man had taught from the New Testament and spoke how God uses many people in many places and times and ways.

He’d bounced up and told them a joke he’d heard from Faith Builders.

“God does not have all His eggs in the Mennonite basket.”
”BUT <pride over his own joke addition> we sure make some goooood chicken.”
The crowd exploded, and then all left to toilet.

“Would you do it again?” a friend asked.
“Not right away. I’m gonna be busy.”
Because, he thought to himself, he had made a boundary.
Or maybe, he too had trended towards unhelpfulness for the coming year.

But then he remembered.
Aaron had volunteered to be the next superintendent.
Wait. Or was it Rogan?

Never mind. God would work it out.

If God gathered eggs from more than the Mennonite basket, then surely, surely, He could find a new superintendent from this cackling group of chickens.

Eggs anyone?

<the end>

The thing that drives us,
makes conversation go,
why we love people,
why we don’t love others.
and creates the dividing line between a nominal hangout and a lovely party.

Why do we laugh?
Why do you laugh?
Both questions the second cousin to this – what makes a joke funny?
When a joke must be broken down, humor flees. Sad, I know.
I been guilty: “Sorry, I don’t get the joke. Explain please.”
I’ve also done the explaining.

I am convinced stories happen to those who tell them.
The inverse. Does humor happen to those who laugh?

Kicking off today’s stack with a coffee story.
Spotify has a Jam feature, where you can join a playlist and add songs to the queue. Tom and I were at coffee (shall remain unnamed. what IF another invitation comes my way?), and my Spotify graciously invited me to join the coffee shop’s jam. I could not refuse. So I accepted and clicked “Od Yishoma” by Mzamrim, a lively Hebrew tune. I heard nothing. I checked my volume (halfway down). I cranked it all the way UP, and “Od Yishoma” blasted out the speakers, blowing us back in our seats. Tom walked by the kitchen, where the poor waitress stood drop jawed open mouthed. “What is going on?!”

We enjoyed that morning very, very much.
Sometimes life is so rich,
All you can do is smile.
Hit play.
Dance.
say, “Sorry. I’m gonna need to sleep over that.” <more on such note in a bit>

Take irony.
The Oxford dictionary (whew, elite. smooths cravat) defines irony as a state of affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects and is often amusing as a result. Irony brings joy. Especially because irony shows up unexpected, an uninvited guest, but upon arriving turns up the party vibe lets goooo.

Consider Nature’s Warehouse.
Nature’s sells healthy food.
They sell other claptrap.
They are a beacon of health.
I drove a delivery truck for them, once upon a year.
I delivered the claptrap.
And made people healthier.

Nature’s continues to sell. At least, I continue to see their trucks on the roads.
Trucks = product = business. Maybe? I drove into the valley, over the bridge, past the chicken farm. I arrived at the stop sign. A Nature’s truck wheeled towards me. The gloomy interior hid the driver’s face. But I clearly saw a glowing red ember, near the driver’s mouth, as he lit one up. Ironic? Wellness, definitely.

The witch.
This area fills itself with Amish.
I have Amish roots, as do the million and one other people of Holmes County. A fall day found me driving on 39, between Berlin and Millersburg. Amish live along this route. I crested a hill, and I saw a figure. I saw a witch in a ditch. I shrugged; my car shrugged too. Halloween’s imminent arrival meant many things. I drove closer and realized this was no witch in a ditch. It was an Amish woman, standing in the ditch, weed eating. In my defense, she was wearing a pointy cap <obviously witch themed> her weed eater stuck out <BROOM> and she clad all in black (no witch ever).
My next thought leaped: “Well. The Amish are now cosplaying as witches.”
I know, I know, I felt generous .
The tracks my brain runs on? Well.
Witches were the obvious engineers that day.

The customer service.
We have a local coffee shop, BarrioHut. Dan graciously gifted me a gift card for my birthday. I graciously stopped there and bought ice cream. Ten minutes went by. I arrived at the counter to check on the forgotten. Perhaps mine was the small vanilla ice cream? “Oh about your ice cream. We’re out of heath. What other options would you like?” And when were you going to tell me!? First world problems, truly.
Tuesday night I arrived again, on a wet and drear eve, and ordered a vanilla ice cream, size medium, caramel coffee. I confirmed the presence of heath <important>.
I hand over my gift card, she scans, places back on the counter between us.
“Your balance is 4.65.” I thank her, and she looks at me. I gaze back. Welp. Swallow. This is odd. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

Again she spoke: “Your balance is 4.65.”

What in the heckles. She kept looking at me.
Mindflash: “Is she hitting on me? ya know, her stuttering…”

Another ten seconds. Ice cream visions vanished. OH. You mean IOU. (not, apparently, U crushing On I). Apologize and whip out the credit card. She inserts into the machine, offers the screen to me, and now I am the kerfluffled one and I hit the tip button without asking self if a tip was deserved. Shoulda been no tip tonight. <Only 15% or 20%?! What lame options are you? Where’s the 1% ?>
I hit the 15 and leave. So much for customer service. But it was a good ice cream.

Sometimes laughter calls, literally.
An ordinary day knocked came in made itself at home.
I had drunk tea, studied books, phone called my friend.
I’d hit end and stood, contemplating next move.

An unknown caller lit up the screen.
I’m here for adventure.
What’ll it be?
I clicked accept.

<thick female Southern accent>

“Hello sir, I’m calling today for x organization on behalf of all the starving Jews who are struggling to survive in Israel. There is a severe food shortage for elderly Jews, survivors of the Holocaust, and the situation in Israel is urgently critical, and it is of utmost importance that we support and rally and help these people of God, chosen and cherished through all generations. Would you be willing to donate $35.00 to this urgent need right now?”

<thought one: said no reading from script ever>
<thought two: confusion. they want money?!>

“Wow, I had no idea. Well I’m not able to do that right now. I’m going to (and I quote) need to sleep over that.”

<her, taken aback>

“Oh, ok. Well, thank you sir for your service, and I understand that now may not be a good time, but on behalf of all the starving Jews who are survivors of the Holocaust in God’s chosen land of Israel, and because they really do need our help, is there any way you would consider supporting us with a gift of $20?”

<grateful for the price drop. still skeptical>

“Well ma’am, thank you so much. I’m still going to need to sleep over that.”

<her, taken further aback>

“Oh. Well. I understand that times are hard, and we’re all struggling to make a living, but is there any way (here, the plaintive tone dialed up) you would be able to donate $15? Anything at all?”

<me, sob in my voice>

“I’m sorry ma’am. I’m just not able to do that. Again, I’m going to need to sleep over that.”

<crestfallen>: “Well. I’m sorry too. Thank you for caring and investing in the Jews of Israel. Thanks so much for your time and the Lord bless you.”

<diving back in cuz I can play this game and this is my FINAL trump card>: “Absolutely ma’am. Thank you so much. And ma’am? (here my own sad tone took on a Southern accent of its own>
”The Lord blessss thee. AND keep thee.
And make His face shine upon you.
And be gracious unto you. AND give you peace.”

<amazed> “Wwwow. That was so naaaace. Thank you so much. Goodbah.” CLICK.

Goodbah INDEED.
Definitely strong need to sleep over all of that.


TX
The parents migrated to Texas to work at a border mission. I restarted school soon after they departed. I grew up in a homesteading family (not the weird kind, of prepper doomsdayers who store massive amounts in the vaulted basement. Ten cases of Covid TP anyone?) but the kind where we had a huge garden, all sorts of berries, hay, chickens, creek in the back pasture. The ripening blackberries needed picking. I began blackberrying post their departure.

That summer morning I picked 39 pints of blackberries. I ran into my old church friend Ruth at Walnut Creek Cheese. I’ve known her since my time began. I removed my black shades.

“Hello Ruth!”
<drop-jawed> “It’s you!”
She cast a slitted glance.

“What were you hiding I think you’re hiding something because of those shades.”
“Alsolutely Ruth, I normally wear shades to hide.”
She smirked. “I thought so and wow, what beautiful blackberries you have!”

<think Red Riding hood>
<why yes, grandmother>

“Would you like a pint?”
“Of course I would.”

<She the grandmother, me the wolf?
Let it be known, I did not eat her that day.>

I took her to my car, opened the boot, lifted out a prized pint.
“Ruth it is YOUR lucky day!”
She vigorously nodded. “I got up this morning and I just KNEW something like this was going to happen today. If I wasn’t a good Mennonite, I would give you a hug.”
“Well I’m gonz fuh-shwitzed (absolutely sweaty) but I accept a virtual hug.”

She smilingly approved.
We parted.
What a good day for the livin.

The sister writer.
I’m delighted to offer this richness from the sister up north.

Lynita Eby titles her story “Near Success.” (She plans to begin her own Substack soon. I will share her Substack, and if you wish to honor me please subscribe. But if you, like 90% of the Western world, gives not a flying crow about honor, subscribe anyway and you will be blessed in the receiving).
Meanwhile. Enjoy.

So today was carry in at church, and I had decided on chicken legs, brownies, and raspberries.

Yesterday I noticed my recipe called for cornflakes, but my cupboards held none of those. I did, however, have sweetened blueberry corn flakes, so I removed the blueberries and proceeded with the recipe, adding a few herbs and plenty of garlic. This morning, I dipped each ranched leg into the breading, after which I popped the pieces into the oven.

Enroute to church, following a sharp curve, my oldest made a dire announcement, “The chicken dumped!” Turns out the broth now carpeted the trunk, and although the chicken did not dump, it no longer looked as beautiful.

I found this news a bit disheartening.
I commented: “I like to at least appear like I have my act together, occasionally.”
A minute later, I clarified: “Actually, all the time.”
Anyhow, we made it to the church foyer, where

The youngest son accidentally dumped the raspberries

all over the spotless white tile floor,

just as the picture-perfect couple swept through the front door.

Life is real, but why am I reluctant to portray real life as it is in real time?
I can laugh now, though I wasn’t laughing then.
The children cleaned up the berries, asap.

And shocker on shock street, my chicken graced the head place of honor on the potlucked table, children plucking legs one after another. Another 45 minutes in the oven performed its own miracle, surprising me how picturesque it looked. Apparently the church children thought so too. By the time I went through the food line, my chicken was completely gone, so I never tasted it.

I related the chicken recipe to my spouse, who responded,
“You served fruity chicken?”
Why yes, I did. I never thought of it quite like that.
Herbed Blueberry Ranch.
There is, after all, more than one way to not get voted onto the food committee.

All told, I contributed food to the carry-in.
No one was hurt, though I did struggle to sing the first worship song.

Plus there’s always the next meal to think of. I still have some breading remaining for the chicken in the fridge. Supper anyone?

What’s the distance between success and near success?
Perspective, apparently.
Next time, I plan to laugh when the raspberries dump.
So long, herbed blueberry chicken.

A toilet.
Chris got inspired and replaced their old toilet. Shalom, white throne. His wife had a prank idea. White throne’s useful days were definitely not over. They decided our friends Ben and Re could benefit; they enlisted my help. When toilets are involved I am happy to oblige.

I arrived at Chris’s house one cold winter night. The wind howled, throwing itself upon the toilet as Chris struggled to fit it in their Subaru. I grabbed an old pumpkin from the wilted fall display. We piled ourselves in and took off, chattering merrily all the way (ho ho ho). Upon arrival, Chris refused my assistance with the toilet. For the second time I grabbed the pumpkin, plus the homemade cardboard sign: Deja-poo---the feeling you get when you’ve heard this crap before.

Chris placed the toilet in the front lawn, by the oak tree, in full view of the traffic going by. I carefully placed the pumpkin in the bowl and arranged the sign. Piece of work! We ran, jumped into the car, fled the scene.

Several days passed. My curiosity soared.

Why hadn’t Ben texted?

What did he and his wife think?

But then he did.

“Hey, you don’t make it a habit of depositing commodes in people’s yards,
where it would be an off-road commode?
Recently we just had a toilet out by our tree,
with a pumpkin in it,
and the name Markus Beachy came up.
Innocent until proven guilty?”

“Ben! Your commode by the road. Quite entertained. No I do not make it a habit of depositing commodes; no I did not deposit that one. And a gift of a pumpkin? (nervous laughter) How exciting!”

Months went by.
I would ask for updates, on the pumpkin mystery.
They doubted my innocence.
I occasionally dropped hints, comments only a conspirator could know.
A year later Chris’s fessed up.
I proclaimed I had never carried any toilet.

AND,

AS the statue of liberty sign says -
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your old toilets yearning to be free,
The wretched masses waiting to be gifted to friends forevermore.
Send them over, to me, to me, to me.
I lift my lamp up high o’er the white throne door.

My friend gifted me a quote. It hangs on my kitchen wall.
I am reminded of it, mostly when my guests perform double takes.
“If you can’t say something nice, say something funny.”

C-spine.
A crusty old firefighter used to fight fires. Occasionally, Robbie would help on EMS runs. One day he held c-spine. (In the squad world, there’s a thing called holding C-spine. If someone has been hurt severely, a provider will hold the neck area, in order to reduce likelihood of further injury).
The call had been dramatic — father of two, little Toyota car, trucker never saw him, creamed the back end, lying on road. He had lost consciousness; the providers were working on the road. Robbie held c-spine. They needed to flip the father up on his side, in order to get a backboard under him. They told Robbie to be ready, on the count of three. Most people, when holding c-spine, turn only their hands when the patient gets turned. Not Robbie. One, two, and THREE pronounced, Robbie flipped his own body. He maintained c-spine.

And to close out this stack, I leave a poem.

It’s a Sunday day
to church I did go
my bro led songs
I sang and enjoyed.

on this Sunday day
we wished celebrate.
a birth birthing day
whateva they said—it’s his birthday!

(This was right in
The lull of the time
Between Sunday school
And the sermon preach-ed.)

One man stood up
let’s celebrate!
sing him a song
on this his own day

so he began
a rousing rendition
of happy birthday.
happy birthday to you.

only one problem
a wee tiny tissue
Song started too low -
so not the right pitch

I glanced at my bro
Who looked back at me
He smirked and we both
rocked back in the laughing

church fam kept singing
Quite down in the deep
all limped through the song
to the final last you

that was the end
of that sing singing song
my day had been made
I coulda gone home

And said to all—
that the service was good
simply because of
the laughter received.

but the sermon got preached
I got blessed in receivin’
what a good Sunday
was this for the livin’

<The end. May your mouth be filled with all manner of sweet things this week. Peace.\

P.S. yep. the original pumpkin sign.

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Caveat. This is a reminder, that I’ve not had an immediate family member, or someone really close to me, die. I’ve had a friend commit suicide, but he was someone who lived out of the area, someone who I interacted with little but who held fond memories.
So these stories come from the perspective of the friend, the family member, the mourner showing up in community, showing up for people whose family has died. Perhaps the struggle will shift when the day comes when someone in my familia dies. Likely perspective will change.
Maybe then I can ask in that funeral line – “Did you come because you felt you should, or because you wanted to?”

One grandma.
John’s friend’s mother had died. He had, once upon a time in his life, gone to church with the now deceased Georgina. He had enjoyed their interactions, brief though they were and large in body though she was. John felt that going to the viewing would be easy. Not easy in the sense of celebrating someone’s death, but easy in the sense of arriving to view and talk to family. The viewing day arrived, and he arrived at the church sufficiently before the start time, because he didn’t want to wait an hour. He breathed. Arriving at this church always presented a mix of emotions, like a menu, except that he couldn’t choose and he had to accept all. His friends were grateful he came. The siblings enjoyed seeing him too.

“Are you the one who brought wings to our brother?”
“Are you in their small group?”
“I have such good rapport with your uncle from the years he taught.”
Strange, all these people who knew him by association. John knew that, no matter his status, people would always place him as belonging with x family.

His final struggle looked like deciding if he should go to the funeral. Would he see former church people there at his old church, where the funeral was being held? He decided he would go, and he ended up arriving late, something he hated, despite trying hard to get there on time. He had stopped to talk to his adopted godfather. John kept making moves to leave but was unable to escape. Boundaries be burned.

He arrived and slid onto the cold plastic chair, beside his iconic friend who still looked the same though their friendship did not. The eulogy pronounced, the line to view the body finally began. John joined it, wishing he wouldn’t have come. As he walked up the side aisle, he thought of all the people in the audience – strangers he didn’t give a fig about, current friends, and people from his former life. His body felt distant, as though it was doing a performance for all to see. His soul had traveled far away.

He felt a flash of nostalgia, walking by his former director leading the choir as the people filed by. He’d been part of that choir once upon a time, but that had been centuries past. John knew he couldn’t handle staying for the burial, or the funeral lunch, so he grasped his coat and found his car. He wept as he drove home, remembering what had been, once upon a time. But there was gratitude. Gratitude for what no longer was and for what had been found now.

My grandma.
He was sixteen. His uncle, the speaking in rhymes that don’t always make sense in response to questions asked, raced around the casket, in front of the church, at his grandmother’s funeral. Not once, not twice, but three times.

This had not happened before, or since, in the history of the Proudfoot family. He’d sat beside his mother at the funeral, which was unusual in itself, for this time the kids had not sat in order of age beside their parents in the cherry trimmed church pew. He’d heard an intake of breath when Uncle Dale arose to give a eulogy memory of the lady, his grandmother, now departed. He’d observed his mother, through short sideways glances, and noticed how her eyes narrowed the longer his uncle, her younger brother, kept talking. He’d noticed the thin line of her lips when she saw him walk to the stage, shoeless and sockless. He’d seen the continued tightening of her mouth as the uncle had gone on to tell about running around the table barefoot, chasing his brothers. And finally, her eyes popped open wide as, to illustrate his brothers chasing each other around the kitchen table, her own brother ran round the casket and the pulpit. (May the dead be honored).

Only years later he heard what became his favorite memory, from his dear friend Ruth.

“I and my husband made the journey from the east. We sat ensconced in this horde of strangers. This man, the apparent son of the deceased, gets up and starts making laps around the casket. I heard nothing of the rest of the eulogy. I was too busy examining the shocked faces of the people all around me.” He laughed and wished that he too would have examined the faces around him.

The cousin removed.
A distant cousin had passed. The distant cousin was young, and he remembered seeing him but scarcely talking to him. Viewings be like that, a haunted house. One feels repelled and attracted at the same time. You don’t want to go, but something inside pulls and you show up, disappointed in the deceased’s mortality and wishing to be anywhere else, but your eyes can’t stay away.

All four brothers showed, at the same time. They lived in the same area and attended three different churches. Though they knew many of the same people, their friend groups scarcely overlapped. But this cousin factor drew them together, drew them in to the viewing. The brothers managed to arrive together on this sun shining day, entered inside, and began the beginning line. He knew the mother of the deceased, who happened to be his cousin. (Correction: he knew her name, not as a person. He’d not seen her in years. He could barely remember speaking to her).

The family grieved. “The good die young,” someone says. “Someone” apparently has never had a death in the family. He had no words for the brothers, in their late teens, standing in line. Was he supposed to give them hugs? He decided yes, hugging these men (whose names he scarcely knew) was appropriate.

The brothers debriefed outside, after the viewing.

“Sigh. I never know what words to say.”
“Well I think saying no words are better than saying dumb words.”
“At least you didn’t step on their feet when you hugged them like I did.”
“You gotta be kidding.”

The two year old nephew raced around, oblivious to the tears shed inside. Crazy, how one day can be so ordinary for so many and devastating for a few. The brothers left, back to their work, their dailies, their lives.


The uncle.
He had parked across the road, by the auto repair shop, within walking distance of the church, on this beautiful autumn of a Lord’s day. He had refused to park at the church lot, for he worried he wouldn’t be able to escape undetected before the burial. He had hesitated, whether or not to even attend this funeral of his uncle.
Never mind that the uncle was local.
Never mind he saw him only rarely, at the yearly family event.
Never mind the week had been full (wasn’t everyone’s).
Another semester had begun (never good timing).
He’d skipped all the viewings (sorry cousins).

His sister had called, the one who lived up north, in wine country. (She didn’t imbibe, but man, those New York lake grapes……<chef’s kiss>). “My youngest and I are coming to the funeral. Will you be there?” Well. This was the sister who had as many kids as he had siblings. The drive was 5 hours plus. He wondered aloud, “Why are you coming again?”

“Well,” she responded. A short pause dropped by. “Family is important.” His thoughts flicked. He often had this conundrum, when someone died. To show or not to show. How connected does one need to feel? And does one show due to being close with the person who died (obvious) or because you were close to a family member (less clear). He decided that if she could go, so could he. After all, she was his sister. And family is important.

So she exited her van at his house that Saturday morning, after he had dipped his laptop in the semester waters, and he had gotten ready. They’d caught up briefly while folding laundry. It seemed like catching up over coffee, despite the nieceling scooting round on the floor, plus the items occupying the hands felt different. It’s tough to drink boxers.

She had picked him up after he dropped his car, and they’d pulled into the parking lot. Already the lot was full. They parked her van down in the overflow, to his chagrin. Why wasn’t this parking lot bigger anyway?

They had walked inside and found the crowd to be a blend, of people Amish and Mennonite and not so, for in those worlds, all are divided into one, the other, the neither.

They’d been placed in the overflow crowd. The overflow crowd existed for the people who couldn’t fit into the main sanctuary (misfits anyone?). He remembered little from the service, except that the singing was hearty (always, because funeral) and that the sermon lasted too long (exhale). He remembered striding up the aisle for the final viewing, with his sister. He remembered the subtle surprise slipping across his mom’s face upon seeing her oldest daughter there. He remembered the downcast gaze of his cousins. He gazed upon the dead man’s face, one last time. He marched on to the back of the church. He gave his sister a whispered goodbye, then opened the door and hiked cross the lawn, over the road, to his car, where he hopped in and whisked away.

The last.
The neighbor.
What a death does is weird. Emotion of a road trip anyone?
How would I be responding had this been my own dad?
Wren had his own complex history with his father. So do many of us.
I had my own complex history with Wren as a friend (many friendships are complex).
How do I show up as a friend, again, exactly? I’d called him that morning post the night of the death, post my chiropractic appointment, and asked if I could show up and give him a hug. He accepted. I’d not seen him that broken, that sad, prior.
Hindsight is clear. I wouldn’t ha’ needed to call.
Why didn’t I just show up without calling? Too risky, apparently.

When is the proper time to show?
How do you show love when someone dies?
Am I showing up for you, or am I showing up for me?
Is one viewing enough or should I make it to all three?
Why did waiting 50 minutes in the viewing line make me feel a grump?
Or am I just terrible at waiting?

Why have all these guests who have come to pay their final respects to a family, for their man/husband/father/uncle/friend who is no longer here with us? But then again, if only ten people showed, that’d be equally sad.
Why was the deceased so important?
Wait. And the funeral hasn’t happened yet should I go?
Why death now, when the days are full and life is beautiful?

Sometimes life happens, and you don’t realize how beautiful the absence of something is, until it arrives and hits you in the face, smacking you to earth with the reality of its existence.
<A book recommend — Mortuary Confidential: Undertakers Spill the Dirt (Todd Harra). It’s a bizarre expose, a collection of stories from the funeral industry that may make you laugh. or cry. or both.>

Farewell.
may you view and funeral well

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Relationships are important.

Friendships especially so. As a single dude, what does doing this thing called friendship look like, doing it well?

There are the events, the easily interpretable that make sense.
-showing up to a graduation party
-campfire-ing
-running a 5k together
-voice messages and phone calls. How’s today?
-GIFTS. I’m all about them, coffee anyone?

These are some of the countless ways to build a friendship, to build the good life. What about the other things, the events not quite quantifiable or easily interpretable, the ones that leave you shaking your head and asking – Why that? How does this work?

Coupla stories.
Friendship looks like throwing a birthday party for my friend Justin, who grew up in a rotten home. I invited four couples from church, and they all came with all eight of their kids. I prepped party food. The kids screamed upstairs while we partied in the down. A tradition my parents established over birthdays is accolades – the sharing of affirmations/compliments/good words about the birthday child. We accoladed Justin that night. One of the repeating accolades was what a good dad he is. Although he had an absent father (how’s that meant to work, holding an absence), he’s a stunningly good dad to his two littles. The end of the night came.
“Thank you for celebrating me tonight. No one ever threw a party for me.”

Then there’s suicide. It’s that ugly word, striking fear to those who love life.
What would you do if someone in your life wanted suicide, and you knew?

As a kid, my cousin George remembered hearing about suicide and feeling horror over the possibility presented. George wanted to be the type of friend who would show up for someone struggling. What he didn’t know then was the work it would take to become the type of man friends ask for help. (Hint: that highway is paved with the bricks of vulnerability and tears and brutal honesty).

George grew up and began opening up. His friends knew more of his internal world than ever before. One summer night, he had just finished the movie Encanto and lay weeping over broken family systems. The movie’s themes include silence and not talking about Bruno (the villainized black sheep of la familia Madrigal). His friend Bryan called, and Bryan was in a rotten space. Bryan wanted to bring his guns over to George. Tears vanished. George snapped out of his movie stupor. “Come on over.”
He called his friend Chris.
"Byran called, this is happening, can you pray?”

How does one prepare for such a moment? Bryan came; George met him at the door.
(The average hug is short, maybe three seconds. How long is one willing to hold a hug?)
George opened his arms, Bryan walked in, Bryan cried.
10 seconds passed, 20 seconds, then 40.
The hug did not end. The minute mark came and went.
How long does one hold on and not let go?
They sat at the table and talked.
George listened, a lot.
Bryan kept talking. He cried more tears.
They walked out to the truck and grabbed the guns. They packed them in Bryan’s closet and chest of drawers.
George verbalized: “You’re a good man Bryan. I’m really glad you came tonight.”
Bryan went home.
George sat on the couch and thought.
Does that count as friendship?

A friend recently referenced the hierarchy of friendship. In short, different people mean different things to you. It’s ok for not everyone to be in your inner circle of number one importance. And I have been pondering that, and I have made more sense out of some people in my life that are at different places on the relational hierarchy scale.

Few local banks have good customer service. But one does. I rarely drive through Walnut Creek because of where my house stands. But the tellers of Walnut Creek are pure delight. For the past several years, it’s been tradition when fall hits to take them jugs of Hillcrest cider. I never bank on that day. Money never leaves with me or gets deposited into the account. I stop at the orchard, purchase cider (best ever made, unpasteurized and fresh the way the apples intended. When folks get fresh, we recoil, but when cider gets fresh, we happy dance drink). I walk into bank with the biggest smile on my face, and the tellers’ faces instantly reflect the joy. Traditions from being rooted in the same place are a beautiful thing.

Aaand a couple of fails.

There be the times when you try, and friendship fails happen, and they might be funny and they might be not.

He was driving through the Burg on that autumnal October am. He whooshed through the light at the Square, just as his small group friend Bo came riding up in his little work truck van. He thought to himself, “My word let’s just, like, call him up and say hello.”

Bo did not answer which he found strange and he left this goofy little sear of a voicemail – “oh my WORD Bo, I just saw you in the intersection. You did not wave when I saw you but then again I did not wave either but I waved after I saw you. Why did you not wave?”

He hit the red end button.

10-second lull.

Frick.

WHO BO did I just call?

<frantic scroll through contacts>

Double frick.

He’d called the wrong Bo, and instead had just left a voicemail on his former boss’s phone, the boss with whom he’d attempted cordiality but it never got reciprocated and there wasn’t much relationship on either end.

Welp.

Not much to do but let’s call Bo again, this time small group Bo. He double checked before he clicked call. Bo answered and was as surprised to hear him as he was that he’d decided to call. Bo apologized for not waving, he laughed, they enjoyed the connection.

He ended the call and arrived at the doctor, only to see boss Bo trying to call.
What, just, no.

He didn’t have time to take the call, and besides, a conversation with Boss Bo wasn’t what he wanted currently. Later he texted. “I’m sorry, I meant to call another Bo.” Boss responded back with the emoji.

Then again, my other friend messaged me about small group and referenced the rest of the members as the dogs. We all have faux pas.

Friendships can be beasts.
I was lying on my hardwood floor, examining my beamed ceilings. I was reminded of how when I bought this place, a couple connected to work came over to examine. He worked as an electrician and told me the exposed wiring was up to code and I would NEED to replace all wiring in the house. Thousands more for this house reno sounded terrible.

I got an actual company out to examine. The guy who came to examine the knob/tube wiring told me it’s been good for the past 100 and should be good for the next 100. I went with that vision. Tho I had wanted my electric friends’ opinion, I didn’t know how to receive the thoughts he gave. I do terribly at being told x is the only option for me to move forward.

So I ghosted them. I am not proud of this. Dropping communication felt easier than actually communicating feelings. Next time may I take the hard step of convo instead of the easy one of none.

Food.
Friendship involves food. Whether that be carryout or home cooked, camp fired or grilled, restaurant or in homes.

Friendship culture may or may not have included me climbing / breaking / entering into kitchen window (the house was locked, what can the righteous do?), pizza in tow. (Yep, I’d literally packed a little step ladder to the make the journey easier). The neighbor saw me and asked who I was. They texted my friend. Insert all kinds of annoyed when I heard that. So much for the elephants of surprise.

I’ve occasionally felt enough hutzpah to offer to bring food + cook it in someone’s house. It’s called love, friends. And perhaps a certain level of comfort. To be close enough to bring a meal, but while I’m at it, can I borrow your kitchen to cook it?

I’ve had food placed in my kitchen, my fridge. Cider, popcorn, smashburgers, coffees, energy bites, potatoes, Thai food, fruit, drinks so strong you question if they should be drunk. My friends, sadly, travel too much, else I’d always make a tradition of leaving food in their houses. Part time job anyone?

Friendship looks like Andrea (who happens to be married to my brother) inviting me over for a day of canning and tomato making of whatever my heart desired. We had the best day, and my pantry filled with dozens of soup and marinara sauce.

So long, friends.
May you find grace as you navigate all sorts of friendships sundry and bright and fading.
The end.

Photo Credit: Carolyn Beachy. This photo somehow seemed more candid than perfectly poised. These guys are all my friends. They happen to be my brothers.

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The young man and his fellow EMS partner arrive on the scene. It had come in as an “ill/sick person” call. (Translation: they could be walking into anything.) They sirened down the highway, lights flashing, a few miles outside of town. They arrived on scene to a doublewide, calm from the outside, with pieces of trash scattered here and there. Before they even raised hands to rap on the door, a haggard looking young man exited, telling the providers his grandpa was all the way in the back.

They enter. They swallow hard. What is that strange odor rising?

They had arrived upon a hoarder’s house.

Wall to wall, floor to ceiling, all spaces covered.

No one could see out the windows, and the idol of choice, the massive flat screen, had its own space smack center in the one slightly open room, overseen by a small portion of couch, just enough to sit on and gaze into the tube. The couch sprawled, captured by boxes and boxes of stuff.

They walked down the cramped hallway, desperately trying to avoid touching the wall. They find the patient, an ancient, sprawled flat on back in the narrow bathroom. The skin looked jaundiced, a pale yellowish color. A litterbox sat near the side, lumps visible in the litter. EMS breathed gingerly through the mouths. And the tub and the toilet were black. Not black from mold or grime or age, but black the color from the manufacturer. The black toilet was filled with murky water and more lumps.

EMS pondered if this human leaned dead or alive. Chief arrived. Chief is a big man, strappingly strong and the perfect combination of muscles and brain for this piece of work. Partner brought her coworker a white sheet. White sheet literally shines in the midst of squalor. Patient is log rolled onto the white sheet. The young man grasps the feet, Chief takes the head, and they cautiously begin making their way out of the bathroom, back down the narrow hallway. Young man’s last memory of the interior is of his female partner grasping Chief’s shirttails, leading him as he maneuvers backwards so as not to hit any of the wall of stuff. They load into the shiny squad. And they fly, away to the hospital.

My friend in PA also works in EMS. She ran a call, and as those who live in the EMS world well know, this became one of those calls relegated to legend in the minds of those who’d been there. The call was for an old woman, who seemed to not be quite right in the head. No one felt exactly sure what to do. Go to hospital, call the non-existent family, hang out? The lady needed to use the restroom, but she became vaguely stuck on the commode. Two of the strong firemen went inside to assist her up and off. Lady of the house felt less than pleased to be having two gentlemen to assist, but what can the righteous do when the lady EMS refuse to assist in such activity? The two firemen grasped lady of the house beneath her arms. They lifted. A scream rose from the hole-in-the-wall bathroom. The firemen lifting informed remaining EMS that when the lady stood, her hovering bloomers plummeted all the way to the floor, prompting the scream. Legend has it the scream came from one of the firemen.

A barn social.

The young man pulled out of his drive, pausing at the stop sign adjacent to the alley he lived on. Nothing coming his way. Full send swerve on the road. To listen to musica, or to not listen to musica? He decided nyet and contemplated his next move. Which way to go to the barn social of the night? Sadly no direct route existed, but he felt grateful, anyway, for the invitation.

Two small groups together, one barn, lights strung. How utterly fun.

He arrived to the social, fifteen minutes past starting time, fashionably late, but still not the last one to arrive. As he walked up to the pit, he felt sorry for himself. Sorry that there would be no one to share the drive home with, to contemplate on the evening held and conversations existed and laughter laughed. He felt sorry even before he had arrived, so he stewed in his sour juices. He still felt sleepy, for it had been a week of long days and short nights and God knows why he had so many mornings starting at 6am and so many nights past the twelve. He disliked making small talk, so he stood silently at the fire, where his friend stood in oversize cowboy hat, grilling the deceptively named ballpark hot dogs Rose had brought. He shuffled inside and helped himself to coffee, vanilla creamer yes please, never mind the food was yet to be served, and decided he would be social when he went to stand again by the fire, clutching his drink, making small talk with the ones there.

The last guests arrived; they migrated inside; he sat on a straw bale. The nurse mom of three kids asked him how school treated him, and she listened and commiserated at all the right places and mind blew away over his being a class of one in his Honors class. Slam.

He thanked the host for hosting, and she laughingly proclaimed how they’d sent an entire trailer full cleared from the barn to the auction house and can we just get RID of junk already. She admitted they’d had to get the electric fixed in the barn, because lights, and the electrician informed them the wire was hot and technically the barn coulda had a fire. He felt a flash of sad gratitude, sadness over the idea of the barn being gone and no social, and happiness over the string lights strung so gently, so graciously, so invitingly, along the walls. Man, did it look gorgeous.

He enjoyed the food, the ridiculous variety of it all blowing him away, for he would never make two varieties soup, and cornbread, and corn chip salad, and ice cream apple crumble cider coffee hot chocolate water all at one go just for him. For guests he might. But never for him alone. He ate and savored. He chatted with the people around him and watched his friend’s two-year-old dance his feet when the barn cat disappeared. He took a mental snapshot of his pastor friend laughing, the twinkling light beams wafting down on his upturned face, his flannel shirt emanating warmth.

He got up for hot chocolate, and the son of the host, who had graduated school three years ago, started talking to him about Sunday school, and then they switched to the local orchard, and he got to hear about the literal thousands of gallons of cider being cranked through that place. And how many workers were there, and how the fat buses filled with tourists weren’t that great for business cuz they just took a lotta space since they bought next to nothing how unfortunate. Halfway through they eased into Dutch. He had grown up with that tongue, but switched away in his teen adult years, and even now felt a distant unease, with speaking a language where he knew the tune but forgot each verse. But asking questions was easier than telling stories, and he remembered that maybe people didn’t care about the accent as much as they just enjoyed their own mother tongue.

Then the retired lady joined them, and she didn’t think she would skydive, but she and her husband were moving to Florida for the winter and yes they were both going to work. “We’re energetic young chicks, me and my man,” she proclaimed. He gasped and shook his head, unable to move past the idea of her retired husband being an energetic young chick.

Other friends joined the circle, for the magnetism of laughter and alive-ness beaconed an open invitation. They storied of their 7-year-old son, who boldy had tried rock climbing and pushed through the difficulty and was really good at doing something hard. They laughed at his changing a lightbulb joke, and they commiserated together over feeling guilty when two events collided at the same time, and you chose one and not the other and still felt bad for missing what you wish you would have attended.

As the crowd moved toward their cars, his friend shoved the jar of candy in his hand, for his guess had been second closest and the winner had donated back thanks to the family already having received another winning jar. He clutched the glass close to his chest, happy thoughts of candy dancing in his mind never mind that he didn’t like this kind. He had won tonight; he had won the day. What a good day for the receiving.

He drove home, listening to the message of his friend out west, feeling contentment and all kinds of gratitude for this the beautiful autumnal fall day.

Photo Credit: Marcellus Beachy

A few blips from the life.

The first bit I tweaked from a writing class assignment in the current semester.

The prompt given looked like practicing narration wherein you move from public knowledge, something everyone knows, to private knowledge, something you alone know.

Here goes.

What everyone knows about the bookshelves at Harvest Thrift is how hundreds of books pack the shelves, and there is a constantly rotating stock of them. They see the books and know how fun it is to root through them, leaving a scattered wreck behind for someone else to straighten and place back in order. They admire the variety, the strange titles and the read titles and all the titles they have heard of but will never ingest. These shelves are magic, for occasionally new books simply appear, materializing from a backroom in the distance. They see the trilogy sets that seem high priced, and the little golden books well loved, and the falling apart vintage titles bound together for the low low price of two bucks, and they decide good gravy this is far too much work to pick through all these used books so they migrate online and buy brand new or refuse to read at all.

BUT. What I know is the crazy amount of work, the never ending amount of work, that takes place in the backroom and in the walls beyond the showroom. A book is dropped off in the donation shed. It must be carried inside. It must be sorted into the proper bin, then wheeled to the book station. At the book station, the book is handled. A decision must be made if it can be sold or not. If not, it gets tossed into a recycling box. If to be sold, it gets placed into a category with other similar books, after which the stack grows high enough each book gets its own individual price tag. Then it makes its way onto an overflowing cart, from whence it gets pushed out and displayed correctly on the proper shelf. From there, the hope is a customer will choose it and shell out money to buy it. The book may be snatched promptly. Or maybe the stars unalign and the poor thing gets misplaced, only to be pulled weeks and land on the refuse heap. This book is only one of literally thousands that flow through this store, tens of thousands of books lovely and sad and boring if you stack the years upon the shelves of time. And all these books converge upon the magic bookshelves where books materialize at Harvest Thrift.

And three of the trouser variety.

The first happened to my uncle out west. Paul is my psychologist uncle, and he was running late for his appointment at the local prison. Professionals who show up to do work at the jail are not permitted to wear blue, for blue is the color the inmates wear. Five minutes after he left his office, his phone rang. The secretary was calling. “Paul are you wearing blue?”

<breathless> “Yes why?”

“Well you know you can’t wear blue at the prison.”

Mother Crumble Fruitcake.

Paul wheeled into Sierra, the store you get when you marry TJ Maxx with REI. He found the perfect pair of pants — hiking, outdoorsy, yet with that professional look. He tried them on in the fitting room, hallelujah perfect fit, and marched up to the counter. To the lady cashier: “Can you just scan them while I wear them? I need to wear them out of here.”

She gave a quick once over, eyes narrowed: “Welp, the white plastic tags are in the back, on the seat.”

Paul: “I don’t care, just take these blooming things off.”

The cashier leannnned over the counter, but just couldn’t quite reach him.

Paul invoked his inner gymnast and leaped up on the counter.

“I don’t care whatchu gotta do, just get ‘er done.”

The grandma in line gazed, wide-eyed, and covered her granddaughter’s eyes.

“It’s ok sweetie. This crazy man will be outta here soon.”

In Paul’s wife’s words: “you mean she just kinda dug around down there until she snagged them?!”

Paul shrugged. “Yup. She got the job done.”

Mission accomplished.

Kids eye rolled.

The bro and I cheered.

The second from my plumber buddy.

An acquaintance was working at a large factory. This factory contains old plumbing along with a 30-foot-long viewing window into the factory from the hallway, on the far side rests a bathroom. The piping is old; it occasionally clogs. Plumber John was called to the rescue. He was wearing a smock to cover his front, which reached just below his waist. The toilet problem existed as a men’s urinal clogged. He poured Clobber (ridiculously stout de-clogging agent that REAKS) down the urinal. Clobber did not work. Clobber began traveling backwards up out of the pipe, getting ready to clobber the next thing. Clobber exited the urinal and began to drip onto John’s pants, where Clobber promptly began inhaling the pants material. John leaped to his feet and threw off the pants, lest more harm should come about. He knew he needed to get back to his work truck, from where he could right his world. There was naught to do but walk past the 30-foot-window.

Did the workers enjoy the view?

The last, a legend from the Swiss Festival.

The Swiss Festival is nearly upon us, here in little town of Sugarcreek. The stone toss happens to be this weird piece of show in the festival festivities. My friend Roy happened to observe one year. The stone tosser raised the stone above his head to throw. Meanwhile his pants took the opposite stance and plummeted earthwards. Roy drily observed: there was many an urgent cough and a turning of the head in the crowd, perhaps in order to maintain a smidge of the man’s dignity? I wondered aloud if I wouda been able to maintain such a gracious pose, and we speculated that all it woulda taken would have been Frank’s one bold HA to turn the valve of the crowd’s laugh.

So long.

I vote to keep buying books. I vote to keep wearing pants. Peace.

Gratitude you found your way here.

I first began writing in my late teens, when I lived in Kenya, Africa. I began telling stories, documenting the funny, wild, and extravagant things that would happen in life in Africa. I discovered I freaking loved writing. Writing continues even today, sometimes less frequently than desired, in spurts and jolts, with varying levels of joy.

A bit of work history.

The first year post Kenya, I flipped through jobs quick. Didn’t last long at a nursing home, spent about as much time at a local nonprofit named CAM. I worked at a thrift store for a year and delivered supplements to people for another year. I returned to the thrift store because BOOKS, started my own business on eBay, became a (sub)contractor through cleaning BNBs for family.

I’ve always loved stories and questions and people. I got help for some of my own problems. I realized I still liked people. And I got jealous of my own therapist, who encouraged me to consider the school route, to go begin school. I decided psychology was the route to go and am currently working on my bachelor’s therein.

I still love good stories.

I love listening to them told.

I love communicating them through the written word.

I hope you find something here that can make you laugh, feel sad, or think differently.

Some of mine may have morals. Some don’t. Betimes it’s just funny moments that happen, too bizarre to keep to myself, but ones that I feel compelled to share to the world and everything in it. These posts will include stories and thoughts of experiences had these days. I rarely profess to completely understand the things I write about, but I hope you can enjoy anyway.

My perspective comes from a single man, one who is sometimes alone in this world, sometimes lonely, but always with. Being single is like going camping, where you are in tents, and sometimes things are just intense (see, like camping, but different). I’m also a believer that every kid needs, at minimum, one adult in their life that they just can’t quite trust everything that adult says. I take delight in filling that role for kids in mine.

I have an eclectic group of friends, people as diverse as the stars (which all look the same, but up close they dazzle you). I love laughing, and few things hit better than when I’m living well and seize the humor presented.

I ponder the connection of joy and pain in life.

Each person has pain somewhere. If given permission, pain broadens perspectives of the world, hence broadening experience of life. Is it possible, that the more pain experienced, the greater the capacity for joy? I want the great capacity for joy, without the expansion of suffering. But life hasn’t seemed to work that way.

I propose that the measure of joy reached is directly proportional to the amount of pain experienced in life. Consider who the most joy-filled / happy people are. Joy and happiness are different; however, semantics for this convo. If you look beneath the lid, the most joy-filled people likely have experienced some really challenging things in life.

Curiosity.

Asking questions is an art. As Jefferson Fisher says, if you want to get better at asking questions, ask more questions. I’m a curious man. I ask questions, and sometimes the answers I receive do not satisfy. Sometimes the questions I ask fall flat. But onwards, because one gets better at x by continuing to try.

CHEERS

And now for a few stories.

The brother Micah has a hustle selling railroad ties. He ended up selling a LOT of railroad ties to a neighbor. But another brother Matthias bought the lion’s share. Matthias, in sharing this with all of us, inserted a lion’s roar. Our conversational engine got derailed because of railroad ties that roared.

Second. There’s a sweet little coffee shop in Sugarcreek called Collective Coffee. One morning I decided to take my friend Tom a drink. What do you want me to bring you? A lion’s mane?

I walked inside and cautiously requested if they sell a lion’s drink.

Yes, it’s called lion’s mane. Me: does it ROAR?

The owner was thrilled and I chuckled, and it was a good day for the living.

Last. Who shot the economy?
Sometimes you miss people in conversation.
Missing can happen anywhere. Kids involved = more dynamics.
Tom and his sons Parker and Chase were riding.

Chase: how much for that boat?
Oh, probably about 10-15k.

Well we should buy it.
That way when we go to Michigan we don’t have to pay Captain Fred for boat.

—lull—
So how much does Captain Fred’s boat cost?
Proly about 50-60k.

Well what about a freighter?
Mmmm, probably millions.

—longer lull—

SO if a freighter cost 1,000, that means fishing boats would be free.

Parker: NO CHASE.
That means the economy would tank and a loaf of bread would cost $100.

Chase: well who shot the economy!?

Until next time. Shalom.