Elegant Dust

Holy Saturday

2011-04-23T10:14:00.003-06:00

"It is Finished!"

Those are the last three words Christ spoke on the Cross, according to St. John. And, with one exception, that would sound the end of another life by the horrific, tortuous means known as crucifixion.

Here it is, Holy Saturday. The Passion is over and for all we know, Christ still lies dead in a borrowed tomb.

The clouds have moved back in. Daisy dog just finished licking her breakfast bowl and is staring at it as if in an attempt to will more food to appear. Sprocket Cat is snuggled down on the corner of the couch, under that old comforter from a dear friend. The reading light is heating him. The Doctor Who marathon leading up to the new American season premiere is murmuring in the background. Otherwise, the world is muted. Outside, the fresh blossoms on the cherry and the other flowering trees are not so dazzling. There is a Children's song written by one of the FisherFolk called "The Tip-Toe Song." The refrain goes like this:

"And all creation's straining, on tip-toe just to see, the Son of Man come into His own."

So it is now. Its as if all creation is holding its communal breath, straining to hear the Word made Flesh returning in that triumphal moment when the stone is rolled away and the sepulcher found empty. Shimmering Seraphim stand guard, flaming swords at the ready, speaking to the three Marys:

"He is gone. He is not here. Why do you seek the living among the dead?"

After tonight's Easter Vigil, the morning brings the Festival Celebration of Christ's triumphal return from overturning death and conquering Satan's realm.

That beloved, is the one exception. Christ died, yes. And he rose from the dead after defeating Death itself and all the sin that ever was, is now, and ever will be. He came to reconcile us all to God. He did it through his own death.

Truly we can say, with joy unbounded in our hearts....that yes!

It is Finished!

Gardening, 2011

2011-04-16T18:17:00.004-06:00

Square Foot Gardening

Built a raised bed to replace the old one which was rotting away, and not very well planned. The new one is 1" X 6" X 72" cedar fence planks cut into five foot and four foot lengths and screwed to 1" X 2" X 16" cedar posts with two end caps of the same material. Basically its rises eleven inches off grade runs for 9 feet north to south and has eighteen square feet inside I turned and sifted about a 2/3 yard of compost into the wheel barrow and spread it into the box on top of turned soil and raked it smooth.

Then I laid out 18 square foot sections and planted the following by squares moving left to right, north to south:

one block of four sugar snap peas
one block of four snow peas

one block of sixteen mixed globe radish
one block of sixteen French breakfast radish

one block of sixteen cherry belle radish
one block of sixteen white icicle radish

one block of sixteen leek
one block of sixteen white scallion

two blocks of nine Tyee spinach

one block of nine Chiooga beet
one block of nine early wonder beet

one block of nine parsnip
one block of nine turnip

two blocks of four Tom Thumb lettuce

one block of four Early Grey peas
one block of four dark red kale

I watered heavily and covered the box with half round cylinders of 6" X 6" remesh and plastic held down with bricks.

Once the fast growing plants are harvested, I will revive the soil with new compost and replant with heat tolerant veges.

It all comes from the old PBS show and book "Square Foot Gardening" , a wonderful way to do easy, intensive gardening.

I'll let the morning heat crank up the germination process tomorrow. Cooler weather along with some rain is supposed to blow in come Tuesday....We shall see.
My back is sore...but I feel great otherwise.

Cold

2011-02-01T16:38:00.003-07:00

BRUTAL BRUISER

The pic above is from NASA satellite imagery. Thirty states are effected. This is a true killer, brutal, unstoppable and ruthless. "Colder than a _________." (insert your own NSFW old saw here. )

Woke this morning to minus 8 degrees. The old Toyota truck started right up, BUT, it overheated by the time I reached the shop. It seems that the thermostat froze up, or possibly slushed up. The old blue beast was fine later. Topped off the fluids and tested it down to minus 25.

What the static temp doesn't address is the wind chill factor. The ski areas on the Continental Divide were experiencing minus 38 degrees wind chill... and that is the reading at the base at Keystone! Frostbite is the primary concern, followed by hypothermia, and the silent killer; dehydration. At alpine elevations, relative humidity drops to low single digits in this brutal cold.

Dark on dark last night as the cold winds blew from Canada. At a mile high, once the clouds blow east, their blanket over the high plains is removed and any ambient heat dissipates into the stratosphere. Brutal cold ensues. Pheasants, pregnant heifers, horses, pronghorn and plains deer will be stressed to the point of death. Critters with dens, fox, wolves, coyotes, badgers and prairie dogs (cough!) will probably make it thru the night.

Once again, February creeps in grave cold.
Mother Nature is a brutal bitch.
Killer yellow eyes, ruthless and clear,
Wait for death.
Howl away, ol' Wulf!

Cruel February

2011-01-31T08:20:00.005-07:00

Summer Recollections

Summer's heat captured in vinegar and spices, hot Hungarian Wax Peppers glow in yesterday's sun. It was warm for January, low 50's. Yet steel gray clouds rode the northern horizon, foreboding, foretelling of a Canadian clipper, arctic cold. Today's high temp. marked somewhere close to the lee side of midnight. Now, the arm on the thermometer is creeping down towards the zero mark.

The talking head weather prognosticators are all a'twitter pointing manicured fingers at digital maps where predicted lows are below zero for tonight, predicted highs for January's exit tomorrow might reach zero. Tomorrow night, the old homestead in Wheat Ridge will most likely feel bone cracking 18 below zero.

That old farmhouse now stands empty, abandoned and forlorn.

I drive by it on the way to and from the shop. The "For Sale" sign went up about two weeks ago. I've snapped a few pics with the Droid's camera. Its unkempt appearance made more so by the bleak winter skies.

History:

The year was 1956. A not so young couple with three children, a dog and cat and a bushel full of dreams, signed a contract to purchase the house, 2/3 acre lot with 18 apple trees, one cherry tree and a 40 ft. well for $16.5K. That price seemed outrageous at the time. Yet, Dad and Mum wanted that property on the corner as a place for their kids to grow up with a bit of space to stretch young legs. They bought it, knowing that they would struggle to make the payments on Dad's salary as a hospital engineer for the City and County of Denver. There were times when Mom took in laundry and ironing jobs to help keep food on the table. At one point, Dad worked as a night clerk in the local liquor store. Mom and Grandma scoured second hand stores for furniture. Painted Victorian walnut and oak treasures were stripped and refinished in the garage. Their glowing oil finishes fit right in to that old farm house.

In less than 5 years, the plain spoken interior was transformed into a delightful home. We kids had the two bedrooms upstairs. John and I shared the east facing room. Martha had her own room on the north side. On the south, a family room, sewing room caught the southern light.
Mum and Dad had the bedroom downstairs off the kitchen...and, their own bath!

Dad, John and I, spent summer weekends caring for the yard, mowing, weeding, clearing brush and tending the apple trees. Dad had a rose garden out front. Those old roses were his pride and joy. AND, of course, John and I began building a tree house in the huge old elm tree next to the well house.

It was a solid house and a good home.

The original farmhouse was built in 1934, a promise to some family in the depths of the depression. All along what was known as the South Golden road and later, the 32nd Avenue ridge, there were fruit orchards and small farms. Wheat Ridge was an unincorporated township.
Edgewater, to the east, was the closest post office. The fire protection was, and still is, a volunteer enterprise. Jefferson County sheriffs rode mounted patrols along the quiet dirt roads.
Real banks were for the rich folks in Denver. "Banks" out here were the local farm markets and grain elevators, mostly Italian or Dutch men, steel eyed, taciturn and strong willed, with hearts of gold.

So it was when Dad and his little family first landed in Wheat Ridge in 1955. Rudy Gagliano owned "Rudy's Ranch Market," a one story building on the N. W. corner of 44th Avenue and Wadsworth. He sold local produce and canned goods, general foodstuffs and maintained a full butcher shop. Rudy was also the local banker. The closest bank was in Lakewood, a full five miles away. The short little Sicilian took care of the locals.

Dad was one. He had grown up as the son of a merchant, the owner of a General Store in Pickens, South Carolina. He knew the business. He and Rudy struck up a friendship immediately.

This is the story I will always recall:

Dad went to Rudy to cash his first Christmas bonus check from the City and County of Denver. Rudy smiled and beckoned Dad to come back to his office. There, Rudy had laid out a full bar for his loyal customers. He and Dad shared some Canadian rye whiskey and soda, cementing their friendship. That friendship remained until Rudy's health forced him to sell the business.

Rudy sold the business to a second generation Japanese family who immediately renamed it "Wheat Ridge Ranch Market" Tom and Rose Sakata were children of the Japanese internment camps in Colorado.

Step back in time with me. Pearl Harbor and War rose bloody red on a December morn.

This is a good time to recall how World War II restructured Denver and her western rural neighbors, Golden, Lakewood, Wheat Ridge and Morrison; to the south, Englewood and Littleton; to the north Arvada and the long reach to Boulder.

When WWII hit home, Remington Arms purchased a huge parcel of land south of of 6th Avenue in Lakewood. They built a massive small arms munitions factory and set up the foundation of the USGS (United States Geological Survey). It was then that struggling farmers and merchants turned their homes and farmsteads into what we now call duplexes. They turned empty chicken coops and loafing and storage shed into housing for workers. The war effort needed them. The farmers and merchants housed and helped to feed these workers, for a price.

The owners of our old homestead raised the roof on the south-west corner, closed off the upper floor and created an apartment, complete with kitchen and an outside stairway. A single family, self-sufficient farm turned into newly suburban style duplex.

America would never be the same!

Now the changes come again. What once was a our homestead molders derelict and lifeless. Its strong foundation, clean well and remnants of a small orchard wait. I can only hope and pray that another family with the hope and vision, the basic tools and desire, the capable hands and yearning hearts, will live the history and create another shining light on the hill. This crest on the 32nd Avenue ridge, about half way between Golden and Denver.

Now, the temperature is creeping down. The bitter, thin wind out of Canada tears at walls and skin, exposed skin and breath. Last I checked, it was barely 7 degrees and still snowing.

Cruel February arrives tomorrow. His hoarfrost head set ablaze with frigid fire and ice.

I await March as best I can. I await layered in wool and fleece, wine and canned summer on the shelves.

Lordy, how February humbles this fiery old spirit.

Another Memory

2011-01-23T19:57:00.000-07:00

St. Vrain Autumn Morning

Soft, the infant alpenglow, morning in the mist,

Wrapped tight against night’s cold hands.

Listen, she hears the subtle splash of tailwalking trout.

Hungry for the slow rise of autumn mayflies.

Her desire to stretch, loosen sleep chilled muscles,

Pump fresh blood and heat from yesterday’s sun.

Her desire for coffee heat and caffeine’s sultry buzz

As sunrise rises flush with Autumn’s promised whisper.

Drowsy, her fertile green eyes open, peer slow

Into a hazy soft sunrise slipping through the window.

Dark tresses undone, she brushes the tangle away.

Time to rise and time to call the fire and iron hot.

Medicine for cold mountain mornings, campfire coffee.

She knows it and slips from the sleeping bag warmth

Into morning light, sub-alpine cold, flint crisp, sharp.

Into sheepskin slippers and a flannel shirt, aged and worn.

Practiced hands build a quick kindling knot and strike fire

Hot on a cast iron grate where aspen and pine flames crackle

Boiling bright metallic water, fresh from St. Vrain Creek

She pours water in blackened pot, more wood on the fire.

The cold bites. She shivers and pulls the old flannel close

Her heat releases his scent: honest sweat and wood smoke,

Old Spice and rye whiskey linger in threads…and laughter.

Remembrance, a slow smile settles on her sleepy face.

The measure of coffee poured, the measure of her own depths

Where once, heat met heat and wet welded two souls as one.

Sad the smile, long in history, long in the cold since he died.

Dark coffee, measured and set to brew, dark memories sigh.

Silence broken by the crack and pop of pitch exploding in fire.

Fragrance, the lingering specters in the morning soft light.

Strong pulses wash through her veins, blood and memories,

Green eyes glow, deep in her belly, long held fire grows.

Low in the dark depths, her woman’s well burns slow

Her slumbering serpent self waits and grumbles hungry

While the sunrise and heat rise and coffee comes to boil

Steaming dark on a St. Vrain Autumn morning.

January Memory

2011-01-22T18:33:00.004-07:00

DUTCH

It’s coming up on 10 years now since I walked in pristine snow along a tumbleweed fence line, eyes intent, fighting the cold, following the quartering, mottled shorthair pointer.

Dutch's stub tail was an erect, visible signal. Like the sweep of greenish light on ancient radar, it twitched side to side as his nose tested frigid January for scent. Once that nose caught a few molecules of pheasant, the tail went flat, parallel to his lean spine and hip. Quivering, he would roll into a slow motion point.

Nothing else mattered. Dog and shotgun, man and bird, distilled into winter strong whiskey. Chronos stood frozen until Dutch, with one molasses slow placement of his massive front paw, directed the play into furious action, a cacophony of sight and sound.

The explosion of wings, a rusty gate cackle, and those amazing colors, impossibly autumn bright against midwinter white as the cock pheasant broke from cover. Arching into the unbearable, brilliant blue sky. I pushed the old Browning ‘til barrel tip covered the raucous red wattle and yellow eye.

Trigger pulled, recoil and ear ringing as the screaming number six shot column and bird met. An errant feather or two floated in the thin cold as the bird tumbled, carcass and blood on the snow.

Dutch was dancing. Jim, his master hollered congratulations. And my heart thundered. Images like that create history. Nothing can take them, not even death.

Jim died the next November, a massive stroke. Dutch returned to Indiana with Jim's wife. I miss them all, dog and master and his wife.

There is nothing akin to walking through wind blown, January fields with a dog who loves to hunt.

Out of the Clear Blue of the Western Sky Comes...

2011-01-15T07:43:00.006-07:00

~ SKY KING ~

Brigid (http://mausersandmuffins.blogspot.com/) posted a bit about pilots and wanna be pilots.
The first thoughts in my head were of two heroes of my youth. Both of them were true pilots. One was Kirby Grant, the star of the '50's adventure western series: Sky King.

Kirby, born in Butte, Montana, used his own plane early on in the series. Short biographic sketch can be found here: (http://skyking.com/kirby_grant.html).

The second man was my stepfather: Aaron Boggs (Bob) Anthony. Never knew him as anything but "Dad."

Dad flew a Consolidated B-24 in the Pacific Theater, 13th Air Force, 5th Heavy Bomber Squadron. Not a pretty beast, just one helluva workhorse. I talked with his wing commander Wally Martin, after Dad died. He said that Dad flew between 48 and 52 missions in and around the Philippines, twice the number required. Guess it wasn't unusual, from what Wally told me.

Dad told me they were ungainly birds on take off and landing. He and his co-pilot ahd to crane their heads out of the cockpit to see the tarmac, given the geometry of the bird. Once in the air, they were dead on stable...Like a frikken White Freightliner.

After his first stroke, I took Dad to the Pima Air Museum, next to Davis-Monthan AFB in Tucson. It was early spring, warm enough to walk about with just sweaters. Outside, in the boneyard, we found a B-24J, much like what Dad flew. We walked around it and he talked. It was the first time he had really opened up. Halting speech, from the stroke, but clear and strong. How the big radial engines purred....how tough it was to board, but great to fly. One of the docents came by, saw us pointing, talking and laughing....

He asked Dad about his history...and invited him, with help, to enter the old bird.

One of the only times I had ever seen Dad get tears........He said sumpin like "No, I've done that way too many times already....just let it be."

Dad died little more than a year later....another stroke.

Bread and Snow

2011-01-10T07:48:00.003-07:00

Stock Show Weather

As I write this post, the temperature outside is 3 degrees F. Its typical Stock Show weather. From childhood on, when the National Western Stock Show opened its doors, we could count on a blast of cold and snow to be blown out of Canada.

This year is no different.

Great weather for staying indoors and baking bread. That is exactly what I did yesterday.

I follow a basic recipe found in the Tassajara Bread Book. It was first published in 1970, written by a Buddhist monk and baker at the Tassajara Zen Monastery near Carmel, California. To the basic recipe, I tossed in some left over, cooked and soured barley, milled oats and buttermilk.

The dough is allowed to rise a total of four times, being punched down and kneaded between each rising. This takes advantage of the long string gluten in the wheat flour. It makes for chewy bread! The buttermilk and soured barley and oats give the loaves some added zip, texture and crunch.

Four loaves, three for us and one to give to a friend.

On New Year's eve, I whipped up some Sourdough starter. It has run its course, is now complete and ready to be used for pancakes and bread. THAT, beloved, will happen in a couple of days.

Bread for the body and poetry for the soul, 'tis a delightful combination.

Tucson

2011-01-08T19:58:00.006-07:00

Borderland Wars

Given the events of the day, I am thinking a lil' road trip on the blue highways out into the cold broad sky and sleeping land might give me some perspective. I need to walk this ugly madness out of my being and seek clarity.

Heroes are rarely known, recognized. Madmen are... Fame and flame in madness. Its a crazy culture.

One shot kills a judge. Another has completely altered the life of a true civil servant. One more cuts short the life of a 9 year old child.

That it has happened here in the U.S. makes it "NEWS". That it happens every frikken day in the Middle East, in the Sudan, in Pakistan, Iraq and Afghanistan is no longer "news". That literally thousands of police, public servants and innocents have been brutally murdered in the drug cartel wars a mere few hundred miles south has no meaning?!?!?

Decapitations and brutal mutilations, assassinations and wholesale murder are a daily occurrence in Mexico, the horn of Africa and the Muslim controlled Middle East, while our own citizens, young men and women, choose to stand in harms way to protect us.

It is all insane.

Putting it into perspective, cold as it may seem.........We have become what we fought for damn near 300 years to NOT be.

Might be time to get on our knees and ask the good Lord how we can change.

Twelfth Night - Feast of the Epiphany.

2011-01-06T16:23:00.006-07:00

Who Say's You Can't Go Home?

I spent some futile time today, attempting to scan and post pictures from holidays past in the old farmhous we siblings call, "The Homestead." It didn't happen...

The scan and post.

Perhaps that is best. The Norman Rockwell, Andrew Wyeth images that well up in a cold fountain from those years are as clear and comforting. And yes, some of the aftertaste is as distant, ugly and downright painful as yesterday's back cracker work.

In my body, I know Kronos, that old Saturnalian butcher pounds away at me. I know him as well as I know my own artisan and writer's hands and crippled back. They are both the scars brought on by years of toil and making do. My own stubborn Irish/Swedish streak, and the fear that what I created was not quite good enough in God's eyes has haunted my footsteps.

I have no pictures.....YET! I have words.

Allow me to tell the tale from Spring to Summer, Summer to Autumn to Winter's chill.

This is the recollection of living in the old farmhouse with the remnant of the apple orchard off to the east. This is the old house on the crest of the northern rise, where our bedroom window opened on to the sunrise, where brother John and I would wake in the silky May mornings to seriously sexy, explosive mounds of apple blossoms. That fragrance has yet to be matched.

This is what I remember:

- I recall sweating and raking the first drop from the apples. Might have been not enough water or no germination. Still, we mowed and raked. At the same time, we planted the Summer garden. Tomato plants, squash, peppers and herbs snuggled into the soil. Cherries from the lone tree ripened. Wild raspberry ripened on the briars. Then there were heirloom roses blooming. Long canes, heavy with butter yellow, five petaled blossoms, redolent with a gentle citrus fragrance.

If the year was wet, we would gather young asparagus in the ditch... enough for a meal or two.

- The second cull, large enough to fit as missiles in our young and hungry hands, ready for war. We began the siege of tree to tree, building forts of childhood sight. Grab a rake as a facemask! Run grab a shovel as a shield! Arthur and his knights will rise up behind us as the sour and sugar nectar of exploding young apples splattered our faces. Up in the towering elm next to the well house, we built a platform. It grew high and hither over the years. We watched summer sunrise and sunset there, and talked of bikes and Mickey Mouse and later, girls, their budding breasts and smiles.

- Come full summer where the fall of crabapple and second cull fell and fermented. While corn ripened and tomatoes blushed, robins and squirrels ate the fragrant and potent sour mash. Stumbling red breast birds, like the Wright brothers, attempted to fly. Rodents with attitude and numb butts, chased their newest lover up and down in an erratic Archemidian twist, stopping to scold and chatter.

- Apples full and apples sweet, apples come to harvest while the full corn rises. It was then that we siblings and cousins gathered all ripe on trees and the fresh fall on the ground. Applesauce and applebutter, cider and pie followed the garden harvest into mason jars, settled in the cool, damp cellars. Summer saved to rise again come the depth of Winter's chill. We, no longer children, no longer young, lanky legged and clear eyed, turned away from the old times, turned from the wonder of family.

We walked alone.

- Came Epiphany - When or where God's Spirit reminds the rebellious and bellicose, lost and lonely, empty and forlorn beings that we became... that our parents just might have been OK. They might have been and done the best they could; teaching and guiding as God called them. Winter and the cold knowledge that we can no longer pick up a phone and call, and say "I love you Mum, thanks for being here." The same for fathers, and their strong, long hours at work, or their weekends guiding us in building, digging, gardening. Or just plopped down watching football or baseball, a cold PBR in hand while stinky cheese and tins of smoked herring and oysters wait to be nibbled on rye crackers in a den redolent with the subtle fragrance of cigars and pipes, Old Spice and man's sweat, clean and honest.

Epiphany -- God is shown forth and made manifest. He did it then, He does it now, and He will continue to do it until I, or you, are released from these earthly shells and return to Him.

Yes, let us realize in this Epiphany season....We can go home again.

8th, 9th, 10th Days of Christmas

2011-01-05T07:32:00.006-07:00

Silence

Out on the high plains, the high desert, winter is clear, winter is silent. Sunrise light burns gentle against cockcscomb peaks. They rise out of the dry seabed, a ocean of sand and sage, crumbled rock and cactus. Yucca waits, sucking moisture from empty skies. Come spring its wax white, lily flowers will bloom as Christ's passion, death and resurrection greet us in the great Paschal feast.

Black spots on the basin floor, Angus cattle feed in the cold. Its morning. The air sweet and brittle, bites sinuses, sears cold in the lungs. Down low, the Rio Grande river winds her lonely way, bisecting the state. Blackbirds and waterfowl rise dark waves in the riparian morning.

Up here, on the flats, Light, nothing more...just light rising against a dun landscape. Cedar and pinion mark the hillsides where antelope wander, cattle graze and the thin, winter winds moan. The rest is silence, deep, profound, and clear. Its not the silence of death. Its is the silence of waiting, anticipation. It is the silence broken by Epiphany. It is the knowing that Emmanuel, "God is with us."

In one community, the painted whimsy mailboxes wait, their heads akimbo angles, waiting. Across the gravel road, the adobe catholic church, the center of life, waits. The Christ mass has passed, remnants of the nativity bonfire lay cold and dark. Tattered remains of luminaria huddle mournful on the church walls.

On one lone lane, someone's dream crumbles slowly. Clapboard and nails oxidize in sun and cold, sun and heat, sun on sun. Days, weeks, then months without rain, desiccate souls, dehydrated flesh break hearts, twist minds. They broke, I'm thinking, shattered by the desert, broken by the brutal high plains. Gentle souls raised in the verdant Ohio valley, I'm thinking, unused to the sun on sun, dry on drought born winds and the withering immensity of sky, were shattered like carnival glass when the dust bowl came.

I am reminded in prayer, of the desert fathers.

"Abbot Lot came to Abot Joseph and said: 'Father, according as I am able, I keep my little rule, and my little fast, my prayer, meditation and contemplative silence, and, as I am am able I strive to cleanse my heart of (evil) thoughts; now what more should I do?' The elder rose up in reply and stetched out his hands to heaven, and his fingers became like ten lamps of flame. He said, 'Why not be totally changed into fire?'"
-- Abbot Lot, 4th century, The Desert Fathers

Faith and ferocity in Spirit, the desert fathers, the mystics seeking Christ's path through suffering and silence found a burning jewel of knowing.

God is in all things, for those who heed His call, for those who seek His will. He is there. He is always there, always available...waiting.

Come tomorrow, the Christmas season ends, Epiphany begins. Christ's light shines forth to the whole world. He too, is present, a constant being who was, and is, and evermore will be.

Will you seek Him? Will I?

Merry Christmas!

The 7th Day of Christmas

2011-01-01T15:05:00.004-07:00

A New Day Dawns

And a new year comes upon us, arbitrarily placed ...*here*...by the creators of the Gregorian Calendar. It came with a blazing sunrise and frigid temperatures.

The Anglican church year begins with the first Sunday in Advent, normally the first Sunday in December. The Hebrew Kalendar year begins variably in March or April of the Greogorian year.

Our Orthodox brethren go by the old Roman or Julian Kalendar, which predates the "modern" calendar instituted by Pope Gregory XIII in 1582 to amend and correct a cumulative error within the Julian structure. That error had pushed the Vernal Equinox back into early March. Since figuring the date of Easter was tied to the Vernal Equinox, the Roman Church leadership decided to institute the change by Papal decree.

New Year occurs on different days in different countries following Buddhism. New Year in "Theravadin" countries of Thailand, Burma, Sri Lanka, Cambodia and Laos is celebrated three days from the first full moon day in April. In Mahayan countries, New Year celebrations start on the first full moon in January. These countries celebrate the day according to their ethnic background and culture. People of China, Korea and Vietnam celebrate it in the month of January or early February, while Tibetans usually celebrate a month later.

Delightful human creativity and cultural differences are found all across this wicked old world.

God must enjoy us all!

Now 'tis nap time on this frigid January day.

The 6th Day of Christmas

2011-01-01T08:19:00.004-07:00

New Year's Eve

Its a traditional Southern meal, with a twist. Both of our local markets were out of black eyed peas. I used black beans instead. Soaked them overnight, put them in a dutch oven with hamhocks, a bit of salt and fresh ground pepper, a dash or two of Hatch mild red chile powder, and a coarse chopped onion. I added enough cold water to cover it all, brought it to a rolling boil and then reduced the heat to a low simmer.

Three hours later, I began the process of making bread.

I use a recipe from the Tassajara Bread Book. The book was first published in 1971. My copy dates back that far. It is dog eared, crusty and well loved. Some years ago, I finally had to add clear packing tape over the binding to hold it together.

The Tassajara Zen Mountain Center is located south by southeast of Monterrey, CA in the Pacific Coastal range on the edge of the Big Sur Wilderness. The hot springs on site have been in use since prehistoric times. In the late 1800's a hotel and spa were built there. In 1967, it was purchased by a group of Zen Buddhist's who transformed it into the first Buddhist monastery in the U.S.

Much like Christian monastic life, Zen Buddhism is based upon prayer and meditation and holy work, what can be described as prayer and meditation in action. The connection betwixt the two practices came together in the very profound life of Thomas Merton, a Roman Catholic monk.

Along with yeasted bread, I whipped up my Dad's recipe for Southern style buttermilk cornbread. Its not sweet. It is dense, crunchy and honest, a perfect foil for the beans and hamhocks.

RECIPE:

6 tablespoons of unsalted butter
1 cup of yellow corn meal
1/2 cup of unbleached flour
1 tablespoon of sugar
1 tablespoon of baking powder (adjusted for high altitude)
1/4 teaspoon of salt
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
1 1/2 cup of buttermilk

DIRECTIONS:

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Melt the butter in a 12 inch cast iron skillet.

Mix the dry ingredients together in a large bowl. Beat the eggs in another bowl and blend in the buttermilk. add the liquid to the dry ingredients and beat until smooth, adding the melted butter.

Here is the secret to making the bread:
Keep the skillet hot with the remnants of the butter greasing the surface. Pour the batter into the hot pan and immediately slip the skillet into the the oven. The hot skillet sears a bottom and side crust almost immediately.

About thirty minutes later, a beautiful brown crust will appear on top. Test with a toothpick.

The Tassajara recipe calls for three separate rises to create a dense dough. It is honest, straight forward and very, very tasty!

While I was making the sponge for the dough, I whipped up some sourdough starter, something I haven't done in twenty years. It will sit, lightly covered at room temp for about 5 days. I will stir it every day. By day 5 it will develop its distinctive "sour" smell and taste as the yeast works and dies. What will remain is an active starter, ready to be made into pancakes or bread or muffins.

With the yeast bread and corn bread out of the oven, we sat down to a fine meal of black beans and hamhock, corn bread and GLORY brand canned southern mixed greens. It was delicious!

Here's wishing a Happy and Blessed New Year to one and all!

Song for a Bitter, Brutal Night

2010-12-30T18:54:00.002-07:00

I used to think it funny, maybe a bit strange; how shared song and mirth, born of the Christ-Mass could drive away the Winter chill.

No longer.

It is His birth, His life, His crucifixion and resurrection all conjoined in our own lives that drives the cold death away.

Blessings dear and beloved ones. Epiphany and the Star and Wise Men wait on the horizon.

2010-12-30T18:27:00.004-07:00

Canadian Clipper

A huge low pressure system is still centered off the coast of California, funneling moisture eastward on the prevailing winds aloft. North of us, one of Al Gore's least favorite duo's has set up a classic Front Range killer. First, the high pressure rages, pulling sub-zero arctic air south. It mixes with the Pacific moisture and slams the mountains. This one, beloved, this storm, is so big that it has drawn down enough cold air to pull that moisture onto the High Plains. It is massive, stretching from the Canadian border to the Mexican frontier.

That is a good thing. We have not had measurable snow fall worth a shit since last Spring! And yes, we did have good precip to create one of the best wheat and corn, sunflower and soybean harvest in the last 10 years.

That being said...right behind the low pressure rolls in a high pressure ridge.

THAT means cold....bitter and brutal. Arctic cold, killer cold.

Thank the good Lord for wool and silk and natural gas.....and well made structures, insulated.

.................I wonder where Al Gore is tonight?............

(AND, and do not....DO NOT start picking with me about the scientific differentiation between weather and climate! )

I am going to pull on my heavy wool vest, put on some Steel Eye Span.....unabashed, Scots/ Irish Celts.

Happy New Year to you, one and all.

The 5th Day of Christmas

2010-12-30T14:20:00.002-07:00

The Sussex Carol

The musical dance form known as the Reel is a grand old British/Celtic tradition, born out of the Dark Ages after the Roman Empire had fallen and before the rise of the Renaissance and the Reformation. The Scots-Irish developed a myriad of variations based on the original "Reel of Three", wherein three (or multiples of three) dancers interweave with one another in a figure eight.

The music lends itself to the harmonic drone of the traditional pipes overlaid with a fiddle or recorder or single reed hornpipes laying down a melodic, repetitive pattern, reminiscent of the the weaver at work at the loom.

Many of our favorite Christmas Carols come directly out of the tradition of the Reel. Most have been subdued and toned down to match the solemnity of the post Renaissance grandeur of the Anglican Church liturgy. The Holly and the Ivy, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, The Sussex Carol and....one that I will share later: Angels from the Realms of Glory, as performed by Maddy Prior and the Carnival Band.

Since we have a massive and bitter cold Canadian storm blowing down upon us, perhaps a gathering of folks to dance some reels and share Christmas joys to keep the blood warm and pumping strong are in order!

Enjoy this 5th Day of Christmas!

The 4th Day of Christmas

2010-12-29T17:31:00.003-07:00

The Chicken Coop Christmas

It was early summer, 1955. My brother John had been born nearly two months premature the previous February in the Copper Queen Hospital in Bisbee, AZ. After his birth, Dad applied for and accepted a job as a health inspector and engineer for the Denver Dept. of Health and Hospitals. We moved back from Bisbee to Denver. Dad had a Civil Engineering degree from Clemson College in Pickens,SC, and had served in both the Navy and the Army Air Corp during WWII. He knew how to fix most anything... and he loved being a Dad.

We were a family, struggling.

My grandmother offered to give us a berth for a while in her little WWII house. That lasted about two months. Simply spoken, not enough room and way too many memories for Mom and Grandmother.

Dad found a small converted chicken coop out west in the rural, turning quickly suburban unincorporated township of Wheat Ridge. Like many folks in the rural communities west of Denver, Al Munger, an elderly and taciturn German farmer had transformed one of his chicken coops into housing for the Remington Arms Munitions plant south in Lakewood. He rented it to us a pittance.

We were a family, and growing.

Autumn arrived, I fed horses, and fished for Sunfish and Bluegill in one of the irrigation ponds.
My buds from school and I wandered about the fields in the waning afternoons...chasing rabbits and the errant pheasant, talking of shooting our first animal, bringing home meat for the table.
Some had BB guns, some had shot a .22. The cottonwoods turned from yellow to brown to empty skeletons.

Winter cold rolled in early, brutal and windy. It was Advent. Mum and Grandmother walked the fence line, picked up shapely tumbleweeds and lots of milkweed seed pods. The tumbleweeds, dusted with a bit of spray flocking and ornaments, became prairie Christmas trees. The milkweed pods, painted and decked with paper and sparkling flecks, turned into Christmas geese and ducks.

Christmas drew closer. Frigid wind days and snow speckled, black nights haunted us. My little brother and I slept in a low shed roofed room to the north. There was no heat in the room. Piles of flannel and heavy quilts kept us from the cold. Each night, bricks, heated in the kitchen oven and wrapped in a towel, were stuffed at our feet to help us keep warm.

Mum put up a small evergreen tree with a couple strings of lights, tinsel and ornaments from her childhood. Dad worked a second job as a night cashier for the local liquor store. I came home sick one day. Chickenpox. My infant brother caught the virus. Poor lil' feller whimpered at the itch. Mum quickly knit him tiny mittens of soft cotton so he could not scratch open sores.

It was a good Christmas, baring all the hardships. Somehow we had presents and fresh fruit, turkey and dressing, sweet 'taters and green beans. Somehow, aunts and uncles and cousins called us to feast with them, sing with them, worship God with them.

Somehow.....somehow, we made it through.

Somehow, God and family and hard times forged bonds that are still strong today.

"Somehow" is the omnipotent, all encompassing love of God. He provides and cares for us. It is as true today as it was 55 years ago.

Bless you all, beloved ones. Happy 4th day of Christmas!

The 3rd Day of Christmas

2010-12-28T07:40:00.002-07:00

The Celtic Tradition
& Symbolism

The intertwining of Celtic and Christian traditions runs deep in the Anglican Church. The solstice and the birth of our Lord Jesus is enrobed in the refrain of the old Carol "The Holy and the Ivy." With the rising of the first sun of Winter, the Jesus' birth is recalled, a new beginning for us all. The running of the deer, killing the first stag of the year recalls the sacrifice of Christ on the Cross, to save us all. It is much like the old Jewish tradition of sacrificing an unblemished lamb at Passover. The intense imagery of a life given,again, to save us all in manifest in flesh. So it is with the ultimate sacrifice, Jesus, the Son of God made man and crucified to save mankind.

Both the Holy and the Ivy retain their green leaves through the winter, symbols of God's undying, and enduring love for his creation. The Holly with its pure white blossom, bitter bark, red berry and sharp thorn recall the whole life of Christ, his pure and virgin birth, the bitter wine of suffering, his blood shed to cleanse us and the pain of crucifixion, pierced by nails

The Anglican liturgical traditions are rich in symbolism. The Celtic flavor is a joyful fleshing out God's love for us.

Merry 3rd Day of Christmas!

The 2nd Day of Christmas

2010-12-27T08:30:00.004-07:00

Leadville, CO—Christmas, 1958

At ten thousand plus feet in altitude, there was snow.....plenty of snow. Its the kind of snow the Colorado Tourism Board touts as "Champagne Powder," very light and dry. My Uncle was the parson at St. George’s Episcopal Church, a Carpenter Gothic, wooden Victorian structure with a hand pumped pipe organ. We spent Christmas with Uncle Bill, Aunt Barbara and their three boyz. The parsonage, located across a gravel and dirt street from the church was, at one point in its history, Leadville's synagogue. The ceiling in the attic, which had been turned into a dormitory for the boyz, was a deep cerulean blue with gold 6 sided stars and Hebrew biblical script painted on it.

I vividly recall the smell of coal burning stoves...Most folks still heated their homes with coal or wood. Propane was not yet available. Neither were fuel oil or natural gas. AND, my aunt and Mum cooked on all our meals on a huge ol’cast iron kitchen stove with chrome plated appointments and a large oven. The Christmas turkey, sweet breads and cookies seemed to appear from that oven in an endless stream.... THAT, beloved, is an art truly lost to this post-modern age.

How much snow was there?

We boyz did not build snowmen. Instead, our wild "BOY" imaginations led us to warfare and engineering! We burrowed in the back yard, creating tunnels and caves and two opposing snow forts where we staged the Battle of Falkirk (or some such historic event) with snowballs one brilliant blue skied day of that Christmas season.

‘Tis Holiday memories like that, the utter, innocent exhaustion at the end of the days play, the grand meals that prepared on that wonderful old stove, that make my heart swell... AND…The sobering, yet joyful sharing of the Christmas gospels as we exchanged gifts throughout the 12 days of Christmas leading to Epiphany, when we were finally allowed to pull the Three Wise Men out and have them come forth to give their gifts to the infant Jesus.

Yes, its deep, foundational traditions like these which have helped keep my faith from completely withering under the constant, bombastic assault from this wicked old world.

Leadville is a strong and strange community. It has been through three major "boom and bust" mining cycles. The gold and silver boom produced folks like Horace Tabor and his wife "Baby Doe"Tabor; John Brown and his equally famous wife Margaret "Unsinkable Molly"Brown. The 1890 market crash, followed by the devaluation of silver, almost turned Leadville into a ghost town.

In the '1920's and early 30's, secondary metal, like zinc, were mined to help feed the growing Steel Belt factories in the mid-west. The Great Depression came and, again, Leadville fell on hard times. World War Two and the need for stronger steel called.

Prospectors and engineers plied the rugged mountainsides. A rich deposit of molybdenum was discovered up the hill aways in a wide spot in the road known as Climax (11'360ft). Leadville once again boomed. The Climax mine ran until the late early 1970's when environmental and economic pressures closed it down.

Tourism has taken over as one mainstay income provider now. Winter sports, skiing and snowboarding require cheap housing for service workers. Leadville is close enough to some of the major resorts to provide inexpensive homes for some of those workers.

Through it all, the old town retains it's no-nonsense, bare knuckle bravado. The folks who live and work at 2 miles high are a tough breed...with big hearts. And St. George's Church still has a midnight mass on Christmas eve to welcome our Saviour, Jesus Christ into the world once more.

A Very Merry, 2nd Day of Christmas to one and all!

The 1st Day of Christmas

2010-12-26T11:45:00.003-07:00

~St. Stephen, Deacon and Martyr~

"Because of all you have endured for Christ our God, you have been given a royal crown, O First and Holy Martyr Stephen! You have put your persecutors to shame and have seen your Saviour enthroned at the right hand of the Father. Do not cease to intercede for the salvation of our souls.

The saint whose name leads all the rest who have sacrificed their lives for Jesus Christ is Stephen, the first martyr of Christendom because he would have been the last to deny him.

Stephen was one of the seven deacons of the original Church of Christ in Jerusalem, sharing his duties with six others - Philip, Prochoros, Nikanor, Timon, Parmenas, and Nicholas." --from Orthodox Saints, vol 4, by Fr George Poulos, Holy Cross Orthodox Press

The Bible records his death in the Book of Acts of the Apostles:

When they [Sanheidrin] heard these things, they were cut to the heart, and they gnashed on him with their teeth. But he, being full of the Holy Ghost, looked up stedfastly into heaven, and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing on the right hand of God, And said, Behold, I see the heavens opened, and the Son of man standing on the right hand of God. Then they cried out with a loud voice, and stopped their ears, and ran upon him with one accord, And cast him out of the city, and stoned him: and the witnesses laid down their clothes at a young man's feet, whose name was Saul. And they stoned Stephen, calling upon God, and saying, Lord Jesus, receive my spirit. And he kneeled down, and cried with a loud voice, Lord, lay not this sin to their charge. And when he had said this, he fell asleep. -- Acts 7: 54-60

Irish Rovers - Good King Winceslas

2010-12-25T17:57:00.006-07:00

Lord'a'Mercy........... Their Northern Irish accent and the lilting song do raise the Irish blood. These young brothers do it justice with a Celtic abandon and joy that is born of that long line of ancestry, reaching back to the ages before written history. And they see truly, with the last four quatrains, that to spill the Mead is sure and true, at midwinter 'tis a blessing brought forward.

"Sire, the night is darker now,
And the wind blows stronger.
Fails my heart I know not how,
I can go no longer.

Mark my footsteps my good Page,
Tread now in them boldly,
Thou shalt find the Winter's rage,
Freeze thy blood less coldly.

In his Master's steps he trod,
Where the snow lay dinted.
Heat was in the very sod,
Which the Saint had wrinten.

Therefore Christian men be sure,
Wealth or right possessing,
Ye' who now will bless the poor,
Shall yourselves find blessing!"

Sure now, Jesus calls us to do the same, follow in his footsteps though the cruel world beats upon us relentless and with unending rage. AND, we are to do it with joy.
That joy contains both mirth and sadness, grief and happiness abundant. At the core, at the center is that clear and certain love that Christ brought forth from his birth.

We now celebrate Christmas. In eleven days comes Epiphany, where Christ is first shown to the world. Let us do that in our lives, beloved.....let every day be an epiphany of his work in us.

What's for Christmas Dinner

2010-12-25T17:55:00.005-07:00

A Tribute to our British Heritage

Since neither Mark or I put down a deer this season, the Winter larder is less blessed than it has been in years past. Work for pay has been minimal, times tough. The cause could be debated and contested in many an arena....political, social, economic, religious.

The fact is, I am tired of pointing fingers. It is Christmas and time to enjoy what blessings we have.

It is what it is....and that, beloved is the fact that we live in a broken world. We are broken people. In the midst of this, our good Lord still provides. The bills are once again paid, there is food on the table, heat in the house, wine for dinner, music to enjoy and petrol to carry us to work and home...........AND, by the Grace of God...there is work! We may be patently broke, but we do eat well.

Dinner:

English Roast - Cheap seven bone chuckroast, seared in bacon fat, slow roasted with a bit of wine, onion, celery and thyme. About an hour and a half into the roast, I added taters and carrots. It was about half complete. Medium oven....275 to 300 for 2 to 5 hours depending on the weight of the beast and the heat of the oven....

Yorkshire Pudding - flour and eggs, pan drippings from the roast and the broth from last night's Christmas Eve Oyster chowder. All whipped into a frenzy, the batter poured back into the Dutch oven where the roast had been, still hot and savory. Bake at 400+ for about 25 to 30 mins. It will rise and brown and let you know.

Cornbread/Sausage Dressing - Carolina cornbread (not sweet, buttermilk base), pork sausage, onion, celery, sage, thyme, salt and pepper.........AND........turkey giblet stock left over from Thanksgiving. Cornbread made the night before, left to dry and rest. Sausage browned and drained, onion and celery diced and sauteed in bacon grease. Crumble the cornbread into a bowl, add the cooled sausage and veges. Add small amounts of the giblet stock until it is almost sticky....sage, thyme, salt and fresh ground pepper to taste. Bake with the roast at the tail end of it's time....about 35 mins until it is toasty on top, about 165 deg. in the center.

Its an amazing, dense and complex mix of flavors. There is nothing fresh or politically correct about the whole meal. Deb and I will feast off of this for at least three days, depending on the amount of physical work to which we are called.

AND!!!!!! -- bless my dear D's heart, she took time between jobs to bake both a pumpkin pie and a pecan pie from scratch. The pumpkins came from the farmer down the way, the pecans from Green Valley, AZ. The pumpkin is more like custard than pie...thick and creamy. The pecan is made with dark Karo syrup and blackstrap molasses, almost a black caramel. And yes, she makes her own flaky lard based crust.

Brit or Welsh, Irish or Scot, Cornish or Auld Gaelic....... Y'all provide us with a rich tradition that has, of late, been trampled upon. From it come some of our most sacred beliefs. Might be a good time to revisit the core of old English law.....that which is the base of our own Declaration of Independence, Constitution and Bill of Rights.

Its all based upon a belief in a sovereign and loving God. Yanno, the one who sent his only son to redeem, reconcile and reclaim this broken old world.

Merry Christmas to you all!

On Christmas Day

2010-12-25T08:15:00.001-07:00

Merry Christmas, Frohe Weinachten, Feliz Navidad, Joyeux Noell, God Jul, Zalig Kerstfeest!!!

To one and all on the innertoobs, to their families and loved ones. And yes, especially to those men and women, boots on the ground, manning decks on the sea and cockpits in the air, keeping watch that we might sleep safe and enjoy our freedoms.

GOD BLESS Y’ALL!!!!!

Doug M, one of the regular postmongers over at: http://www.sondrak.com/ wrote the following:

"Yeah, even a grizzled ol’ gruntled atheist like me loves Christmas music. Nah, not for the words, but for the joy, inspiration, and sense of tradition that it brings to most normal people, no matter their beliefs. Christmas music is an exercise of human creativity and dedication. I admire those who have dedicated a major part of their lives to their voices and their instruments so that our culture is full of richness, pleasure, enlightenment, and humor. (Those that produce mere schlock and crap ... nnnn, thanks, anyway.)
I love Christmas, because it has come to encompass many holidays in one: Christian, Pagan, Winter Solstice, commercial, and family. If nothing else, I enjoy watching others enjoy Christmas.
Anyone who can’t find something to celebrate or find joy in this time of year is either a spiteful, whiney, Scrooge, or they’re just not trying.

To those who wish us ill or would destroy the soul of America, out of greed, or envy, or spite, or superstition, or ignorance, or habit, or power lust, or whatever ... well, I hope you wake up to nothing but a lump of coal in your stockings tomorrow morning. That’s pretty magnanimous, under the circumstances.
Yeah, just chalk that up to my Christmas spirit."

Update: Politics, Rascals and Railroads

2010-12-09T21:22:00.003-07:00

A Season Apart

Seems that Death has returned to make his rounds before the glory, the recollection of Christ's birth is celebrated. My dearest friend in Austin is growing road weary, dealing with a sic Mum, grieving over the loss of a friend.

It makes me wonder.

Advent....'Tis a season that was set apart by the early Church to prepare for the birth of Christ. It has been hijacked and twisted into a season of gluttony and avarice. Today, while Hugo Chavez dances with the Iranian devil and builds bases for SCUD missiles, capable of striking the mainland United States, Washington argues about the debt they have brought down upon themselves, and therefore their constituency. That would be us, our children and grandchildren.

I find it ironic that Christ was born to a couple who were called by the reigning empirical government to return to the husband's genealogical home town.....Bethlehem, King David's home. They were called to come, as a family, to register and pay taxes to Rome.

So it is today.

We have allowed our selves and our blessed land to be overrun by the same style of governance our forefathers fought and died to destroy.

We have a pretender sitting in the White House, his polished shoes casually flopped on the desk built from the timbers of a ship that saved his ancestor's asses from barbarism and slavery. He knows it not. We have Senators and Congressmen, on both sides of the coin, who could care less about anyone or anything except their own re-election and retirement, while the world steps away and chooses to isolate us, degrade our currency and laugh at us behind veiled masks.

Yes, it is Advent. And I pray daily that God will rise up and confound the spurious courts and marble halls of the mighty. We prepare for the gentle crisis of birth...where a child enters the world with all uncertainty awaiting. His name is "Wonderful, Counselor, Almighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace!" His name is Jesus bar Joseph of Nazareth, born of the House and lineage of David, the King.

Its a good time to remember that while the ponderous world of political machinations prattles on, there have been and continue to be individuals who serve quietly and gently. One was a dance hall gal who wandered the mining towns around Alma, Breckenridge, Como and Buckskin Joe. She was known only as "Silverheels" because of her penchant for nickle-silver adornments on the heels of her dance shoes. When smallpox hit the mines, she was one of the only gals to remain to help care for the sick and dying miners, merchants and their families. She did so at her own peril. Supposedly she died from the pox.

The community leaders and townsmen raised money to take care of her, only to find that she disappeared. It is said that her ghost still haunts the cemetery at Buckskin Joe, and that flowers mysteriously appear at certain graves.

Advent..........Would that we all could find that tipping point twixt serving self and serving God...then choose to follow Him, not our own path.

December Plains

2010-12-07T14:55:00.006-07:00

High Lonesome

Its not an environment that many folks would call inviting or beautiful. In fact, eastern elites and the tanned, toothy hordes on the west coast simply call it "flyover country", deriding and dismissive. The long slow rolling miles, broken by section roads and dry arroyos are just boring to some, downright frightening to others. Folks with Agoraphobic tendencies do not find it a comfortable environ. There is so much sky! It confounds the eye at times, just how far distant the edge of the world seems to be...lonesome, empty, silent.

When the wind blows out of the east-northeast down the unbroken prairie from Canada, nature's raw ferocity rages. In winter, blinding snows roll down from Alberta and Sasketchewan. They move with a speed that will kill the unwary and unprepared. The State Patrol and Colorado Department of Transportation have found frozen corpses less than a hundred yards from their stranded, snow bound autos. Panic and disorientation set in when the whole world turns white on white.

At the entrances and exits of the interstates and small communities, red and white striped postern barriers stand at the ready. They come down or swing shut when these Canadian Clipper storms hit. Driving into them is folly, it is suicide. Schools turn into shelters for the stranded. Those who live out on the open prairie hunker down, check emergency generators and pray that their cattle will move into windbreaks or tree lined river bottoms.

More than once, Mark and I have driven home from hunting with one of these white furies on our tail. The leading edge turning interstate travel into a fine line between driving and slip sliding to oblivion. OTR truckers convoy with each other to reach the next town, and we have followed suit...white knuckles on the steering wheel and intent focus on the raging storm's blinding the road ahead, leaving small visual clues , a mile post or fence line, a bridge abutment or snow fence.

It is a unforgiving land to those who choose to travel it unconscious and unprepared.

To the casual traveler on the two lane blacktop or the long concrete interstates, it is simply empty country. Mile upon mile, upon endless mile of wheat, milo, corn and sunflowers mesmerize the eye. Tiny dark dots on the open range might be cattle... or tumbleweeds. Words like monotonous, tedious, dull and boring come to the minds of many who travel on the way to somewhere else.

To my mind and eye and spirit, it is a wondrous land, full of life. Harsh, yes...and beautiful in that harshness. Watching hawks and prairie falcons ride thermals in search of food; seeing a herd of Pronghorns dancing across the horizon at full gallop; awakening to a sullen, red-orange sunrise, these feed my soul. Walking mile after mile along the edge of an arroyo, I stretch my long legs into that slow rhythm that becomes meditation in movement, watching for the elusive plains deer to rise from beds in the tall grass.

Now and again, near a fence post or weed patch, a cock pheasant will explode in raucous flight. Coyotes, fox and badgers appear out of nowhere and disappear just as quickly. I find my gut relaxing, my breathing deepens. Drawing in the sweet, dry air, perhaps a bit acrid from the akaline soil, it quiets that chattering mind inside.

I understand on some level, why the Plains Indians loved this country, why they fought so to keep it open and wild. I understand too, why it takes a special kind of person to work this land, to keep cattle, plant and tend crops that might or might not grow to harvest.

I only spend small amounts of time out on the high lonesome plains. Yet each time I do, I am reminded of my own insignificance in a very large and wild world. And, I find joy in knowing that this creation, a harsh and unforgiving as it can be, shows me a side of God, his immense and profound mind that I will never fully understand....but boy howdy, its sure is fun to explore and revel in it!

That is Why it is Called HUNTING!

2010-12-06T08:12:00.003-07:00

Cheyenne Wells,
4 December 2010

We woke at "O" dark thirty, brewed coffee, stuffed aging bodies into well worn hunting clothes, pulled out rifles and headed out into the cold. The sun was just beginning to color the eastern horizon. Mark pulled off the road and parked under the familiar bridge. We were set to walk a living snow and wind break. Russian Olive, Scrub Cedar, Sand Plum and Ponderosa planted half a century ago create a wind break wall to the north of the ranch buildings and corrals.

It is also a favorite hide out for deer and pheasant.

Walking east on the sandy floor of the arroyo, we turned south, up through dry grasses and sage, up onto the gentle rise that led to the eastern end of the trees. Mark would walk the north side, I would walk the south, watching and listening for a telltale rustle in the trees ahead. Just as we rose out of the arroyo, the sun broke the eastern sky, blazing through the thin clouds and vapor trails.

Walking the tree line east to west, we neither heard nor saw tracks or spoor. Not one pheasant cackled, only the small finches, thrushes and juncos that inhabit the plains. No sign of deer, no beds of crushed grass, we found nothing.

Back in the truck, we headed east on dusty section roads. Cut corn next to a field of cut sunflowers rolled to the north, and there out in the center, we saw our first deer. A group of five does, mule ears alert began to "pronk" (the muley's peculiar manner of bouncing up and down) as the spied us, some 400+ yards out.

Then it began. They ran, nonstop until they were mere specks on the horizon. THAT is not the usual behavior of mule deer. Unless they are chased or shot at, mule deer normally will mill about, then run a short distance, stop and reassess the situation, mill about more and perhaps run another short distance before beginning to feed.

We drove section roads all morning, seeing somewhere between 24 to 27 deer in small groups of 3 to5 animals. AND...each group behaved the same. The minute they saw our truck, they ran as though the hounds of hell were on their heels. We had no chance to take a shot under four or five hundred yards.

Mark pulled up next to a familiar old ruin with a working wind mill. Its a great place to scope the surrounding prairie. We ate lunch and Mark clambered up the structure with his binoculars, seeking the elusive deer. He did see some dark shadows off to the west, across the state highway.

We headed west, no luck. We walked the sides of arroyos, glassing the deep pockets and long sandy draws for any deer. Nothing moved. It was as though all the game had just, simply, inexplicably disappeared! It was eerie, very strange.

Heading east, back towards Kansas, Mark turned a corner towards Highway 385. The truck died. No warning, it just stopped running. He tried to start it. Plenty of cranking power, obviously it wasn't the alternator or charging system. We popped the hood, scrambled underneath seeking some indication of problem. It all looked normal. Outside of Cheyenne Wells on a December, Saturday afternoon...NOT the best place to be marooned with a dead truck. We made phone calls. All the shops were closed. One convenience/gas store was open, nothing else.

Mark tried to start it again. The truck coughed and turned over, running as though nothing had happened. We gingerly drove back to the motel. Again, it was eerie, very strange.

Clearly, we were not going to chance heading out into the prairie with a vehicle that was not reliable. We packed up our belongings, had a couple of drinks, ate dinner and went to sleep. Tomorrow we would begin the nearly 200 mile run back to Denver, hoping and praying that the truck would make it home.

Plains Deer Hunt, December, 2010

2010-12-05T14:06:00.008-07:00

CHEYENNE WELLS,
3 DECEMBER 2010

We arrived at the M****leman family ranch, south of Cheyenne Wells about noon, parked beneath a two lane overpass and ate lunch. It was too warm, the upper 60's (F). A soft breeze whispered here and there. Unusual weather for the high plains at any time of year. Ragged, daily winds are the norm.

Mark and I saw no Pronghorn herds on the drive from Denver. That too was unusual. We spied only one small Mule dear doe, close enough to shoot. And we passed up on the shot, hoping for other big Muley does to cross our path.

After a quick sandwich, we hiked west along the edges of the arroyo, waiting for a bedded down deer to pop up, giving us a chance at a shot. We hiked the full section; one mile in and one mile back thru the dense prairie grass and dead sunflower. Up and down the arroyo walls we searched...Nothing. Few footprints, no fresh spoor found in our quest. Only silence, blessed silence.

On the return, we found that the right rear tire was going flat. We scowled and packed up the truck in haste, then slowly nursed the old Chevy the three miles into town. Something had punctured the tire. The folks at C&P Gas and Repair fixed the flat while high above, a squadron of F-15 Eagles (probably from Peterson AFB) flew maneuvers in the crystalline blue sky overhead.

THAT, beloved, was enough to make the whole trip worthwhile. Tomorrow held the promise of deer for the winter freezer.

HOUSEKEEPING

2010-11-29T08:03:00.003-07:00

Haven't posted since August and here it is nearly December. Being marginally employed sucks. However, its better than sitting on my fanny expecting the meatheads in Washington to care for my needs. (Can you say "entitlement mentality"?)

The garden was a marginal success. Good tomatoes, peppers and squash, salad and herbs harvested. The beans were a bust for a reason I have yet to understand.

Come Friday, its time to go harvest a Plains Deer for the freezer. I'm looking forward to putting a "Bambi Wellington" together for our Christmas feast.

(H/T to Og over at: http://www.neanderpundit.com for the recipe.)

Today would have been Mom Anthony's 81st Birthday. She has been gone for nearly a year and a half. I still miss her. Grief is a strange beast. Our relationship was never an easy one. However, the fact that she is no longer available on the other end of the phone, or waiting for her children to set up a February trip to Tucson to visit her, or just there, being her obstinate, ornery self, smoking her Virginia Slims has left a hole in the universe that is populated by cloudy specters and a dull ache.

A wise old friend and counselor told me some years ago that any kind psychic/emotional pain is not fun. However, it has come up to the conscious level for a reason, stirred up from the deep, muddy miasma of the unconscious being. AND, as painful as it is, facing it isn't going to kill ya!

Happy Birthday Mum! I know you are finally at peace and restored to relationship with your Saviour...and with your life partner, Poppo Bob. Out of it all, the full knowledge that God is in charge if we allow Him to be continues to ring true.

~Ad maiorem dei gloriam!~

Two Road Summer, 2010

2010-08-16T14:08:00.008-06:00

Oklahoma Roads, Oklahoma Skies

I have a friend who is a geophysical engineer. He specializes in the structure of roads... All kinds of roads: Railroads and rail beds; two lane country lanes to massive 16 lane wide superfreeways. He studies their structures, what works and what doesn't. It's not just the surface on which the rails or tires run. Its the substrate, how it interacts with the road bed and the road surface which carries the rolling stock loaded with raw materials, manufactured goods, the tools and equipment that makes it all happen...And the people who work, play, guard and interact with one another on these roads.

My friend's company was approached by another geophysical engineering firm to run a survey of roadways in Oklahoma. They needed a driver. Stan, my friend, called me and I accepted the call.

- Road Trip One ~ Rain Soaked - 30 June 2010 to 13 July 2010:

We picked up the rental truck, a new Dodge Ram 3500 diesel, extra cab camper special with a tow package. My first job was to pull out the jump seats to make room for electrical equipment.

Long story short; we installed direct power line to truck's battery, loaded in a portable mainframe for collecting and backing up the data collected from the the two GPR (Ground Penetrating Radar) antenna suspended from the back of the truck by a fiberglass square beam, locked to position with nylon nuts and bolts. We attached a survey wheel to measure velocity and distance traveled in conjunction with the data gathered.

Driving east to Salina, KS on I-70, we headed south on I-35 as rain clouds built all around us. It began raining in Stillwater, OK. We gathered in the equipment and settled into a motel. The next morning we began collecting data while the rain clouds collected moisture, building into afternoon rains.

We settled into a routine while staying in Oklahoma City. We collected data in the mornings until the rains came. Then we settled in and Stan processed and backed up the date onto disks. It took him long hours of babysitting an aging interface PC, as the truck mainframe could not and would not talk directly to the computer creating the back up disks.

It rained hard. Two evenings running, drainage and low lying roadways flooded in Oklahoma City. A teenager was swept away and drowned the first afternoon. It was hot and extremely humid. Walking out the hotel door at 8:00 A.M, shirt and pants immediately clung to my body, sticky and cloying.

For four days we traveled in and around OKC collecting data. Then we ran west on I-40 to the Texas border and back. Finally we made a long run south to Texas, collecting data on I-35 as it snaked its way through the rolling hills of the Arbuckle Wilderness.
On the twelfth day we headed north back to Stillwater then to Wichita, KS. The next day we drove into Denver, rattled by the harsh suspension of the big Dodge. It was a good trip, just not very comfortable riding in a massive, tight and heavily suspended truck.

The interstate roadways and byways in Oklahoma are populated with large numbers of OTR (Over The Road) truckers hauling all manner of goods and materials. In addition, there are large convoys of of oil field equipment trucks rolling across the plains on any given day. The continuous impact of all these massive trucks has a measurable effect on the road surface, the road beds and substrate structures and how well they hold up over the years. The data we collected will help the Oklahoma Department of Transportation determine what is the best course of action to take in order to provide safe and durable roads for years to come.

- Road Trip Two ~ Sun Baked and Broiled - 3 August 2010 to 13 August 2010:

Lesson learned, we rented a large Chevy Suburban for the second trip. Once again the GPR and survey wheel were suspended off the back end of the vehicle.
Stan found a portable drive that made the transfer of data from the mainframe in to the truck to the back up computer a much faster operation. That in itself gave us more time to collect more data before we had to stop and spend long hours transferring and backing up data.

The weather was much drier with an attendant spike in the heat. Most days the temp ran between 100 and 107 with a minimum of 60% humidity, creating a heat index above 110 degrees. I truly appreciate well air conditioned vehicles and hotels.

Our first night in Oklahoma was spent in the little burg of Henryetta at the Green Country Inn; a throwback to the times before the mega-chain hotels had taken over the landscape with cookie-cutter facades all along the interstates. It was a clean and interesting place, owned by an ex-patriot British couple.
From there we ran eastward on I-40 clear into Arkansas and back, collecting data. Our log sent us northeast to the rolling country around Tulsa, then once again back to Oklahoma City. From there we headed south by south-west towards Lawton on I-44. From Lawton we collected data all the way to the Texas border. We crossed the Red River and stopped long enough to give a wave to the Lone Star State.

Another dead Armadillo, all four feet reaching for the sky, greeted our return into Oklahoma. The ubiquitous critters are found all across the state; along with racoon and possum. All are slow movers, mostly nocturnal, leaving little mounds of road kill throughout the state. Armadillos have a tendency to jump straight up when startled. This is a lethal habit when what startles them is a massive metal machine moving at freeway speeds.

And NO, we did not see any Armadillo carcasses with feet festooned with four Lone Star beer longnecks...dancing with the sky. It seems that this Post-Modern Age's need for speed has curtailed this once, well respected cultural statement.

Western Oklahoma - long and flat stretches of roadway, cotton and cattle, corn and wheat, red dirt and brutal heat. Small towns still thrive along blue highways where the traditional mores of love of God and Country flourish. It really is beautiful on these high plains. Some would call it harsh and monotonous. Not so. There are uplifts and cuts here and there, like the Wichita National Wildlife Refuge in the Wichita Hills north of Lawton, where the long flat vistas are broken.
In the little burg of Bessie, I spotted this quintessential prairie icon, the concrete grain elevator standing proud and stark against the deep blue sky.

We collected our last data outside of Kingfisher, OK. We did a quick breakdown of the equipment in 105 degree heat and stopped at local diner for lunch. A sturdy doe eyed, clear skinned young gal, probably of English/German heritage served us lunch and asked about our work. Gentle and genuine, there was no pretense or prejudice in her attitude to a couple of rangy looking characters from out of town. It was refreshing, a throwback to an earlier, simpler time in America. Refreshed, we headed for Wichita to spend the night. The next morning we repacked the equipment and made our way up to Salina, KS, then west back to Denver and cool dry nights where their is no need for the constant drone of the air conditioner to keep sleep tolerable.

Ragnarock

2010-05-14T10:05:00.001-06:00

Vallhalla

Lo, there do I see my father. lo, there do I see my mother, and my sisters, and my brothers.
Lo, there do I see the line of my people back to the beginning.
Lo, they do call to me.
They bid me take my place among them in the halls of Valhalla,
Where the brave may live...forever!

Mountain Recollections

2010-04-28T16:27:00.005-06:00

Silence

Two of my favorite bloggers, Amy(http://amykane.typepad.com/blog/) and Brigid(http://mausersandmuffins.blogspot.com/) have stirred up some long held recollections on silence. Brigid in particular, wrote on the silence encountered while stand hunting. And that write brought up the following:

~~~~~~~~~

We were cross-country skiing in mid-February up the James Creek trail, across from Winter Park. It was the day after a big snow. There were no others in the virgin white landscape. My ex wife and I moved in that slow glide, taking our time up the winding incline. The only sounds were the rhythmic swish...swish of the skis cutting through blue-white powder, the creak of shoe leather against wire bindings and the rush of air in and out of lungs, gulping for oxygen in the thin, cold air at 9'000 ft. The creek was covered over with ice and snow, its voice silenced. Squirrels and rabbits hibernated in cozy dens. Crows, the only noticeable birds, circled in the lower canyons. The land up this high slumbered.

We stopped on an open rise to drink water. The thud of my racing heart slowed and I realized that there was no other sound. New snow muffled any echoes. Erie silence, nothing moved, no breeze. That silence, it seeped into my being. It would have been cold were it not for the brilliant sun pouring out radiation, burning through thin air.

As the sun worked on the snow, pine and spruce boughs released their burden of new powder. Those small, muffled small avalanches were the only sound to rise.

And I wondered how the Ute Indians and solitary trappers survived in these mountains during those long, silent winters.

And that, beloved, stirred up these memories:

Kit Carson, the famous scout, trapper, trader and early political figure in Northern New Mexico spent at least two winters in the St. Vrain River drainage, north and west of modern college town of Boulder, Colorado. In 1840 he built a rough cabin on a outcrop ledge of granite, facing more or less south by south-east. The remnants of the fireplace can still be seen on that ledge and the mountain that bears the name, Cabin Mountain.

I grew up fishing on the creek that was also named for Kit Carson’s winter home; Cabin Creek.

The header on the advertisement read something like this:

“ Luring Pines Cabins, Meeker Park Colorado – Bob and Mary Anne James, proprietors.”

They were my great aunt and uncle. They purchased the cabins in 1949 and rented them out every summer until they retired in 1972.

Some of my most coveted memories are of the early years. Those years where the cantankerous pump house chuffed and rattled on the creek. It provided an outdoor, cold water spigot for all of the eight cabins. Each of them had one electric light and one small true "icebox" and a great cast iron cookstove. Those were all the modern conveniences available. There was a double shower house up the hill. "Thunderbuckets" were kept under each bed. Each morning they were emptied in one of the four double-holer outhouses that sat off to the off side of the creek drainage.

Over the next five years, improvements were made. Dad and Uncle Bob ran real plumbing to each cabin. Harry "Doc" Sutherland brought in his backhoe and cat. He dug the hole for a double chamber septic tank and leach field, and ran the sewer lines from each cabin. The county gave a grant from the Feds to upgrade the electrical service. Refrigerators were installed. My uncle Pete and his Dad “Buzz” built a lodge addition to the main cabin. “Doc” Sutherland built a massive native stone fireplace at the far end. The lodge became the office and gathering place for all and sundry to read, play cards or work puzzles on rainy days.

It was an evening luxury to stretch out on the day bed in the den as the quick summer heat rose off the roof and our caramel toasted skin. We kids would dose off as Dad and Uncle Bob listened to the Denver Bears playing baseball 90 miles away down in the sweltering city.

On most weekend mornings, my grandmother would wake me just before dawn. In the flint cold half light, we would eat a bit of toast and drink some tea, maybe some orange juice and sneak out the back door. Outside, our fishing poles and an old spade waited.

We hiked down a steep trail, down into the dew laden hemlock and alder, aspen and willow next to the creek bed. There we dug for worms. The rich black, mica and sand laden soil yielded sleepy cold earthworms...bait for trout.

The next few hours would find us silently plying deep honey holes, undercut banks along open gravel ripples and the deep rock bound sweeps of Cabin Creek. It wasn't "sport" fishing. We were hunting for meat.

We would come up the hill at lunch, clean our catch, eat and take a quick nap in the soft afternoon. Sometimes hikes or a truck ride high on the hillside to gather deadfall for firewood would preclude the afternoon fishing. But most days we would return as the sun began to set, seeking the lunkers who came out to feed as the light in the canyon dimmed.

Time meant little. We were ruled by the moving sun. Clocks were merely a nuisance. One phone serviced all eight cabins. And supper left us sleepy, ready for the deep feather beds with crisp white sheets and heavy Pendleton wool blankets. There was a deep and profound peace most nights, broken only by the sound of the wandering breeze whispering in pines or the distant screech of hunting owls, or the errant coyote calling to its pack.

Sh-h-h-h-h-h-h...I can still hear the silence when the well house pump grumbled to a halt, the giant philco radio's tubes darkened, its hum no longer worrying, and the icebox motor realized that it was damn near as cold outside as it wanted to be inside.

That was silence.

The only sound was the echo of starlight bouncing off the Aspen and Ponderosa...and the soft distant laughter of Cabin Creek as she danced down the canyon, splashing her bright skirts in the moonlight. She was happy to know us, to share her life and bounty with us in those quiet summers so distant now.

That was silence, that was true peace.

Mourning in America

2010-03-22T09:01:00.005-06:00

"The Darkness Around Us...
is Deep"

That is a quote from the American poet, William Stafford. In the poem, he speaks of communication between humans. If, in our broken world, our own personal brokenness, we do not communicate with depth and clarity...and brevity, we are bound to let loose the hounds of hell that ravage individual, community and ultimately, cultural relationships.

That is exactly what has transpired in Washington with the passage of the Frankenstein monster know popularly as the "Health Care Bill". It is blatantly unconstitutional and fully the largest Socialist piece of legislation to pass through both houses of Congress since Lyndon Johnson's "Great Society" boondoggle.

It has polarized our country into volatile camps, the likes of which we have not experienced since the Viet Nam war. And, the responsibility for this sits on the shoulders of those who we have elected to protect us from such invasive and suffocating legislation. Nancy Pelosi, Harry Reid and Barrack Hussein Obama and their subordinates stand at core of this national disaster. They must be held responsible for its passage. And we, the electorate constituency must respond with our voices, our votes and if need be with our very lives.

The existence of the United States as a Constitutional Republic hangs in the balance. The time is short. It is imperative that we stand and speak. We must act decisively.

We must act NOW!

I leave you with this quote from the fine English writer, theologian and Christian apologist, C. S. Lewis:

"Of all the tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It would be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron's cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience."

Spring

2010-03-09T09:48:00.006-07:00

Diving Headlong into Spring

" It is a rising tide of dazzling light.

It is heady: our skulls fill like cups of fire."

Whew! (a hat tip to Amy over at: http://amykane.typepad.com/blog/)

~~~~~

Here, its more the altitude than the latitude. Spring is defined by one's proximity to that long and sinuous, granite and quartz dragon spine that splits the continent in two. Come May, it still glitters with winter bright snow. At nearly two and three quarter miles high, some of these solitary peaks know only two seasons, winter and August.

Some unremembered, unrepentent grizzled old prospector coined the phrase a century past. And it still rings true.

I can see him standing proud, bent and twisted as the sub-alpine bristlecone pine, shaped by the brutal wind, the brittle brilliant sun and the incomprehensible weight of stone on stone on stone...The Rocky Mountains. Fresh from the assayer's office, he leans on the Silver Queen's mahogany bar. His reflection wavers in the silver dust mirror. Dark whiskey grasped in one gnarled hand, a half finished lager, golden sea foam in the other, he pulls long and slow on a fine treat, a ten cent cigar. It's blue-gray aura encircles his wicked, unkempt visage, a spicy halo.

He is Saint Mud-mucker. His parish ranges across the long, alpine creeks above Leadville. Baby Doe Tabor is his blue-eyed Virgin, The Silver Queen saloon, his cathedral.

Mud defines him; its grayness permeates clothing, skin and soul. His once bright red union suit is tattered and muted, oiled with cold sweat and dynamite dust. Crusted mud encases his boots, seeps into his deepest thoughts. Only his eyes, they sparkle with that fire, that lust for gold. THAT is the fire burning deep in his fevered skull.

Recollections

2010-01-27T07:23:00.002-07:00

Connie

I had a classmate named Connie. Her sweet soft oval face and strong aquiline nose framed huge dark eyes set over a sensuous, ready smile. I first noticed her in 5th grade. She was the Annette Funicello of our class. And like many of Mediterranean descent, she began to mature physically at a younger age than most. Connie was blessed (or cursed) with budding breasts. Most of the boys were intrigued, not quite sure why. Whispers, rumors of what sex might be were spoken by some, with furtive giggles and sly smiles.

I was the smallest in the class, painfully shy. I admired Connie from the back of the room, settled safe in the confines of my ancient cast iron and wood desk. Fifth Grade was a distraction from life spent wandering the pastures, creeks, woods and fields. Sometimes late at night, her dark eyes and growing curves filled my head, lit a small ember deep in my young belly.

Sixth Grade was different. We had a male teacher. His straight ahead, no-nonsense style caught hold of my wandering mind. Over the summer, I had grown taller, more gangly. Connie had blossomed, hips and waist and growing breasts. She didn't walk. She waltzed in the hallways. Her dark eyes glowed deep fire. And, she wore makeup!

Early that first week, I convinced myself to do something brash. I saved back a portion of my allowance for a month. In the Ben Franklin Five-and-Dime I pondered over the cheap costume jewelry. One silvery ring with a dark blue paste stone caught and held my eye. It was the same blue of Connie's shaggy, tight cashmere sweater. THAT ring had to be the magic talisman that would win her heart for me.

I bought it, wrapped it in white tissue with a carefully printed note: "From a secret admirer.” I just could not bring myself to sign it.

The next morning, I hustled out of the house early and sneaked into the classroom. I lifted Connie’s stained wood desktop, and with trembling hands deposited the burning passion wrapped in tissue on her Pee-Chee folder. Scared to distraction, I ran out into the hall, down the stairs and out into the brilliant September morning. Relieved at not being seen, I ran to join the little group of guys who were my friends.

The bell rang, calling us to class. I was petrified. Looking for any excuse, I hung back until the schoolyard teacher called to me. I crept in the back door and skulked to my desk, slinking low.

Connie had just opened her desk and stood, her head tilted, a quizzical expression on her warm face. She opened my package with her long elegant fingers and laughed, saying something like, "This is sweet. Who put this here?"

I sat stone cold frozen, deer in the headlights, unable to think or move. Those dark, laughing eyes scanned the classroom, seeking the gift giver. They passed over me without hesitating. Joe, the class clown began to snicker. All eyes zoomed in on him and Connie laughed out loud. Immediately, everyone "knew" that Joe had pulled a fine practical joke. General laughter and kidding ran through the class as Joe acted the part flawlessly. While I melted, shoulders slumped, my heart felt like a dark stone. It was too late to stand and claim the deed. No one would believe me, least of all, beautiful Connie…unattainable Connie.

I felt the fool and the dolt growing like a dark shadow about my head and heart. That feeling became a ragged cloak that I wore all through Junior High and High School.

That was 51 years ago. This year is our 45th class reunion. Connie will be there. According to the class historian and my hunting buddy, she is divorced, living and teaching in a small town in Southern Colorado. And, I am told, she is still quite stunning at age 62.

It will be interesting to greet her as a late middle-aged man. My guess is that those smoldering dark eyes are still burning. What effect will they have?

THAT, beloved, is a question which can only be answered by walking through the fear of the once skinny young boy. The man in me can do that, assuring that still present lil' feller that the grownup will speak for him with strength and grace...51 years later.

Blue Moon

2010-01-01T16:23:00.010-07:00

Winter Arrives, a Full Blue Moon

A new year, a new decade has been born. Janus, the two faced Roman God has taken his place in the calendar. Janus, more like the bright and Mercurial Gemini twins than the stolid, Satrunalian Capricorn is one of those astrological oddities.

The New Year arrived with an astronomical phenomenon, the second full moon within a monthly cycle. It is a Blue Moon. And this Blue Moon is nestled into its astrological home, the sign of Cancer.

Winter has arrived, cold and sharp. Looks to be a tough one. There has been snow on the ground in the shadows since mid-October.

Brings to mind a poem I wrote some 15 years ago:

One Coyote on Ice

January aires whip southward.
Bundled tight to muffle
Against a Canada born wind
My steps whip along a frozen path.

Out of the cattail camouflage
Coyote trots easy, confident
‘Cross cold locked water.
Head down, hunting nose intent
Following scent.
Worried ducks rasp alarm,
Rise in raucous flight.
He stops, on his haunches drops
Watching dinner disappear.

One furtive glance at me,
One flick of a bushy tail,
He rests alone, sure of life,
One coyote on ice.

Open Carry

2009-12-31T09:50:00.011-07:00

~~ Sixth Sense ~~

Back in the dark ages.... when we were young and dumb, sometimes stoned, we roamed the lower mountains in noisome and bothersome packs. The old mines around Idaho Springs or Georgetown and those above Central City, along with the ancient cemetery beckoned us. All of us were skiers. Hiking and running down hill, rock hopping and making quick cuts between trees were one way we kept in shape during the off season.

One June while camped on the edge of an Aspen grove near Brainard Lake, that now familiar "sixth sense" woke me in the eerie alpenglow just before true dawn. My friends were still asleep, racked out mounds of colorful nylon, unconscious. Peering, bleary eyed over the frosty edge of my bag, I watched as a cottontail fairly flew around the corner, and blasted down the trail, zig-zagging in a ragged dance of deception. Two breaths behind him, a large coyote streaked into our camp, running low and intent. The moment the critter caught our scent, it froze. A burning yellow eye caught mine. A low growl rumbled, pissed. We, the intruders, had foiled a breakfast hunt. In less than a heart-beat, he(or she) turned tail and disappeared back up the trail.

Just a song dog, yet I had never before felt quite as vulnerable. I lay there shaking...unable to think or move, frozen in time. I caught a glimpse of what it meant to “be” prey. It was one of those seminal, teachable moments, serendipitous some might say. The experience was filed away in a growing inner library that ultimately led to a tipping point. I changed. I grew from being an undisciplined, loopy thinking liberal college kid into an adult, a hunter, gun owner and conservative in thought and action.

These days I ply the high mountain creeks with a light fly rod, seeking cutthroat and brook trout. Much of the time I am alone or with one friend. The reassuring weight of either the S&W .357 or the Ruger hogleg .44 mag. rest at the ready on my hip. Mountain lions and black bear prowl the environs where I prefer to fish. There are apocryphal tales, unproven, of wolves who have migrated down the Rockies spine from Yellowstone and the Tetons.

The act of being armed is purposed, intentional. It changes my placement in the environment from being possible prey into an equal to those with tooth and claw, speed and stealth. The weight, the presence of the firearm creates a change in my attitude and approach in how I interact with the environment.

Before, a blithely unconscious two legged simian, thin skinned and devoid of defensive (or offensive) protection, I wandered the trails, canyons and creek beds with an invisible sign on my back. “Eat me!”, the sign blinked. Now, with the firearm’s weight as a reminder, I remain aware that there is only that deadly tool and my reasoning mind that changes me from helpless prey into a defender. I am no longer prey. I am become predator.

Would it be that four legged predators were the only critters of concern.

Given the continued influx of people into the high country, some with questionable motives and some with downright evil intent, the open carry of a sidearm provides me, an aging, arthritic man, with a self-defense mechanism, an equalizer. You see, beloved, dialing 911 five miles from nowhere is not a viable option.

(a tip of the hat to Brigid over at: http://mausersandmuffins.blogspot.com/ for the inspiration.)

Christmas Dinner

2009-12-26T10:01:00.006-07:00

~~BAMBI WELLINGTON~~

It all began when og (http://www.neanderpundit.com/) posted his version of Venison Wellington last week. The wheels in the right side of my brain began to spin, thinking of what to do to create a fine Colorado rendition of the same.

Mark and I harvested two mule deer does the first weekend of December. I had a roast in the freezer just begging to be made into a version of Wellington. Here's the recipe:

Pate:

one pint of fresh button mushrooms, coarse chopped
two shallots, coarse chopped
two garlic cloves, coarse chopped
quarter cup of dried currants
two quarter inch thick discs of Liverwurst (Braunschweiger)
Kosher salt and fresh ground pepper
olive oil
two Tblsp. unsalted butter

Heat a heavy skillet (cast iron) medium heat with the butter and a couple tablespoons of olive oil. Dump the mushrooms, shallots, garlic into the food processor, pulse until they are very fine, almost a paste, drizzle a bit of olive oil as needed to keep the texture fine. Saute the mixture in the butter and olive oil about 10 minutes till the liquid is reduced. Salt and Pepper to tase. DO NOT clean the skillet! Set the mixture aside to cool. When the mix is cooled, mix in the currants.

Meanwhile.......

The Roast:

One small (2 to3 lb) Loin or Bottom Round Venison roast
12 slices (about a half pound) good Prosciutto ham
One package (18 sheets) phyllo dough
Mild Dijon mustard
Olive oil (or melted butter)
Bacon grease
Kosher salt and coarse black pepper
Marsala wine
one egg, beaten with water to make an egg wash

In the same skillet that you sauteed the pate mixture, add some bacon grease and olive oil, about a tablespoon of each. Heat on medium high until the oil begins to smoke. Dust the roast with salt and pepper. Sear all sides of the roast until well browned. It will take about 10 minutes total. Set the roast aside covered with foil to rest for about 5 minutes. AGAIN....do not clean the skillet

Lay out the slices of prosciutto overlapping (herringbone or bricklayers pattern) on long piece of plastic wrap...or a cross made of plastic wrap. Spread the pate mixture on the prosciutto. Add cut or torn chunks of the liverwurst evenly on the pate. Coat the roast on all side with the dijon mustard and place it in the center of the pate. Fold the prosciutto over the roast, sealing it inside. Wrap the plastic tight, creating a solid seal. Refigerate or put in the freezer to cool and retain its shape, about 20 minutes in the 'fridge, 10 minutes in the freezer.

Heat your oven to 425 degrees.

While the roast is cooling, brush or spritz all the layers of phyllo dough with either melted butter or olive oil. Remove the plastic and place the roast in the center of the stack of phyllo. Fold the dough around the roast, sealing it inside. Cut slits in the top to allow steam to escape. Place the roast in an oiled baking pan....I prefer glass. Brush with the egg wash.

Roast the Wellington for 35 to 45 minutes depending on how rare you like your meat. I did ours for 35.

Remember the unclean skillet? It has good stuff in it! While the roast is in the oven, reheat the skillet and add a bit of bacon grease or butter if needed. If you wish, add flour or corn starch to make a roux. Whisk in between a quarter to half cup of the Marsala to make a bit of gravy to drizzle over the Wellington.

Remove your Wellington, slice thick and enjoy!

The dijon slathered roast laid out on the pate and prosciutto and plastic, ready to be wrapped and cooled.

The Wellington wrapped in phyllo, slits cut and brushed with the egg wash; ready for the oven.

Thirty five minutes later, it came out of the oven, ready for the table, a luscious brown crust on the phyllo.

Sliced from the center out, the meat was done to perfection, barely medium rare, extremely tender and redolent with the flavors of currants, shallots, mushrooms and the spicy bite of the liverurst.

We served it with steamed broccoli spritzed with lemon butter and mashed yams with rice syrup, currants and more butter! A fine Cab or Merlot for those inclined. Oh...and desert was Brandied Pears.

Autumn

2009-12-07T17:57:00.007-07:00

November arrived decked in a flaming sunrise. The Summer of travel and death and wandering grief is gone. Autumn came with the promise of more troubles on the world stage. But this!, this sunrise was astounding, a portent of the fires of Winter.
Winter where cold mangles cold and callous hearts turn to stone.
Winter, where deep longings slumber dreaming of the freshets of Spring

The last of the brilliant colors on the Cherry tree and the Spirea bush. The garden was a joy. It went totally out of control as I spent more of the Summer traveling or taking care of Mom and her estate in Tucson, than I did tending my garden. Its overgrown and sorely in need of trimming and cutting back.

Mark took two fine pheasants opening day. I missed more than my share of "gimme" shots. It was obvious when I returned home that I had not been mounting the ol' Browning correctly. I had a series of bruises on my bicep. Can't hit a bird if ya can't shoulder and point the dang gun!

Rifles were cleaned and adjusted. Last year I missed two or three seemingly easy shots after a very disconcerting misfire where a piece of straw had lodged between the bolt face and the round, stopping the firing pin from hitting the primer. I cleaned and checked both long guns for any loose fasteners, rust and crud.

Scopes were checked for accuracy. I shot a total of five or six three round groups with the .270.
The scope was high at 3 inches and way off to the right by almost 5 inches. Dialed in, it was set 2 inches high on vertical center at 100 yards.
Two decent sized does fell to the spell of well placed bullets. I shot mine and Mark followed suit within the blink of an eye. Both animals were dropped almost in their tracks by lung and/or heart shots.

We gutted, skinned, tagged and bagged the carcasses. We iced them down in the big cooler and said farewell to another successful year of hunting near Cheyenne Wells.

West River Nathaniel No Fear

2009-09-05T15:30:00.010-06:00

Nate's last portrait. A good Scottish Collie with
fine Scottish Harebells behind him.
"Ruadh Gu Brath!"

*~ In Memoriam ~*

"Nate"
___________
b. 4 June 1997
d. 3 Sept. 2009
___________

Nate grew progressively weaker and weaker over the summer. He was losing weight. The docs thought it was because of an auto-immune problem effecting his thyroid. A couple of weeks ago, he began developing symptoms of Lupus, another immune system problem. His back legs and hips have been giving him trouble for nearly a year. When we awoke last Thursday, the 3rd, he was hardly able to rise and walk, listing strongly to Port. Deborah was concerned that he might have had a stroke, or some kind of seizure. It was clear that he was not well. He was loosing control over his bowels and bladder. As the day warmed, the flies were swarming, biting his ears and nose, worrying his hind end.

One of our neighbors, a massage therapist and alternative vet practitioner gave us the name of a vet who specializes in geriatric care, acupuncture and does house calls. (Yes, he does house calls!) I phoned Dr. Jeff and explained the constellation of symptoms and set up a time for him to come by on Saturday.

By 5:00 P.M. it was clear to me that Nate's condition was worsening almost exponentially. I called Dr. Jeff and asked if he could come over that evening. He agreed to do so. Meanwhile Nate was losing all ability to move without help, he was growing disoriented, unable to find a comfortable position. I sat with him in the waning afternoon, kept him hydrated and brushed the flies away.

Right at dusk, as my old friend lay next to me on the southwest corner of the yard, Dr. Jeff drove up and immediately began running diagnostics on Nate. His prognoses was not good. Ms. D arrived and we consulted together and with the vet. All the while, Sprocket kept pacing back and forth, just out of way of the humans surrounding "his" big canine brother.

It was time. I could not stand to watch him suffer any longer. Both Dr. Jeff and Ms. D agreed. It was time to say goodbye.

Dammit.

How do you say goodbye to a wonderful companion, protector, guardian, neighborhood ambassador and friend who has graced our lives and the lives of all our neighbors for just over twelve years? How do you say goodbye to the dog that slept between us, kept us warm as an early June snow storm raged across the Delaney Buttes lakes, while we huddled in a cold, cold camp? How do you say goodbye to a dog that would run back and forth along the river bank, yipping while we two fished, knee deep in frigid waters of Bear Creek? How do you say goodbye to a grand dog who made a point of placing himself between the street and any child who wandered by with his parents, who made it a point to make a gentle peace with every canine that came into "his" territory? How do you say goodbye?

Dammit!

Dr. Jeff went to his car, came back with a plaid blanket. He laid it out on the ground along Nate's back. As he did, he explained what he was going to do. First, he would give Nate a sedative to allow him to relax, feel more comfortable. Then he would leave us all together for a few minutes while the sedative did its work. He gave us choices on how we wanted to handle the remains. We could bury him ourselves or we could have him cremated. We could have his ashes or not.

DAMMIT!

Ms. D and I sat and wept, holding the old guy, saying our pathos ridden, empty goodbyes. Dr. Jeff then shaved Nate's fore arm, found a vein and injected the lethal dose, the drug that would shut down his cardio-pulmonary function. After the allotted time, he check his heart. It was still beating. He shaved his rear leg, found a vein and injected another dose. He looked at us incredulous, saying: "He has a strong heart. I have given him enough dosage to kill a 200 pound animal."

Dammit...a strong and faltering heart... And then beloved, Nate died.

How do you say goodbye? It is the long, long goodbye. Everyday for some period of time there will be a reminder, a hole in the universe where Nate stood, or lay, or in some way filled with his presence. A year, six months, forever...I suspect a bit of it all. The grieving process is interwoven in humankind's psyche. It belongs to the realm of Kairos. Its God's time, not mine, not yours...not some collective mind.

The day after, neighbors began asking: "Where's Nate?" Ms. D printed out epitaph pages and taped them to Nate's Run. Almost immediately, flowers and cards began to appear. The memorial is still growing. Grown men, tough and strong, come by walking their own canine companions. They learn that Nate has passed... And their shoulders slump, heads drop and hot tears well up. Grief overtakes them.

Dammit!!! -- That, beloved, is how you say good-bye.

Nate and I on New Year's Day, 2009.

Nate enjoying one of his favorite treats:
a new snow fall, wet and cool, late October, 2008

The old Ambassador walking the early Autumn
riparian paths along Clear Creek last September.

I leave you with a recollection brought to us yesterday by one of those burly, strong men:

Big Nate, The Mayor of 42nd and Quitman, loved very much and never to be forgotten by all who knew him:

I REMEMBER:
(In memory of beloved pets who are gone, but not forgotten.)

I stood by your bed last night, I came to have a peep.
I could see that you were crying, You found it hard to sleep

I whined to you softly as you brushed away a tear,
"Its me, I haven't left you. I'm well, I'm fine, I'm here."

I was close to you at breakfast, I watched you pour your tea,
You were thinking of the many times your hands reached down to me.

I was with you at the shops today. Your arms were getting sore.
I long to take your parcels, I wished I could do more.

I was with you at my grave today. You tend it with such care.
I want to reassure you, that I'm not lying there.

I walked with you towards the house as you fumbled for your key.
I gently put my paw on your, I smiled and said: "Its me."

You looked so very tired and sank into the chair.
I tried so hard to let you know, that I was standing there.

Its possible fro me to so near you everyday.
To say to you with certainty: "I never went away."

You sat there very quietly, then smiled, I think you knew...
in the stillness of that evening, I was very close to you.

The day is over... I smile and watch you yawning
And say: "Goodnight, God Bless, I see you in the morning."

And when the time is right for you to cross this brief divide,
I'll rush across to greet you, we'll stand together, side by side.

I have so many things to show you, there's so much for you to see.
Be patient, live your journey out...then come home and be with me.

- author unknown

Where Memories Collide and God Resides

2009-07-21T11:48:00.015-06:00

Mary Anne Anthony

b. 29 November, 1928

d. 17 July 2009

"Sileo in Pacem"

" Thou goest home this night to thy home of winter,
To thy home of autumn, of spring, and of summer;
Thou goest home this night to thy perpetual home,
To thine eternal bed to thine eternal slumber.

Sleep thou, sleep, and away with thy sorrow,
Sleep thou, sleep, and away with thy sorrow,
Sleep thou, sleep, and away with thy sorrow,
Sleep thou beloved, in the Rock of the Fold.

Sleep this night in the breast of thy Mother,
Sleep, thou beloved, while she herself soothes thee;
Sleep thou this night on the Virgin's arm,
Sleep thou beloved, while she herself kisses thee.

The great sleep of Jesus, the supassing sleep of Jesus,
The sleep of Jesus' wound, the sleep of Jesus' grief,
The young sleep of Jesus, the restoring sleep of Jesus,
The sleep of the kiss of Jesus of peace and glory,

The sleep of the seven lights be thine, beloved,
The sleep of the seven joys be thine, beloved,
The sleep of the seven slumbers be thine beloved,
On the arm of the Jesus of blessings, the Christ of grace.

The shade of death lies upon thy face, beloved,
But the Jesus of grace has His hand round about thee;
In the nearness to the Trinity farewell to thy pains,
Christ stands before thee and peace is in his mind.

Sleep, O sleep in the calm of all calm,
Sleep, O sleep in the guidance of guidance,
Sleep, O sleep in the love of all loves,
Sleep, O beloved, in the Lord of life,
Sleep, O beloved, in the God of life! "

( "Death Dirge", from Carmina Gadelica, edited by Esther de Waal. )

On 17 July 2009, about 21:15 hours Arizona Std. Time, Mom Anthony passed through the veil. She headed home to be with her Christ her Saviour, to reunite with her husband, siblings and cousins, aunts and uncles, her own parents and grandparents. The long unbroken line of Ripleys and Martins reaching back in earthly time, in Chronos to the British Isles.

Barb and Bill Frey arrived on Thursday the 16th, fresh from the General Convention of the Episcopal Church in Anaheim. Sister Martha, her daughter Havah and grandaughter Zoie were here, along with good friends, Chiqui and Joe Kelly and their daughter Lorena Madrazo. I flew in on Friday mid-afternoon. Brother John arrived about 8:00 Friday evening.

Mom was laid out in her bed, barely conscious, breathing shallow and quiet. Her last real lucid moments had been two days before when she told Martha that she was done and was just waiting. That night, we all gathered around Mom's bed, held hands, spoke to her, prayed with her and held her up in God's great light. Each of us spoke words of love and release, quietly letting go. Each one holding her memory up in love. Together we prayed the Lord‘s prayer and gathered in the living room, sharing common and uncommon memories of Mom.

Twenty minutes later, Lori (Lorena) walked out from Mom's room saying that her breathing was growing ragged. I walked in, stood beside her and picked up her hand. With one small little shudder, she released her last breath and her heart ceased its long years of rhythmic dance. Her body was dead. Her earthly suffering had ceased. Mom was finally at peace.

It was clear from that moment on that nothing of the true Mary Anne remained. Her spirit was released and winging its way heavenward, sailing into the bright, never ending sunrise beside a quiet sea where Christ awaits us all.

She is free. The gangly and bossy young girl who wandered the Iowa corn fields has gone home. The striking, dark haired teen who sang and suffered adolescent years with TWO younger sisters in Lakewood, she too has returned home. The barely adult young woman bore me out of passion and love for a bright smiling Swede, fresh out of the Marine Corp. He who broke her heart...Well, that heart is now mended and whole. The fiesty young beauty who married the soft spoken Southern gent and spent nearly 54 years loving him fierce and fine, funny and in the final moments, faithful to his going, she is now at peace. She is once again resting in his strong arms.

All of that history, all of the pain, the unsaid words, the broken promises, the miscarried children, the dreams unfulfilled...They are now redeemed and made whole. I know it to be true. It is the promise that Christ himself made manifest in his short walk as a Man amongst us.
Now we, those left behind to walk our singular paths in imperfect clay vessels, we are the ones who grieve. We feel the loss, the empty place at the table, the phone calls that will never be again, the assurance of a hug, a mother's word or gesture or the simple knowledge that she is there just to listen. We reach out in the darkest night and she is no longer here. That grief will remain 'til God's healing grace soothes us and the sure knowledge that behind her love...His love is stronger. Behind her fierce protection, His fierce love is infinite, all powerful. Beyond our loss, His love is an ever flowing fountain where we can kneel and rest and drink to our hearts contentment.

And when that day comes when we are released from these broken and imperfect bodies, she will be waiting with all the saints who from their earthly labors rest, quiet and complete; encompassed in the arms of our true Father God.

Until that day, we have one another and the promise alive in Christ’s gift to us, His everpresent comforter, the paraclete, the Holy Spirit. His voice and love shown forth in our lives and in the lives of our brothers and sisters sustains us.

For me, this continues to be a life shattering process. Nothing will ever be the same again.
Today, the moon turns full dark, a new moon in its home sign, Cancer. Tomorrow there is a full eclipse of the Sun, its umbral centered in Bangladesh. AND, two days later the Sun passes from Cancer into its home sign, Leo...fiery, expansive, magnanimous. It is the heart of summer. Between the two major influences of Moon and Sun, I find that I am torn.

Its a strange place, unknown and uncharted territory.

I am undone. It is forevermore, an alien land. I feel caught between worlds. I flew down here on Friday full of fears and caught up in the angst of a 4 year old boy who felt his whole world turned inside out. Abandoned, chained to an unknown shadowy father... He seemed a dead and stinking corpse following the boy day and night.

I steeled myself for the worst when I arrived. I was afraid to look at, much less touch Mom as she lay dying.

All of those fears were washed away when I saw her sunken, waxy face and heard her raspy breath. Under the dying flesh, the Beethoven like death mask, there was my MOM! At that moment, the universe tilted and changed. I held her hand, I brushed her cheek with mine. I pushed an errant whisp of grey-white hair from her forehead. I sat with her, talked with her. (Yep, I did all the talking, heh!) Still, it was a conversation.

All of those fears and revulsion about death and dying are now gone.
They were washed away on Friday night.

Holding Mom's hand as she breathed her last breath is a moment that will remain seared in my psyche as long as I wander this broken ol' world. It was a "knowing" moment. Her passing was so sweet and gentle.

Now...why am I torn? Grief is a strange beast, seemingly insatiable. It rips unseen wounds in the strangest and most unlikely places. I am undone, wounded and racked with pain. Yet, I am also very much at peace. Time and prayer and God's grace will heal the pain. That's all I know right now. The peace that God has bestowed will reside, refreshed by his Holy Spirit. Although Mom has departed, her memories remain in each of us. And, more importantly, God has blessed us all with gifts beyond grace, beyond salvation. It is the gift of Himself. It is Christ His Son. It is the Holy Spirit…This is God complete. This is true peace.

Godspeed Mother mine.

Addendum:

Linda SoG (http://www.lindasog.com/) one of the regular contributors over at the KisP Institute (http://www.sondrak.com/) read this memorial on my facebook page.

This is her reply :

" Her resting place shall be in the Garden of Eden.Therefore, the Master of Mercy will care for her under the protection of His wings for all time and bind her soul in the bond of everlasting life. God is her inheritance and she will rest in peace and let us say Amen."

Amen!

Victory Gardens and Wheel Guns

2009-07-08T18:31:00.010-06:00

~ Faugh a Ballagh! ~

West River Nathaniel No Fear, a fine rough collie dog lies at sentinel under the Scottish harebells. He patrols the morning and the evening and sleeps outside, under the west windows. He, the "neighborhood ambassador" keeps watch. Fox and coyote, feral dog and feral cat are all greeted with a sharp bark. Any wayward and unknown human is greeted with the same.

He is a Watchman, bred by the Scots-Irish Celts, a breed of herdsmen and hunters, readers of the sun and moon and stars.

Nate is 13 years old. That is old for his breed, given his history. 'Tis tangential. Suffice it to say thus....Nate has been well loved and well received here in these North-west Denver Highlands.

I plant gardens. Flowers for the lady fair, she who tore up roots and family to join me here some fourteen years ago. A Scots-Irish lass her own self...more Scot than I.

And we share history from the Plymouth Colony.

The only reason it makes a tinker's damn is this:

Our beloved country is being overtaken by those who would impose new and heinous iterations of the failed, Socialist Democratic and Communist regimes which our fathers and grandfathers fought and died to defeat.

In defiance, I grow flowers to show them who would tether us and kill our spirits. Joy and hope and the knowledge that we are truly free can never be taken from us.

It is why I grow a garden filled with flowers and greens and herbs.

It is why I encourage sunflowers and wild greens to grow. It is why I stand in awe every morning, thanking God for the beauty of one rose,.

This is why I rise to see the squash blossoms on the summer and winter squash, and on the pumpkins.It is why I grow tomatoes and peppers, hardy greens and potatoes. It is why I make my own way in this life, by the Grace of God and by his Son and His angelic host.

~~~~~

And beloved, it is why I keep myself well armed. This is why I encourage my family and friends to do the same.

A people who depend upon the Government to provide more than the basics as clearly stated within the Declaration of Independence, the United States Constitution and the Bill of Rights, has abdicated their responsibility to make their way, by the grace of God, in this wicked world.

~~~~~

Brigid over at http://mausersandmuffins.blogspot.com/ commented on an old post wherein I spoke about my favorite sidearm, a Smith&Wesson, mod.29, "N" frame revolver chambered in .357 Mag. In a serendipitous moment, an old friend of mine called to ask me about her grandfather's wheelgun.

From that call came the pic above. Two double action S&W pistols at the top, a single action Colt and a single action Ruger below compare size and construction of decidedly different pistol concepts and configuration.

Single action revolvers, where the hammer must be on cock to fire, are infused with the aura of the old west. Sam Colt's wheel guns were the benchmark. The rounded grip of the typical Beasley or other older models was superceded by the flat base. yet the gooseneck curve rolling into the action and trigger housing still remains as a reminder of the older models. It is a sturdy, no nosense tool made work in all manner of climate and condition.

Many cowpokes and ranch hands carried SA revolvers and saddle carbines chambered in the same round. (See: http://theprairiemelts.blogspot.com/2007/11/prairie-arms-ii.html) Colt chambered everything from a .25-20 up to its .45 Long Colt in both pistol and carbine.

Shooting a single action revolver takes a bit of practice, compared to a double action revolver which allows the shooter to simply point and pull the trigger.

The two S&W wheel guns above reflect the evolution of the double-action revolver from the turn of the last century to the mid-20th century. The upper pistol, probably manufactured around 1915/1920 is an elegant gal of a gun. IMHO, she has great legs. The long tapered barrel moving into the wheel housing and the slender curved grip rising to the grip mount...well I find it elegant in that it is machine/tool as art, where form follows function.

The big "N" frame, Model 28~Highway Patrolman, is my go to carry gun. The short barrel is easy to pull and point. The massive frame and aftermarket Pachmayr grips help tame the considerable recoil of hot .357 Mag. handloads. It is a no nonsense tool made to do one thing very well, provide protection against goblins and critters, both two and four legged.

While researching the older S&W .38 special, my lady friend handed me a full box of ammunition marked: "Remington .38 Long Colt, 150 grs. lead bullet". On the side of the box there is this statement: "specially adapted for .38 Colt Double Action and other arms chambered for this size."

The .38 Long Colt was used by Military and Police until it was superceded by the S&W .38 Special just as the First World War broke out. The old .38 was not powerful enough for the needs of modern combat.

The pic above is a comparative look at some pistol rounds for wheel guns, from the .22 long rifle to the .45 Long Colt.

TIME : Too Little, Too Much, and Never Enough

2009-06-29T16:08:00.011-06:00

~Seeking Kairos~

When the sun slides ever Westward, drawn to the horizon, rolling down to a distant night, there is a point where the veil twixt this world and all others grows thin, easily breeched. The twenty (or so) universes lie close to one another as pages in a book, separated by a mere breath of thought. The mind wanders across the threshold. Spirits slip back and forth and sometimes forget which side they tread. Time as we know it grows meaningless.

Golems, Grendels and wraiths wait in that place twixt the worlds, shadows ready to slip into mischief. Some come unbidden, some are called. Fear is their greatest weapon. Darkness is their being. 'Tis primeval...as C.S. Lewis calls it:

"Deep magic from the dawn of time."
Young children understand this instinctually. Those who hunt and fish alone in the wild understand....And many of the ancient ones among us know it well.

Most modern "adult" humans don't understand, they are out of tune...or they dismiss it as some physical or psychological abberation. As Scrooge scoffed: "...nothing more than a bit of undigested potato! "....Until at some point while wandering into old age, that vision rises up, unfettered by reason, modern societal sensory overload and the ability to dismiss the sight of an angelic spectre sitting on their life partner's headboard, beckoning them homeward...

Or the Magnolia which puts out a singular, spectacular bloom in late September as a southern gentleman departs from the broken, used up vessel that carried him for near 90 years on this wicked ol'earth.

Those of you who read this blog with some frequency understand the concepts of Chronos and Kairos.

- Chronos is Man's time. It is created.... the inevitable ticking of the clock leading us all to that one point when the clock stops and we cease to exist on this plane, this planet, and in this "TIME."

- Kairos is God's time. It knows no bounds. It is the mind of God, the moving will of the great Creator.

~~~~~

I mentioned C.S. Lewis and his statement about deep magic from the beginning of time. The irony is that this "magic" of which Lewis speaks, is tied to Chronos. It is:
" ...from the beginning of time."

This concept is predicated upon the fact that there is something else. Lewis calls it:

" Deeper Magic from Before the Beginning of Time "

This is Kairos, God's time. It is uncluttered by any of creation... or reason or scientific exploration and the laws of physics...or any other construct of mankind.
It is not Gaia, the earth mother.
It is not Mars, the bringer of War.
It is not the entertwined planetary aspects of astrology.
It exists outside the universe twisting theorem of quantum physics.
It is not Wicca, or Muslim, or Methodist, or Shinto, or Bhodidharma- Bhodisatva Hindu.
It is not any creation of mankind.....

It is found in direct relationship with God thru His only Son.

And that is the conundrum, the inescapable, implausable, ultimately unknowable God desiring with his whole being to reconnect with imperfect, broken and sinful creation, and with mankind.

He shows up in the most uncanny of places. I saw this shoe. It belongs to my Mom and was dragged out of the closet by the youngest of her dogs as a chew toy. Set on the table, someone placed a feather in the heel socket. I walked in the door and the image impaled my spirit. Mom's flight is nearing ready to call her and take her home.

Does that mean she will die tomorrow, or next week or next year?

OMG!!!

And that, beloved is the imposition of my Chronos on God's Kairos.
Her pewter and lace and fine antiques will remain for some "time" after she has gone

Her 200 year old square grand piano will continue to sing for another 200 years, long after we all have gone....in Chronos time.

None of that matters to God. His will is outside of and encompasses all of creation from the moment that Chronos began burning the wick of creation until He, the Master, chooses to snuff it out.

What matters to him is relationship. Y’all might want to plop down on your knees and have a little talk. God, the great Creator, He is waiting, hoping you will come and walk outside of Chronos for a little bit. What? You are too busy, too distracted, too involved? OK, He will wait and call to you. After all, He has all the time in the world.

Pacific Winds, Pacific Monsoon

2009-06-20T14:16:00.006-06:00

~The Monsoon Flow ~

Yesterday, the monsoon clouds lay low after a spectacular sunrise...most of which I missed dealing with the whole process of rising to the morning. Mom's dogs were not happy about another day without their Pack Leader. Their inability to relax and rest most of the night reflected that.

Mom is not happy. The docs will not allow her to eat until they find the blockage or whatever it is that is causing her illness. Test upon test upon test with no definitive answers have left her frustrated, fearful.

Nothing can be done. We simply must wait.

It rained in Tucson. The clouds piled up into a pewter mass, pushing against the Santa Rita mountains. A slow, soft and steady rain began to fall. And that made Mom angry. She could not sneak outside and have her smoke.

Yep, the world is against her... AND....The sullen sunset sky reflects her mood:

The evening before yesterday's rain, clouds rolled in and created the most magnificent sunset.

The range of brilliant raging brush strokes to the subtle delicate pastels never ceases to amaze me.

I forget, when I am not here, just how magnificent these skies can be.

Arizona Highways

2009-06-15T10:10:00.008-06:00

~Green Valley Summer~

Last Wednesday night I received a call from my sister Martha. Mom had been taken to the hospital in Tucson after collapsing in a faint while having dinner with friends. The devil in the details not necessary, yet an historic background will help.

Mom has had trouble with her gut off and on for years. Chronic problems with stomach, intestines and liver have plagued her late adult life. She is now almost 82. She lost Dad Anthony, her husband, the love of her life in 2005. The last four years have not been easy for her.

The phone call from my sister, though a shock, was not unexpected. One of we three siblings needed to go to Green Valley / Tucson with all haste. Martha and her husband Jim own and run a successful fly fishing shop and guide service in Evergreen. This is their busy season. My brother John just began a major cabinet and interior job which could not be put aside. I, on the other hand, am unemployed. I drew the short straw by choice and by chance.

Last Friday, the 12th, I flew out of Denver, heading southwest through the growing afternoon clouds and foothills turbulence, over the mountains and high desert and down into the gusty Sonoran winds dancing in the canyons and pecan orchards and city of Tucson.

This is not about Mom's illness. Its about the life of this Valley infused in the lives of one family...our family.

Mom and Dad moved to Green Valley in 1985/86. Dad had retired in 1979. They sold the old homestead in Wheat Ridge, Colorado some three or four years later and moved to Guatemala. Central American politics being what they are... The folks decided to move back to the states. They picked Green Valley, bought a three bedroom patio home and settled into retirement.

Mom's love of vibrant colors that compliment the climate and culture are clearly evident in how she has decorated with palette and plant. She and Dad worked slowly and with intent to turn the little home into a refuge and welcoming destination for friend and family alike.

Green Valley was founded as a designated retirement community in the early 1960's. It sits off to the west of Interstate 19 about a half hour south of Tucson in the Santa Cruz River Valley. It has grown into one of the Sonoran Desert's premiere places to retire.

There are spectacular sunsets and at least one great restaurant:

http://lavenderrestaurant.com/

AND...Sonoran desert weather mitigated by 3,000+ foot altitude and two distinct monsoon seasons make it very desirable almost all year round.

There are golf courses..heh.... Ask my brother about that, as I am not a golfer. I like the hikes and the skies and the birds. Literally thousands of dove make Green Valley their home year round, White Wing, Mourning, Eurasian and Aztec.

A goodly variety of desert trees, both deciduous and coniferous, native and transplants make the Northern Sonoran NOT your typical desert environment. My favorite is the Mesquite. This one Dad transplanted the year they moved here.

It is a beautiful place. Soft and vibrant, it has a very feminine feel to it. Unlike the Mojave in California and Nevada, which, to me seems very coarse, brazen and strident, and at times, enraged, engorged with anger.

The Sonoran is harsh in heat and sun, yet there is a yielding to the rugged mountains and dry river valleys. It seems to be an acceptance of the earth beneath, twisted geological turmoil that formed this land. It is laughter at the rolling, everchanging weather feeding and watering, blowing and freezing, nurturing and killing with beauty and deadly charm.

That is the Sonoran Desert I know here in Green Valley where my parents made their final outpost of their physical life on this broken ol' planet.

Berättare Natt

2009-06-10T12:27:00.011-06:00

Mitt-Sommar Natt Dröm

When Midsummer's Eve arrives, when the sun rolls high to the north, and darkness is driven away, the Swedes celebrate the longest day. Herring and Cheese, Smoked Eel and Sausage, Beer and Gamel Dansk and Vodka meet fresh herbs and spices...fruits and berries...rye bread and potatoes. Flowers appear in liquid, flashing eyes and laughing lips... and twine in fragrant locks, bright as morning as smiles. Desire deep as the North Sea roars at passion's gate. The long wait is over. The long twilight shimmers with flowers and nightburn, belly deep and strong. The age old, undertow speaks, seeking this one summer night.

The elders recollect memories unsullied by long years . Lyric voices share them in the tales turned legend. For a singular night, darkness is banished. Light reigns supreme....Ah, and then, beloved, the cycle begins again.

Generations listen, intent on tales they have heard since childhood, certain that nothing has changed. Only they who tell the tales change. Thinning white hair and lined faces, uncertain steps grow ever more ancient. Yet eyes glitter, undimmed by age as the sing-song Nordic voice recalls tales of sea and bird, elk and moose, flowers and fish.

Youth and that ethereal, Scandinavian lightness of being, beauty blooms in the early summer, glows in the fertile breast and belly. Haunted by the long winter dark, this, this is the night when all the Grendels and Goblins and dark, skulking creatures are driven from the heart and land and summer reigns a season long.

Currants, gooseberries, raspberries, loganberries, cloudberries, strawberries, blueberries first to punctuate the green on green undergrowth. Then color bowls of clotted creme, whipped creme and light golden breads.

In the old city, written words come alive. The tale of a witch dancing in a mortar, living in a shack that walks the dark night on chicken legs. A troll, exacting a toll under a stone bridge hungry for a goat leg joint. Men who are bears who eat men live in the earth mother's womb. All the dark underbelly whispers are driven away. This is the night, midsummer night light stays and does not stray.

Another family, fed on the tales and the bounty of that northern finger of land nestled 'tween her Skandi neighbors. Sweden remains.

And I the gardener, half the world and all the culture disperate. I, the "trädgårdsmästare" turn this new found soil. Its fertile fragrance rolling deep, pulling at my core. Heat from the sun and heat from the deep meld and twist in a long inner serpent coil. It's no wonder the Beltane fires are still lit and the May pole, the "midsommarstång" still rise and burn, ecstatic fire on the night when darkness is banished. Both the sweet summer soil and summer's lass look to take seed to self and grow ripe a new generation.

One of the wonders of God is this deep and diverse fecund Spirit that he has breathed into all of his children across this broken world. The rich stories and deep longings, so alike and yet, so unique. I stand in awe at depth and breadth of God's creative power. His Spirit burns bright in Mankind's heart and mind.

Qvack ~ Qvack!

2009-06-07T14:12:00.013-06:00

~~~~~*~~~~~

Colorado weather has settled into a Monsoon pattern. Prevailing westerly winds are flowing north and east out of the Gulf of California and the Sea of Cortez. Lazy low pressure systems rise and spin in Nebraska and Kansas, wandering into Wyoming, Colorado and Northern New Mexico.

It rains almost every day.

The garden is drinking up the moisture, delighting in the days of sun. Everything that has sprouted is flourishing. Those who have not yet sprouted, will do so soon and strong. I have staggered the plantings in order to make a prolonged harvest.

It is almost intolerably green! Tis' Ohio River Valley green, Ireland's finest Kelly green, bright young apple green. And I know only too well that this will not last. It's Colorado fate, particularly the eastern slope, to be in the rain shadow of the great Rocky Mountain spine. When the monsoons dry up, so will we. Heat and desert dry will return. Irrigation will be required and the fecund green will turn pathos shriveling, sage and dull. Fruits will grow heavy, with water stolen from the great river basins. Water caught in man-made basins, piped and stored in reserviours, bought and sold. A commodity, some would say, more precious than gold.

The last two years, snow pack has been extraordinary. A wealth doubled by the strong resort, snow based industry. Once it melts come late spring, the reserviors fill and the irrigated fields flourish.

The following two photos, taken from the approximately the same spot, five weeks apart show the drastic change that occurs when the snow melt comes on, exacerbated by the monsoon rains. The river is Clear Creek, which flows down along the Interstate 70 corridor from Georgetown and Berthoud Pass.

Five weeks ago, this was the view looking upstream from the center of Golden.

This picture was taken yesterday from the same point.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Fishing, at this point in time.....is relegated to the lakes, ponds and reservoirs. There are some of the tailwaters below dams whose reservoirs are filling with snowmelt and rainwater. These tailwaters, which are still low and gin clear, are full of trout gorging themselves on hatching larvae and pupae...and the steady chain of hatches and mating rituals, Mayflies and Caddis. -AND- they are full of fishermen lined up shoulder to shoulder. Not what I would call good fishing.

Perhaps, by the first week of July, we will once again don waders, stretch lines and leaders and ply the waters......"standing in a river, waving a stick."

Allow me to introduce you to the man who coined that phrase, using it as the title of a book on flyfishing.

Gentle reader, meet John Gierach:The book to which I refer:

http://www.amazon.com/Standing-River-Waving-Stick-Gierach/dp/0684863294

John lives in Northern Colorado. He fishes the world in a pair of leaky canvas waders, with handmade bamboo fly rods and writes as though Samuel Langhorn Clemens were whispering words in his ear.

He is a true Trout bum...following the seasons and the hatches. Writing of good times and poor, whiskey and women and trucks that have all passed through his life. Yet those cold, trout stream waters and the fish in them still remain.

"I am haunted by waters."

A River Runs Through It - Norman Maclean

God must know that I love this odd thing, flyfishing. He certainly speaks to me whenever I stand in the river casting to that hypnotic four count rhythm, all other sounds washed away by the coursing flow of the water rushing over rock and sand and pushing hard against my knees, washing clean, this old sinner's heart.

~ADDENDUM~

After the rains leave us cool and damp... Sunset calls. I tossed the ol' wooden ladder on the cook table outside the reloading shed and hopped up to take a few picks.

Later, a full moon, far to the south, will pour its magic elixer light into the deep night.

Right now, its clouds and sun and the deep Colorado sky:

Wing Nut ~ Train Wreck ~ Spring Time

2009-05-29T12:44:00.009-06:00

~ Gardens ~

I was having a talk with my lawnmower yesterday. Yeah I know. That sounds like some libtard, wing-nut, moon bat thing to do. But you must understand. The lawnmower has been with me longer than my wife! Oh, its a keeper and still starts and runs, doing its job without complaint.

That, and I can talk to it without having to explain or wonder if I have hurt its feelings.

You see beloved it all began like this:

The headmistress over at the KisP institute for Politically Incorrect Cultural Studies:

(http://www.sondrak.com/)

did a little write up on her garden, with photos. Not that she included those photos of her working, as she put it: "In my bathing suit :) " And, that is what prompted the little dialogue with the lawn mower.

This Spring, short work hours finally whittled down to nothing. Full unemployment followed close behind. You want a metaphor?

OK.....Here'tis:

A 14 year old bag of testosterone hanging hot on the tail of a yeasty young blonde thing in tight capris and budding breasts bustin' out of her tank top. That is a train wreck looking for a place to happen.

After all, it is Springtime !

I have way too much free time on my hands. That is both good and bad. The good is that I have time to walk the creekside paths, work in the garden and take photos and ruminate and cogitate and write endless rants on the state of the world.

The bad part?...I still have way too much free time on my hands!

For the first time in at least four years, I have planted a full garden. Its not just a couple of tomato plants and maybe a cucumber stuck in the ground. No sir. For over twenty years, I have been using a modification of "Square Foot Gardening":

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000LBMLTG/sr=1-5/qid=1243629277/ref=olp_product_details?ie=UTF8&me=&qid=1243629277&sr=1-5&seller=

Its based on laying out and planting in blocks of one square foot, using French intensive gardening techniques which allow for multiple plantings in one season. All of the beds are raised and double dug. I've been composting for 12 years adding all the organic kitchen waste, egg shells and coffee grounds and tea bags, plus fresh horse apples to warm it up a bit. The birds love it . I encourage good bugs and earthworms, no insecticides. If it sounds a bit Hippie-Dippie.....you would be right on, man! Long live the Whole Earth Catalog!

Here is the basic layout:
(1) Next to the reloading shed:

- Volunteer raspberries which some bird deposited as a fecal offering some five years ago.

- A row of Russian Giant Sunflowers on the north end of four large blocks containing

- a hill of butternut squash

- a hill of acorn squash

- two hills of jack-o-lantern pumpkins.

(2) Next to the sour cherry tree (which has no fruit this year, thanks to the late freeze):

- four "Early Girl" tomato plants,

- four "Summer Wonder" bush cucumbers

- two "Hungarian Wax" chilies

- two "Italian thin skin" chilies (for roasting)

- one Green sweet bell pepper

- one Orange sweet bell pepper

- one block of Radiccio lettuce

- one block of Romaine lettuce

- one block of curly Endive lettuce

- one block of "Tom Thumb" lettuce

There is also an interesting volunteer coming up on the edge of the compost heap. I can't quite tell what it is...So, I'll let it be and either pull it or help it along once it identifies itself. Umm, and there are always some volunteer parsley and cilantro that pops up unannounced.

(3) Next to the house in a narrow "kitchen garden":

- one block of icicle radishes

- one block of slow bolt spinach

- one block of cylindra red beets

- one block of green onions

- one block of stubby carrots

- one block of red leaf lettuce

Further south I have a mixed perennial/annual herb garden:

- Sage, just beginning to bloom:

- Oregano

- Horehound

- Marjoram

- Thyme

- Tarragon

- Hardy Rosemary

- Tender Rosemary

- Sweet Basil

- Radicchio

- Nasturtiums

The whole jumble is watched over by St. Francis standing amidst flowering containers:

Out in front along the parkway, I have planted six hills of Italian green beans. Three hills were planted two weeks ago, and three hills were planted this week. That will ensure a long harvest period.

Once some of the summer crops are all harvested, I will plant cool weather, autumn harvest crops: leeks, Spanish radishes, snow peas and more spinach. Those will last into October with a little TLC.

Oh yes, there will be contiued reports and more photos as the summer progresses.

In Hoc Signos Vinces ~ II

2009-05-23T12:52:00.004-06:00

~ Memorial Day - Part II~

Please Note: For some yet to be determined reason, the comment link on the post below is not available. Feel free to comment here or e-mail me here:
Wlfryder@gmail.com.

In Hoc Signo Vinces

2009-05-20T08:36:00.011-06:00

In Memoriam

Capt. William Henry (Bill) Ripley - USAF b. 03 Apr. 1917 - d. 23 Sept. 1946
Sp.A.X. Clayton Charles (Chuck) Kemp -USN b. 10 Oct. 1947 - d. 12 Jan. 1967
Capt. Aaron Boggs (Bob) Anthony - USAF b. 23 May 1917 - d. 21 Sept. 2005
Maj. Wallace Carl (Wally) Lundquist - USMC b. 11 Feb. 1923 - d. 14 Jan. 2007
Sgt. William D. (Willy) Simmons - USMC b. 13 Aug 1931 - d. 20 May 2007

They all served willingly and well.

There is one more addition that need to be added to my list:

Lance Corporal Chance Russell Phelps
b. 14 July 1984 - d. 9 April 2004

Lt. Col. Michael Strobl chose to escort the remains of Corporal Phelps home. He wrote a report for his XO which turned into a published essay and then into an HBO movie. The following is an dramatization of Lt. Col. Strobl's words:

For those who have served and died to preserve this freedom we so casually take for granted, I give thanks. They are blessed, as Christ stated clearly:

"This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one's life for one's friends." - John 15:12,13

By the time some of you will read this, we will have celebrated the state defined grand entrance to the Summer season, the Memorial Day holiday. It is a three day weekend for most of us here in Middle America. It is a time for relaxation and celebration. There will be BBQ’s and baseball, swimming and soccer, beer and horseshoes.

Elsewhere on this fractured ol’globe, there are young men and women who will not celebrate. They stand watch in harms way. They are strong Americans who have volunteered and sworn thus:

“ …to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.”

Some of them never return alive. They have surrendered their future to protect and provide for us, our children and grandchildren a future free from the threat of terrorist attacks and tyrannical world leaders, bent on destroying our freedoms and way of life.

Right now, we are involved in a religious conflict that has been causing death and destruction for over 1,300 years. Basically, it is a war between Judeo/Christians and militant Islam. There are those who would have us believe differently.

Recently, Pentagon spokesman, Bryan Whitman released this statement of policy:

“The Rev. Barry W. Lynn, executive director of Americans United for Separation of Church and State, on Monday said U.S. soldiers ‘are not Christian crusaders, and they ought not be depicted as such.’ ‘Depicting the Iraq conflict as some sort of holy war is completely outrageous,’ Lynn said in a statement. ‘It's contrary to the constitutional separation of religion and government, and it's tremendously damaging to America's reputation in the world. ”

As a practicing Christian, defender of the Constitution and Bill of Rights as the foundation of this Republic, supporter of the sovereign State of Israel, and one who believes that God has ordained this country to be “ That shining city on a hill…” and beacon of personal freedom and responsibility for the rest of this broken ol’ world…

I find the Rev. Lynn’s comments to be reprehensible and heretical. He ought to be on his knees thanking God that he is still free to speak such drivel. I have a question for him:

“ Where would you be, Rev. Lynn, if this country was ruled by Sharia Law? “

Given this indefensible, so-called “ Separation of Church and State ” and the ongoing infanticide as practiced every day under the guise of “ Freedom of Choice “ as defined by the Supreme Court decision in Roe-v-Wade. I live with this growing apprehension that God is now or soon will tip the scales and judge this land for our turning away from His grace, His direction and, in the long run, His protection.

May God have mercy on us all!

Between ~ What Comes After Death?

2009-05-05T14:28:00.006-06:00

* Purgatory? *

It began with the sharing of an internet post:

~~~*~~~

"The following is an actual question given on a University of Washington chemistry midterm. The answer by one student was so 'profound' that the professor shared it with colleagues, via the Internet, which is, of course, why we now have the pleasure of enjoying it as well.

Bonus Question:

Is Hell exothermic (giving off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)?

Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle's Law (gas cools when it expands and heats when compressed) or some variant.

One student, however, wrote the following: First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell and the rate at which they are leaving. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will never leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving.

As for how many souls are entering Hell, let's look at the different religions that exist in the world today. Most of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there is more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially. Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle's Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand proportionately as souls are added.

That gives two possibilities:

1) If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.

2) If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over. So which is it?

If we accept the postulate given to me by Thelma during my freshman year that "It will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you," and take into account the fact that I slept with her last night, then number two must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and has already frozen over!

The corollary of this is that since Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls and is therefore, extinct......leaving only Heaven, thereby proving the existence of a divine being which explains why, last night, Thelma kept shouting "Oh my God!"

This student received an A+. "

~~~*~~~

Yes, its funny, particularly if the reader comes from a scientific, more specifically, a physics discipline....AND, attended a mainstream American liberal arts college/university. I sent it on to some online friends and received a cryptic response from one of my favorite people on these inertoobs :

The Digital Hair Shirt (http://digihairshirt.blogspot.com/)

Her response:

"I give up . . . what do atheists scream during sex? They never taught us that in the convent school . . . "

THAT started the twisted, tangential lines of thought going in the dusty ol' hardware store/warehouse also known as "my brain". The first thing to pop up was the recollection of my own history. This is what I wrote:

"In my younger daze, in the dark ages when I wandered outside the confines of Mother Church, most of the gals I knew or dated believed in some kind of Neuvo Ageo mix of Hindu/Zen/Buddhist/Native American animism. They all believed in a "higher power" or some such drivel.

I never did date or bed an espoused atheist...They seemed so brittle and empty and, well...Godless!

I would grin and laugh about that, except that in truth and fact, it is very, very sad. Reminds me of the lost souls in C.S. Lewis' bright little book, The Great Divorce.

They chose to build their singularly, lonely, empty castles outside of and far away from the light and fellowship, the communion with God through Christ.

They have made their choice and judgement come true.....to them, there is no God. *Shudder!* "

And that brought to mind the whole theological concept of Purgatory.

Late in returning to Christianity after years of trying to prove that God did not exist, Lewis found himself face to face with God, in Christ and the realization that his Holy Spirit is at work in the world. An avowed and strict bachelor, he focused on education and worked his way to become first Professor of Medieval and Renaissance English at the University of Cambridge and a fellow of Magdalene College, Oxford.

Then he met Joy.

Joy Davidman Gresham, an American writer of Jewish background and also a convert from atheism to Christianity was estranged from an abusive relationship, a clerk and teacher. (thanks to Wikipedia for the attributions)

The avowed bachelor and completely independent Don of Medieval and Renaissance English Studies....He found his humanity. His heart of stone, broken... and his singular life, remade whole in Christ. From that point on, all of his gifted words reflected the ongoing life he held so dear in his Saviour.

~~~*~~~

There are No Ordinary People,

You Have Never Met a Mere Mortal...

" … for I will bring you not to the land of questions but of answers, and you shall see the face of God" ~ C.S. Lewis --The Great Divorce

The Barbie Syndrome

2009-05-03T07:26:00.008-06:00

*Metro-Denver Barbies*

An ongoing discussion in this, the 50th year of Mattel's flagship doll's production, brought about this Denver specific line of the lanky blonde doll. This topic is actually making my teeth hurt as I grind away on my molars as I grind away on this post! I hope it will bring at least a smile if not a laugh or two.

Although the place names might not be familiar, you will probably recognize at least a couple of these Barbie characters from within your own metropolitan area.

ENJOY!!!!!!

"Cherry Hills Barbie"
This Princess Barbie is only sold at The Cherry Creek Mall. Comes with an assortment of Kate Spade Handbags, Lexus SUV, long-haired foreign dog named Honey and cookie-cutter house. Available with or without tummy tuck and face lift. Workaholic Ken sold only in conjunction with the silicone augmented version.

"Highlands Ranch Barbie"

Modern Day Homemaker Barbie is available with Ford WindStar Minivan and matching gym outfit. Gets lost easily and has no full-time occupation. Traffic jamming cell phone sold separately. Ken is a middle management CPA. Ken is on prozac or zoloft or a three-martini lunch diet.

"Aurora Barbie"

Recently Paroled Barbie comes with 9mm Glock handgun, Ray Lewis knife, lowrider Chevy with dark-tinted windows, and Meth Lab Kit. Model only available after dark and must be paid for in cash (preferably small, untraceable bills). Aurora Ken has returned to East LA...for reasons uspecified.

"Centennial Barbie"

Yuppie Barbie comes with your choice of BMW convertible or Hummer H2. Included are her own Starbucks cup, American Express card and country club membership. Also available for this set are Shallow Ken and Private School Skipper. You won't be able to afford any of them.

"Morrison Barbie"

This pale model comes dressed in her own Wrangler jeans two sizes too small, NASCAR T-shirt and Tweety Bird tattoo on her shoulder. Accessories include six-pack of Bud Light and Hank Williams Jr. CD set. Doll can spit over 5 feet and kick Mullet-Haired Ken's butt when drunk. Pickup truck sold separately and get a Confederate flag bumper sticker absolutely free!

"The Lo-Do Lofts Barbie"

This collagen-injected, rhinoplastic Barbie wears a leopard print outfit and drinks Cosmopolitans while entertaining friends. Percocet prescription available, as well as a warehouse conversion condo. Ken, where's Ken? Ken is off in New Mexico attending a Men's movement weekend. Ken is constantly in a crisis state. This year it is a sexual identity crisis.

"Commerce City Barbie"

This tobacco-chewing, brassy-haired Barbie has a pair of her own high-heeled sandals with one broken heel from the time she chased Beer-Gutted Ken out of Morrison Barbie's house. Ensemble includes low-rise acid-washed jeans, fake fingernails, and see-through halter-top. Also available with a mobile home and '64 Chevy pickup with a bent trailer-hitch.

"Capitol Hill Barbie"

This doll is made of actual tofu. She has long straight brown hair, archless feet, hairy armpits, no makeup and Birkenstocks with white socks. She prefers that you call her Willow. She does not want or need a Ken doll, but if you purchase her two Westport Barbies "friends" and the optional Subaru wagon, you get a rainbow flag bumper sticker for free.

"Northglenn Barbie"

This classic Barbie now comes with a stroller and infant doll. Optional accessories include a GED and bus pass. She lives in a 80's brick cliff dwelling apartment complex. Gangsta Ken and his 1979 Caddy were available, but are now very difficult to find since the addition of the infant. Northglenn Barbie is now on full welfare and medicaid.

"Lakewood Barbie"

She's perfect in every way. Her family used to be Episcopalians. Now they are members of the Conservative LCA (Lutheran Church in America). We don't know where Ken is because he's always hunting or fishing. Skipper and her little brother are both star students in the Lutheran private school.

"Wash Park Barbie/Ken"

This versatile doll can be easily converted from Barbie to Ken by simply adding or subtracting the multiple snap-on parts. Does the phrase " Metrosexual, social hermaphrodite" mean anything to you? Go figure... I have not a clue!!!

WTF!

Mad Molly's Brown Ale

2009-04-25T15:24:00.021-06:00

~Golden City Brewery~

It's motto: " Golden's Second Largest Brewery."

~~~*~~~

Golden Colorado....

Golden is the quintessential mining town nestled between the wrinkled, alluvial fans and flat topped "mesa" uplifts of Colorado's nor'eastern foothills. Golden is where kayak river wrestlers, local flyfishers, and geology students, hikers, mountain bikers live and dance their dances.

And yes, there are two very disparate breweries in Golden. One is the Coors Brewery. Coors was once a closely held family local company. They expanded their sales nationwide and expanded into the development of aerospace and military ceramics in conjunction with Ball Aerospace. They have recently joined in a multi-national partnership with the Canadian brewer, Molson.

~~~*~~~

The other, well, the other, "second largest" is a microbrewery:

Golden City Brewery could be a post-modern iteration of Tolkien's "Green Dragon" in Bywater, Hobbiton. It is small, home grown and gritty, producing exceptional ales and stouts without any pretense other than to brew and sell good beer! It's best that you learn about it from the folk who make it all happen:

http://www.gcbrewery.com/Home_Page.php

These are pics of their brewery:

That being said, Golden has a history, 150 years in the making:

"The historic City of Golden is a Home Rule Municipality that is the county seat of Jefferson County, Colorado, United States. Golden lies along Clear Creek at the eastern edge of the foothills of the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains.

The Golden City "National Guard Armory."

Founded during the Pike's Peak Gold Rush on 16 June 1859, the mining camp was originally named Golden City in honor of Thomas L. Golden. Golden City served as the capital of the provisional Territory of Jefferson from 1860 to 1861, and capital of the official Territory of Colorado from 1862 to 1867. In 1867, the territorial capital was moved about 15 miles (24 km) east to Denver City. The United States Census Bureau estimates that the city population was 17,366 in 2005.

Lookout Mountain upstream on Clear Creek

The Colorado School of Mines, offering programs in engineering and science, is located in Golden. Also there are the National Renewable Energy Laboratory, the Coors Brewing Company, CoorsTek, the American Mountaineering Center, and the Colorado Railroad Museum. It is the birthplace of the Jolly Rancher, a candy bought out by the Hershey Foods Corporation. Famous western showman William F. "Buffalo Bill" Cody is buried nearby on Lookout Mountain." ~ Wikipedia

Yesterday, my long time friend Peter Forss and I rambled up the old stage coach road from Northwest Denver to Golden. Peter is another one of these tangential thinkers who blends science with art, right brain with left brain... Photography and Physics....Color and the Coriolis effect...Short wave radio jazz and the breath of Boreas whistling in the sails offshore in the Carib Sea.

Mostly we enjoy strange, eclectic food and drink..odd and ancient vehicles, electronics and astronomy, and, beloved, the subtle yet brilliant mixing of colors in the Colorado sky. And yeup, we are men; mesmerized by distinctively feminine fannies toasting in the sun, or waltzin' down the walk in brite-white oxford shirts and tight levis.... Or the sight of tanned and slithering shoulders working a kayak in and out of the rapids or curling close against the current....or simply a soulful and quiescent Daughter of Eve, quiet, soaking up the sun's radiant heat, clothed in little else except a thought and a prayer covering the soft, supple clay vessels that contain their true beings.

I am convinced that God loves creating, and enjoying beauty!

Sunrise

2009-04-23T11:11:00.017-06:00

October Remembered

~~~~~*~~~~~

Brigid's latest post over at http://mausersandmuffins.blogspot.com/ flipped a switch in the grey matter and the memory of antelope hunts came flooding into this late spring morning. Her recollection of hunter's sunrise is poignant...makes me wish that spring and summer were gone and I were on the road to Cheyenne Wells to hunt pronghorn.

And, it dredged up a strong memory of earlier hunts on that wide and rolling prairie sea.

Yes'sum, I Know the Sunrise

~~~~~*~~~~~

Black on black the night sky pierced by Orion's crystalline stars and brilliant Aldeberon, the red eye of the Bull. That's what we see at our awakening. The high plains where naught but the light pre-dawn breeze whispers. All else is holy silence.

Its early October and the acrid, alkaline dust, its fragrance stirred into the pre-dawn dew. There’s barely enough moisture in the air to dampen the short grass prairie. We rise silent and speak little. It seems a sacrilege to shatter the magic, with coarse talk and light the gas lantern and break the spell.

In the hissing halo of light, the coffee boils in a blackened pot. The dark, caffeine heat steams away sleep. We dress. Blaze orange over camo clothes, which appears ludicrous, but we do it anyway. Its the law. The mental checklist : Binoculars, water, a stash of granola bars stuffed in pockets lined with memories of dove and duck and maybe a spring turkey, we prepare. Knives and rope and the bone saw, extra ammo and a hunter’s prayer are stashed in the fanny pack.

There in that India Ink black we stretch our senses. How far is far on this rolling dry, sandy sea where pronghorn run for the sheer joy born in their swift limbs, huge hearts and lungs.

The two long guns loaded, the chambers empty, stock butts nestled on the truck’s transmission hump, we ride east into the shadow grey and sullen red slit that defines the horizon. The slit widens and the light grows. Red rolls into muddy orange horizon clouds then rages, yellow-orange in a furnace ablaze. Once the sun breaks the Kansas line, once color defines winter wheat from fallow ground, there the realization is hammered into our souls of just how small we are under the rising blue dome and the long, long sight to only a farther distant line. Distance. It pulls at the mind and psyche, so far a distant shore on this prairie sea. We question our senses:

" Is it a treeline or a fence or a break where sudden summer storms cut a deep arroyo? "

That question is moot when the first flash of a white butt in the midst of green winter wheat sends a semaphore signal. The hunt is on!

We stop, binocs to the eyes and we whisper. What is the best way to approach these prairie ghosts, speed goats, pronghorns in the shimmering air maybe a mile away. The small herd paws and feeds on a long gentle rise, their eight-power eyes ever watching. The sun dumps heat into the earth and it radiates up. Thermals cause the wind to grow and the air to glisten dry and brittle. There is no “best” way to approach, no cover, no fence line to follow. It’s a matter of chance and a slow low walk until its time to crawl in the dust and burrs and cactus….Perhaps a futile stalk, at 500 yards a sentinel may snort and before a round is chambered, they are gone, dusty memories over the rise. And, its only 7:30 in the morning.

Yes'sum, I know the sunrise.

Did we finally harvest? Yes…after nearly two full days of scouting, glassing, stalking... and swearing as another set of white fannies vanished in the sparkling air, over an unseen horizon. We caught a pair somewhat unaware and as they dove under the barbed wire fence we rolled out of the truck and, fence posts as shooting platforms, we shot within seconds of one another and dropped two goats.

Gutted, hung on the tripod and gambrel, skinned, washed down with water and cooled in the fresh wind, we packed the carcasses in ice. I turned and took a pic as we readied the truck for the journey home...and realized.......

It's impossible to capture the breadth and depth of the prairie sea and the wide, high skies overhead. One must be there, awaken to it and walk in it to fully know, if it is possible to fully know the overwhelming feeling of the open prairie.

God must rest from his labors in places like this.

The Hidden Season - Part Two

2009-04-21T16:28:00.012-06:00

Shadows and Light

~~~~~*~~~~~

In 1980, Joni Mitchell, the Canadian composer/musician/singer released a live album. It was basically a compilation that chronicled her growth from a simple folk singer into an respected and accomplished jazz muscian. That period was about four years long from 1975 to 1979. Mitchell's fertile mind and spirit created a veritable explosion of songs and albums, leaving some in the folk/rock world dumfounded as she embraced and mastered the subtle nuances of all manner of jazz.

The name of the album is Shadows and Light. The title tune:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fO-aSVFCDxw

Mitchell is a consumate musical artist. Her unique ability to fuse folk with jazz and paint incredible, indelible pictures with music and words blossomed in those years, the late 1970's.

She is also an accomplished visual artist, painting in watercolors and oils. This aging Lady of the Canyons is very visual, very tactile and very much a Scorpio drawn to darkness, drawn to light.

She and I share Scorpio traits, and the affinity for visual/tactile art and music. Hence, the title of this post....Shadows and Light.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Yesterday, I took Nate for a walk along Clear Creek in the Jeffco open space Prospect Lake Park. The lil' digital camera came along for the walk.

Officially, we are a month into the season. Spring is still young here. The latest major spring storm has gone east. All the wet snow has melted in the stong sunlight. Succulent grass is rising and fresh buds add more green to the willows and cottonwoods. The sun is still low enough that it creates raking light, even at midday. Shadows and light....and snow on the upper foothills. Its still that hidden season, caught between the end of winter and true spring.

The spring runoff has not yet begun in the high country. The foothill and high plains creeks are still running very low. Its a good time to take photos along the stream beds. And, with the digital age, its gives us the ability to manipulate images.

The creative spark, the breath of God's Spirit

runs deep in his children.

To some, it is a fierce flame,

driving a life-long obsession.

Ten Years Ago Today

2009-04-20T12:00:00.010-06:00

The Memory of Columbine

~~~~~*~~~~~

10 years ago today, two teenage killers walked out of their middle class, suburban homes in Littleton, Colorado and into historic infamy. Before noon, 15 people would be dead, including the killers. Metro-Denver had officially joined the leagues of " the big cities". It remains a sad commentary on post-modern America and some of its twisted, malignant pop-culture.

^Credit: Ed Andreski ~ AP^

Out of the wreckage of that tragic massacre, there have been at least two positive ongoing actions that continue to thrive and grow:

*The Never Forgotten Fund*

1) - Dave Logan, a graduate of Wheat Ridge High School, local sports talk show host and voice of the Denver Broncos, worked with KOA-AM radio and its parent company Clear Channel Communications, to create an ongoing endowment, scholarship fund in memory of the 13 victims. Donations can be made through the Denver Foundation Columbine page:

http://www.denverfoundation.org/page10004041.cfm

2) - A memorial park was planned, funded and constructed by private and corporate donations, across from Columbine High School. It continues to be a gathering place to remember the loss, and the blessings resurrected from that horrific tragedy.

Yeup, there are 13 memorial crosses.....Which, with great grief and defiance, stand strong in the face of "conventional wisdom" which states that America is not a Christian nation.

May God bless all who survived and the families of the fallen.

Low Pressure

2009-04-19T15:32:00.007-06:00

Spring Snain Storm

~~~*~~~

On Thursday, 16 April, 2009, a meterological phenomenon moved slowly in to the Central High Plains. by Friday, the center of the low pressure system had settled into the general area around the borders of southeast Colorado, southwest Kansas, the western tip of the Oklahoma panhandle and the northeast corner of New Mexico.

It was a low pressure system. It was disassociated with the upper level jet stream. In this case, the jet stream was way to the north of this huge system. Low pressure means counter-clockwise rotation. Because the jet stream is to the north, it does not impact the growth of the system as it moves east. This allows the rotation to pull huge amounts of moisture off of the Gulf of Mexico and drag it up across Texas and Oklahoma, and then SLAM it up against the Front Range mountains.

It wasn't all turned into snow.....Below, say, 5,800 ft, the moisture fell as snow mixed with rain......SNAIN!

The aftermath, two days later....STUNNING!

It provided an injection of much needed moisture and it was not cold enough create a hard freeze. The tender buds and young plants were not frostbit!

Tax Day T.E.A. Party Rally - Colorado

2009-04-15T15:49:00.004-06:00

"IN CONGRESS, JULY 4, 1776
The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America

When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation."

~~~~~*~~~~~

In the post below I have shared a number of photos that I took at today's Denver T.E.A. Party Rally. I did so without comment in order for y'all to be able to click on each one and look at the full size image. I was overwhelmed, amazed and frankly, thrilled!

It was a good sized gathering, for the traditionally laid-back, somewhat apolitical populace of Denver. Estimates of 3,500 to 5,000 total people showed up for the rally/protest. The DPD officers mingled with the crowd, seemingly at ease. Only those poor blues who drew traffic duty had any real work to attend to as the crowd spilled out onto Lincoln Street crossing in front of the West facade of the capitol. The others talked and laughed as they interacted with a mass of people intent on having their voices heard.

Two things in particular still resonate within my mind, psyche and heart.

First, it was a peaceful, powerful and focused event. And this is what I saw:

- There were Vets from WWII onward, some in wheel chairs, some in full GOE leathers.

- There were crisp, Brook's Brothers suits with blue tooth ears, office managers, both male and female.

- There were small business folks, families and simple, hard working folk who are simply fed up with the bullshit, the tax and spend, and tax and spend, and tax once more and spend once more beauracracy that exists in D.C.

- There were blacks and hispanics and white folk of all ages. There were straights and gays and "Guy Fawkes" faced dancers.

- There were FAMILIES.......Allow me repeat that:

THERE WERE FAMILIES!....Families made up of fathers and mothers and children talking and interacting with veterans, gays and lesbians and...and...POLICE!!!!! fer Jeebus sake!

It was an amazing day.

The bottom line is this:

We want our country back.

We want it now.

Colorado State Capitol,15 April 2009

2009-04-15T14:34:00.010-06:00

The Hidden Seasons

2009-04-13T11:25:00.012-06:00

Waiting for Wonder

~~~~~*~~~~~

On the East side of the Rocky Mountains, in the shadow of the Front Range, seasons don't always pay attention to the predicated musings of the Old Farmer's Almanac. Old curmudgeon Winter can toss in a regular limb cracking, flower killing, major snow storm in late April, early May. Some years, like this one, mid winter can bring long dry spells where shirt sleeves and bright skies prevail over parkas and sweaters and bone chilling, bitter cold. February and March were dry, record breaking dry and warm. The foothills and close in montane held crusty, elderly snow banks in the dark canyons and sheltered remnants under spruce and fir boughs.

Now, with April half over, front range sentinel peaks, from the Long's Peak massif in the north to Mt. Evans in the south are buried under heavy and brilliant white spring snows.

This is one of the hidden seasons, tentative easily overlooked and overpowered.

Yesterday, great long grey mounds of mid and upper level clouds settled in over the foothills and prairie. Quiet, palpable anticipation hung in the air. It felt dense. At one point in the early afternoon, I walked outside to check on Nate dog. A fragrance, almost forgotten, rolled in the light breeze. I smelled rain!

Heady, earthy, rich and ready to fill the skies and quench the parched earth; that's the promise. It was as though Spring had cracked open her bower chest, shaken out her long skirts into the fresh wind.

Forsythia, plum, cherry, and all manner of ground flowers will color her wardrobe in the coming weeks...If Winter doesn't throw down a wild card storm!

The Harry Potter star, Emma Watson is a sometime reminder of early Spring.

The Merriam sub-specie of Wild Turkey, they too, remind me of the hidden season of early Spring. Hunters wander the riparian habitats along freshening creeks in the lower Ponderosa parklands, or set up decoys in the cottonwood and willow grasslands beside the High Plains rivers. They Merriam is strutting and breeding in late April and early May...depending on capricious weather.

They remain hidden unless called to a decoy by stealth and guile.

It is a wonder filled time of year, this time between when Winter still plays a hard hand and Spring dances tentatively towards her own full womanhood.

What's for Dinner?

2009-04-12T20:16:00.005-06:00

~ Ham ~

Its an Easter ham, laden with pineapple slices and mandarin oranges and cloves and a glaze made with spice infused Pedro Domque brandy, the juice from the pineapple and oranges and the brown sugar crust packet that came with the Ham.

It was served with smashed Yukon Gold taters, spiced with dill seed, green beans and a lil' salad.

Mostly, beloved, it was all about the ham and 'taters!

Recipe will follow in Comments...later!

Now I need to go make sawdust and a closet wall.

Alleluia!

2009-04-12T15:14:00.008-06:00

He is Risen

~~~~~*~~~~~

The Resurrection...We call it Easter Sunday.

Three women, all named Mary and close to Jesus, rose the morning after the Sabbath. They went to see, to check the grave where only 2 1/2 days before, the battered, tortured, and pierced body of their Lord had been laid. He was dead. Of that there was no doubt. Evidence points to Mary Magdalene reaching the tomb first.

There she found the large stone door rolled away, the tomb empty.

Some say Mary ran back to tell the others, some say she stayed close while others called or ran back. Hesitant to enter, she peeked inside and found two luminous beings sitting on the stone bed. The body was gone, her Jesus was gone.

St. John tells the story in this manner:

11 But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; 12 and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. 13 They said to her, "Woman, why are you weeping?" She said to them, "They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him." 14 When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. 15 Jesus said to her, "Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?" Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, "Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away." 16 Jesus said to her, "Mary!"

- John 20:11-16

At that point, I believe that her blind grief and hot tears fell away. She recognized Jesus and her heart must have shouted: "Alleluia!...." John says that she spoke only one word: "Rabonnai"...teacher. What else was said between the Christ and his beloved Mary Magdalene? That is best left between them.

The relationship between Jesus and each of us is special, private. He knows each one of his flock individually, our hearts and minds. Sometimes he calls us to share our story, sometimes it remains priveleged, confidential.

Jesus had returned from Hades, triumphant over death and all sin. Over the next fourty days he walked with them, talked with them and breathed upon them......That, beloved, is important. Jesus, now fully man, fully God, fully Spirit...breathed his own Spirit upon them.

And that, THAT, is the next chapter of the story!

The Passion of Christ

2009-04-10T17:36:00.009-06:00

Echoes of Mary's Tears

~~~~~*~~~~~

Today, over at: http://digihairshirt.blogspot.com/ , Stephanie posted a video clip from Mel Gibson's film: THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST.

She titled the post "Today, We All are Mary." There was no other comment. The camera focuses on Mary, the chosen one, the earthly Mother of God as her firstborn son undergoes unimaginable torture, scourging and finally brutal cruxifiction under Roman law, dealt mercilessly by the Roman legion.

I wrote a response that bears repeating here. It has been edited and expanded upon for content and grammar ....and for expository clarity.

"Good Friday at St. James, the candles are gone, the tabernacle empty, the door ajar...draped in black. The torches, gone... the bells, silent...the pulpits, the tables bare.

The altar is stark and alone and empty, draped in black. It is the table of sacrifice.

Tonight we will read the St. John Passion by torchlight and pray the Good Friday litany cloaked only in black cassocks, no jewelry, no crosses. Echoes rejoin with soft tears and torn hearts. Jesus is gone, he is not here.

Every reminder of Christ removed, swept away by our selfishness and sin...and we are left alone, bereft of our beloved saviour, friend and brother.

Yeup..., today, we are all Mary.

Were it not that we already know the outcome, it would seem that the 'Deep Magic from the Dawn of Time' (1) has prevailed, and Satan won the war."

We wait, heartsick and broken, and to the world, bereft of hope.

~~~~~*~~~~~

NOTE:
(1) - The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe - C. S. Lewis, Chap.13

Good Friday

2009-04-10T08:55:00.012-06:00

Jerusalem to Gesthemane

~
Gesthemane to Golgotha

_____________________________________

Jesus has been called to make a choice. In doing so, He calls us to make the same choice.

Last night we celebrated the last supper. It was the last time Jesus would eat or drink. No more would he enjoy his friends, teach or preach and watch God's light return to vacant eyes. He, Jesus the Christ was going out to pray, writhe in tortured inner pain and make a momentous, cataclysmic choice.

- Who is in charge?

We hear it all the time, that simple question is asked in all manner of contexts.

What it boils down to, for we who profess to be followers of Jesus, the Christ, is a choice. And that choice, beloved, is a two-fold decision.

- It is a choice we make once, and only once to choose Christ as our Lord. In that moment, he redeems all that is sinful, evil, wrong and broken within us.

- It is a choice we are called to make every day from that intial point until the day when our true self sheds this earthly skin and we go home.

We are asked to choose between our own path and the path that God would have us walk. On our own, we walk alone, selfish and broken, moving ever farther from communion with the God who created us. When we choose to walk with Christ, we are restored to communion with God and we draw ever closer to him.

There is a being, one of God's own servants who wants nothing more than for us to choose to walk alone. It is an angelic being, called "Lucifer" by some, "Satan" or the devil or various other names by others. It...or "he" was the first to choose his own path, to walk away from communion with God the Creator. And beloved, he is evil, the epitome of all sin, the antithesis of Christ.

And, beloved, Lucifer or Satan, or whatever you call him, is who he is because of his own choosing.

Lucifer exists alone and cursed.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Jesus went before the Jewish council. They questioned him and found him to be a blasphemer. Unable to kill him by their own law, they sent him to face the Roman Governor, Pontius Pilate. Pilate condemned him to be crucified and washed his hands of the matter, finding him innocent of breaking any Roman law.

The Roman legionaires scourged him and nailed him to a cross and hung him between thieves on a hillside called Golgotha, "the place of the skull."

There, Jesus the Christ, took upon his own being all of the evil that had ever been or will ever be manifested in this world. It was his choice. And he died carrying that sin. He died and broke forever the curse of Lucifer.

That is Good Friday. And if it were the end of the story, it would probably not be remembered.

However....It is not the end. It is the beginning...only we must wait and wonder and observe and recall:

Easter does not come to us without the Cross.

The Road to Jerusalem #3

2009-04-04T14:59:00.015-06:00

Mount Silverheels- Boreas Pass

Its a Big Mountain.....a REALLY BIG Mountain. The massif of Mt. Silverheels is three miles (4.8 klics) in diameter above 12,000 feet (3,600 m.). She stands alone, distinct from her more famous Mosquito Range big brothers, the famous 14'ers: Mt.Lincoln, Mt.Bross and Quandary Peak. Still, Silverheels is high, 13,822 ft, (4213 m.) and a gorgeous peak from all sides.

From the 9'200 ft. (2,800 m) floor of South Park the peak runs along the western side of the Park. She is a gentle giant, rising in a slow swell above the valley floor, marking the division between the Tarryall Creek drainage and the South Platte River drainage. Both rivers converge at Eleven Mile Canyon on the far nor'eastern end of South Park.

Mount Silverheels was named after a dance hall girl who was called Silverheels because of the German Silver decorations on her dancing shoes. Evidently, during an epidemic of smallpox in the nearby mining camp of "Buckskin Joe", she was the only woman who stayed in town to care for the ailing miners. The story is told that she worked tirelessly to tend for the sick until she contracted the pox. Whether she died or was so disfigured that she no longer felt she was desirable is not known. However, she did disappear. The survivors took up collection. They raised $5,000 to help her. When the town fathers went to give the gift, they found her cabin deserted. No one ever saw her again.

Legend has it that there is still a beautiful ghost of a woman, dressed all in black who visits when the veil between the worlds is thin. She leaves flowers on certain graves in Buckskin Joe. And yes, she has bright silver heels on her shoes. Her memory lives on, it seems, along with a selfless spirit of caring.

Mt. Silverheels is not an easy climb simply because the massif is large. It requires a long, long approach time. Unless of course, you have a good, high clearance 4WD vehicle. There is a poorly marked road that heads out of Fairplay that will take you close enough to the summit to make a picnic lunch hike....at 13,000 ft. (4,000 m.) if you can find the trail....and if the capricious weather has left open the the 4WD road.

Most people know Mt. Silverheels as just another peak to the north of Highway 9 between Fairplay, Hoosier Pass and Breckenridge. Further north, there is another road that leads past Mt. Silverheels. That would be the seasonal road leading over Boreas Pass (11,481 ft./3499 m.)out of the little town of Como. Boreas Pass was a simple horse path until cut and raised as a narrow gauge railroad track in the late 1800's by the Denver, South Park and Pacific R.R. and later widened into a stage coach road.

Yours truly on the Boreas Pass road at the 10k ft (3050 m.) overlook on a blustery day in early July of 2008. Silverheels is in the back ground. There is still a good amount of snow on the peaks and ridges.

There are remnants of the town of Boreas at the summit of the pass. It was a railroad encampment manned by maintenance workers who toiled to keep the rail passage open during frequent and brutal winter storms. It is now maintained by the National Forest Service and the Summit County Historic Society. The railroad, a division of the Union Pacific, ran from Breckenridge and Leadville into Como where there was a large roundhouse and maintenance facility. Remains of the Roundhouse still exist, an historic site, almost a 120 years later.

What does this have to do with the road to Jerusalem?

Well beloved, the tale of a dance hall girl who gave up her worldly life to serve the sick, knowing full well that she would probably contract a deadly disease, that in itself is indicative of God's Holy Spirit at work in a most unlikely place, within a most unlikely character. To have a beautiful mountain named in her honor calls us to recollect and celebrate other unlikely, worldly angels and mostly unknown folk.

There is another name associated with Boreas Pass. It is the ghost town of Dyersville just to the north of the summit. It is named after... "Methodist minister and prospector John Lewis Dyer, better known as "Father" Dyer, built a cabin in a secluded location along the upper reaches of Indiana Creek in January 1881. He was soon joined in his seclusion by miners and merchants connected to the nearby Warrior's Mark mine. The community named itself after its first resident, Father Dyer." - Wikipedia

~~~~~*~~~~~

Father John Lewis Dyer 1812-1901

"John Dyer, a hearty man of God, skied his preaching circuits in pursuit of his religious commitments.

Dyer was one of the first Methodist ministers to tour Colorado's high country mining camps. He came to Denver, Colorado, from Minnesota in 1861. In Denver, he received orders to take over the Blue River Mission in Summit County, Colorado, in 1862. The following year, 1863, he received new orders and a new circuit. The new circuit encompassed Park City (Alma), Fairplay and Leadville. John Dyer was 50 years old when he began the mining camp circuits and he became acquainted with Norwegian snowshoes from split pine logs. The tips were boiled and turned up for his trips over 13,188 foot Mosquito Range where snow often drifted 20 feet deep.

For 20 years, Father John Lewis Dyer preached the circuit traveling from mining camp to mining camp. As a result, he became known as the 'Snowshoe Itinerant.' The title 'Father' was given to him because of his concern for the people." - The Colorado Ski Museum.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Yeup, beloved...The road to Jerusalem can lead us through some strange places, introducing us to God's servants where we least expect them.

Disgrace in Boulder

2009-04-04T12:51:00.006-06:00

The Ward Churchill Saga

Ward Churchill began the falsification of documents to fit his own agenda after he was drafted to serve in Viet Nam in 1966: (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ward_Churchill)

- In 1991,Ward Churchill was granted tenure at the University of Colorado without due process. The previous year he had been hired as an associate Professor of Ethnic Studies, without the required doctoral degree. He was given that tenure based upon questionable writings and unsubstantiated genealogy.

- In 2005, in a divisive break with mainstream AIM (American Indian Movement) politics and policy, Dennis Banks and the Bellecourt brothers (members of the Ojibwa Tribe) denounced Churchill and his so-called Native American heritage. His claims were found to be fraudulent by the AIM Council.

(http://www.aimovement.org/moipr/churchill05.html)

- On 26 June 2006, the Chancellor of the University filed notice of intent to fire Churchill based upon findings that he had plagarized both artwork and literary work and then published them as his own without attribution to the orignators.

- In June of 2006, David Lane, a high profile Denver social justice lawyer and ACLU member, took on Churchill’s defense. Lane subsequently crafted a lengthy and convoluted, and ultimately successful legal battle to clear Churchill’s conviction.

- Now, almost three years after he was fired, on 2 April,2009, a jury of two men and four women exonerated Churchill in what has been called a “compromised verdict.” Read the story here:

http://www.coloradodaily.com/news/2009/apr/02/ward-churchill-trial-blog-jury-university-colorado/

It has yet to be determined if Churchill will be reinstated as a Professor at the University of Colorado.

My own feelings keep me from saying much else with any objectivity.

Ward Churchill was born a seven days before my High School chum, Clayton Charles "Chuck" Kemp.

Chuck Kemp died off the Coast of Viet Nam in January of 1967, serving on a helicopter gun ship. His body was never recovered. He died defending the “rights” of filth like Ward Churchill to lie, cheat, deride and subvert with treasonous acts while living a priveleged and protected life in these United States.

There's Sumpin' about a Woman in Uniform

2009-04-01T16:26:00.009-06:00

Kronprinsesse Mary, Løjtnant

~~~~~*~~~~~

She is 37, mother of two children, born in Hobart, Tasmania, Australia. On 19 February 2009, she was awarded the rank of Lieutenant in the Danish Home Guard.

She is also the Crown Princess of Denmark, Mary Elizabeth.

The princess has put in her time and training to become a ranked officer.
The Home Guard is a volunteer unit of the Danish military that is tasked with domestic security. Princess Mary joined the unit last year and received basic training in weapon use and care, basic first aid, marching drills, signalling, fire-fighting and rescue. She went on to officer school for additional training in security and surveillance command. Princess Mary’s attachment will be the Total Defence Region Copenhagen.

For those who are interested, the Crown Princess shoots a Danish military standard issue M-16 variant manufactured by Colt/Canada -Diemaco, designated a "C-7" with variants. Its the .223 Remington/5.56 X 45mm NATO round that has been in service since Eugene Stoner brought it to production just prior to the Viet Nam war.

Evidently, she has taken to her military training with charm, grace....and a goodly amount of gusto, enjoying the firearms and field training. That should not be thought at all unusual, given she is proud to wear the tartan and thistle on St. Andrew's Day....and a proud daughter of Scots immigrants to Australia.

Springtime in the Rockies #1

2009-03-30T07:33:00.009-06:00

Hit and Run

~~~~~*~~~~~

We are now in the midst of a very spring-like weather pattern. Yesterday, it was sunny and in the low 60's. Another upslope, hit and run snowstorm has arrived. It is one of three storms which are lined up to spread white gold along the Front Range throughout the week.

Heh.

- Skiers and snowboarders on Spring Break are happy...as are the thirsty city water providers.

- Farmers and ranchers see these storms as mixed blessings. The moisture is needed and appreciated. The cold and wind and snow and ice can be deadly to their recently born calves and lambs. And, it makes it tough to prepare for spring planting.

This is NOT your tinsel-town Springtime in the Rockies!

Spring Snow ~ Spring Sun

2009-03-28T15:14:00.010-06:00

Of Wagner, Cats,

Firearms, and Food

~~~~~*~~~~~~

Today's Metropolitian Opera Broadcast was "Das Rheingold." It is the first of Wagner's four operas which comprise the Ring Cycle or "Der Ring des Nibelungen". Its a tale of theft, intrigue, infidelity, murder, mayhem and incest.

That would make a very human tale indeed, with the following exceptions:

It involves Norse/Germanic gods, giants, dwarves, river sprites, amazonian warriors, dragons and elves. That would be the standard fare of northern European fanatsies, don't'ya'know. The struggle for purity and power as embodied in the Rheingold, the purest gold in all of creation, held in secret and protected (supposedly) by three Rheinmaidens.

The gold is stolen by the dwarf Alberich and forged into an all powerful magic ring...which causes seven hell's worth of grief to all who pursue it.

In the end, it causes the downfall of the Gods and the destruction of Valhalla....And yes, then the Fat Lady sings!

~~~~~*~~~~~

The inevitable rise of the sun towards the Summer solstice, the spring monsoon snows and the promise that, yes, one more growing season will provide grain and feed for man and beast, brought out the menagerie of cats.....the Raleigh Street Irregulars to luxuriate in the bright, mile-hi sun. Its the first warm day in five. The spring blizzard is melting, slowly, soaking into the winter thirsty earth.

Brigade Commander, William Sprocket (the Black Prince who Wails) and Master Sargent, Chester Rachet rest on the front porch rail. Chester has mellowed over the years. No longer the complete feral, he allows us to be near and will actulally sit in Ms. D's lap.

The latest addition to come to live with us is Daschel Cat'tal Mutt. He is a true feral. He does not meow or purr or allow any human near. A young married couple who lived a few doors down from us went through a nasty divorce and Dash was abandonded. He likes being around Sprocket and Rachet...his "pride". We keep him fed and he sleeps in the old leaky storage garage next to the reloading shed.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Off to the east of the reloading shed is the small "Back Forty" where close by sit the smoker and the BBQ grill. Beyond is the garden plot where I have 12 years of composted kitchen waste, coffee grounds from the local coffee shop, and sheep/horse manure when available. It is a rich, double depth dug bit of ground where red wrigglers and giant nitecrawlers keep residence.

We have a volunteer sour cherry tree and a wild raspberry bramble that provide us with fruits for early summer tarts and cream.

"Square foot" intensive gardening is practiced. Wherein I plant winter hardy spinach and roots early under plastic covers. When they are harvested, I turn the earth over to summer salads. Then, on the north fence, I plant sunflowers, then south tomatoes, peppers and cukes then volunteer pumpkins rise most every year.

Along the east side of the house is an herb bed...Perennials of sage and horehound and oregano and rosemary where I mix in plantings of annuals: basil, thyme, cilantro, parsley....some of which reseed themselves to the rich earth.

In front of the house I plant mounds of Italian green beans, squash and drought hardy flowers....zinnias, marigolds, whatever comes to be ready in the local nurseries.

Food we raise and share. Good clean veges to mix with the harvest of wild game.

Not bad for an aging ol' fart living in the Nor'west corner of New Los Angeles.

Albuquerque Low

2009-03-27T09:35:00.007-06:00

Blizzard ~ 26 March 2009

It was the classic set up. A large low pressure system settled in around Albuquerque, New Mexico. Its counter-clockwise rotation scooped up moisture from the Gulf of Mexico and California. To the North, a high pressure system rolled down from Sasketchewan. Its clockwise flow pulled the cold air southward and pushed it up against Colorado's Front Range mountains.

The result was what the local meteorologists call a "back door" or "upslope" weather system. Unlike the prevailing westerly flow of winds, the winds blow from the east and north pushing the moist air up against the foothills and front range. As the air cools, it's ability to hold moisture decreases and it begins to snow....and snow....and snow!

The following photos were taken outside our home in a 24 hour time frame. Since we live in the North-west corner of Denver, we were hit with a good dose of blowing and drifting snow. Its tough to make accurate measurements. I'm guessing that we were blessed with about a foot of the white gold, probably holding at least the equivalent of 2 to 3 inches of moisture...a goodly amount. And we need it. Its been an unusually dry winter.

~~~~~*~~~~~

09:00 hrs. -26 March 2009

11:00 hrs. -26 March 2009

13:00 hrs. -26 March 2009

17:00 hrs. - 26 March 2009

07:00 hrs. - 27 March 2009