Groundhog Season

Posted on March 9, 2015 by Doc Arnett

Well now, folks, if I remember correctly, ole Puxtahuxter Phil indicated we’d have six more weeks of winter weather. Boy Howdy, he sure got the first five weeks right, didn’t he?! In fact, round about in these here parts, February was more wintry than was January. It was colder, darker and longer, even with giving the first month the extra three days. This whole month was like waiting for your Dad to get home and hear what Mama was waiting to tell him about what you did at school today; it just drug by at an interminably slow pace.

But as for this week and that ole groundhog, well now that’s just another matter entirely. Looks like we’ll be spending the week basking in the warm glow of a too early spring and singing songs about daffodils and robins. Upper sixties today, low seventies for the next two days and sunshine all the way from now until the cows come home. And that’s giving the cows all the way to the weekend to come home.

The warm spells sure are nice after the torture, aren’t they? Sort of gives us a new level of appreciation. Like my buddy in Arkansas who had to spend several days staying at a cheap but very friendly motel until the roads finally cleared enough for him to get back home. I think life is a lot more complex than just needing to freeze now and then so we can enjoy the sunshine. On the other hand, I guess that’s reason enough for the freezing.

One of the useful little tricks I’ve learned is to thoroughly enjoy the warm days and sunshine, even when we realize that the other week of winter weather could still be out there in front of us somewhere. It could show up in April, you know. But the summer will still come and by the way, it is legal to shoot groundhogs in Kansas.

H. Arnett
3/9/15

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Toward Home

Posted on March 6, 2015 by Doc Arnett

It is that time of day when shadows are long and grow briefly longer. From six miles above the plains, I study the snow-covered shapes of fields and towns and the occasional ripple of small hills. Fingers of trees and brush flush the edges of ditches and creeks, merge at river’s edge. Here along northwestern Illinois, the Mississippi seems completely frozen, a white band pocked by only a few dark patches where the current keeps the ice from forming.

As we continue south and west, the shadows grow longer and the shapes shift from white to the tans and browns of small towns and quarter sections. An almost red glow marks the long arc of the edge of the earth where the dark of land shows stark against the last light of day. A long winding silver band gleams in patches, marking the bends and bights of the Missouri River as we make our way nearer Kansas City.

The shadows disappear and the color fades from the horizon’s upper edge. The shapes of fields give way to the marks of lights in the front yards of farmhouses and the clusters of towns. We bank hard to the north and lower into the landing of final approach.

A huge moon hangs full and bright in the darkening sky of the coming night. We give thanks for safe travel, for clear skies and easy landings. In the midst of my gratitude, I remember the long lines of cancelled flights and others wanting to be home yet kept away by the storms in the northeast.

In the least of our blessings, we may remember the needs of others. In our best moments, we do more than remember.

H. Arnett
3/6/15

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Family Prayer

Posted on March 5, 2015 by Doc Arnett

I get the room number from the very patient woman at the desk near the east entrance of the hospital. She makes sure I know how to get to the correct elevator and I head up to the second floor. I knock on the door of the room and find Mary and Greg in a room full of family. Mary’s brother, Vachel, sits on the bed, grimly drinking the barium for the contrast diagnosis.

His wife sits in a chair by the window, her daughter sharing the seat. A granddaughter sits in another chair, her boyfriend on the floor next to her. Mary’s sister, Becky, finishes the circle.

I have never met Vachel before and have no idea whether his seeming thinness is due to the cancer or if this is simply his normal weight. I do know that look on his face, something deeper than the disgust of having to drink the stuff they have given him. I know, too, the expressions of family members when someone they love deeply is suffering.

None of us know what the future holds for him, for us. But we do know whom we trust and so we gather around his bed, join hands and pray together. We pray for peace, for strength, for healing. We pray for grace in this time facing the family. Mostly, we pray for Vachel to be held in the hand of God’s good grace.

I leave soon as still more family members come into the room. I leave as always, keenly aware of how little I can do, but grateful for the privilege of doing. Aware, too, of how powerful is the love of a family, especially one bonded in the faith of a Father who loves them.

H. Arnett
3/5/15

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Holding Tight on the Long Nights

Posted on March 3, 2015 by Doc Arnett

Outside the window of this conference center room, small twin street lights lift their glow onto the snow lining the hill. Soft curves rim the base of tree trunks. Patches of grass stretch through the bare spots swept by the wind in winter’s sending of the last storm. Slight shadows trace the shapes of trunks and branches.

Beyond the narrow stretch of the street, only the closest trees show their shapes in grays and tans in the soft light. Beyond and behind them, the dark forms of other trees recede into the black blur of dusk and darkness. The snow still shows for the first hundred yards into the woods then disappears in the coming nearness of night.

Above the merging crown of branches, the last light of day casts a pale lavender into the overcast of fading light. Here, close to the wall, twin pin oaks stand just below the road’s low ridge.

In the cold chill of this lonely night, the quiet stillnes ripples slightly in the flexing of dead leaves somehow held to the oaks’ southern branches. They hold like old lovers to worn memories, living through the lean years but sure as tears that the coming season will bring fresh reason for hope.

In our longest winters and deepest splinterings, it is the stubborn hearts that survive the testings of our deepest deprivations. They know that the lonely night will not endure forever, no matter how dark the woods nor how cold the night. Those held by the Light will not lose their way.

H. Arnett
3/4/15

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Gift Basket

Posted on March 3, 2015 by Doc Arnett

I am preparing for a short trip to the Chicago area. It is not for the pure thrill of early March weather on the cusp of Canadian breezes; it is for professional training. Part of my preparation involves folding some of the clothes I have just washed. As I spread, smooth and fold my tee shirts, I remember Mom’s early laundry lessons several decades ago.

I was probably twelve or thirteen before I started doing my own washing but the lessons on folding started back when I was in the early primary grades. Socks would have been the first stage, I believe. They were very simple: tuck the top of one into the top of the other and invert so that they were then tucked together. I think underwear comprised the sophomore stage of my progression, shorts and then tee shirts. Those simple lessons and constant practice gave me a sense of contributing and a feeling of independence as I got older.

By college, I was handling all of my own laundry needs, from washing and drying to folding and ironing. It helped make me a better spouse, too. I’ve never quite figured out why a man who can repair a car, build a house and buy his own fishing boat needed someone else to do his laundry. I suppose some women really enjoy that role and want to do every piece of fabric in the house and that’s fine with me. But it seems to me that with all the cooking and cleaning and furnace upkeep, a woman has plenty to do without having to do stuff for me that any middle school kid ought to be able to do.

Parents, in the laundry room and in the kitchen, either teach their children to contribute or to be dependent and exploit others. I don’t think first-graders ought to be responsible for preparing their own meals. Neither do I think that high school students should be yelling for Mom to find them a pair of socks. People who do everything for their kids are not only teaching the children to make life harder for their parents, they’re teaching them to make life harder for everyone who will ever know them.

Our heavenly Father who provides for the birds of the air doesn’t throw seeds into the nest. Even the flowers of the field have to soak up water and sunshine. A basketful of clothes that need folding might be the very gift your kid or grandchild really needs. It’s one of those gifts that truly keeps on giving.

H. Arnett
3/3/15

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Toasty Warm

Posted on March 2, 2015 by Doc Arnett

Our mudroom is basically unheated. Technically, it could be heated; there is a small portable electric heater. These are also referred to as “spontaneous ignition devices” by arson investigators, so I tend to not over-use the thing. I do keep its thermostat set to where it barely keeps water from freezing in the mudroom.

Along with a grand assortment of jackets, coats, boots, shoes, overalls and headgear, I also keep my hat and driving gloves out there. You can imagine how delightful it is to slip on a pair of thirty-five-degree gloves on a really cold morning. I learned that if I put the gloves in the microwave for thirty seconds, they would be comfortably warm. So that’s what I did routinely. Kind of convenient, really, just retrieve the gloves from the meat locker, nuke them for half-a-minute and then be on my happy little way.

I suppose I should have conducted a carefully monitored experiment to assure that my new gloves would respond equally well to the process. Instead, I tossed them in, set the timer and punched the “Start” button. Then I walked over to the sink to rinse a few dishes and get a drink. Somewhere around the twenty-five second mark, I thought I smelled something odd. By the time the microwave timed beeped, I was pretty sure something was getting a bit too hot.

When I opened the microwave door, I saw smoke. Then I saw a pair of small red flames lilting cheerfully from the tips of the index finger of each glove. I grabbed the gloves from the handle end, hastily took them outside and threw them down on the concrete apron. Then I stomped the fire out. Then I went back inside and resumed washing dishes. The absolute picture of calm, cool and collected. Right…

Randa came down the stairs and into the kitchen a few minutes later. I’d accurately predicted how long it would take her to notice the smell. I also accurately predicted the degree to which the story would amuse her. As she looked in through the window on the microwave door, she was convinced the interior walls were blackened with soot, if not actually burnt to a new color. I assured her that was not the case but, having lived in Missouri for many years, she was not convinced until she opened the door and indeed found no evidence of any damage, other than the olfactory fallout.

Such was not the case with the gloves. Turns out, the tip of each index finger had been fitted with some sort of fabric that permits the wearer to use a touch screen device without removing the gloves. I am happy to report that this aspect has been made even more effective now; there is presently nothing at the tip of the index fingers to interfere at all with the operation of any touch screen device. In fact, I can now have my pulse and oxygen levels checked without removing my gloves.

Sometimes, our assumptions ruin a pair of new gloves. Sometimes, they ruin relationships. Sometimes, they kill us. We ought to be careful with them in most all cases. There are some things worse than death.

H. Arnett
3/2/15

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A New Coat on a Cold Day

Posted on February 27, 2015 by Doc Arnett

An acid wind bit through my jeans as I waited for the crosslight to turn green on Frederick Avenue. A black man, several inches shorter than me and a few decades younger came up and stopped beside me. As we stood there, I remarked, “Not much fun standing out here today.” He looked at me out from under his hood, hesitated, then looked back toward the sidewalk, “No, it’s too cold.”

I guess his neatly trimmed goatee helped keep his chin warm but that wasn’t enough for this type of weather. The wind chill was below zero and neither of us was dressed for distance in this temperature. I was only crossing the street from Firestone to Penney’s but he had come from back up the block.

I took another look at the red fleece jacket he was wearing over his gray hoodie. It was ripped in several places across the upper right side, slashes that had frayed with wear. I couldn’t imagine being out in this wind with a ripped jacket. I wished I had brought along one of the extra six coats that I had at home in my closet so I could give him one.

The light changed and we walked quickly across the five lanes. The thought forming in my mind struck me as a bit odd and I left it alone until we got to the grass strip between Frederick and the mall. A few more steps and the urging was too strong, I had to speak. I slowed my steps and looked over to him on my left side. “Would you like to have a new coat?” I asked him.

We both stopped and he looked at me as if unsure whether I was about to rob him or try do something even more sinister. I saw him glance briefly at my jacket. “I’d be happy to buy you a new coat if you’d like to have one,” I clarified. I don’t think he could tell that it was more than an offer; it was a plea. The sight of him walking around in a minus-something wind chill in a tattered jacket made my heart ache.

Again, though, he declined, “No, I’m okay. My other coat’s in the washing machine. I’m good, really.”

“Well, I’d be happy to buy you one if you’d like to have it,” I repeated, one last time.

“No but I appreciate you asking. Thank you.”

We parted ways a few steps later as I headed toward the north entrance of J. C. Penney’s and he continued on around the west side of the mall. I had no idea how far he was going on this bitter day but I was glad that I only had a few hundred feet to go. I saw him walking past the corner as I reached for the door.

After returning the defective gloves I’d bought the week before, I walked around the store, looking at the coats that were on sale. Leather coats, wool coats, synthetics with thick quilted linings. I thought about how much warmer every one of them would have been than his two layers of worn fleece. “Heck,” I thought, “with these sale prices, I could have gotten him a really nice coat for less than a hundred bucks.”

I have no idea whether or not it was pride or suspicion or something else entirely that led him to decline my offer. Regardless of his response, I was very glad that I had responded to that quiet prompting of the Spirit. But it also made me sad.

Sad to think that pride could keep a man cold on a day like this. Even sadder to think it could be that kindness is so unusual in that young man’s life, and maybe in many others’, that a kind offer seems dangerous, a threat of some sort. Maybe, if we all worked at it for a bit, we could change that, at least for those who share our steps from time to time.

H. Arnett

2/27/15

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A Casual Glory

Posted on February 26, 2015 by Doc Arnett

It’s about as plain a sky as you’ll ever see. Only the slightest hint of pink just above the ridge over toward the east. That shifts to a bland paleness with a bare suggestion of blue that stretches up then as far as the eye can see, especially when the eye is looking through a window. From this angle, I see only a single small cloud, grayish blue, moving quickly south beyond my view of black branches.

The longest slender branches shift and shudder in the wind, its cold sendings suggesting this would be a wonderful day to stay inside with a good book and an even better cup of coffee.

But our days are seldom arranged by the weather, only influenced by it to some degree. I will wear a good coat, warm gloves, and hope that my walks outside are short and quickly to the point. I will try to carry a smile and manage a friendly voice, be kind to strangers and pleasant to friends.

In the midst of this minor resolve, almost suddenly now, I see the orange burn of the coming sun in the slight dip of the ridge. In a just two minutes, its flaming rise will run to red and be too bright for unshielded eyes and I will have to lower the shade.

My day is no longer plain, nor is any day that the Lord has made. It is not our seeing that makes the substance though our believing does shape the perception.

This will be a good day.

H. Arnett
2/26/15

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Fine Dining in Arkansas

Posted on February 25, 2015 by Doc Arnett

Finding ourselves on the road in Arkansas on Valentine’s weekend, Randa and I decided to do our traditional steak dinner out away from home this year. Since we would be with a houseful of family on Valentine’s night, we thought we might as well celebrate our romance a night early.

As I was checking into our hotel in Clarkesville, I asked the manager/dude/guy at the desk for a reference. “Is there a good steak house nearby?” I queried as I filled in the license plate number on the form.

In a relatively decipherable Middle Eastern accent, he replied, “There is not a steak house but there is a good restaurant just across the highway; they have good steaks. South Park Restaurant.” He pointed to the Wendy’s sign visible through the plate glass of the lobby, “Right behind Wendy’s. You will see it, no problem.”

Randa and I unpacked the car, turned up the thermostat in the room and headed over to South Park. The parking lot was about three-quarters full, a good sign I thought, considering that it was already after eight o’clock on a Friday night. We walked in, picked out a table near the unlit artificial fireplace and took a seat.

Not too much later, our server appeared. She was a pretty young thing, trim and nicely dressed with her hair neatly styled, makeup tastefully applied. And then she smiled and asked what we’d like to drink. I’ve never seen that much black in someone’s mouth unless they were eating licorice. I should have taken it as an omen.

I don’t mind local color, in fact I usually seek it out for my routine dining experiences on the road. But my palette wasn’t quite ready for this picture. The stocky teenage girl in a flannel shirt, the seven-foot-tall thin man in a wheelchair, the Far Side family in the booth next to us, the teenage boy with slicked-back hair, the middle-aged man who was strikingly overweight and walked with an almost-collapsing limp. All of that is just folks being who they are and I’m okay with that. We see the same sort of clientele in northeast Kansas and southwestern Kentucky.

And it’s not that I’m just too darn snooty, either. I’m from Kentucky, remember? I understand the frustration of trying to overcome ubiquitously reinforced stereotypes.

I deliberately ordered black-eyed peas and enjoyed them even though I correctly figured they’d be cooked to mush. I was even tolerant of little Miss Black Teeth forgetting to bring my slaw or Randa’s coffee. Soon after I gently and politely repeated the coffee request, she plopped a half-gallon carafe on the table. All of that, okay, I can consider the location and take it in stride. But the steaks, now that’s another matter. Those were the primary focus of our Valentine’s celebration.

I would like to give the benefit of the doubt and say that at some point, our ribeyes may have been decent cuts of meat. After all, some poor bovine creature gave up his or her life for that meal. Sacrifice acknowledged, that much fat and gristle in one piece of meat indicates an animal that was both indulged and abused; it was never a good cut. On the positive side, it was cooked pretty much to the degree that we requested. That completes the list of positive aspects. Its drab color and questionable texture did not build up unrealistic expectations and folks, it did not disappoint. I’m not sure if the meat was freezer-burned or just cooked in rancid grease but it was not palatable. In fact, I’d have to say it was just plain nasty. Absolutely the worst steak I have ever tasted and I’ve eaten meat that was kept in a freezer for five years or more.

In spite of the food, service and ambience, we still left a ten-dollar bill on the table. It wasn’t a tip; it was benevolence. And it was also obedience to the Lord: “Bless those who despitefully use you.” Even in our disappointments, we have opportunity.

H. Arnett
2/25/15

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I’ve Felt Worse…

Posted on February 19, 2015 by Doc Arnett

“I tell you I’ve fought tougher men,
but I really can’t remember when;
he kicked like a mule and he bit like a crocodile.”
–Shel Silverstein A Boy Named Sue, as recorded by Johnny Cash

Well, folks, this wasn’t the week I expected to follow such a wonderful weekend. Randa and I had traveled over to Little Rock and met up with three of my sons and their families at the home of my youngest son who is about to deploy to Afghanistan. We had a terrific time visiting there, enjoying one another’s company and an incredibly beautiful day of weather on Saturday. With sunny skies and seventy degrees, we entertained ourselves in mid-afternoon with a round of Frisbee golf and fun in the park. The seven grandkids had nearly as much fun as we did.

Randa and I headed home Sunday morning and almost made it in ahead of our most recent winter storm. We hit a few patches of very light sleet beginning just south of Kansas City, then light to moderate snow at the city’s north side. By the time we got to the south edge of Saint Joe, the snow had started to pack and the cars had started to slide. We barely managed to skirt around a series of wrecks by taking the shoulder for just a bit up to the I-229 exit and made it home around eight Sunday night. Looking back, the storm was a bit of an omen.

I made it in to work Monday but felt like a bag of dead mice all day. Headache, congested sinuses and perpetual post-nasal drainage. Monday evening’s supper consisted of a peanut butter sandwich and a few Oreo cookies. I probably could have had pizza and jalapenos; the end result would have been the same. Starting shortly after bedtime and continuing on a fairly regular basis throughout the night, whatever went down came back up. I’m sure I’ve been sicker than I was then but, like that boy named “Sue,” I really can’t remember when.

If we were to call that first round of vomiting just a light tremor, the final round at about five the next morning was somewhere in the neighborhood of 8.4 on the Reichter Scale. On the third and subsequent trips, I was so lightheaded I thought I’d pass out before making the six steps from the bed to the bathroom. I can still feel the tsunami moving from one side of my head to the other.

For the past two days, I’ve been flat on my back except for necessary trips which required some semblance of vertical. Over the past sixty hours, I’ve ingested one-and-a-half bowls of soup, half a dozen crackers and enough OTC cold and flu meds to stock a small warehouse. Randa faithfully kept me supplied with cracked ice the first day and then succumbed to her version of whatever this is on the next day. Today, we’re like a pair of crippled mules trying to help one another through the fence.

There are times when the duties of love overwhelm its dangers. That’s why the God Who Loves Us did more than face our diseases. He himself bore our sins. And overcame.

H. Arnett
2/19/15

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