True Grit

Posted on September 19, 2014 by Doc Arnett

In the dim dawn and thin fog, I can barely see the shape of the hills beyond Peter’s Creek. Against the annoying glare of the billboard by Fleek’s Market, the silhouettes of scrub oak stand out in this muted morning as I walk through the grass past the birches and over to the round pen. I find by feel the halter and lead rope hanging just inside the door of the darkened shed. The gelding comes to me and lowers his head.

I lead him out of the pen, through the wet fescue and across the gravel lane. He walks along, staying with me so well that the rope hangs loosely the whole way. Just inside the gate, he pivots his rear end away from me, just the way Randa has trained him to do. I remove the halter and hang it on the post as he turns toward the tender grass at the low end of the pasture.

Walking back up the gravel toward the house, I remember the first time that Randa drove off alone, hauling the horse trailer. It’s the stuff Silverado ads are made of, I suppose. Black, crew cab Chevy Z-71. Ranch woman at the wheel, in jeans with her slightly bent cowboy hat, her looking out the window of the truck and horse staring out the window of the trailer as it rattles along the gravel. Camera pulls back over my shoulder as I’m watching her pause at the end of the driveway, then she pulls out, heading west.

It was at once exhilarating and terrifying.

The exhilarating part was from being so proud of her, her confidence, her willingness to step out of the shadows. Proud of her for not being afraid to drive off alone, driving a truck and hauling a trailer. Proud of myself, too, for not being too egotistical or too controlling. Encouraging rather than resenting. Satisfying, too, for knowing this was another landmark in me fulfilling a vow I’d made to myself before we married that one day I would see her reunited with her love of riding horses. It had taken me over twenty years, but I’d kept that vow and I see it celebrated in her eyes and in the smile in her voice every time she touches or talks about her horse.

The terrifying part was realizing that she didn’t need me to chauffer her around, didn’t need me in order to be able to load up her horse and take him anywhere she wanted to go. She didn’t need me in order to enjoy what she loved doing.

But even in that, there is mutual liberation. She is free to go and I am free to do other things. Instead of resenting her ability, I choose to celebrate it. I think there are a lot of men who would actually find their own lives more fulfilling if they would figure out how to take pleasure in what a woman can do instead of figuring out more ways of keeping her from doing it. A man who takes more pride in what his wife can do than he takes in what he can keep her from doing is more likely to have a longer life and to enjoy it more. And, just to be sure I make everybody mad, there are probably a few women who would enjoy their lives more if they didn’t spend quite so much time being furious about everything they’re not allowed to do or be or become and instead focused on their opportunities.

My mom spent pretty much her whole life being controlled. First by her parents, then by her husband and in her last years by court-appointed guardians. She was highly intelligent, extremely resourceful and talented. She could have been an engineer, an attorney, a college professor or any of a number of other challenging and fulfilling things. What she ended up being was an extremely skilled homemaker and farm wife in just about the broadest possible definition of those terms. And though she was always frustrated by the external controls, she focused most of her energy on excelling at what she was able to do. I’m not sure Dad was very good at giving her praise for what she did, but I do know that he took pleasure in telling other people about the time Ruby drove the two-ton truck into town to do her laundry and pick up a load of concrete blocks for him.

And I take pleasure in telling people about how Randa will be loading up her horse this afternoon and heading off to a horse show and competition for the weekend. And in telling them how much she has accomplished in training her Rocky Mountain horse. Heck, I might get so carried away that I tell her how proud I am of her.

H. Arnett
9/19/14

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More Than “Brother Charlie’s Wife”

Posted on September 18, 2014 by Doc Arnett

One month ago today I sat in the chapel at JH Churchill funeral home in Murray, KY beginning what would be the family’s final good-by to our 99 year-old mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. The service began with a song that my brother, Harold, had written for the occasion. He and his wife gave a superb performance. Following Harold’s greeting of the group that had gathered for the occasion, Mike Turbeville, a man, not of the cloth, but of the Book, presented his remarks. They were interrupted by his tears that conveyed a clear message of his love and respect for Mom.

His remarks and prayer were followed by congregational singing of three songs Mom had requested. Her grandson did an excellent job leading the songs that she loved. They were favorites of generations past, not his. This was followed by the remarks of the minister that our parents contacted many years ago to be the main speaker at each of their funerals. Bobby Gardner spoke of knowing our folks for over sixty years and repeated many of the remarks he had made at Dad’s funeral five years and three weeks ago. Bobby referred to Mom several times as “Brother Charlie’s wife” but she was more than the preacher’s wife and it was her life we were celebrating. She deserved recognition as her own person and she had some qualities that were particularly significant.

Mom was resourceful. I wanted a particular white dress for my graduation activities. Her miniscule budget would not cover it so she went to the department store on the south-east corner of the square in Elkton; looked it over carefully then went home and duplicated it without a pattern of any kind. When any toddler in her Bible class refused to sit still, she fashioned what she called a “seat belt” out of fabric and that eliminated the interruptions to her illustrated Bible stories.

Mom was a financial genius. Dad gave her $20.00 a month or a week, I don’t remember which, but neither would have been reasonable to feed and clothe a family of eight and to the best of my knowledge, the amount never increased through the years. We never went hungry but some of our clothes were very creative and she made them herself on a treadle sewing machine. She also demonstrated her ability to manage money as the chief cook in the Mayfield, KY school system. That responsibility was a source of pride for her and she took it seriously.

She demonstrated her confidence in her ability to handle financial issues at a new height less than twenty years ago. Dad had emergency surgery for a previously undetected brain injury that occurred when he made a left-hand turn into the path of an oncoming vehicle, totaling their sedan. While he was recovering, Mom asked her younger sister to go with her to Taylor Motors in Murray and Mom bought herself a car. As she explained to Dad, getting in and out of his pick-up was difficult for a woman of her age and stature. Mom loved that Chevy Lumina longer than she owned it.

Mom was a survivor. She had that “Just do it” attitude long before Nike made the phrase a household word. Her independent attitude was frustrated by having lived under the strict control of first her parents, then her husband, and later her son but nothing any of them did could extinguish it. It served her well as she faced the heartaches of motherhood including the death of her first-born less than twenty-four hours after his birth.

To her grandchildren and great-grand children, Granny was an iconic maker of donuts and served as mentor to several of them as they grew up sharing her kitchen. Her children also remember fried pies-apple, cinnamon, peach-whatever was available. The birthday cakes she made for her kids were either angel food or chiffon but she never failed to make one even after some of us left home. Sometimes they came in the mail with popcorn for packing. We ate that too! Homemade ice cream was also a staple at our house as were jam and coconut cakes. She had one of those for her 99th birthday party and she ate it with pleasure but without useful teeth.

Mom was a woman of grace. I remember the surprise birthday party the members of the Hatler’s Chapel congregation hosted several years ago at a small restaurant in Lynn Grove. It was pure pleasure watching her move from table to table greeting every guest individually. She was just as comfortable doing that as she was picking blackberries.

Mom treasured her solitude. People used to fret when Dad went on extended mission trips and left her home alone. She enjoyed those trips at least as much as Dad did. Having the house to herself meant she could stay up as late as she pleased and sleep in if she chose. There was no one banging around at 5 AM waking anyone who happened to be in the house!

Mom loved kids; her own and everyone else’s. Obviously when there were fewer of us, she had more time to play with us and she did. She made our favorite book, “The Yellow Cat with Purple Ears” come alive. She used her blue food coloring to make our cat Sunbeam’s ears purple. The cat wasn’t particularly happy with the transformation, but we were ecstatic. She played ball with us, taught us to play Chinese checkers, and made our favorite food for our birthdays. She may have been the original “motorcycle mama”. No one remembers when she took her first ride but it was the start of a life-long love affair with the bike. She wasn’t particular about who was driving and each of her four sons chauffeured her on whatever the current motorcycle happened to be. She was often ready and waiting for them to mount. This was entertainment at its finest and continued until she was in her mid-90’s. Mom never wore pants but she could whip a skirt around her legs to maintain her modesty like no one else I ever saw.

It seemed appropriate to close her service with the congregation singing, “Jesus Loves Me” and I’ve never heard it sung with more enthusiasm.

We’re going to miss her but knowing that the pain that was constantly part of her life is no longer forcing her to live on pain medication gives us peace and we know that we’ll have an opportunity to see her again in her new body that is not distorted with arthritis. So good-by for now, Mom. You’re still the best!

Freeda Arnett Holladay

9/17/14

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Fresh in the Pan

Posted on September 18, 2014 by Doc Arnett

Last night as we were crossing the river headed back home from Saint Joe, we had a quite pleasant and completely unexpected little surprise. “Little” is an important word here, folks; it wasn’t anything big or consequential, just a nice little bit of serendipity as it were.

Normally, when we drive through that section where Kansas bullnoses into Missouri and the river wraps around, there is some sort of foul odor. There are several potential culprits that lie toward the south end of the city: packing plant, leather processing plant, water treatment and a few other industrial operations that share their offensive odors with the world.

The city of Saint Joseph brought in the EPA several years ago, convinced that one of those operations was responsible not only for bad odors but for contaminating our pristine environment in more tangible ways as well. After an extensive investigation, complete with sophisticated analyses of various types, the EPA made its conclusions. Most interesting among those was that the city itself was guilty of violating EPA standards. That finding was accompanied by a fine of twenty thousand dollars or more, if memory serves me correctly.

On last night’s little deal, I am quite confident that my memory is completely accurate. I’m not quite as sure about my olfactory capabilities, though.

The scent that came into the car as we drove across the Pony Express Bridge last night was not the usual smell of chemical processing, biological by-product or some other such unpleasant encounter. Instead, it was the comforting and enticing smell of fresh bread baking. I’m not aware of a bakery in or even near that stretch of highway but that was the smell: a wonderful, pleasing, soothing aroma.

The experience reminded me of the delightful offerings of kindness, compassion and courtesy that rise up from the lives of those who have chosen the better nature, who walk by the Spirit and who take to heart that it is better to give than to receive. Even in our smallest behaviors, in our constant choices of interaction, it would be good for us to strive to be the aroma of fresh bread baking in this world of loss and hardship.

H. Arnett
9/18/14

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The Right Stuff

Posted on September 17, 2014 by Doc Arnett

The idea seemed so brilliant at the time I could barely contain myself. With a minimum of effort, I would improve the thermal efficiency of the bedroom and provide a slight bit of soundproofing as well. What a great idea!

Okay, here’s the background.

As part of the remodeling, I carefully pried off the wooden trim around the three windows that make up the big bay window on the north wall. As I expected, the old cast iron window weights had been left in the narrow cavities on each side of each window and there was no insulation. As I did not at all expect, the plaster on each side had been extended all the way to the window frame. Enter my “Gee, I’m so smart!” moment.

Instead of cutting a five-foot strip of plaster and lath down along each side of each window to provide access for installing fiberglass insulation, I decided to bore a series of holes and use that access to shoot in foam insulation. The kind of foam insulation that comes in a can and expands somewhere between three and thirty times its volume. I bought the kind that is engineered specifically for doors and windows; the other kind will push boards right off the wall, or bend the window frame, if it doesn’t have enough room to expand. The brand I’ve used most often is Great Stuff. (Perfect name, don’t you think?) Given my keen sense of estimation which is almost never wrong by a factor greater than ten, I figured one can would do one window. Three windows, three cans. “Ahh, go ahead and get an extra one, so you have plenty,” I told myself. So I did.

Back home from Lowes on Saturday afternoon and eager to impress myself, I started in. I shook the first can vigorously, removed the cap, attached the flex tube and started shooting it into the first hole near the bottom on the left side of the first window. When that space was pretty well filled, I moved up to the next hole and continued. I left about eighteen inches of open space at the top, figuring the foam would expand up into that clear space. I used an entire can on the first space. I’d emptied the fourth can and hadn’t even started on the third window.

About the time I made that discovery, I looked back to admire my work at the first window. A tube of expanding foam had popped out of the first hole and was dripping down off the windowsill onto the floor. “Aaagghh!” I believe works as a sufficient paraphrase of my reaction. Then I saw a similar eruption beginning at the second hole. And the third hole… Within a couple of minutes, expanding columns of yellow foam were protruding from every hole. All twelve of them.

One important note here is that this uncured foam is as sticky as Super Glue. Anything it touches is going to have foam on it until it is scraped, sanded or otherwise abraded from the surface. That is especially true of skin.

I grabbed a small piece of scrap wood and started scraping off the spouting stuff and wiping it into the big garbage can. By the time I made one round, there was more coming out of the first hole. So I made another round. Soon, my right index finger was fairly covered with foam residue. I got another piece of scrap and started in on the third round. For the fourth round, I got a longer piece of scrap but still managed to get some on my middle finger. Somewhere around the eighth or ninth round, it seemed that things were slowing down a bit. If I could have put all the extra foam into the wall space, I would have had more than enough to finish all three windows.

Instead, I had enough foam to cover a scrap piece of drywall and the top of every can, block and wad of paper in the top of the big garbage can. I spent an hour dealing with this mess. The room was starting to look like a cross between a Dr. Suess book and a horror film. I took a break and came back fifteen minutes later and scraped off yet another set of foam stems sagging out of the holes alongside each window.

Finally, it appeared that the extrusion process was subsiding so I went back downstairs and watched part of a football game. When I came back an hour later, a dozen bright yellow sausages greeted me. Every one of them was pretty well fully cured and tough as an old piece of leather.

I can’t wait until my next bright idea gives me another much-needed dose of humility. There’s hardly any time more ripe for regret than those times when we think we know more than we know.

H. Arnett

9/17/14

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A Soothing Comfort

Posted on September 16, 2014 by Doc Arnett

The strip along the flat of the highway
where the neighbor cut hay two weeks ago
shows yellow in the low light of this damp dawning.
In the pasture between the road and the creek,
the deeper green of dew-drenched fescue
spreads between the fences.

Hardwoods bulge above the bluff,
a rounded mound of elm and oak
beyond the cottonwoods and sycamores
that line the winding of the stream
along the seam of limestone cuts,
hard juts of ragged edges above the smooth stones
that bed the ebbing run toward the river.

Halfway to the top of the hill,
bridging across the pale gravel
between the woods on either side
of Randolph Road,
a single seam of mist hangs
its thin gray form in this gentle morning,

like a tender touch laid upon your arm
in the quiet of a funeral home,
a soft voice speaking peace
through the gloam of sadness,
love breaching the gaps
between life’s rough branches,
cushioning the feel of harsh stone
against bare flesh.

H. Arnett
9/16/14

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A Shifting of Seasons

Posted on September 15, 2014 by Doc Arnett

Sometimes the shifting of the seasons comes so subtly you can barely tell. Just a hint of gradual change until one day you realize, “This seems a bit hot for spring.” You search back in memory for that point when blooms and blossoms gave way to steam and sweat and yet you can’t find it; you just know that it did. That’s how the change comes sometimes.

This was not one of those times. It was ninety degrees last Tuesday afternoon. A cool front came through on Wednesday followed by a cold front Friday evening and I found a couple of small patches of frost on Saturday morning. So much for the subtle shift from summer to fall.

It’s not really a complaint. Even though it’s nice to have those hints that come along and give you a bit of notice, there’s also something pleasant about the distinct change, too. There’s a clear difference in the feel of the air, even though it warmed up quite a bit yesterday. As soon as the sun settled below the treetops and a few clouds started to gather, the temperature dropped back down pretty quickly.

Apples are ripening and the cold snap last week finally put a damper on the warm season grasses that have needed mowing every five days for the last three or four months. The mornings are drenched with heavy dews. We’re at that point now where you turn on the heater for the drive to work and the AC for the drive home. The last tomatoes are on the vine and great swaths are cutting across the fields of corn. The soybeans are starting to yellow on the ridges and the creeks are running lower below the bridges.

The season of green and growing slows into the season of harvest and storing. It’s time to repair the old cider mill and start washing plastic jugs. Every season brings about its own duties and pleasures and they are often linked together.

H. Arnett
9/15/14

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Block Party

Posted on September 11, 2014 by Doc Arnett

The Blair House Apartments sounds like a fine place just on the merits of the name itself, doesn’t it? I can picture a block-long, three-story brownstone with nice stoops, black wrought iron railings and geraniums on each windowsill. Might be there’s some place exactly like that in Baltimore or Boston. The one in Blair, Kansas, which is where a bunch of folks from our church gathered last night to host a block party for the residents, is another matter.

Originally, the building was a right nice horse barn, about sixty feet wide and a hundred-and-twenty feet long with an arched roof. From what I’m told, stables lined both sides and housed the horse herd of Blair’s most successful businessman. Back in the early segment of the Twentieth Century, he owned the lumberyard, some apple orchards and the finest house in town.

He’d sure be aghast if he rose from the past and saw his barn now.

Many years ago, it was cut up into apartments, about eight or so on both the east and west sides. I don’t know if it was ever a really nice place to live; I’m quite sure it doesn’t meet the bill for that now. Some of us know what it’s like to have economics take priority over aesthetics when we rent an apartment.

It’s not exactly the most picturesque place for a block party and it wasn’t exactly the ideal evening for one, either. Late on Tuesday afternoon, the temperature nipped at the ninety-degree mark. Early on Wednesday evening, we were sliding down into the upper fifties. A right noticeable breeze was blowing out of the north so we set up on the south side. Since several of our church ladies had done all of the hard work of getting everything together, I figured I could show up and do the grilling.

I had lots of visitors at the grill, figuring at first they were coming by to admire from close range my burger-flippin’ dexterity and grand manner of melting cheese. Later, I realized they just liked the feel of hot coals on a chilly evening.

In spite of the weather, we had about thirty people show up, including some of the residents at the apartments. In spite of me putting the cheese on about fifteen minutes earlier than needed, they ate up all the burgers, even the ones with long strands of cheese hanging down like creepy yellow icicles. The kids ate like kids eat and then took off chasing each other through the ditches and puddles. The grown-ups sat around or stood around, talking, visiting and joking. No one thought to bring along any yard games but it didn’t seem to matter too much.

Everyone apparently brought along a good attitude, a healthy appetite and plenty of smiles. I think some got to know each other a bit better and a few residents at the Blair House Apartments found out that the folks at the new church over on the highway don’t think they’re too high-falootin’ to hang out with them for a while.

That might be a pretty good start and it sure seems to me to be a bit better than a pamphlet hanging on the doorknob.

H. Arnett
9/11/14

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My Dad Is Bigger Than My Dad

Posted on September 10, 2014 by Doc Arnett

I’ve heard people say that our notion of God as “Father” is bound up in our notions of our earthly fathers and it seems there’s a lot of evidence that supports the notion. Since my father was also a preacher, I got way more than a double dose of the genetic imprint. Virtually every sermon I heard until I was fifteen, and I heard thousands of them, was preached by my dad. Not only did he convey that theological construct incidentally, it was molded by his preaching from the pulpit, the tractor seat, the hayfield and the truck. Dad was tremendously successful in instilling in me, and each of my siblings to varying degrees, the idea that there was nothing more important than being right and doing right. The notion of a God who liked me wasn’t part of the schema.

That may have been due to some unintended aversion on my part. Maybe I just stayed home sick that Sunday that Dad preached about God’s love for and delight in His children. But, given that I missed only two or three Sundays in those years, that seems unlikely. I believe Dad preached the God he knew and served Him to the best of his ability.

I can’t say whether or not it was Dad’s intention that I grow up with a strongly entrenched, deeply embedded notion of God as someone who loved me but was completely intolerant of any mistakes, sins or errors. The idea of a God who likes me is something I’m still working on, still cultivating.

Throughout my adolescence and adulthood, even up until now, I have had the idea that there is always one certain “thing” that I’m supposed to be doing in order to please God. Preach at this particular church, work at this particular job, marry this particular person, live in this particular place, etc. Choose the wrong one of any of those, and choose at my own peril. It’s not such a bad philosophy, I suppose, as long as you’ve chosen properly. But follow your own notions and hell erupts in your own life.

I know at age sixty, I should be shaping my own notions and taking responsibility for my own theology but it is a struggle. I read a passage in the Bible yesterday that just about blew my head open. I think it may have created just enough space to help me to a healthier view. I hope you don’t mind me sharing it here; it’s from II Corinthians 2.

12 Now when I went to Troas to preach the gospel of Christ and found that the Lord had opened a door for me, 13 I still had no peace of mind, because I did not find my brother Titus there. So I said goodbye to them and went on to Macedonia.

Did you get that?! “God opened a door for me in Troas but since I couldn’t find my buddy there, I went somewhere else.”

Are you kidding me?!! God created opportunity for you in one place but you weren’t happy there so you left? Isn’t that abandoning your purpose, rejecting God’s will and inviting the minions of hell to dominate your existence? Sounds like Paul must have set his own life on fire, doesn’t it?

But look at what he says next: 14 But thanks be to God, who always leads us as captives in Christ’s triumphal procession and uses us to spread the aroma of the knowledge of him everywhere.

No matter where we go, we can do God’s work; we can teach and live in demonstration of Him and live triumphantly. Not in numbing, paralyzing fear but in joy and liberation, the freedom of knowing that as long as we live for Him, it doesn’t matter so much where we live or where we work or what we do for a living. Jesus has not cast a mold of rigid control over us; He came to give us abundant life. Our Daddy who created the heavens and the earth did not send His Son to die for us so He could then turn His back on us.

He actually likes us quite a bit and that “us,” I’ll have you know, includes you and me.

H. Arnett
9/10/14

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A Greater Dawning

Posted on September 8, 2014 by Doc Arnett

These late summer mornings
come with their heavy formings of dew,
a soaking of shoes and cuffs,
heavy drenchings of blade and stem,
a coating so dense it doesn’t seem possible
that the drops can hold to the surface.

Below the wet hills,
layers of mist weave through the stillness
of these quiet dawnings,
their thin gray hanging above
the dark forms of cattle and fences,
glimpses of stone bluff creek.

It is hard to imagine that the meek
will see beauty beyond this,
a glory above that of a full harvest moon
set in a slate blue sky,
way above the limbs of locust and birch,
that Day when they shall inherit the earth.

H. Arnett
9/8/14

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Raising the Shade

Posted on September 5, 2014 by Doc Arnett

I am sitting at the desk in front of my computer, window shade drawn down to six inches below eye level. (That’s eye level as I’m sitting, not standing.) With the lamp glaring from the left side and early morning darkness still holding in the shadows, I can barely see the porch floor as I look out through the window to the right of the monitor screen. There is only a hint of green as I shift my focus to the east yard.

When I turn out the light and lean forward, lay my face nearer the top of the desk and look out, the view completely changes.

I can see the branches of the maples sweeping back and forth in the morning breeze. Darker strips and splotches of green ripple across the sheen of all three levels of the yard
as it rolls and folds toward the line of trees at the base of the hill. Through their tall branches, I can see the lowest bank of gray clouds against the low ridge two miles away. Above them, a soft pinkish orange blushes the sky, a promise of dawning that brightens the sky beyond the shroud of gray. That light frames the silhouettes of trunks and branches in the fencerow.

It is not always a better view but it is always a different perspective when we shut out what is close and lean in a bit so that we can see beyond the immediate and focus on the broader frame of the world. When we are blinded by the glare of what is near at hand and deliberately look beyond, we are better able to see what the hand of God has prepared for us.

It does not matter how glorious a day he has made if we choose only the shrouded shade of dim vision. We might be rather astonished at how much our view of things might change if we just raise the shade a bit from time to time.

H. Arnett
9/5/14

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