Young People These Days

Posted on July 30, 2014 by Doc Arnett

My friend and colleague, B. J. Smith, is teaching a Lifetime Fitness class in our Summer Blitz program. He snagged one of our personal trainers, Tom Martin, and me on Monday. “What are you doing for the next couple of days, during the day?” he asked. I figured there was a lunch invitation on the way so I replied that I had a pretty open schedule. “I have a meeting with the academic VP on Tuesday morning; other than that I’m free.” Frankly, I was pretty pumped about the idea of a free lunch.

“I want you guys to speak with my Lifetime Fitness students. You know, talk to them about what “lifetime fitness” means to old people.”

Okay, he didn’t actually use the term “old people” but I knew that’s what he was getting at. Tom is only three years younger than me and in forty years better shape than I am. He rides a bike for a couple hundred miles and then works out. I can ride a bicycle, too, and I’ve probably ridden for a couple hundred miles in my whole life. Whatever the qualifications B. J. had in mind when he selected us, we agreed to represent senior citizens at the Lifetime Fitness class yesterday.

I admit I had mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, as anyone who knows me at all knows about me, I love to talk about stuff. Whether I know anything about it or not. And the chance to talk about mud runs and workouts, well that was just downright appealing.

On the other hand, I’ve taught Summer Blitz classes. I’ve also taught other classes whose enrollment primarily consists of freshmen athletes. A lot of those students have all the academic inclination and enthusiasm of a tanned otter hide. Actually, when it comes to enthusiasm for classroom learning, I’d have to give the extinguished otter a slight edge. At least it can usually keep its eyes open for most of the class period and it never tries texting during a class discussion or test.

I admit there have been notable exceptions. Two of the best students I ever had were football players at Highland. The other forty were not. Superficial social stereotypes notwithstanding, Tom and I showed up at the classroom at the Wellness Center yesterday at one, per B. J.’s instructions.

We spent the next hour-and-a-half having one of the most interesting conversations I’ve had with college students. They asked some very thoughtful questions and seemed genuinely interested in our responses. Tom made several excellent points about nutrition, determination, competitiveness and not letting ego and machismo in workout routines lead to longtime injuries. “Most problems with your body for athletes in middle-age are not because of something you just did; they’re because of little things you did over and over twenty years earlier.”

I’ll admit that there were a couple of students who seemed to make a deliberate show of how sleepy and disinterested they were. I’m pretty sure they’re football players. But the other twenty were shining examples of courtesy, respect and engagement. Apparently, there are still parents in this country who don’t just spawn their young and wait for them to hatch out and make their way downstream. There are teachers in our public schools who still insist that students pay attention, demonstrate respect and at least pretend to listen to classroom guests. These parents and teachers still teach and work to instill the same principles that raised people as old as Tom and me. That seems to be working out okay so far; I think this country might make it another generation or two.

H. Arnett
7/30/14

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The Carpenter’s Craft

Posted on July 29, 2014 by Doc Arnett

A week of unseasonably mild weather
right when July wilts into August,
the worship song that unlocks every barrier
in your brain and makes you feel
close to God again,
the taste of the season’s first fresh tomato,
the sibling who is always willing
and usually able to do what needs to be done,
an eloquent encouragement
from a friend whose sincerity
is beyond suspicion,
an old photograph of you
and someone you love
in one of your favorite moments,
a quote you come across
that seems to have been written
for that particular time,
an unexpected friend who finds you
in the parking lot before loading the groceries,
a little while spent outdoors
in the cool of evening air with chairs turned
facing one another,
sensing the speaking of the Spirit
in the midst of some mind-jangling perplexion.

Connections such as these
and ten thousand others
lay soothing touch upon the needing heart,
like gentle rain on parched earth,
the Son of Man still moving
among miles of sinners aching in the shadows
of stone streets, brown fields and brick tenements.

H. Arnett
7/29/14

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Shining in the Mud

Posted on July 28, 2014 by Doc Arnett

My thirty-something friend, Luke, warned me that he has a weak ankle but I managed to get him to agree to run a challenge course with me last Saturday, anyway. He’d also had a severe bout with a viral infection at the end of June but he didn’t mention that. As we were doing our finally prep for the start of Conquer the Gauntlet at Grain Valley (MO) on Saturday morning, I realized I had not taken his warning about the gimpy joint as seriously as was warranted. Instead of wearing running shoes, Luke started pulling on hiking boots to give some support and protection to his ankles. That’s when I saw the heavy black leather brace on his left ankle. “Man, you were serious about that ankle problem,” I confessed, “I didn’t realize it was that bad.” Then I realized something else. “You’re going to start out carrying an extra five pounds with those boots… and after the first mud pit it’ll be an extra fifteen!”

Fortunately for both of us, the only hills in the four-mile course laid out at Valley Speedway were small man-made ones in the motocross segment and a few other random lumps. There were the steep slippery banks of the two creek crossings that were so steep we used ropes for going down and coming up out of the creek. Those were challenging but they were not the biggest challenges for us.

I’ve run seven or eight Warrior Dashes as well as a Rugged Maniacs, Ruckus and a couple of other non-series events. In all of those races, I’ve never encountered an obstacle I couldn’t complete. I found several Saturday that I couldn’t have done without help and a couple that I just couldn’t do.

The first mud pit required a combination of help at the bottom and at the top for all of the twenty-five or so runners in our group, including the young super-athletic ones. The walls were too slick and too tall. The bell ringer, requiring a ten-foot pull up a vertical rope was too much for all but the elite. I am not elite. But then, I’m not always proud, either. I made it up with a little help.

But there were two for which I didn’t have nearly enough grip and upper body strength. The first was the ring swing, a series of ring grips on the end of short rope sections, suspended above a twenty-foot-long pool of water. Thanks to the folks in front of us, the rings were smeared with mud and water. Well, at least the first one was; that was the only one I touched. I gripped it for a few seconds with my entire body weight hanging from one slippery hand. I waded out of the pool shortly thereafter.

Luke is a lot stronger than I am. He made it to the fourth ring on his first and second efforts. He chose the water route after his third effort. Only one person out of our group made it all the way. He looked like the kind of guy who could hang on to a muddy ring. All day long, if necessary. He was built like a cross between Bruce Lee and Rocky Stallone. I’m more like a mix of Jimmy Stewart and Betty White.

By climbing over Luke and whomever else was willing to help, I made it over the series of five ten-foot high vertical walls. Somehow, I managed to swing my way across the gabled monkey bars mounted over the forty-foot long pool of water. It didn’t help that the bars could spin in place.

The only easy obstacle was the first one, a two-foot high bar. After that, nothing was easy. They all were challenging, whether because of the strength needed, the agility necessary or the complete lack of friction available. The last of the twenty-five was the toughest.

Imagine a stepladder twenty-two feet tall with flat two-by-eights for steps. Imagine this ladder set up so that it spans a pool of water six feet deep and ten feet wide. Now imagine that you have to climb this ladder, from the inside. Without using your feet. You have to grip the broad flat surface of the steps and pull yourself up from one to the other, then turn a hundred-and-eighty degrees, grip the top step on the opposite side and work your way back down. It was already getting hot by nine-thirty Saturday morning. The water felt great.

I love doing these mud run challenge courses. I like that it’s not something you expect a sixty-year-old to even try, much less accomplish. There is satisfaction in succeeding at something difficult. But I also feel young again, like a kid playing in the outdoors, climbing, running, jumping, doing things I did fifty years ago, or things I would have loved to do if I’d had the opportunity. I like the camaraderie of strangers in the mud, helping one another do what none of them can do alone. I also like, strangely, facing the fact that there are things I cannot do but trying to do them anyway. And I love the inspiration of a friend who will go out on a hot July morning and stay the course in spite of a bad ankle and being severely sick less than a month earlier.

I’d love to take my whole church on a mud run. I actually think that would be a lot closer to being what a church is supposed to be than most of the things churches usually do. Not being afraid of the mess or the muck. Dipping down and helping one another through the tough stretches. Helping each other face our fears and overcome them. Recognizing that no matter how nicely we dress, life’s going to be messy at some point or another. Knowing that none of us are good at everything and all of us are good at something. Using each others’ strengths to overcome our own weaknesses. Loving each other through all of it and at the end, never being too muddy or messy for a big ole celebration hug.

H. Arnett
7/28/14

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Beauty Harvest

Posted on July 25, 2014 by Doc Arnett

Seeing some small shadow flit briefly by the window late last evening, I remembered seeing a couple of hummingbird moths by the honeysuckle vine back in early June. Decided I’d go take a look while Randa and Jaylon finished eating their supper. Sometimes a bit of a head start on one thing opens up opportunities on another.

Even with my head start, it was already dark enough that I couldn’t tell much about colors outside. Shapes were still clear but not the details of color so much. I know the hibiscus blooms are a light red, almost pink color and the roses are a dark red. The honeysuckle vine that Randa planted two years ago has climbed its way to the top of the black metal trellis that sets right against the white siding of the house. From there, it has formed a thick heavy clump with some vine ends sending their tips toward earth in graceful curves that swayed a bit in the light breeze. Its slender trumpet blooms are yellow at their base, transitioning to a deep red at the opening. And last night, it was those openings that seemed to create a small Eden for a few unfallen angels.

At least five hummingbird moths dipped, darted and hovered about the honeysuckle, moving from bloom to bloom. The wind from their wings shimmered the leaves as they flew from sip to sip. The largest ones looked about four inches long with a wingspan neighboring on six inches. In the dusk, I could not tell much about their coloring but did notice that two of the smallest ones had striped abdomens. Occasionally, one of the moths would move along the row of roses and then make a quick circle of the hibiscus. Most of the time, though, all five of the creatures made their business about the honeysuckle vine.

At the time she planted it, I thought that Randa was setting the honeysuckle simply for the sake of the pleasure we would take in seeing its blooms and smelling their fragrance. Of course, it would not be even slightly unlike her to be thinking a lot more than she was saying. We’re kind of opposite in that way; I tend to say a lot more than I think.

Personalities to the side for the moment, it was clear that we have gained more from having beauty near than what I suspected or expected. We’ve also seen a hummingbird or two checking out the same blooms of honeysuckle and hibiscus and the roses, too. From what I can tell, deliberately putting some beauty into your life often draws other beauty as well.

Having never even heard of hummingbird moths until four years ago and having only seen two or three in my whole life, I find them fascinating. Standing there in the coming darkness, I felt like a little kid seeing his first dragonfly land on the end of his fishing rod.

H. Arnett
7/25/14

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Morning Chores

Posted on July 24, 2014 by Doc Arnett

I walk out into this morning’s cool
to water the tomatoes in the huge planter,
notice the few spider webs
silver with dew in the grass
out past the patio.

I know that my shoes will be soaked
in the short walk to the horse pen
but I head over while the bucket
fills slowly from the spigot by the garage.

I rub the gelding’s head for a moment
but he is not interested in being petted
at this particular time.
I climb back over the fence,
see sand stuck to the wet of my shoes;
it is gone by the time I cross the lawn again.

I finish filling the bucket,
water the tomatoes,
the hibiscus and purple-heart,
a few other planters
that Randa started a month ago.

We know that some beauty
comes with duty in the hot months,
that things held close
sometimes take the most caring,
that sharing tasks
should not always rely on reason of being asked,
and that appreciation is always in season.

H. Arnett
7/24/14

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Short Circuiting the Golden Rule

Posted on July 23, 2014 by Doc Arnett

Over my years of remodeling, I’ve occasionally found interesting objects behind quarter-round and baseboard. Usually it’s just junk like paper clips and hair pins but I once found a title for a 1943 Ford pickup truck. Another time I found a half-dime from 1863 or 1868. I haven’t been able to tell for sure which year it is. If it’s one year, it’s supposedly worth about ten or fifteen dollars. If it’s the other, it’s worth about ten times that much.

That’s the closest I’ve come to finding anything behind or underneath the floor trim that could make me rich. What I found this weekend came mighty close to making me angry enough to want to hurt someone.

While remodeling what will become the master bedroom upstairs, I pulled off a piece of the wide baseboard that runs throughout this house. It had covered the point of entry for a live electrical wire. The wire then ran beneath the baseboard and behind the quarter round for a few feet, turned two forty-five degree corners at the left side of the bay window wall and then continued to the outlet on the north wall, beneath the wood and tile apron for the whirlpool tub.

There was no protective conduit, no label, no warning, no indication. Nothing at all to have kept a carpet installer from slicing into the wire with a carpet knife. Nothing at all to have kept a carpenter from driving nails into it while installing or replacing quarter round after the carpet installation. Nothing at all to have kept a remodeler from driving a pry bar into it while removing baseboard or quarter-round.

Even if we forget about the potential shock, the very rare possibility of electrocution and the very real possibility of fire hazard, this thing should never have been done. Simple courtesy precludes it. It’s rude. It’s inconsiderate. And, remembering what we just agreed to forget, it’s dangerous. I’ve never met a homeowner who wanted dangerous wiring in her house. Never met a person who actually desired this kind of surprise.

Yet, I’m suspicious that the homeowner at the time of this sin was probably complicit in it. To save the extra hour of labor it would have taken to have done the installation in a safe and sane manner, he or she approved this. I’ll admit it’s possible that the electrician pulled off the quarter-round, ran the wire and then re-installed the quarter-round without telling the homeowner how the wiring had been done. It’s not likely but it’s possible. It’s also possible that, just like the present case, the installer and owner were one and the same. In either case, neither party observed the Electric Code or the Golden Rule.

And if the Golden Rule doesn’t govern how we install wiring and remodel houses, we probably aren’t wearing it out using it anywhere else, either. Remember folks, gold gets shinier the more you use it. That dullness comes from only talking about it.

H. Arnett
7/23/14

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Shortcuts

Posted on July 21, 2014 by Doc Arnett

In a general sense, I’m not opposed to shortcuts. In fact, I’ll sometimes go miles out of my way just to find one. I don’t believe that there is always virtue in taking the long way home, though I am often tempted to take the long way in to work. When it comes to shortcuts, I am reminded of my woodworking instructor at Murray State University.

G. T. Lily taught furniture construction and equipment maintenance there for a few decades. Both fiery and witty, he was often provocative but never boring. His classes were always a challenge both technically and emotionally and were frequently entertaining as well. At the conclusion of the advanced woodworking course, I found his grading note in the drawer of my Early American maple desk. “Dovetails cut with a broadaxe? You ever heard of sharpening turning chisels?” That was the fiery and witty sides coming out at the same time. Then, there was the other part. “On the whole, considering the number of times I’ve been absent and the conditions the class has worked under this semester, a nice piece of work. A-.”

In one of Mr. Lily’s more moderate moments, he shared with us his definition of efficiency. “The least amount of effort that produces the desired results.” Putting in more work than it took to obtain the level of quality and degree of finish wanted was a waste of time, according to Mr. Lily. Putting in less was a waste of material and possibly, it seemed, a waste of the air that person breathed. He had absolutely no use for anyone who lacked the desire to produce quality work. In the lab or in the classroom.

There are still a great many people in my world who care about quality work. People like my brother-in-law, Kevin, who will not quit on a thing until it’s done well. People like my friend, Mark, who will not say “close enough” until it’s past the point of acceptable and meets the standard of excellence. People like my wife, Randa, who believes you don’t quit until a thing is done as well as you can do it.

I’m in favor of cutting every corner that conserves energy while producing excellence. I’m in favor of every shortcut that truly gets us there quicker without sacrificing the quality of the trip. I’m opposed to all the others, even the ones that were my idea.

H. Arnett
7/21/14

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The One-Apple Orchard

Posted on July 18, 2014 by Doc Arnett

There were two little apples on one of the two trees I planted between the garage and the horse shed back in November of 2011. Two apples on two trees in three years. It’s not much of a record, not much encouragement in the way of apple orcharding, even on such a small scale as this. One of the apples fell into the grass a couple of weeks ago, most likely knocked off by me passing by too closely on the mower. Even a thing tough as a green apple can only hold on for so long.

The other now is nearly twice as large as the one that fell and there are a few tells of color on one side, some streaks of yellowish red that suggest it could one day turn into a ripe apple. I’m going to leave a larger ring of grass around the base of the tree, no sense in me being the reason we have to end the season without one apple to show for all the growing of the past three years.

It’s not easy to keep caring when you feel like all your work is useless, not easy to keep doing what has to be done so that there will be at least a chance of harvest. Many a teacher, a parent or spouse has known the lean years of all leaf and no fruit. Maybe there’s a time for giving up but that always guarantees that we’ll have nothing to show for all that we’ve done.

As that old Todd County farmer, Roy Morris, might have said long ago, “It’s easy to hoe the good rows.” The plants that start off strong, grow well and show promise draw our attention and our effort. But unless we show care for the single fruit we don’t deserve the orchard.

H. Arnett
7/18/14

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The Long Count

Posted on July 17, 2014 by Doc Arnett

I don’t know how it is she keeps holding on to life,
the preacher’s wife, mother of seven,
drawn toward heaven one pound at a time,
bone thin and skin you can read through.
At some point, it must be that something in the body
will be too weak to keep spirit and flesh bound together.

“Is my husband dead? Has my mother been over here to see me?”

She carries the determination of generations
of hard soil farming in West Kentucky–
Gowers and Herndons and others stretching back
in and along the chiseled hills of Trigg County,
backs breaking behind the plows,
long rows of corn and tobacco bladed from the earth,
hickory and ash split for the hearth,
lives of labor from birth to buried.

“What are those things out there? What are they doing?”

The sisters say they’ve had glimpses
of her knowing who they are, who she is,
flickers of recognition that come wisping along
into moments of conversation,
a changing light in her eyes and brief smiles.

She and I used to sit for hours after Dad had gone to bed,
talking at the table in the kitchen of the house they built
when they were both past seventy.
She mixed the mortar and he lay the blocks of the foundation.

“I wish I could just lie down, go to sleep and not wake up.”

Charlie passed away five years ago, one day after her birthday.
If she makes it eleven more days in the nursing home at Mayfield,
she’ll have counted ninety-nine years of this world,
its joys and aches, the long breaks that run between
all that she’s seen of good and evil in her days under the sun.

I think she may be tired of counting.

H. Arnett
7/17/14

Posted in Aging, Death & Dying, Family, Poetry, Relationships, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

A Loving Punch in the Gut

Posted on July 16, 2014 by Doc Arnett

I reckon I’ve never been a real gregarious sort of fellow. I’ve tried to be friendly but I’m not one of those “never met a stranger” people. I’ve met quite a few strangers in my life and some of them were stranger than others. Given enough prep time, I can pretty much hold my own with most people when it comes to strange and I can usually keep up my end of a conversation. And, everywhere I’ve lived so far, I’ve been able to make a few acquaintances. If I keep at it a while, I can usually find someone whose standards are low enough to be my friend.

It’s never been too hard to find someone who’ll share a laugh, gripe about the same things or like some of the same music I like. With a bit of luck, or providence, and a good dose of persistence, I’m usually able to fashion acquaintance with someone who shares similar values, believes in the same big things and generally likes how I go about doing things. Over my span of sixty years, I’ve even had two or three of those “friends closer than a brother.” The warrior poet of long ago, King David, had but one so far as I can tell, so that really moves me up on the fortunate scale.

But what really takes me to the top are those very few friends that I’ve had who genuinely have helped me be a better person. They are the ones who might let me complain a little bit but who are not going to let a lot of time ride by before they lay a little bit of loving truth on me. I got a little dose of that just this week from a mighty fine fellow over in Arkansas.

He’d made the mistake of asking me how things were going and I made the mistake of sharing a small bit of disappointment I’d had in my professional life. Turns out, it was about the best mistake I could have made.

The response I got from him was just downright Solomonesque. With impressive gentleness and wisdom, he pointed out the incredibly blessed nature of my life and circumstances and that a dramatic proportion of the world’s population would gladly change places with me. And he said it all in such a way that I could barely feel guilty even though I definitely felt convicted. It might be an exaggeration to say his words changed my life but they definitely improved my attitude.

That guy who wrote “faithful are the wounds of a friend” and “as iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another one,” he sure knew what he was talking about. In this world of cheap sympathy, pseudo-empathy and mass commiseration, it is nice from time to time to have a shoulder to cry on. But what I really need, and what has helped me most through the years, are those few friends who give me a Kleenex and then slap me so gently I want to hug them.

H. Arnett
7/16/14

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