Getting Rid of the Stink

Posted on February 11, 2014 by Doc Arnett

As far back as I can remember I’ve had sort of a low-grade phobia about being sprayed by skunks. It was a well-formed fear, with lots of reinforcement. Any time I witnessed an encounter, my Dad would maintain a space of at least fifty feet between himself and the varmint. He’d shoot groundhogs, possums and most anything else that disturbed the tranquility of our farmstead. Skunks, though, usually got a free pass. “It’s not worth the stink,” he’d say and head on to some other chore that didn’t involve close proximity to a walking stink bomb.

In addition to that consistent pattern, there were the stories at school. “My uncle got sprayed once. The smell made him puke and then he had to bury his clothes in the ground for a month to get rid of the smell.” “My grandmother says that if you ever get sprayed you have to soak yourself in a tub of tomato juice and wash your hair with kerosene.” “My cousin got sprayed last year and he had to sleep in the barn for two weeks. My aunt wouldn’t even let him in the house.”

And then, there was Roy Morris’ advice: “You can soak your clothes with kerosene and then set ’em on fire; that’ll get rid of the smell.” He paused, for dramatic effect I’m sure, and then added, “Probably should take ’em off first, though.” He sounded so serious it was three years later before I got the joke.

Although I’ve had a couple of close encounters, both of which greatly amused the family members who witnessed them, I’ve never been sprayed by a skunk. I believe I shall be able to pass from this life without any disappointment on that point if I never do gain that experience.

I have, though, been hit by the stink of sin. It was dreadful.

It was so bad that it killed the Son of God. They had to bury him for three days just to get rid of the stench. It worked out, though. He came out smelling like the Rose of Sharon and I’ve been clean ever since.

H. Arnett
2/11/14

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Hickory Smoked Excuses

Posted on February 10, 2014 by Doc Arnett

Maybe it’s a touch of cabin fever after all these weeks of snow and cold. Maybe it’s a bit of early onset eccentricity. Maybe it’s just that my wife loves grilled burgers and I love my wife. Maybe the “why” doesn’t really matter all that much. Maybe it’s about the what.

The “what” in this case is that Randa brought home a package of fresh ground beef Saturday afternoon. Her story, and she’s sticking to it, was that she planned to grill us some burgers on the George Foreman Lean Mean Fat-Reducing Grilling Machine. I had a different idea.

When I looked at that package, it suddenly didn’t matter to me that it was several degrees below freezing or that we have a foot of snow on the ground. What mattered was that we had fresh ground beef on the counter and hickory charcoal in the garage.

Randa formed up seasoned patties while I got the grill going. Thirty minutes later, there were eight burgers sizzling over a bed of white coals. The heat from the grill melted snow on the sidewalk beneath it. Whenever I opened the hood to flip the burgers, smoke roiled out, just like summer time. I finished up by melting cheese slices on half of the patties; Randa doesn’t like cheese on her burgers.

In concession to the weather and our general wimpiness, we chose to sit on the couch in the living room instead of lawn chairs on the patio. But we sure enjoyed the grilled burgers. That was even more fun than complaining about the weather. There are a lot of things we can enjoy in this world once convenience and conventionality are no longer the controlling factors.

You know, I think I’m going to have to clear the snow off the croquet court for next weekend… time to quit whining and start shining!

H. Arnett
2/10/14

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Sundogs

Posted on February 6, 2014 by Doc Arnett
February 5, 2014 Doniphan County, Kansas

February 5, 2014 Doniphan County, Kansas

We woke to the predicted ten inches of snow,
a fine powder that blew from the east
during the day it started falling.

During the night, the wind shifted north
and the snow kept falling,
blowing and drifting throughout the night.

In some places, bare grass showed through
the winding seams of dunes
and in others the drifts filled ditches.

As I looked out toward the south,
I saw the first sundog,
a nearly straight shaft of color
prismed by ice in high air,
reaching up above the bare grays of the ridge.

Moving to another window on the second floor,
I saw the northern dog, blurred by the branches.
Even from the attic, I could not get a clear view.

Aching even from the thought
of a minus twenty wind chill,
I grabbed a coat and camera.

The wind lanced my jeans
and thin gloves as I pushed my way
through the snow until I reached a place
where I could see the whole scene:
glaring sun,
colors showing on opposite edges
of a huge dim halo,
tree shadows etched on untracked snow.

If we wish to see scenes we have not seen,
whether by faith or other lens,
we must leave the warmth of comfort
and push our way to places we have not been before.

H. Arnett
2/6/14

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January’s Passing

Posted on January 31, 2014 by Doc Arnett

The least light
of the thinnest slice
of a fading moon
hangs in a frozen sky.

Crystals form in waves of grass
dried by winter
and splintered by the months
of dry wind passing.

Memory seems dulled
by the constant cold;
did the snows start in November
or was it before that
this year?

Even in the night,
the white softness
shows across the fields,
frames the dark etch of the road
running up the ridge
beyond the creek.

The horse stands
beside the shed,
whiskers heavy with ice,
ears tilted toward me,

believing in the promise
of footsteps crisping toward him,
the gloved hand opening the door
to the storeroom.

It is often in duty to others
that we nourish our own selves,
drawing from this painful pleasure
while hope holds on
through the darkest cold.

H. Arnett
1/31/14

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Ice in Atlanta

Posted on January 30, 2014 by Doc Arnett

Apparently, there has been and will be much ado about the way in which the ice and snow snarled up things in our Southern cities this week. Highways and freeways turned into massive parking lots with all sorts of interesting incidents and accidents. Students were stranded in schools, people deserted their vehicles and workers spent at least one night in their offices, cubicles and work areas. Reportedly, some Northerners laughed, scoffed and ridiculed the ridiculous helplessness and Southerners responded with predictable resentment.

Others, much more familiar with the situations than I am, have offered up explanations, some of which caused some folks to reflect a bit more and alter their judgments a bit. Those with greater determination to mock and demean their fellow citizens continued unabated with the criticism and feigned disbelief that a bit of ice and snow could wreak such havoc. When you’re used to several feet of snow each winter season it can be pretty easy to judge those who get an inch or two every ten years. I’ve lived in the land of moderate snow and annual ice for over twenty years now and even here I’ve seen as many as twenty cars in the ditch in a few mile stretch. If only one or two drivers don’t manage the situation properly, the calamity can escalate in dramatic fashion. Even in good weather, a single accident can block miles of road for a few hours.

I’ve also noticed that snow tires are a mighty handy asset, as is front wheel drive. All wheel drive provides even better advantage but the fact is that ice and/or packed snow can send even experienced drivers sliding out of control after the slightest bit of error in judgment or reaction.

Rather than making my defense of the citizens of Georgia or Vermont, I’d like to suggest that with adequate training and practice, it’s always easier to criticize than to understand. In our culture, where sarcasm and ridicule have become staples of entertainment and standard devices of interaction, responding with empathy becomes a deliberate choice rather than automatic. But it is still a choice and it is still possible. Proposing feasible solutions is always more challenging than pointing out the problems.

To pervert what is alleged to be an old Native American adage, never criticize a man until you’ve slid a mile on his tires.

H. Arnett
1/30/14

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The Aftermath of Tragedy

Posted on January 29, 2014 by Doc Arnett

I think any believer who spends much time thinking runs into the issue of trying to understand why bad things happen to good people. It seems like every tragedy evokes a variety of philosophical, theological, physiological and other attempts at explanation.

I think that deep down, a lot of us wish God would “guide” every decision we make so that we would always make perfect ones and life would be blissful and we’d never screw up and things would be just perfect. Not only would we make good choices, we wouldn’t even make any mistakes. Nothing bad would ever happen and when it did, God would fix it immediately.

We create this concept because of the frustration of being human, the frustration of living in an evil world, the frustration of mortality. Job saw the injustice and unfairness of his life and it made him angry. Some of it, I think, is simple physics. Much of it has to do with that terrible double-edged sword we call “free will.”

Even when Jesus walked upon the earth, he allowed people to make their own choices. Much of what happens isn’t because of conscious choice and yet a lot of it is. Sometimes our misfortunes come to us as a result of our own choices. Many times, they come as a result of decisions made by others. Often, it is a combination. Time and time again, I hear people questioning God’s existence or his love because they ignore the role that human choice plays. Other times, they ignore physics.

The world as we have it cannot function without cataclysmic events: earthquakes, tornadoes, hurricanes, mudslides, avalanches and so on. Gravity makes stuff fall. Sometimes that stuff hurts someone. We long for a perfect world and so we curse our existence when the imperfections of this one bring harm to us or those we love.

We forget that a key function of this life is to prepare us for the next one. My belief is that our deepest spiritual development ONLY happens in the face of frustration, grief and suffering.

Maybe that’s rationalization, a desperation for making sense out of what cannot make sense. Maybe it’s the sort of self-deception and shared illusion that makes it possible for us to manage life in the face of conflicting beliefs. And maybe, just maybe, it’s an absolute truth. Whether it is true or not, I find my own comfort in knowing this: “In all things, God is at work for the good of those who love him, who are called according to his purpose.”

As I see it, that doesn’t mean that everything that happens is for our good. Rather it means that God comes into the midst of every single circumstance, takes a look and says, “Okay, let’s see what good we can bring out of this…”

Too often, though, in the immediate aftermath of tragedy, we rush to figure out the good, offer one another the most infuriating clichés and refuse ourselves the very thing we most need at the moment: the essential process of grieving.

God expects us to endure, to persevere, to overcome. He has never asked us to pretend it doesn’t hurt.

H. Arnett
1/29/14

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The Touch of God

Posted on January 28, 2014 by Doc Arnett

I needed to pick up a few things the other night and some of those few things were at the TSC farm store that is located right across the highway from Wal-Mart. That was just downright convenient because the other things were available at Wal-Mart. As I walked by the flower cooler (at Wal-Mart, not TSC), I picked out a large bouquet for Randa and then made my way to the checkout. On the way, I added a small bunch of bananas.

A woman in a plain dress and wearing a thin shawl was taking her things out of her cart and laying them on the counter. A man was with her but not helping with the unloading. He seemed to be around forty years old and gave both the appearance and behavior of someone who had Downs Syndrome. He wore thick glasses and had very thin hair. His jeans were too long; the bottom of the legs folded against the top of his thick-soled shoes. He shuffled from one foot to the other, looked at the magazine rack and the candy rack, and then moved slowly to the front of the cart.

As the cashier began ringing up the last few of their items, the woman took two twenties from her purse and handed them to the man. “Here, Michael, give the woman the money.”

He reached out his hand hesitantly, took the money and then clenched it in his hand. He looked from the older woman at the cart to the younger woman at the register and then looked back at the money. “Michael,” the older woman repeated, firmly yet gently, “You have to pay for our stuff. Give the woman the money.”

Michael took two small steps toward the register. The cashier, who appeared to be about forty, smiled slightly at Michael. He stretched the money toward her and she smiled again, “Thank you.” Michael stepped back and looked again toward the older woman. I could not see her face but I could tell that she nodded at him. In a bit she said, “Michael, you need to get your change.”

He kept staring at her. “The woman is going to give you some money; you have to get your change.” He looked back at the cashier who was taking change out of the drawer and stepped back to the counter. The older woman pushed their cart around him and began picking up their bags, putting them into the cart.

The cashier smiled at him again and stretched the money across the counter, “Here’s your change. Thank you.” Without a word, he took the money and the receipt.

“That’s good, Michael. Now, put the money in my purse.” For the first time, I could see the woman’s face. Her hair was white and her face slightly wrinkled. There was a gentleness in her eyes that matched the grace that was in her voice. I marveled at her peace and patience with Michael. I thought surely she must be his mother and thought about the long years of her patient loving.

They headed toward the exit and the cashier and I exchanged looks, simply nodded in acknowledgement. Nothing was said about Michael.

I paid for the bouquet and the bananas and then headed toward the door myself. I was still marveling at the gentleness and grace of the whole scene I had just witnessed: the woman’s quiet control, Michael’s humble simplicity, the cashier’s comfortable sincerity. It felt almost like worship, like sitting alone in a small quiet chapel and feeling the touch of God.

I should have bought bouquets for all of them.

H. Arnett
1/28/14

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A Bit Breezy

Posted on January 27, 2014 by Doc Arnett

Most of the day yesterday was breezy yet relatively warm with the temperature peaking at fifty-six degrees around three in the afternoon. A strong southwestern breeze kept it from being very pleasant outside here in Doniphan County but it was certainly tolerable. Randa did some training with her horse for a little while and I worked the Sunday crossword puzzle in between naps on the recliner. Around five, I headed out to the garage while Randa prepared a pork roast stew.

The wind was still blowing at around twenty miles an hour but the direction had changed to the north. In the next hour, there was more change.

As I worked inside the garage, I could hear the wind getting louder. Gusts of over fifty-miles-an-hour creaked the roof and rafters and I was glad to be inside, grateful for the little kerosene heater. Around six-thirty, I heard a strong blast and then a loud banging and screeching. Then I heard the loud shrill of metal scraping against the large garage door. Those are not pleasant sounds nor are they terribly reassuring.

I opened the small door at the corner and found a entire section of metal roofing wedged between the door and the birch tree. Nails stuck out of the tin sheet like spikes in an Iron Maiden. As I worked to get the piece dislodged, I saw the porch light come on and Randa came out of the house.

“Where did that come from?!” she asked incredulously. “Neighbor’s shed, I imagine,” I responded, twisting the piece free and moving it into the lee of the south side of the garage.

“Good grief,” she observed, “that thing would slice you into!” I had no argument for that.

We had gusts of up to fifty-eight miles-an-hour and the temperature dropped fifty degrees overnight. It’s not yet daylight here so I haven’t had time to inspect the garage door or the roofs or anything else for any further damage. I don’t know what other things may have blown loose or been damaged during the night.

But I do know that it was a good night to be inside strong walls on a solid foundation. That is often true in the darknesses of this world.

H. Arnett
1/27/14

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In All Things

Posted on January 24, 2014 by Doc Arnett

It’s not hard for me to find a few major points in my life, big decisions with multiple consequences. Some of those were good decisions, some, not so good. This morning, though, I’m thinking about what seemed like a very small one at the time. But it changed the entire course of my life.

It was the fall of 1975. I’d dropped out of college after my sophomore year and was working at Goodyear Tire & Rubber in Union City, Tennessee. Along with the wonderful perk of walking through the pungent pleasure of the Banbury mixing unit twice daily, the company offered tuition reimbursement. So, intending to become a mechanical engineer with Goodyear’s financial support, I enrolled in a drafting class and a trig class at UT-Martin. Either due to misreading or mis-remembering my schedule, I missed the first day of the trig class.

On the second day, the teacher began on page 67. Although I’d aced two algebra classes and a geometry class in high school and scored a 30 on the ACT-Math test, I didn’t understand anything that woman talked about that day.

Now, I could have found a math tutor, dug in hard for the next forty-eight hours and been caught up by the next class session. But what I did was walk straight from that classroom to the administration building and drop the class. The next semester, I quit my job, moved to Murray State University and began working on my Industrial Education degree. Instead of being an engineer, I became a shop teacher.

Now this isn’t another verse of “Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me.” I am a teacher at heart and a craftsman by nature. I can’t imagine that being an engineer would have fit as well or have been as rewarding to me as education has been. But, I will never know.

What I do know is that one incident altered my life, changing my work, my associations, where I lived and, likely, the material standard of living for my family. What difference might have been if I’d chosen “challenge” instead of “surrender?” Regardless, I have a good life; I have been blessed.

More important than any of those realizations is the awareness that God is always at work, in the aftermath of my best decisions and of my worst ones. In all things, He is working for my good. Even when it is least apparent to me.

H. Arnett
1/24/14

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A Hint of Consideration

Posted on January 23, 2014 by Doc Arnett

My favorite father-in-law ever, Scotty Burleson, was a truck driver. Before that, he was a radio announcer and before that he was a lot of other things. My brother, Paul, still is a truck driver. Before that, he was a diesel mechanic and before that he was a toddler. I thought about Paul and Scotty at 6:06 this morning. That’s when some trucker throttling down on Highway 36 about four hundred feet from my bedroom window decided to use his Jake Brakes.

I believe that Jake Brake is a particular brand of compression braking system. If I was listening closely and remember correctly when Paul explained it, compression braking forces the back pressure of the exhaust system back through the cylinders to slow the speed of the vehicle. The by-product is an extremely loud and irritating noise combining the endearing qualities of machine gun fire, chainsaw exhaust and elephant flatulence, all amplified by a factor of ten on the decibel scale. The intended benefit, for whomever is paying for the maintenance issues of the truck, is that it saves some wear on the conventional braking components, presumably extending the life of pads or linings.

Another result, and here opinions differ on whether or not it is a by-product or intentional primary benefit, is that it allows truck drivers to immediately irritate anywhere from two to two thousand people, depending on time of day and population density. This morning, I was one of a dozen or so, presuming that I’m not the only person in Blair, Kansas, who was still trying to sleep.

Like the truck driver, it’s often easy for me to focus solely upon my own needs, issues and concerns at any particular time. It’s easy to become fixated on my benefit without thought or consideration of the impact on others. That’s why my neighbors might have heard my planer or miter saw running after ten o’clock at night one time or another.

It’s actually pretty rare that I do something for the sole purpose of afflicting someone else. While it’s not impossible, I think it pretty unlikely that this particular truck driver was thinking, “This will really irritate that ole badger trying to sleep in the house on the hill there.” He probably had the Jake Brake switched on and simply lifted his foot off the gas pedal because he was turning off the highway.

That’s why I decided to return blessing for cursing: “Dear Lord, please bless this driver with a very close inspection from the DOT today that will ensure that every single piece of equipment on his truck is in excellent operating condition and that will determine whether or not there is the tiniest little detail out of order in his log books.”

I’m not sure that’s exactly what the Lord meant but I’m working my way there… I really do like my sleep.

H. Arnett
1/23/14

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