A Good Start

As I reached into the bread box
for two slices of sandwich loaf,
I saw the biscuits you made on Monday morning
while I was doing the feeding.

My mom made biscuits
nearly every morning
while we were milking the cows.

Paul and I would come back to the house,
get ready for school
while Dad finished up the cleaning
in the milk shed.

The smell of biscuits and bacon
cooking in the kitchen
called us to be quick
about getting cleaned up
and to the table.

I still remember
how homemade butter and jelly
thinned on hot biscuits

and when the eggs were all gone
and Mom wasn’t looking,
I’d rub my finger across the plate
and lick the last taste of sorghum molasses.

There are worse ways to start a day
than by showing love with something
as warm and fine
as homemade biscuits.

H. Arnett
1/22/14

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Life Is Good

I am not looking forward to heading out to work this morning. Now of course a prime suspect in the lack of motivation on that point would be my inherent laziness exacerbated by a long weekend of lolling about on the couch, watching football and eating potato chips. Having had yesterday off work might be contributing to my current disinclination as well. The real culprit, though, is the much-welcomed visit of warm weather that we had on Saturday and Sunday.

A howling northwest wind served notice last evening that our visitor was headed for other parts and our replacement guest would be much more obtrusive. We’ve gone from a high yesterday of fifty degrees to a current wind chill of minus seventeen. I am not looking forward to the introduction that will occur as soon as I step out of house in just a little while.

But… I have warm clothes, the car is in the garage and I trust that the heater will be working. I don’t have to work outside today, I don’t have to walk three miles uphill both ways to go to school and our furnace appears to be working here in the house. On most days, gratitude properly includes both what we have and that from which we have been spared. I am loved, cared for, provided for and have more than I need. Even on a cold day.

H. Arnett
1/21/14

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Full Moon

Given the current culture of fixation on zombies and vampires and the multi-billion dollar industries associated therewith, I’m guessing there are a lot of people, especially those half my age or less, who can’t see a full moon without thinking about things that go bump in the night. In the same way that Stephen King ruined us on clowns, Twilight and The Walking Dead and a bunch of other such things have soiled the full moon.

In fairness, we had Dracula and Frankenstein over a half-century ago and plenty of other movies, books, magazines and such that certainly provoked the shadowy side of human fear and fascination with monsters. If there was any lack whatsoever, we often made up for it with our own imagination. Whether it’s ghosts in the closets or wolves under the bed, most of us had to struggle with dread of some fashion or another.

Maybe it’s an ancient fear of darkness and danger that is so deeply rooted in our nature as to be genetic. Stir that into the mix of the quasi-sadistic pleasure that adults take in frightening children and it seems quite unlikely that the horror genre in literature and film is likely to fade from the earth. I will do my small quixotic part, though.

Like taking my grandkids for walks on a moonlit night, showing them how a gravel road lights up in the glow of the moon. Like pointing out to them how even a quarter moon can show the shape of the land on a clear night. I’ll remind them of how the lesser light that rules the night can be incredibly bright on the snow. And I’ll tell them, too, that the shining of the moon is testimony that the sun is still shining on the opposite side of our planet.

It might do nothing to take away the fears stirred by all the other, but it could at least provide a bit of balance. And something to someday share with their grandkids. A man could do worse than help his descendants see that there is beauty even in the midst of darkness.

H. Arnett
1/17/14

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Morning Duty

I step into the darkness,
feed bucket in hand.

A warming has come in the night,
bringing a rising of thin-wisped clouds
that lightly shroud a setting moon.

Its bright halo
silhouettes the long limber limbs
of the locust tree,
swaying softly in the glow.

A darker form banks below the moon,
dull slate of coming cold.

Overhead, stars set light
to the winter sky,
high above satin curls
of scattered seams of clouds
as I walk beneath the birches,
headed toward the barn.

South of east,
the least bit of pink
etches long fingers
stretching above the ridge.

In the shadows of the shed,
I feed the gelding,
fill the water trough.

In no more time than this,
the shroud has tightened around the moon,
leaving nothing more than its core of light.

I walk back towards the house,
prophecy of north breeze against my face,
wondering how can I call this “duty”
in the beauty of this place?

H. Arnett
1/16/14

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Rescue and Rehabilitation

In the chilled space of an unheated garage in January, Randa and I sanded on an old door last night. Fashioned of fir, it’s one we’ve had stored since 2006. That’s when we sold our house on Mitchell Avenue in Saint Joseph. We hoped we’d be able to use it someday.

It was the outside door to the basement there. We replaced it with a new door that was superior in every material way: straight, bright, even and smooth on every edge. This door looked like it had been trimmed with a broad axe. There isn’t a straight edge on it. It’s been cut down and cobbled up, gouged and marred, marked and pitted. A thin strip of pine was nailed to the top at some point in its morphing.

Most of the putty that shaped the outside rim around the oval glass passed on long ago. What is left is yellowed, cracked and broken. At the lower side of the glass, where water seeped in and collected, the retaining frame swelled and split, blackened. The varnish is brown and rough as a toad’s back. Just below the large molding and small strip of dentil work below the window is a relief carving. It is fashioned of hand-chiseled bows on either side joined by a string of lily blooms meeting at a marigold blossom in the center and is equally rough and brown as the rest of the door.

Along the inside edge of the three panel sections below the window, lines of quarter-inch beadwork trim the inside edge between the panels and their molded trim. There’s a ten-inch section of missing beadwork and another six inches where the beadwork broke off while we were sanding.

I spent a few hours this weekend sanding the outside frame members of the door. Even after aggressive sanding with a 60-grit pad on a dual-action sander, there are numerous pocks and spots of discoloration.

Last night, there was no electric sander involved. Randa and I worked for over an hour, using small strips of paper to sand the narrow panels and the even more narrow pieces of molding that framed each of them. We occasionally leaned over the little kerosene heater to warm our hands and ease the cramps in our fingers. It is tedious work, this detail sanding. The next two stages of medium and finish grit will go a bit easier and quicker. But this step is crucial, this removing of all of the old varnish. Otherwise, it will be impossible to get the new finish to properly adhere, impossible to get a smooth, mellow stain.

It’s not completely dissimilar from what it takes for us to be re-made in the finer image of our Creator. The renewing of minds and hearts starts with the surrender of the old, the removal of the mars and stains and scars of the former self.

It will not be easy or instant, but this old door will be beautiful again.

H. Arnett
1/15/14

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Artwork

Whatever else can be said about winter in northeast Kansas, I have to admit we have some pretty neat nightscapes. Even though it might not be worth a three-mile hike, the view of a clear sky, bright stars and an intense moon shining across an expanse of snow is definitely worth a short trip outside. I paused on a couple of trips between the garage and house last night to take in our view.

Above the dark forms of spruce and oak and the dense spread of the cottonwood tree, a three-quarter moon shone. A few thin traces of clouds etched long soft shapes in the clear light. It was certainly a bit too chilly to pull up a lawn chair and sit sipping iced tea but I was glad for the moment and grateful for the view.

Beauty has a therapeutic function in our lives, I think. It’s something more than diversion, something deeper and more important. Beauty reaches into an ancient and delicate part of us and speaks both grace and gratitude. We sense a notion of greater power, greater presence, greater purpose. There is reassurance and inspiration, something gentle and profound, majestic and simple. Something in beauty brings a transcendent soothing, like warm water on sore muscles.

Even if we don’t drive to an art museum or schedule a vacation to Hawaii, we should be alert for these moments, these scenes, these interactions. Shadows on the snow, roses in the rain, shifting strands of color in a sunrise. And above those, the beauty of kindness, decency and tenderness.

In regard to these, we should not only be appreciative viewers; we should yearn to become gifted artists.

H. Arnett
1/14/14

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The Frustration of Humanity

With all my mention of remodeling and such, it’d be pretty easy to suppose that I get all that stuff done with a minimum of fuss and bother. I like the notion of myself as an accomplished craftsman who always measures twice, cuts once and makes it fit right on the very first effort. Of course, I also like the notion of myself as a highly respected and deeply cherished citizen at large. In other words, me liking a particular notion of myself doesn’t necessarily imply a high degree of overlap between actuality and imagination.

Take last Friday, for example, when I was installing trim on the kitchen cabinets.

The day had gone right well up until mid-afternoon. Using solid cherry hardwood, I’d routered out and glued up some custom crown molding for the top of the cabinets on the previous afternoon. After final sanding, I’d stained the pieces that I needed and let them dry overnight. Friday morning, I applied a couple of coats of fast-drying sealer, then finished with a coat of polyurethane varnish. No major drips, sags or defects in the finishing. Mid-afternoon, I started the installation.

First piece, a short bit of trim with a forty-five degree angle on one end, fit just right. Using my air-powered finish stapler, I fastened it into place. Then I added the long piece that runs across the front of that segment of cabinets. After I fastened it, I stepped down from the ladder to admire my work.

That’s when I saw the quarter-inch gap between the base of the trim and the frame of the cabinet. Using a block and hammer, I loosened the molding, shoved it back snugly against the cabinet and re-fastened it.

Ten minutes later, on the fourth piece of trim, I made the same cotton-picking mistake as before! If I’d been hired out to me, I’d have threatened to terminate employment. Then, on the very next little cabinet, I had two pieces of trim. The left hand piece had to have a section removed at one end so it could fit in between the window trim and the cabinet. The right hand piece had to have a slight nick made at the opposite end so it would fit closely to the brick chimney. Both pieces had to have a forty-five degree angle cut for where they joined at the corner of the cabinet.

First, I cut the small nick… on the wrong piece. No big deal, small nick would be un-noticed. Then, I made the first cut to remove the section. On the wrong piece. Very noticeable. (Note to self: get rid of this guy!) Fortunately, I had enough left on that piece that I could use it on the next section. I cut a new piece and then removed the section for fitting around the window. On the correct piece. Being more cautious and deliberate, I nailed both pieces into place with no gaps on either side.

Bolstered by finally having done something right, I proceeded to cut the single piece needed for the next section. I cut it an eighth of an inch too short. When I had to cut the replacement piece, that made the only remaining stock too short to use for the final piece of trim needed to finish the kitchen. I had to rip, joint, sand, router, re-rip, glue, re-sand, stain, seal and varnish another three-foot-long piece of molding in order to finish the job. We were definitely past empty threats of firing; by this point, I’d have been demanding compensatory payment.

But, bless my soul, I did finish the job. It’s certainly not the first time in my life, hobby or career that perseverance had to compensate for lack of talent, attention or ability. And it continues to give me more appreciation for the Lord’s commitment to keep working on what he started in me until he has brought it to completion.

In some cases, the problem has more to do with the material than with the Craftsman.

H. Arnett
1/13/14

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Hard Work

I like to tell myself that it’s because of my creative nature that I often start one project, then another and another before the first project is finished. I tell myself it’s because of the stimulation of ideas that I have a partially remodeled kitchen, bathroom, living room, mudroom and garage. I just have too many ideas to focus on only one project, too much creativity to contain.

I’m suspicious that my wife might have a different explanation. Given the opportunity, I think she might suggest a plausible theory or two that would introduce truths that I do not want to embrace. Therefore, I generally avoid giving her that opportunity.

I know that I’m capable of sustained focus; I’ve proved that a few times over the years through jobs, projects, relationships and my career in education. Completing my dissertation ultimately was more about determination and persistence than about intelligence and insight. When I finished it, I felt a profound sense of release and escape. Without having any actual experience on which to base the comparison, I suspect that what I felt was very much like what convicts feel upon their eventual release from prison. It seemed more about survival than about accomplishment.

More likely, it was both. It’s not on the same scale but I’m experiencing similar feelings again; the kitchen is very nearly done, dude!

Thanks to an extended Christmas break at the college where I work and highly focused encouragement from Randa, the remodeling is finished except for a few pieces of trim. Lord willing, they’ll be installed today. Over the past three weeks, I’ve installed and finished end treatment for a partition wall, removed old oak wainscoting, repaired damaged plaster, removed wallpaper and painted two walls, repaired and repainted a section of ceiling, installed baseboard and quarter-round, installed crown molding, repaired and repainted a door frame, fabricated and installed base and end trim for cabinets, filled and sanded and painted old trim and done a few other detail jobs.

The upshot of all this is that now Randa can work in the kitchen and see a bunch of stuff she likes instead of seeing cracks and holes and exposed framework. She is enjoying her kitchen, which means, ultimately, that we both are enjoying a finished kitchen. I’ve had homemade ham and bean soup twice in the last week and there’s fresh Kansas Coffee Cake coming out of the oven at this very moment!

Sometimes, working hard for someone else is the most selfish thing we can do…

H. Arnett
1/10/14

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A Pale Sun

It doesn’t take much wind
to put an ache in your hands
when the temperature lands
in the area of minus double-digits:
the few minutes it takes for feeding the horse
is enough this morning.

Ice and frost cover the gelding’s nose and flank
as he comes to the fence and follows me
to the heavy-planked shed.
He stands, head inside
and butt toward the sun,
crunching sweet feed and beet pulp
while I refill the heated water trough.

Spikes and spears of frost fringe the edge
of unfrozen water,
a two-inch border marking the meeting
of retreating water line
and this deep cold.

Four flakes of alfalfa hay
wait in the stall for the horse’s finishing of feed.
I walk back, north to the house,
glad for warm walls and the smell of biscuits
cooking in the oven.

H. Arnett
1/6/14

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Remodeling 2014

The stairwell leading from the kitchen to the basement is the ugliest part of this old house. There are holes in the plaster, sections where the plaster is loose and large sections where the plaster is gone entirely and the wood lath strips are exposed. There is a section of foundation wall that is completely exposed, the old terra cotta blocks having lost all of mortar and plaster covering. There are holes, too, and sections where someone used expanding foam to fill in gaps and never trimmed the excess. Ugly orange-ish blobs protrude from the wall.

The treads and floorboards of the sections were painted Kelly Green many decades ago. Two sections were covered with Masonite board, also painted green. What wall paint hasn’t flaked off is yellow. Long cracks run through through the plaster of the ceiling and there are sections where it sags, just waiting for the right bit of vibration to drop to the floor beneath.

The back door has been cobbled up, metal braces added to compensate for joint weakness caused by rotting near the floor. Also at the bottom, the wood has completely rotted away from the exterior corners of the doorframe. It, too, is an ugly yellow color. The kitchen door hides the view of all of this mess from visitors.

Over the past three years, I have gotten used to seeing it on my few-times-a-day trips to the basement for laundry, tools, paint. I have gotten so used to seeing it that I really don’t see it anymore. I travel up and down the steps without really even looking at it, much less even bothering to think about it.

Sometimes, blocking out the ugly is a survival technique. Sometimes, we have to live, at least for a while, amidst ugly that we cannot change. Maybe it’s our neighborhood, maybe it’s a particular house. Maybe it’s something totally beyond our control or even our influence. And so, we adjust. Since the constant “pain” of awareness would be an unprofitable consumption of emotional energy, we deaden our senses and continue our lives. That’s fine for the harsh realities of a universe in which we must face our limitations.

But it can also be a dangerous way of refusing to acknowledge changes that we know that we should make, a way of avoiding making things better. Got any old stairwells in your life that could use some work in 2014?

H. Arnett
12/31/13

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