Re-Purposing

Posted on June 10, 2013 by Doc Arnett

At one time, the sidewalk on the east side of the house led to a street, or a driveway at least. Its first fifty feet started from the front porch and traversed the first level of the yard. Five concrete steps transitioned to another fifty feet or so of the second level and then five more took it down to the street. The old driveway was long ago covered by grass, after Highway 7 was re-routed to pass by on the south instead of the north side of the house. The old highway is still used but there is seldom any reason now for us to take the path to the north, except when Randa rides her horse out toward Randolph Road or Port William. When a driveway needs mowing once a week, it’s a pretty sure sign that it’s not getting a lot of use.

Perhaps I should say, “It’s not getting a lot of wheeled traffic.”

Every now and then, some dog whose owner is a bit lacking in courtesy toward his neighbors will come trotting across, following her nose and going where it leads her. From time to time, I’ll see a squirrel heading from one of the elms on our north property line to one of the trees lining the east edge of the drive. Most of the foot traffic, though, comes from the rabbits. Especially in early morning and evening, they’ll come out from the shade and shadows of the trees and feast on clover and bluegrass. If it’s still and quiet enough, they’ll even take time for a bit of grooming.

Sitting on their haunches on the old sidewalk, they’ll give themselves a good cleaning, working first one side and then the other. At times, they look so much like cats it makes me laugh. But I’ve never seen a cat wash both sides of its face at once. The bunnies do. Perched on their hindquarters and facing straight ahead, they lick both front paws and then rub them across the sides of their face, from nose toward ear. It seems quite efficient and endearing, though I’m pretty sure it’s not done for my entertainment.

There are worse things than letting the grass cover an old driveway, things more useless than a sidewalk that leads nowhere.

H. Arnett
6/10/13

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Retaining Wall

Posted on May 23, 2013 by Doc Arnett

Good morning and good blessings to you,
Doc

Retaining Wall

Emerging leaves of locust flinch and dip
in the very slight breeze of this nearly still morning.
Drops of water from the sprinkler
form and drip from the lower limbs and branches,
adding to the greening of the wrinkled grass below.

Along the western edge
of what I hope will become a croquet lawn
in just a few more weeks,
a long line of stone blocks
forms a boundary
between the steep of sloping dirt
and flat yard.

We need such as this
to hold the shape of our lives,
something sure and solid,
something hard enough
to keep back the push of the earth,
to make things stay in their place
while the deeper roots are growing.

H. Arnett
5/23/13

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Not Yet Beyond Hope

Posted on May 22, 2013 by Doc Arnett

This story begins with an unhinged door being blown out of its frame by a gust of southern wind. The short version is that I had removed the hinges and handles so I could paint the second-floor door to the balcony without making a mess on the hardware. The blowout came a couple of weeks later, long after the paint had dried but before I’d moved the hibiscus that must spend its winters indoors. The falling door hit the lip of the large ceramic planter, inflicting minor damage to the door and major damage to the planter. Therefore, the hibiscus needed a new home. Fade to another plant, much smaller…

The Purple Heart plant, an exceptionally brittle but attractive specimen with its purple shoots and leaves and pink blooms, also spent its winter indoors. In the mudroom. By November, I had tired of watering the plant and the mudroom floor. (Yes, it would have been possible to have procured some sort of pan, but, well, I didn’t.) And so, by spring, the Purple Heart plant had turned into a Thoroughly Brown plant. Leaves, stems, surface roots and everything other part had morphed into a dry, crispy collage. Last week, Randa set the miserable little mess out in front of the garage for proper disposal. Here’s where the stories merge.

I’d set the hibiscus outside in its broken pot, in the shade for its transition to summer living. On Saturday evening, I decided, finally, to re-pot the thing. I decided to start by adding some additional soil. Conveniently, some was available. I figured that since the Purple Heart was no longer in need of dirt and the hibiscus needed more, I’d simply dump that small container into the large one and then relocate the hibiscus.

Having proceeded with this plan, I began chopping up the clump, a mat of dry stems and root mass. Halfway through the process, I noticed a piece of pale, fleshy stem, about an inch long. I picked it up. “Hmmm,” I thought, “this looks suspiciously like a piece of viable plant material.” Well, okay, what I actually thought was, “Dang, maybe this thang ain’t all dead after all.”

Sure enough, when I scruffed away all of the dead stems down to the very base of the plant clump, there were several little white tips sprouting up from that not-as-dead-as-I-thought mass. I ended up repotting the Purple Heart and found other dirt for the hibiscus.

Sometimes by our own neglect, something good in our life begins to look like there’s no hope for it. A relationship, a project, a career path, some dream faded by disappointment and abandoned, whatever. What once seemed ready to flourish turns brown and ugly, nothing but a dried mass of worthless leaves and pieces of stem. Even the roots seem dry and lifeless.

But to the God who makes the dead alive and speaks of those things that are not as if they are, nothing is beyond hope. Nothing.

H. Arnett
5/22/13

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The Insight of Experience

Posted on May 21, 2013 by Doc Arnett

Randa and I waited while Kassie dismounted and opened the first gate. The incredible little bay Quarter Horse mare that has been my lesson horse, Brady, shook her head once and stood still. Randa’s dark Chocolate Rocky, Journey, kept a wary eye on the steers standing and staring at us from fifty yards away. Holding Lil Shiner’s reins in one hand, Kassie swung the gate open and we rode through. She fastened the gate back and swung up onto the palomino gelding’s back, led us off through the field.

Ripples of breeze stroked the thick brome, weaving patterns of silver in the early evening sun. The horses stepped along, seed stalks so tall they nearly brushed their bellies. As we neared the top of the ridge, we could see miles of fields stretching out across Atchison County. Seams of cottonwood and scrub defined the edges of low-lying creeks and ditches while locust, oak and elm patchworked the nearly endless green of pasture and hayfields.

Even with all that lovely scenery around me, I remembered to keep weight against my stirrups, toes up and heels down, to lean back going downhill and lean forward uphill, to use my knees to cue directions to Brady. We rode up and down, followed contours, eased the horses down steep cowpaths to the lake then made our own trail up through the trees.

It was a day made for this: perfect temperature, perfect humidity, perfect sunshine, perfect beauty. It was a day made for a man confronting a lifelong fear of riding horses. A man who had finally decided that learning might be a better way to master that fear, a man who had finally found a teacher and a horse that he could trust, a man who fought through the feeling of giving up during the third lesson. A man who kept trying to follow instructions even when he felt stupid and scared.

He is still a man unready for breaking horses, unready for a spirited horse, unready for galloping off into the sunset. But he finally, and for the first time, actually enjoyed riding a horse. He was sitting straight in the saddle, rein hand low to the horse’s neck, and he was smiling the whole time.

As we headed back toward the barn toward the end of the two-hour ride, I looked across the field, watching the wind dancing and weaving its way across the soft stalks and blades of brome. I felt the sun on my face and the motion of the horse beneath me.

I have not mastered but have learned at least what it feels like to let my lower body move in motion with the horse while keeping my upper body balanced. Finally, I have gained an understanding that comes by participation instead of observation. Now I know why people love riding a horse.

There are certain experiences and perspectives, gratifications and appreciations that we cannot understand by the descriptions of others: the smell of a rose, the softness of a baby’s skin, the joy of love, the unfathomable release of genuine worship. The skeptic can judge but not understand. And of what value is judgment without understanding?

H. Arnett
5/21/13

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Witness of Morning

Posted on May 17, 2013 by Doc Arnett

I love these spring mornings that come just before the heat of summer: a low, soft mist hanging above the pasture in the flats beside the creek, drifting ever so slowly in the slight push of breeze before the sun clears the trees on the eastern ridge. I like the cool feel of night’s lingering before that surrendering to the dawn. The stillness of the leaves and limbs on the locust tree behind the house feels like God’s good speaking into my soul and spirit, calming me, quieting me. I like the way slow steps toward the barn leave a dark trail in the grass, thin strokes darkening the silvery dew that show the way of someone’s passing.

I like the slight strokes of color in the sky, the pink tinges that touch the edges of thin clouds holding near the southern horizon. I love seeing the showing of coming sunrise in the changing hues of the eastern view and how it seeps into day. I like the way colors deepen softly in the shadows and how the dew lasts all morning in the shade.

I like the soft smells of grass and trees, the way a scent can seem to hang in the air in one spot and be lost the minute you turn away. I like the feel of the air against my skin, how it freshens the sense of defining the space that I call “self.” I like how the sound of my own footsteps disappears in the calls of blackbirds and doves.

I like the quiet beginnings of these good days and the way they bring me to give thanks and worship my Creator, to adore the Maker more than the things that are made. I love the witness of morning, ancient as earth and fresh as the promise of heaven.

H. Arnett
5/17/13

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Cool Risings

Posted on May 16, 2013 by Doc Arnett

A few cows move through the mist of morning
in the pasture beyond the highway.
Heavy dew has formed on the thick grass,
leaving a dull silvery look.

The cows weave dark trails in their passing,
a tracing of paths made where they
have wandered on their way
to some particular patch of forage.

A light gray hangs in the air
between the ground and the top of the trees,
dimming the shape of Randolph Creek,
softening the edges of the bluffs and the woods.

More mist hangs amidst the hills beyond them,
a few layers shouldered above bare fields
and yet more distant hills,
somehow both rising and settling

among branches freshening with green
on this morning that seems to speak
of both summer and spring,
a glistening dawn of gentle contradictions
spawned by the heat of day and the cool of darkness.

We are born to all seasons,
finding reason for hope and gladness
in the rest of night
and in the light of following morning.

H. Arnett
5/16/13

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A Change in the Night

Posted on May 15, 2013 by Doc Arnett

Even on someone as dense as me,
the irony of yesterday’s ninety-six degrees is not lost;
two days ago, we had frost.

As I waited during the current construction
on Highway 36 near Troy,
I felt the wind toying with the car,
watched bits of plastic whipped along,
sliding toward Iowa.

The day of high breeze and temperatures
sapped the surface moisture
from the newly seeded section of lawn
but it was useless to try watering
in that.

In the night, though,
the wind passed on,
leaving this quiet dawn of still branches
and gentle sky,
the first bit of color coming
softly through the leaves of the trees
and whispering peace
upon the beginning of this good day.

H. Arnett
5/15/13

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Different Views

Posted on May 14, 2013 by Doc Arnett

After my latest lesson in the fine art of equestrianism, (translation: how to not fall off of a moving horse), I decided that I’d take my wife over to Mueller’s for a late supper. Since my riding lessons and the little restaurant are both in Atchison, it seemed a rather convenient arrangement.

We sat on the deck, enjoying our drinks and watching the muddy Missouri roll along underneath the three bridges that connect Kansas and Missouri at this particular point. The nearest bridge, and lowest, is the old railroad bridge, a gridwork of heavily rusted steel and iron braced by limestone pillars and set just above the five-hundred-year flood line. The middle one, both in elevation and proximity to the others, is the old highway bridge. With chunks of asphalt missing from the honeycomb metal flooring, it is–in both appearance and driving feel–the most disconcerting bridge across which I’ve ever driven. Every traverse made me wonder if that particular moment might be the one at which the rest of the structure might decide to join all of those sacrificial chunks of pavement that had already plunged into the river below. The tallest and broadest of the bridges is the one still not quite completed.

We watched for a while as a man worked sixty feet above the floor of the bridge, moving about in the lift basket. From our distance, we could not tell exactly what he was doing, but Randa was convinced that he had the best vantage point in the vicinity.

“That would be fun,” she declared as I chewed another deep fried onion. My wife has no fear of heights, a fact most firmly revealed in 2001 when we obliged ourselves to a parasailing adventure six hundred feet above the bay at South Padre Island. “You know what kind of view he has up there?” she queried. “Well, yes,” I responded, “You could see Saint Joseph and Kansas City from up there.” I said this with some awareness that there might be a bit of exaggeration but I thought it good to acknowledge her point emphatically.

We couldn’t see either of the other cities from our seat on the wooden deck, but we could see families strolling along the river, some walking their dogs. We could see the ripples of water surging southward and the birches and cottonwoods in early leaf on the opposite bank. And, as the last bit of sunstreak faded from the western sky hidden behind us, we could see soft streaks of pink brushing the eastern clouds beyond the river.

While we ought to always keep in mind and seek that higher perspective of greater distance and discernment, we should not overlook the wonder that is around us. Especially when it comes with onion rings.

H. Arnett
5/14/13

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Lord’s Day Afternoon

Posted on May 13, 2013 by Doc Arnett

There are certainly other things that I could be doing,
and perhaps a couple of “shoulds,”
but this is the choice that I have chosen:

A gentle breeze shuffles the still-forming leaves
on the Crimson King maple we planted in December of ‘Eleven.
I paid premium (even at half-price)
to get a twenty-foot-tall tree,
but ninety degrees in March of the following spring
tricked the tree into believing that winter was over.
The freeze that followed killed the upper third
of its budding branches.

Such are the chances taken
when the temporary lies of temperature
tempt us into thinking we can escape the season.

Now today, after frost
on the second Sunday morning of May,
we set our lounge chairs on the low deck
that spreads around the older maple,
sipping cold drinks and soaking up the sun
that slips through frittering leaves,
happily caught in the nether
between warm glare and gentle breeze.

Even in this world
of killing cold and burning heat,
there are such moments of quiet and peace
for those who seek them
with sufficient determination.

H. Arnett
5/13/13

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The Finer Points of Law

Posted on May 9, 2013 by Doc Arnett

The Missouri Highway Patrol has this amazing courtesy information program. For only ten dollars, one of their many friendly patrolmen will arrange a personal conversation with you, no matter how urgent your trip or time frame. They will take time out from their very busy day in order to bring you up to speed, so to speak, on some of the finer points of Missouri traffic law.

Say for instance that there is a light mist in the air and you, being an ignorant lowlife scum-sucking Out-of-State humanoid are under the mistaken impression that your daytime running lights, visible from the next county on a misty day, fulfill the intent of the Missouri lights and wipers law. This law states that whenever weather conditions require the use of wipers, “lighted lamps” must be in use. Oh so sorry, not those lighted lamps, no indeed.

Again, for only ten dollars, Officer Joe Johnston, or some other equally friendly representative of the MHP will pull you over, delay your travels without additional charge and provide you with this important information: you, sir, are breaking the laws of the state of Missouri and we don’t abide such from riffraff passing through these parts.

Officer Johnston, or other MHP member of similar grace and charm, will also, for no extra charge, verify that your insurance and registration are proper and current. In addition to that, and this will just curl your toenails with extreme gratitude, Officer Johnston will also request that the Invisible Person with Radio Receiver and Transmitter will check to see if there are any outstanding warrants on you or Other Person Who Has the Same Name.

You may be quite surprised, as indeed I truly was, to discover that “you” do indeed have such warrants. Should you discover that someone else, who has the same name as you do, has indeed run afoul of the law, in whatever slight or serious manner, you will be especially grateful to learn this: said foul villain does NOT have the same Social Security Number as you. Now, if by the strangest stroke of grievous injustice it turns out that this person DOES have the same SSN as you do… well, that story isn’t going to end quite so soon or sweetly. Non-extraditable warrant or not.

I am glad that when I stand before the One True and Great Judge, I won’t have to worry about what stupid things some other poor fool has done. In fact, thanks to the grace of the God Whose Son Died for Me, even the stupid things this fool has done will be covered.

And, by the way, just in case Harold W. Arnett of Cape Girardeau, Missouri, is reading: get your vehicle properly registered, dude. Today!

H. Arnett
5/9/13

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