Reflections by Doc Arnett

Looking out the window, seeing the sun impossibly bright on these miles of white powder, I think the day must be warmer than it is. There is a brilliant glow on these acres of snow, rippled like the tides rolling in, that makes me think of tropical sands and gentle waters. From inside this heated room, that’s how it seems.

Of course, the first step into that northern wind which has kept the chill factor in the minus category all day long is enough to erase that illusion. I pull the fleece scarf up higher on my face, partially covering my nose. Indifferent to dignity and appearances, I feel my breath held warm beneath the covering and am glad.

We sometimes look at the lives of others, see what seems to be something grand and glorious, something far more attractive than the experience of our own. We see the covering and do not sense the frozen ground beneath. We do not know about the years and tears and troubles and trials that came before and indeed, may be continuing. We don’t know about the ordeals from nearly grown children and decaying parents. The struggles of budget and sickness, accidents and misfortunes. Underneath the outer showing, we have far more in common than we might imagine. Maybe even more than either of us would admit.

In the moments of these marvelous storms, when all of earth seems swept pure and gleaming, there is both aching cold and surpassing beauty. But across the hills and plains, beneath the wonder that so easily meets the eye, every field has its stubble. All that lives upon this earth is from dirt.

I ought to keep that in mind the next time I am tempted toward envy. Or criticism.

H. Arnett

1/13/11

Over the years, stories about dealing with State Motor Vehicle and Drivers’ Licensing departments have become legendary. Having dealt with only a few, mostly midwestern states, I can’t speak to the entire national scene. Noentheless, the stories I’ve read and heard would suggest certain similarities from coast to coast, border to border. When it comes to interactions related to legal registration of transportation, there is a long history of frustration, indignation, and aggravation. And then, there are other citizen’s stories, too.

Those stories become more intricate when adding the aspect of moving from one state to another. I’ve had that one about ten times, although I don’t think I bothered with the title transfer during a couple of short stints.

Space and time and your patience do not allow me to recount those stories at this time. Suffice it to say that not only do states vary considerably in the number of obstacles, challenges and complexities involved, it seems there are at least as many interpretations of the rules of procedure as there are clerks involved in their administration. In fact, I’d say it’s even more than that because some clerks will tell you one thing one day and something else the next. In fact, I had one in Lexington, Kentucky, who didn’t wait till the next day to change her story; she only waited until I came back later the same day.

The guy who comes to Troy, Kansas, once a week to perpetuate the state’s afflictions upon newcomers and long-term residents alike wasn’t like that. He didn’t change his story one bit: ‘birth certificate from your state, not your hospital, proof of residence and your current drivers license." Hoping a personal appearance might touch his more compassionate side, I showed up with the only birth certificate I’ve ever had, all of my grade school and high school report cards, my draft status letter from 1972 and a hopeful expression. Didn’t affect him in the slightest. Same story, same inflection.

Randa had a state birth certificate, her current drivers license and proof of residence. But, she did not have a copy of our marriage certificate or of her divorce decree. (From her first husband, not from me.) The man gave her the same flat rejection that he gave me, no doubt guided by his unswerving devotion to the cause of protecting our neighbors and the country at large from any potential terrorist cells that might be forming among Caucasian Baby Boomers relocating to northeast Kansas from clear across the Missouri River.

I shall remain a public danger, or at least nuisance, driving with a Missouri license in a vehicle now registered in Kansas for a while longer. At least until the first Tuesday following the arrival of my Kentucky-issued driver’s license.

Randa, though, is completely legal now. We did obtain a certified copy of our marriage license, with the help of some very cooperative and friendly courthouse workers in two counties in Missouri and after driving over to Plattsburg. Randa also managed to find a copy of her custody and property settlement but no copy of her official divorce decree or of her first marriage certificate. Even though she did not have a complete paper trail proving who she was at each step of transformation from being born a Burleson to becoming an Arnett, she took what papers she had and headed back to the Doniphan County Courthouse. I stayed home to entertain thoughts of violent arson and anarchy.

When she arrived home barely twenty minutes later, I knew she’d run into the same inflexible attitude we’d found that morning. I was wrong. "No, he accepted everything. I was in and out in five minutes."

Unbelievable.

As for me, I’m still busy forming that anti-government terrorist cell. Some day in the not-too-distant future, I’d like to unleash a veritable explosion of common sense and practical wisdom. Maybe it could help return this country to being a bit more like it was before fear, vengeance and paranoia trumped liberty and personal freedom. Just for good measure and to add a truly revolutionary element, I’d like to put more emphasis on compassion, mercy and forgiveness than on any of those other things.

H. Arnett

1/5/11

These winter mornings

come cold and slow,

a pale showing,

the darkness gradually

giving way

to shades of light.

The night holds to the earth

like a mother

not ready to give way

to the growing up

of a last child.

But above the ground,

the brush,

the dips and sways

of the lay of the land,

the hand of morning

takes hold

and the sky glows

orange, pink, blue.

The changing comes slowly,

tall branches

stroked against the sky,

a promise of greater light,

of brighter time.

We make our way,

stumble from sleep to stirring,

greeting the day

that the Lord has made,

ready for the hand of his work

within us.

H. Arnett

1/4/11

It has been quite some time now since I last had any sort of regular chores to perform. I suppose taking the dog out could count for that but it certainly doesn’t add up to much. Taking care of a horse, on the other hand, does seem to qualify. At least it reminds me a great deal more of those opportunities I embraced so enthusiastically when I was growing up on our row crop and dairy farm in southwestern Kentucky.

I think of those years, days, months and moments while I run water for the horse, clean out the pen, dump a small bucket of feed into his trough. While slipping the halter over his nose and buckling the head strap into place, I remember the Jersey herd and the morning and evening duties that came with it. Regardless of weather, regardless of season, regardless of preferences, it was an established and unalterable given; those things had to be done.

Except for being hired to milk Jack Harrison’s Jerseys the last year-and-a-half of my high school career, I had nothing that seemed to qualify as chores after we sold the farm when I was thirteen. I’m too lazy to go check out the etymology of the word "chore" at this particular moment. I know without looking that it has come to mean something that is unrewarding, boring, monotonous, etc. Perhaps at some point, it meant something quite different, duty married to necessity that translated into the means of continuing life as known or something like that.

I think of chores now as a sort of comfortable reminder that life continues, that I am not yet helpless, that I contribute and have meaning.

I think of this as I dump the latest bucket of horse manure onto the large and growing pile of months of barely processed pasture. I think of it as the horse finishes his morning feed and I walk beside the pasture fence, frozen fescue crumpling and crunching beneath my boots. I think of it as I reach the end of the driveway, bend over and pick up the newspaper in its orange plastic, lying in the frost and gravel. Returning to the pen, I snap the rope onto the halter and lead Tango across the drive to the east pasture. Released, he snorts and spins, kicking at the cold air and taking off across the field.

I close the gate, pick up the paper, walk past the solar charger and flip on the fence. My breath steams and curls into the slight breeze and I head toward the house, its warmth and Randa’s first cup of coffee of the day. These are not chores this morning; these are life’s constant and reassuring rituals.

H. Arnett

1/3/11

Not having owned a horse before, I’m not claiming to be an expert at interpreting equine behavior. Nonetheless, I have to say that I was pretty sure that this one wasn’t acting just right the other day.

Tango’s "grazing pasture" is larger than the one that adjoins the round pen and the shed/stall. Part of the routine since he grazed down the small pasture has been leading him over each morning and turning him loose into the larger pasture. "Larger" here is quite the relative term since it’s not more than an acre; nonetheless, it’s three or four times the size of the smaller one.

Since we don’t have water piped across the driveway yet, I take a bucket or two of water over and set it just inside the fence so he can get a drink during the day. If I happen to forget, he’ll usually remind me in his subtle horse way. All I hear is a nickering but I suspect if I truly understood horse talk it would be something like, "Hey, Dummy! You trying to kill me slowly or do you just like watching a thousand pound animal beg for the necessities?" At any rate, when I see him standing by the fence up toward the horse during the time that he’s usually standing at the opposite corner with his face buried in the grass, I’ll run a bucket of water and take that over to him. He will drain that five-gallon bucket in about thirty seconds or so. Then he’ll do the second one in about the same amount of time.

The other day, I took him a bucket of water. He came up to it, stretched his neck over and set his nose down carefully near the top of the bucket. Then, just before his nose touched the water, he jerked away, kind of like the way you jerk your hand back when you’ve just discovered that a pan you thought wasn’t hot is actually quite hot. Then, he’d step away and circle, come back to the bucket and repeat the process of nearly touching the water with his nose but then jerking away. Even though it was the same bucket he’d been drinking out of for two months, suddenly, it wasn’t a proper means of presenting his hydration supply.

So, I took that bucket away and filled another one. Same response. "Oh, well," I thought, "you can bring a horse some water…" So, I left the bucket setting there and went about my day’s remodeling project. Later, Randa called me over to the window. The horse had expanded his repertoire; he’d go over to the bucket, sniff, jerk away and then take off in a trot along the fence. That escalated to a gallop a little later. Finally, after a few hours of acting like a crazy Arabian horse, he took a drink. Drained the bucket, then knocked it over. I took him another and he gulped it down.

When I took him back to the pen that night, I noticed that he hadn’t been drinking out of his big black plastic watering trough. "Dude," I said out loud, "No wonder you’re so thirsty, you bozo. You haven’t been drinking out of your big black plastic watering trough. Even after I put in a heater to keep your water from freezing." Horses are a bit of a mystery to me and I figure that’s mostly owing to the fact that I know almost nothing about them.

I wondered if there was a short in the heater. I leaned over and swirled my hand through the water. No shock, no jolt, not even a tingle.

The next morning, it was obvious Tango hadn’t taken a drink from the trough. I ran a bucket of water and carried that with me when I led him over to the other pasture. As soon as I let him loose, he turned to the bucket and emptied it. I re-filled it and carried it back over.

Later in the day, I began thinking about his bizarre water-ingesting behavior. There had to be an explanation. I decided to repeat my check of the water trough. This time, instead of just reaching in while leaning over, I decided to bypass the insulation protection afforded by my rubber-soled shoes. I squatted down beside the trough and pressed my left hand against the frozen ground. Then, I flicked the top of the water in the trough with the back of my right hand.

It’s amazing how quickly some mysteries can be solved, once you use the right means of investigation.

That trough water heater is in the dumpster and the tingling in my hands has finally gone away. I can’t help but wonder if the reason some folks don’t go back to church much is due to some similar experience. Might be that the very thing we thought would help had just the opposite effect. Due to the method of delivery, perhaps.

H. Arnett

12/30/10

Sometimes, on a particular winter night, when everything outside is cold, truly cold, there comes a slight drift of warmer, moist air. All that is bare and frozen on the windward side is layered then with a thick coating of white frost. All of color is lost beneath that luminous covering, but each shape is held, perfect and flawless. Only on the leeward side does the crystal covering fail to hide bough and branch beneath its entrancing sheath. We wake to understated display on an overcast day: bare trees strangely white on the ridge, heavy-needled pines soft and glowing on the fence line, winter foxtails bowed to earth in clumps of wonder. Even the path to the barn bears the mark of the gleaming phenomenon.

And then, mid-morning, when the lifting fog is gone and the sun breaks through, low and brilliant in December sky and we catch the sight at just the right angle, what was beautiful becomes glorious. In that spectacular light, dark trunks and thick branches are barely seen in that gleaming of the night’s pure magic.

There are traits of character formed from the work of years and tears, long days and weary nights that only come to light in certain situations. Unsuspecting, we pass by others, unaware of the work of life and grace that has already happened and is still taking place within them. And then, on a particular day, an uncommon event, some certain situation, we see them, suddenly transformed, it seems. And marvel at what the passing night has brought to light.

If we walk in the Spirit, love as we have been loved, and hunger and thirst for righteousness, we, too, will one day wake and find ourselves completely hidden by the glory of Christ.

H. Arnett

12/28/10

I put on boots and coat, pull my new imitation sharpa hat down low so its warm flaps cover the sides of my face. The yarn balls hanging at the ends of the strings would make me feel ridiculous if there were an audience and if the temperature wasn’t down into single digits. After zipping the coat, I put on my gloves and pick up the short lead rope, flip on the switch to the outside light and step out into the night.

The glare of halogen reaches across the driveway, over to the fence controller and even to the wire strand gate. I unfasten the lower two and leave the top wire connected. Dipping under it, I call to the horse and start through the pasture to his dark shape toward the southeast corner. He takes another few bites of grass and then heads toward me. I rub his neck and scratch between his ears, then clip the rope to the bottom ring of his halter. We stand for a moment, our breaths steaming in the low angle of the porch light.

As we walk toward the gate and the house, the light catches on frozen clumps of grass, ice crystals gleaming from dry shafts that rise above the snow. We stop for a few seconds as I unclip the last strand of wire, toss the connector onto the snow and frozen earth, then move on across the drive and toward the shed.

Tango moves with expectant step, sure that after his halter is off and the gate to the pen is chained, there will be sweet feed again, shaken into the heavy bucket hanging on the board beside the water trough just outside the shed that blocks the wind and gives him a place to spend the night. Or something to stand and look at should he choose to stay outside in the pale, thin harshness of this winter night.

It is not just horses that sometimes spurn the comfort and shelter that was intended for their good.

H. Arnett

12/27/10

Is there any parent who doesn’t have some regrets? Is there a father or mother anywhere on the planet, or temporarily off of it that hasn’t thought of mistakes made? Which of us has not remembered some decision, choice or action that we sorely wish we had made or taken a different one? I won’t begin to list mine here nor ask for yours, but will assume that the answesr to that short series of rhetorical questions are "no," "no" and "none."

It may seem odd to think that this brief reflection was prompted by walking down to the horse shed in the dimness of pre-dawn light. Just the tops and brushy ends of the slender trees lining the east ditch stood up against the sky, barely silhouetted in soft strokes. I began to wonder why it is that I’m always fascinated by the beginnings and endings of each day and the thousand ways that light can play in the sky, against the hills and on the ground. I didn’t struggle too long with the "why" and then remembered that it has been a part of me for as long as I can remember. Along with the dairy farm chores of early mornings and late evenings, there were the views of fields and fencerows, gentle slopes and dark branches. I suppose I could have grown up doing the work and paying no attention to the beauty around me.

But I didn’t.

And yes, my parents were not perfect and I could list several of their deficiencies with barely a moment’s pause. And, a longer list of virtues. Either we we wallow in a worsening pit of anger, criticism and harshness or we learn to live in a stream that flows with gratitude and forgiveness. It is that flow that lets us know that we, though human, have the capacity for divine inclinations. In it, we discover that each act of grace cleanses us, renews us, heals us and blesses us. We can come to each day, ready to rejoice in the small and grand glory of life’s complexity or we can begin each in the accumulated filth of past hurts and insults, sleights and injuries.

Is it really that hard a choice?

H. Arnett

12/17/10

A heavy sky hung like the dome of a bell, cold and gray at the narrow part of the day. Only a thin edge of light lay along the southern circle of the sky, just between earth and darkness. As we rode on toward supper and Saint Joe, the banter lagged, lacking its usual punctuations of hearty laughs and gasps for air. It wasn’t somber but a hint of sadness tugged at the edges of the conversation.

Here at this delightful restaurant, this Brazilian grill with its amazing variety and endless supply of grilled pork, chicken and beef, we are saying goodbye to Pete. He has taken advantage of the opportunity to go to work for another old friend at another institution.

He has been a friend ever since I began working at Highland and my boss for the first four-and-a-half years. He is witty, ebullient, passionate. And loud. He is rarely lost in a crowd, delighting friends and peers with stories. Stories that mostly highlight his own misfortunes, false steps and pratfalls. Volume and enthusiasm both increase to the crescendo of one story and drop only slightly for the beginning of the next. By the end of a good round, no one in the area is unaware of his presence. To those of us who love him, we cannot but laugh to the point of tears, both for the story and the teller. For others who prefer quiet, it may only be annoying.

But with Pete, as with all of us, you get the package.

I guess sometimes people would like to just pick and choose from among the attributes of their colleagues, friends and family. Cherishing one thing, despising another, and wishing we only had our druthers about the whole deal. You know, "I’d like a friend to go, please: lots of humor and warmth, easy on the temper and hold the confrontation, please. Oh, and could you add some generosity, too. That’d be just great."

Of course, it doesn’t work that way and so we often simply reject anyone who has anything about them that could be annoying or embarrassing. Or we avoid them when we’re with certain others that we suspect would not like that person. I’m sure there are folks that don’t like Pete for one reason or another. I guess if we’d look fairly close at anyone, it wouldn’t be too hard to find something that doesn’t measure up, doesn’t quite make the cut, something that we’d just as soon not be around.

Well, I’ll take the whole Pete package. I’ll tolerate the Greek boisterousness, the family-engendered loudness, the whatever. For one thing, he’s fun to be around. For others, he’s perceptive, practical, and full of zest. He’s one of the most ethical people I’ve ever known and a hard worker. In nearly seven years, he has never failed to beat a deadline, never failed to carry out a responsibility. And, of course, beyond all that, he puts up with me.

In the end, on the bottom line, when it’s all said and done, that is my ultimate test when it comes to choosing friends. And Saviors.

H. Arnett

12/14/10