Building with Josh

Posted on October 6, 2022 by Doc Arnett

Even though our oldest grandchild is twenty-three now, this is the first time we’ve had a grandkid spend any solo time with us. It’s been worth the wait.

Nineteen now, Josh spent a week with us as a nine-year-old back in 2012, along with his two years older brother, Nathan, and his two years younger cousin, Reese. The high point of that trip was probably the mud fight in Peter’s Creek. Pretty impressive how much mud four kids can sling in a short time, even if one of them is closing in on sixty.

There’s a big flat rock we hauled up from the creek that day that is now laid into the smooth stones of the patio that commemorates that event.

Another, bigger memento from that visit is the twelve-by-twenty deck his brother Nathan helped me build. Josh and I are currently working on an even bigger project now; we are building a twelve-by-twelve loafing shed for the horses. It’s going well so far.

In just three days, we’ve set the seven framing posts, added horizontal stringers for putting up the external siding, and a solid kickwall of 2×10’s up four feet high on the inside. Yesterday afternoon, we added three rafters. Lord willing, we’ll finish the rafters this morning and start installing the roof decking this afternoon.

When we finish, there’ll be a horse shed in a corner of the little pasture, near the north maple tree. It will give the horses a place to get away from the flies on those hot Kansas summer days and a place to shelter from the bitter winds of Januarys on the prairie. Open to the east, it will block the prevailing winds and give at least an out-of-the-rain option should the horses choose it.

As long as it stands, it will function as a reminder of these good days spent working side by side with Josh. There’s not much else that means as much to a man as being able to teach the skills of his hands to a grandson. To share the beauty of perfect autumn days in the shaping of wood, building something good. Something that will make things better for others.

Watching Josh ten feet up in the air on an aluminum ladder, switching to his left hand to hold the driver as he is setting in the screws that fasten a heavy rafter to an even heavier header, I smile a silent prayer of thanksgiving for this good day.

H. Arnett

10/6/2022

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West Kentucky Reunion

Posted on September 26, 2022 by Doc Arnett

Morning sun slants through limbs and leaves leaving streaks of light and patches of shadow
on the autumn grass of my youngest son’s backyard.

Five camping chairs sit around a ring of stone
and pile of ashes where last night
I joined Jeremiah and one of his brothers
and a grandson born of their oldest brother
sat beside a fire built of branches
and a few pieces of leftover lumber.

While the kids slumbered in warm beds,
we sat outside in cool air,
sharing late into the night
stories and memories brought to light
by dancing flames and glowing coals.

If we stood and turned our eyes
away from the fire,
we could see a fainter, higher light,
speckled in the night
through the high branches of the big pine tree
and beyond the upward limbs of a massive oak.

It is his Ben’s second night here
after moving back to Murray
from too many years in Houston.
It is obvious in their faces and voices
the pleasure that they look forward to sharing here living near each other once again.

I hope that they will someday know
the deep delight that a Father takes
in seeing the plain love
of his own begotten for one another
so clearly shared
and showing in their eyes and on their faces
in the glow of a late night fire
stoked by seasoned oak and held close
in night’s revealing light.

H. Arnett
9/26/22

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Learning from the Ants

Posted on September 16, 2022 by Doc Arnett

If I ever get around to composing Uncle Doc’s Dynamic Illustrated Dictionary, I’ve already got the picture in mind for the word “opportunistic.”

It’s not going to be some polluted politician or some demented demagogue. No sirree, thank ye lads and lassies, it’s going to be something even more pervasive and persistent than that. Something that I think perfectly illustrates the notion defined by Oxford Languages as “exploiting chances offered by immediate circumstances without reference to a general plan or moral principle.”

The inspiration for this particular illustration stems from a few weeks of repairing and/or replacing wooden framing in our garage and our little barn. Two or three months ago, I tore out about twenty feet of foundation base plate in the garage. Also had to replace several vertical wall studs. In the past two weeks, Randa and I have torn out damaged sole plate, studs, and window framing in the barn.

Naturally, when I think of wood damage, I think of termites. Blasted little dendrological parasites, eating our homes and houses for lunch and leaving a trail of pine crumbs in their wake. Munching and crunching our carefully constructed dreams like a horde of angry Mongols. Yep, I’m sure of it; I hate ‘em.

And, in our labors and adventures of recent renovation, we’ve found some evidence of termite damage but no active infestations. What we have seen is an enlightening indication of the recent, present, and clearly intended future wood destroying capabilities of the common ant. Thousands of the little devils.

In a certain way of thinking, I see them as even more pernicious than termites. Termites eat wood; ants seem to just chew through it to make room for themselves. That’s their destructive device, making tunnels to the larger rooms they’ve cleared out inside our wooden frame members. Burrowing in, up, underneath, and beyond. Boldly going where no man has gone. Or can get to without tearing something up.

But the kicker on this, the trait earning their place in Uncle Doc’s Dynamic Illustrated Dictionary, is the way they take immediate advantage of any sort of hiding, nesting, sheltering, concealing themselves while prodigiously propagating, opportunity.

Set an unused black plastic salt block holder on the ground and come back in a few days and lift it up. Hundred of ants start scurrying around, frantically grabbing eggs and heading for their next chance. Set a board down on the ground and come back in a few days. Ditto. I’ve even found them trying to colonize the insides of the plastic tank on my forty-gallon, tractor-mounted, ten-foot boom sprayer!

Time and time again, I’ve picked up something lying around one of the buildings and found ants underneath. On Tuesday, I laid a damp tarp on a low retaining wall to dry off. It was folded in half. On Thursday afternoon, I picked the tarp up so I could finish folding it up and store it. As I was lifting it, I saw ants scurrying around on the gravel underneath the tarp. On a hunch, I opened it up. Sure enough, dozens of ants with their smug little schemes suddenly interrupted and interfered with, madly running about… inside the tarp that had been there less than forty-eight hours! Yep, I’m sure of it; I hate ‘em.

But even in the hate, I admit I am impressed with their capacity for rapid location and exploitation. Solomon admonished us lazy types thousands of years ago, “Go to the ant, you sluggard; consider its ways and be wise!” (Proverbs 6:6)

I didn’t have to go to the ants; they came to me. But I have considered their ways.

Cynical wisdom suggests that I surround my dwelling and its companion buildings with a ten-foot perimeter of concrete and saturate all exterior surfaces with deadly chemicals on a weekly, if not daily basis. A truer wisdom suggests that I lay up treasures in heaven where moth, rust, and ants can’t destroy.

If I were to become similarly opportunistic when it comes to doing good and obeying the Lord, it’d be no small treasure.

H. Arnett

9/16/2022

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Blue Baby

Posted on September 14, 2022 by Doc Arnett

One-hundred-and-nine years ago today, Charlie Franklin Arnett was born to Cletus and Ophelia Arnett in Calloway County, Kentucky. More specifically, in the vicinity of Browns Grove, a small but thriving (at that time) farming community in western Kentucky. His two older sisters had been born without incident so far as the family record goes. Not so with little Charlie.

“I was what they called ‘a blue baby.’ They didn’t expect me to live more than a few hours. Guess they were wrong,” he calmly related several decades later. “They alternated dipping me in cold water and then putting me in warm blankets. They thought that would stimulate circulation.”

He paused there and then added, “I guess it worked. Something did.”

Indeed, something did work, and he did survive, for over ninety-five years. But there was another complication with his birth that was not remedied at the time or at any other time: his father, my grandfather, died two weeks before Dad was born.

Several years later, Ophelia married Albert “Bert” Bazzell. Mary and Jenny moved into Bert’s place with Grandma, but Charlie was sent to live with Ophelia’s parents. In exchange for a roof over his head and food on his plate, Charlie helped out on their farm. From what I gather from the limited recollections that he shared, he seemed less grandson to them and more hired hand or indentured servant.

In addition to the hard work of tobacco, corn, hay, and such, he was plagued with health problems as a youngster. He missed so much school that he was twenty years old by the time he finished high school at Lynn Grove.

But finish high school he did, and three years of college in Freed-Hardeman’s (Henderson, TN) preacher program. For nearly eighty years, he preached in congregations of the Church of Christ in Kentucky, Tennessee, North Carolina, Illinois, and a few other states as well. He also farmed, built houses, helped raise six kids, and did a host of other things.

Among the most cherished, perhaps, and almost certainly the most poignant, was being by his mother’s side when she passed away at eighty-three years of age. “I just sat there by her bed, holding her hand. She never fought, never gasped for air, or struggled at all. She just quit breathing, that’s all.”

I don’t believe there was another time when I heard such tenderness in his voice nor saw it on his face. Sometimes, it seems, sorrow brings out the best in us.

H. Arnett

9/14/2022

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Where Two or More Are Gathered

Posted on September 12, 2022 by Doc Arnett

One of my favorite promises from the Lord—among many—is the one that Jesus made to his disciples regarding his presence: “For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.” (Matt 18:19-20)

It’s really pretty cool, isn’t it?

Doesn’t take several hundred or a few thousand or even a dozen or more. Just a couple of folks sharing faith and a desire for the presence of Christ. And not just a peripheral presence, no sir! Right smack dab in the middle. At the very center. Which works out rather nicely. And… is right where those who gather in his name want him to be.

I’ve witnessed his faithfulness to this pledge again and again and again over the decades of my life thus far. Felt his presence, seen it in the expressions of others. As palpable as any object or other being in the room. Known within my heart, mind, and spirit that he is, indeed, right there, communing with his people through his Spirit and his presence.

Whether it’s with a room full of friends, a handful of family, or just Randa and me, it never fails to bring me a sense of comfort and reassurance. Knowing not only that he is hearing us through our prayers and our praises but is also speaking to our hearts and souls. Communication that transcends language, messages beyond words, expression greater than conscious thought.

And that brings a peace that passes understanding.

If you aren’t experiencing this in your worship group, I’d like to suggest that you consider adding a smaller group meeting to your spiritual repertoire. It only takes you and one other…

H. Arnett

9/12/2022

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My Father’s Tools

Posted on September 9, 2022 by Doc Arnett 
Thirteen years, one month, and one day after my father passed away, 
I am finally doing something with the few hand tools of his 
that I bought from Mom’s estate after she died five years later.

They have spent the greater part of their time with me 
gathering dust on a rack of old lumber in my garage.

In the dark, early hours of a sleepless August morning,
I am facing a barrage of memories
and forming something of a shrine,
or at least a memorial.

The glow of ceiling shop lights fades into a gravel halo
out beyond the open door while I work above the floor
at the opposite end on a windowless wall.

I have chosen to set them up high 
where they will gain little notice from casual visitors
but will easily remind me—when I choose—
of blisters that turned into calluses,
crops that turned into cash,
lumber that turned into barns,
livestock that turned into food,
days that turned into decades.

Working off the upper steps of a four-foot ladder,
I set nails and screws to place each tool
in a way that keeps some space between each
and holds them well beyond easy reach.

It goes slow with the heavy touch
of hard, cold steel in the wrenches,
the menacing tip of the tobacco spears,
the smooth, years' worn feel of the burley knife,
the fine-toothed blades of meat saws,
a large, long, handle-less auger bit
and the warm, wooden grips of the old hand saws.

And with each I remember the man
I feared, loved, and eventually admired,
and the dawn-to-dark hours of growing up
on a dairy farm in western Kentucky
where it seemed that he knew how to do everything
that needing doing with wood, wire, pipe, brick, or block,
or even dirt and seed.

I have plenty of other tools
to do the jobs I choose to do
from time to time
and I’m not planning on using these
in the common manner as might be expected.

Sometimes, such things as these
have earned a greater respect,
although it is hard to imagine any greater
than that earned by a tool that does well
what it was designed to do.

But there are occasions 
when the hands that have held such things as these
have made them more sacred and more pleasing
than the purpose they were given.
Such things as this should not be too easy to touch.

These have earned their rest
and so has he.


H. Arnett
9/9/2022
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Smoky Mornings

Posted on September 7, 2022 by Doc Arnett 
On a misty morning like this,
With the low hills of northeast Kansas
Caressed by fog and covered with dew,
And the fresh new of a September morning
Muted by such clouds as this,

It is hard not to miss the soft smell
Of hardwood fires smoldering in old barns
Beneath heavy tiers of dark-fired tobacco,
Gray smoke pressed close to earth
Slowly drifting beneath tall hickories,

Across thick fescue
And sifting through the fences
That line the banks and ditches
Following the low slopes and hard cut curves
Of narrow backroads in West Kentucky.


H. Arnett
9/6/22
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Written in Stone

Posted on September 7, 2022 by Doc Arnett

Twenty-three years ago, the previous owners of this place poured a new concrete floor for the little barn. Usually, I have no idea who or when things were done but, in this case, there’s pretty clear evidence right there in the floor itself: the names of both parents, the kids, and the year.

To put the floor in, they had to jack up the whole building, prop it in place with temporary braces, cut through all the studs, and remove the lower fifteen inches or so of the wall. Then, they had to build forms around the perimeter, pour, screed, and finish the concrete floor. All while working around the current structure. Pouring a floor is hard enough work, even when unencumbered.

They even went the extra mile, laying down a single course of concrete blocks on top of the new floor around the west and north sides and part of the east side. After that, they installed new sole plates and crippled studs to reconnect the vertical supports. A lot of work.

Sometimes, it’s pretty obvious whose work has laid the foundations of our lives: parents, close relatives and friends, teachers, perhaps even a mentor or two along the way. Other times, the influence is more subtle, maybe a sustained gentle touch rather than apparent moments and events. Either way, the shaping takes place, and we continue becoming who we are, who we’ve chosen to be.

At times, it’s easy to see the Lord’s work taking shape through those various influences. Regardless of ready perception, we know that he is at work in all things for our good.

Whether dramatic or barely discernible, it is good to be mindful of—and grateful for—all of those who have had a part in shaping us. We owe them much, and one of the best ways of showing genuine appreciation is to continue building on the work that has already been done.

Until it is truly completed.

H. Arnett

9/7/2022

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Thirty-Three Years & Counting

Posted on September 2, 2022 by Doc Arnett

As our thirty-third anniversary rolled around, we weren’t quite sure how to celebrate. We would have liked to take a trip out of town but one of the horses—Gin Rippy—just had surgery and we needed to stay here and do the twice daily dosage of follow-up antibiotics. Figured we’d come up with something, at least dinner out or what have you.

With gentle flames flickering on the leaves and peaches of our ornamental tree on the north patio, we discussed plans while reclining near the freestanding firepan the evening before. We decided to do a day of low-key threes…

Right after we fed Gin and Earl and moved them over to the pasture, we drove to a local diner for breakfast. Exactly three miles away.

Star 36 Diner has an amazing menu for a small place and excellent food served in overabundant helpings. Randa and I each had enough left over from our skillet choices to make breakfast for the morning after. So, we did.

Then, we went back home, rekindled the fire from leftover coals, and sat, drinking coffee and reminiscing about our favorite anniversary celebrations. The ten-year in Baltimore at the Harbor Renaissance and the twenty-fifth in Wyoming were the toppers. We also agreed that the last ten years have been easier than the first ten.

Long about one p.m., we headed over for lunch at Boudreaux’s Cajun Food in St. Joseph. Fresh gator tail nuggets at an old Saint Joe landmark made a great prelude to Randa’s blackened salmon and my Cajun Seafood Mashed Potatoes (shrimp and crawdad).

From there it was out to the Jesse James Junk Mall & Outdoor Overpriced Relics to nose around for some rusty rustic additions to our garage landscaping. Found a few. Well, specifically, three from the Jesse James Mall.

Then, we drove another three or four miles back to downtown for local craft refreshments at River Bluffs Brewery on Frederick. Nice place in an old brick warehouse with pleasant vibes and nice street views. Counting lunch, it was three beers between the two of us.

Then, it was back home for more sitting by the fire and recollections until time for the evening feeding and forced dosage ritual for Gin Rippy. I put a big chunk of wood on the fire and we headed down to the barn. After that, I got caught up on the two episodes of our new viewing addiction, Designated Survivor, that I’d slept through the afternoon before.

Then, with the rich pastel colors of another nice sunset fading into dusk, it was time for our third jaunt of the day.

We chose El Canelo’s which has become our favorite Mexican place and is only eight miles away. In the last light of day, we saw the silhouette of a great heron perched in the upper branches of a big dead tree by a small lake. Same place we’d seen one (probably the same one) a couple of weeks earlier.

At El Canelo’s, we picked an outdoor table and the weather was quite affirming of our choice. Day’s heat sliding into evening’s cool. I laughingly suggested keeping the day’s theme going with three shots of tequila but neither of us wanted to finish up such a good day in that way. Comatose is really not that romantic…

So we just opted for more good food and slow-paced dining. Thoroughly pleasant.

We drove home back beside that same small lake but it was too dark to see any wildlife silhouettes. But not too dark when we got home ten minutes later to see deep red coals glowing underneath the big chunk of wood in the firepan. We toasted marshmallows over the fire we’d started the night before and then improvised smores by substituting Reese’s Cups for milk chocolate. Not as good as Hershey’s but better than a plain graham cracker with nothing but a marshmallow.

It was low key, all in all, no grand destinations or exciting travel. But most of making a marriage strong and solid and warm and fun is not done in the great adventures but in the way we handle the day to day.

It’s not bonfires and fireworks but the continual replenishment of the true fuel. The loving and caring, the kindness and consideration, and especially—the appreciation—are the things that make it good. And make it last. Make it something you want to celebrate… every day.

H. Arnett

9/2/2022

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Gritty Conversation

Posted on August 31, 2022 by Doc Arnett 
This Kansas man went through more life-changing tragedy in just over a year than many of us might see in ten or twenty or more.

It started back in 2011. A heavy cable being used to pull a piece of heavy equipment snapped under extreme tension and caught Dave on the right side of his face. It broke his jaw, fractured the eye socket, and eventually blinded him in that eye. Another blow left even more damage.

“While I was still laid up from that, my wife was diagnosed with cancer in the spring of 2012.” She died in November of the same year. 

A couple of months ago, I went over to Dave’s place to get a small load of gravel loaded into my pickup truck. As we walked around some of his rock piles, I asked him how he was doing, “Did you ever get healed up after that accident back in 2011?”

He lightly rubbed the right side of his face and said, “Well, yeah, but I can’t see anything out of this eye.” Then he added, “But the big thing now is I had a massive heart attack last year.” 

“Man, I’m sorry to hear that!” I exclaimed.

“Yeah, I didn’t go to the hospital right away. Doctors told me I’d suffered forty per cent more damage because I waited. I didn’t think it was a heart attack; I thought it was acid reflux.”

My response conveyed my usual reflex of gentle caring: “If you weren’t such a tough old bastard, you’d have gone to the hospital sooner, wouldn’t you?”

His response conveyed his usual reflex of unpolished perspective: “If I weren’t such a tough old bastard, I’d have died! I’ve had three different doctors tell me that.”

We talked another few minutes and then he described how much the heart attack had changed his life. “I can’t do anything anymore like I used to. If I just stay on the Bobcat, I can work but if I’m doing a water line or something like that where I have to get in and out and up and down, I just can’t do it.”

“I hate it. I hate not being able to do for people, you know.”

It’s tough when life takes away what you want to do. It’s tough not being able to do what you used to do. It tears away at your psyche, eats away at your self-esteem. Honestly, it messes up how you define yourself. I think a lot of us, maybe most of us, figure that a big part of who we are is what we do. And when what we can do now isn’t what we have always done, it’s hard to deal with.

“Dave,” I said, “I want to ask you a personal question. If you want to tell me, ‘It’s none of your damn business,’ just tell me.”

He looked at me with a bit of curiosity, “Go ahead.”

“With all the stuff you’ve been through, losing your eye, losing your wife to cancer and now this massive heart attack, did you ever get pissed off at God? Did it change your faith or anything like that?”

I expected it might take him a minute or two to answer. I thought he might say something about being angry or bitter or something like that. I’m pretty sure if I’d been through those things, I’d have been chockfull of discouragement and resentment. But for Dave, there wasn’t the slightest hesitation. 

“No, it made me like him more.” 

I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how the man could possibly even say that, much less believe it. I think he instantly read my expression and then explained his confession. 

“He kept me alive… I was able to be there and take care of my wife. I was able to be there for her.”

My astonishment morphed into conviction. I thought about some of the petty times when I’ve been peeved with God, some of the times when my trivial troubles led me to host my own little pity parties. Here’s a guy who nearly died, twice. A guy who can’t do what he’s used to doing, can’t be the person he knows he was and still wants to be. Yet, he chooses to be grateful to be alive. 

I’d gone over to get some gravel; I left with a whole load of humility and inspiration. 


H. Arnett
8/31/2022
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