More Beautiful than the Flower

Posted on July 8, 2019 by Doc Arnett

I cannot quarrel with those who praise the beauty of the bloom of the hydrangea, the lily, the rose or the crepe myrtle. Nor can I dispute against those who laud the flowering of the Rose of Sharon, the magnolia, or the tulip poplar. I would not even attempt to refute those who praise the bloom of tulip, iris, daffodil, or a thousand other flowers.

But for my own perspective, I will say that the bloom of the strawberry, blackberry and raspberry carry greater anticipation. The blossoming apple, pear and peach instigate even more admiration. Even the bloom of the black-eyed pea and the lowly pole bean, though not nearly as lovely as those mentioned above, cultivate an even deeper appreciation.

The reason is about as simple as it is selfish: the bloom of berry, fruit and vegetable not only offer beauty, but also the promise of fruit. How can I not yield greater admiration for the fragrant offering that not only delights the eye but also brings forth food in its own due season?

Even so, our faith was never intended to be just a garden show, a bouquet cut to sit and wither on a countertop or table.

True faith, demonstrated in true obedience, blooms forth into love, joy, peace, patience, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Such fruit as this blesses the bearer and those who taste its goodness. And though these things also have a special fragrance and an appealing beauty, none were intended as ornament alone. We are not flowers in God’s garden; we are branches in his vineyard.

H. Arnett
7/8/19

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Hard Rain and Bad Timing

Posted on July 3, 2019 by Doc Arnett

I’ve been working—with more effort and persistence than usual for me—on getting grass to grow between the house and the street on the west side of our little place here in Ark City. It seems like a more attainable goal than getting grass to grow in the street or underneath the house which is why I’ve focused on the strip in between said landmarks. “More attainable” but certainly not easy.

For the first two years we lived here, almost nothing would grow in that area underneath the two large Chinese elm trees. Prone as I might be to needless and unfounded exaggeration, this is not one of those cases. I’m talking about a sandy strip of something that resembles dirt in which not even dandelions, crabgrass or thistles would sprout. Now, folks, that’s saying something in these parts. Generally, those things will flourish in concrete sidewalks and in the cracks of asphalt driveways.

Last year, encouraged by the appearance of several dandelions, a sprig or two of crabgrass and a hybrid between cactus and sand burr, I started sowing grass seed. After three intense sessions of raking, fertilizing, sowing seed and more raking, followed by two months of almost daily waterings, I had a patch of creeping fescue and affiliated species that had a very grass-like appearance. Over an area about one-sixth of the total challenge plot.

This spring, I engaged in even more of such silliness and managed to extend the green to nearly a third of the plot. Three weeks ago, toward the end of our extended No Climate Change monsoon season, I sowed another strip of grass, this time casting my faith just above the waters in the form of perennial ryegrass. It sprouted in about seventy-two hours and added another strip of green to the scene.

This week, without having suffered any recent traumatic brain injury that I can recall, I decided to finish up this little idyllic quest. I tilled up a ten-by-sixty strip of mostly bare ground, uncovering a few more of those damnable elm roots in the process. I raked the freshly ground dirtwads into more manageable bits and thereby also sifted out several little clumps of weed grass and dandelions. I sowed more creeping fescue and affiliated species, being careful to not sow the mixture in the planter beds bordering the strip of Ground That Does Not Grow Stuff.

I used our car to pack the seed firmly into the dirt, driving very carefully so I could get within a couple of inches of the stone border. I spent another hour watering the seed that evening, and the next morning, at lunch and in the afternoon. Yesterday morning and at lunch, I repeated the watering. Then yesterday afternoon and evening, with an appreciated bit of cloud cover blocking out the blazing sun, I sifted a layer of peat moss over the whole area, to help cover the seed and hold moisture in. Then spent another hour watering it all and touching up the peat moss mulching, re-covering the thin areas revealed by the watering.

By the time I’d finished that, I’d put in about ten hours of work and spent around forty dollars on seed and peat. On that single strip. As I pushed the wheelbarrow around back with the leftover peat moss, I noticed the welcomed cloud cover had morphed into what looked like a potential thunderstorm off to the northwest. A quick check of the country’s official weather service forecast indicated less than a twenty percent chance of rain. Good to know that a government agency is assuring me that nothing bad is about to happen.

By the time I finished using the leftover mulch around the strawberries and pepper plants, it was thundering. Less than twenty minutes later, a deluge descended upon us, complete with fairly close lightning and very loud thunder.

It rained as if the wrath of God and the fury of Satan had intermingled, as if judgment itself had been pronounced upon my tiny swath of hope and effort. Rain sheathed over the edge of the gutters, pounded upon earth and pavement, and ran in visible current across the driveway. Water pooled three inches deep in the flag-stoned walkway leading to the porch. And so deep in my planting strip that it actually overflowed the stone border around the planter. The recently sifted peat moss had formed a dam of sorts across the lower end of the planting strip.

A good bit of the already thatched part of my yard now has a flush supplement of organic mulch and a generous over-seeding of creeping red fescue and related species. Most of the barren strip that I worked so hard to seed and nourish will remain barren a while longer.

It’s not the first time and likely not the last time that some great effort of mine will fail to yield the desired result. Such is the nature of life in this fallen world.

And yet, I can say with genuine sincerity and gratitude, I am glad it was only several hundred square feet of bare yard and not several thousand acres of just planted soybeans. Now that would be a genuine disappointment.

H. Arnett
7/3/19

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The Beauty of Courtesy

Posted on June 25, 2019 by Doc Arnett

As I was riding my bike up past Cottonwood Clinic yesterday, I came up on a woman who was mowing her yard. It was a beautiful day—for riding a bike and for mowing a yard—bright sunshine, slight breeze and pleasant temperature. For pure pleasure I’d choose riding a bike over mowing on such a day but when there are chores that must be done, having a day like that for their doing is a fine thing.

For her part on such a fine day, it appeared that she first noticed me when I was still a few hundred feet away. She’d already cut a few swaths alongside the road. When she saw me, she paused her zero turn mower for just a second or two and then resumed mowing. I nodded in greeting and continued riding forward.

When I was still several seconds away from being lined up with her mower, she stopped and shut off the blades. I waved in gratitude and she yelled over the noise of the engine, “Didn’t want this to be throwing anything in your direction,” and then she pointed down at the discharge chute. I grinned and nodded my thanks and gave her a thumbs up.

Even if she’d kept mowing, the odds of her mower actually hitting something and slinging it into me were pretty low. With the mowing she’d already done, the mower was sitting back at least fifty feet away from me. She could have kept mowing, I could have kept riding and we’d both most likely just continue on with our respective days. Really not much chance of anything unfortunate happening. But with her sitting still and the blades disengaged, those odds dropped to zero.

I suppose it was only a slight inconvenience for her but it sure made a big impression on me. A complete stranger protecting me from any unintended danger that might arise from what she was doing. It was a thoughtful act. You know, like waiting a few more seconds instead of pulling out in front of someone or deciding not to cut over into the next lane at the last second. Courtesy and consideration often act in collaboration with safety and security.

Whether we’re running a mower or running our mouths.

H. Arnett
6/25/19

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Life, Labor and Little Green Tomatoes

Posted on June 13, 2019 by Doc Arnett

Thirty minutes to work, eighteen minutes home. That’s the difference the wind makes on a 3.78 mile bicycle ride. Well, at least that’s the difference the wind made yesterday. It might have been blowing a bit harder when I rode home for lunch. Reckon I’ll let you figure out which trip had the benefit of a tailwind…

Sometimes, it seems like no matter how much effort we put in, we just can’t gain on the goal. Whether we’re pedaling a bike, peddling pots and pans or insurance plans, or trying to train up a child in the way she should go, there are times when it seems we just can’t see any corresponding progress.

Then there are other times when it seems like even the tiniest effort yields rewards. We feel like we’re barely pushing and yet the whole blasted train starts to move. In the right direction, no less! And oh, my, what fine times those are!

We might be a bit unsure whether it’s our biorhythms all peaking together, the mystic winds of the universe majestically interwoven, or God’s own touch on hand, heart and mind. Whatever it is, it makes for some mighty fine miles and moments. As long as you never quit trying.

It reminds me of how long little green tomatoes can hang on the vine, growing a bit from day to day but still staying green for a month or more. And then, in just a few days, the color changes from “don’t you even think about picking that tomato” to “quick, get the bacon cooking and the bread a’toasting; this tomato’s gonna be perfect in another five minutes.”

No matter whether it’s little green tomatoes or some five-year-plan, we have to keep doing our due diligence. Doesn’t matter how hot the days or how tired we are of hoeing, if you quit halfway down the row, there won’t be any harvest at the end of it.

As the scripture says (Galatians 6:9), we should never let ourselves wear out on doing good. In due season, we will reap the ripe red fruits of righteousness, if we don’t give up.

H. Arnett
6/13/19

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Hands of the Wind

Posted on June 11, 2019 by Doc Arnett

I have seen the gentle breeze
sieving through the leaves of a cottonwood tree
as if to count every one.

I have seen the summer wind
sending ripples of motion through an ocean of prairie grass,
each blade bent to the task
of pointing out the direction of passing.

I have seen the gales of winter
splintering thoughts and swirling a stifling stream of snow
as though God himself were angry with the world,
piling up the drifts and sifting out every sin
into piles of cold redemption.

I have not seen a cyclone
but as surely as I am known
I have seen its brutal work:
houses broken apart like a balsa bridge,
ridges stripped clean of standing timber
and wood driven through concrete.

For all that I have seen and dreamed,
for all that I haven’t and hope I never will,
whether in the stillness of a blue dawn’s rising,
the reverence of a red ball sunset,
or in the vast quiet of a full moon on a windless lake,
I will stake that all I have ever known of peace
has come in those moments of release

into the sure keeping of hands I cannot see,
hands greater than the wind,
hands that are surely shaping
the patterns of my life,
the steps of my path,
making sure that all things
work together
for my good.

H. Arnett
6/11/19

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A Peaceful End to a Stormy Day

Posted on June 7, 2019 by Doc Arnett

It seemed as though the storms
that began forming yesterday morning
spent most of the day growling and grumbling
like a pride of lions disputing the kill.

These particular cells formed along a line
running from northeast to southwest—
opposite of the way they usually do—
and somehow the red and yellow centers
didn’t seem to move at all,
hovering over Strother Field* for a few hours,
pouring another five inches of rain
on top of the twelve that already came
less than two weeks ago.

Water piled up on level ground,
stretching ditches into yards and roads,
sending the creek’s load spreading across the fields
and tiny toads hopping across the hospital parking lot
as if they had fallen from heaven
and had every intention of finding their way back.

The rain eased off by evening,
leaving a sheen of mud to mark high water
across the lowland spans of ripening wheat,
and a shining green on upland lawns.

And when I walked out in the night
to get the forgotten mail,
I saw a tiny blotch of light
breaking through the clouds off toward the west,
something vague and irregular in an unsettled sky.

By the time I turned back with mail in hand,
I could see within the dimness of that undefined glow,
framed by the blackened branches of a Chinese elm,
the clear crescent shape of a waxing moon.

H. Arnett
6/7/19

*an industrial park located in Cowley County, Kansas, between Arkansas City and Winfield

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The Grand Glory of Small Wonders

Posted on June 6, 2019 by Doc Arnett

This world holds many wonders, all of which lead me to ponder God, consider both mortality and eternity, and marvel at the natural beauty of this planet. I have traveled through the Rockies, visited the great falls of the Columbia Gorge, hiked the Grand Canyon and gone scuba diving in Hawaii. I have stood near the brink of Niagara and crawled beneath the lip of Cumberland Falls. The scale of these things never fails to move me toward reverence and awe for the works of God’s own hand.

And yet, even when framed by such spectacle, one of this world’s perennial delights is of much smaller perspective.

Toward the southern edge of the farm I grew up on, a small creek cut through the clearing behind the dark-fired tobacco barn. Except during the season of heavy rains, you could easily drive a tractor through the stream to reach the hill field over in front of Buster Simmons’ place. During the driest times, the small branch turned into a series of pools separated by a bed of dry stones. Other than those extremes, though, a steady stream flowed along, fed by other springs like the one under the hickory tree.

If you followed the creek downstream, across Simmons’s property and on further east, it would eventually join a larger stream. For some reason, I never followed it beyond our property to the west. I don’t think it ran much further in that direction but for the reason just stated, I don’t know for sure.

What I do know for sure is that a creek is a place of mystery and wonder, a constantly changing track of gravity and chance, a reservoir of discovery and adventure. You could hunt for cool rocks or crawdads, fish for bluegill or suckers. Throw rocks at other rocks, trees or just some particular spot in the bank that happened to catch your eye as a beckoning target. You could find black tadpoles and green frogs or pretend to be soldiers in the Civil War, weary from battle and searching for a cool spring to get a welcome drink of water and wash your face, sit for a while in the shade.

In the opposite season, once the water had frozen solid enough to hold a kid’s weight, the creek flexed true magic. To walk above the rocks, stepping over and studying the forms beneath the clear ice, or to run and slide between the banks was a true wonder. It seemed as though it was me who had been transformed and I became, for that brief while, barely less than an angel. Wrapped adequately from the cold, I could play for hours. Somehow it seemed that surely, if I could only follow the creek far enough, my soul would find some sort of release. In a way, I suppose it did.

Hidden by the trees and bends of the creek, away from the rest of the world and surrounded by nothing but snowy woods, I could make of the world whatever I chose. I could believe myself pauper or prince, transcend both time and distance. I could make a heavy rock or chunk of wood slide forever. I could go as far as I chose, as long as I could stand the cold. And be back home in time to get the cows up for milking.

I don’t suppose a kid actually needs a creek in order to grow up into a productive, well-balanced adult who is mentally and physically fit. Having a well-developed imagination doesn’t require that one have thrown rocks at a hickory tree or been pinched at least once by a miniature fresh-water lobster. One doesn’t have to wade the waters of a stone-bed stream in order to learn to dream.

But it seems to me that it would be a shame for a kid to grow up without a creek. Or for a grown man to spend too many years away from one.

H. Arnett
6/6/19

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Watering the Thin Spots

Posted on June 5, 2019 by Doc Arnett

I’m guessing that if any of my neighbors had any doubts about how far my cheese has slid off my cracker, the issue is now firmly resolved. Just over a week after we had more than eight inches of rain in seven days, I was watering the lawn.

To the casual passerby, it must have seemed absurd. Barely past the mud stage and here I am, standing in what seems like a thick stand of lush, green grass, spraying on more water.

It would have taken right close attention and better than average perception to figure out that I wasn’t really watering the whole yard; I was focusing on the small patches of new grass that had just sprouted a couple of weeks before the rain. In my determined ambition to eventually have genuine sod underneath the two large Chinese elms, I had reseeded the bare splotches a few weeks ago.

The soil in that section of the yard is very sandy and only holds moisture near the surface for a very short time. Unlike the established grass which has roots already growing a few inches down into the ground, this new grass is fragile and susceptible to even a couple of days of heat. Along with temperatures in the upper eighties, we’ve had fairly noticeable breezes lately. Ergo, I’m watering the new patches.

It is good for us to remember that no matter how sound and sane other folks appear, most of us have those fragile areas in our lives. There are places others may not see that are still tender from recent wounds or scarred and sensitive from the old ones. There are parts of who we are that are not yet as strong as we would like. We cannot afford to ignore those parts nor can we force them to grow more quickly.

But if we keep watering on a regular basis, keep our roots growing deeper into the Things That Last, and keep trusting the God Who Loves Us, we’ll make it through the coming seasons of stress and testing. In the meantime, let’s be patient with ourselves and with each other. Even if cheese and cracker aren’t even on the same plate any more…

H. Arnett
6/5/2019

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A Regrettable War

Posted on June 4, 2019 by Doc Arnett

I used to think I was a pretty good mole trapper. At all the other places I’ve lived and had the happy little dwellers of darkness as a perennial foe, I’ve done pretty well. I used the same style trap and techniques that my pappy used before me and that his pappy used before him.

I learned to tramp down those tell-tale tunnels and then check back to see which ones were the active runs. “If you see that dirt’s pushed back up the next day, then you know that’s the run they’re using and that’s where you set your trap.”

Knowing where to set the trap is part of it, a key part to be sure. Another part is knowing how to set the trap. Leave too much dirt between the trigger plate and the tunnel and those spikes only annoy the little critters, accomplishing nothing more than a forced detour.

The detour I have in mind is one that keeps the varmints out of my yard on a long term basis. Hence the traps. My war is not without misgivings. Moles are not malicious; they’re just moles. And there’s the rub.

That tunneling habit is not just annoying from an aesthetic perspective. In addition to creating unsafe walking terrain, it kills grass, flowers, and vegetables in a couple of ways. Most immediately, the digging tears through the roots of the plants. On longer term, the tunnels can also drain away the water I had intended to nourish plants, especially ones only recently set in place.

Last summer, we put in a couple of hydrangea plants beside the small stoop on the south side of the house. They did okay for a couple of weeks, then started wilting down within two days of being watered. “I don’t get this,” I griped to Randa. “I soaked both of those plants Tuesday evening. It’s not even Friday yet and they’re already wilting again.”

On the next watering, I noticed how quickly the water would soak into the ground and disappear, especially when I directed the stream toward one side of the plant. Probing for explanations, I uncovered a muddy mole run. Most of the water was simply running through that cheerful little conduit. “Great!” I muttered to myself, “Not only are you little heathen ruining my yard, now you’re killing my flowers.”

That insult only added to the injury my mole-killing ego had already taken. You see, in my fourth season of anger and animosity, I have yet to successfully trap one mole. In spite of having dutifully tramped down run after run after run, I have yet to see a single one of them re-used. It is baffling, bewildering and frustrating. These confounded south Kansas moles don’t operate by the same rules. Apparently they’ve been reading The Mole Trapper’s Guide, too.

“I’m telling you, Benny, you need to trust me on this. You come back and find dirt pushed down in that tunnel, you stop right there. Don’t shove your nose forward one more millimeter. Just back up and start digging a new tunnel.”

For over forty years, I’ve refused to use the “grub killer” pesticides. For one thing, it required admitting defeat and until now I’ve never been outdone by those smooth-stocking, slow-walking critters. For another, even though they don’t list it on the package, I’m right sure that stuff also kills nightcrawlers, too. According to the company that offers poison worms to kill moles, nightcrawlers compose as much as ninety per cent of a mole’s diet. So, if I want to get rid of the moles, apparently I also have to get rid of The Best Fishing Bait Ever.

Until now, that was a level of collateral damage I was unwilling to accept.

It’s tough to admit you’ve been outsmarted by an animal with a brain the size of a black-eyed pea and front feet as big as its rear end. They’ve won on these terms and so, I’m finally embracing the horrific evils of chemical warfare. Sorry, earthworms, but it appears that the only way I’m going to be able to get rid of the moles is to get rid of you. Hopefully you’ll find refuge in an adjoining yard.

I’m not proud of it and I sure hope I’m not stepping onto a slippery slope with this.

Once our hate for our opponent gets strong enough for us to begin accepting actions we once condemned, there’s no telling where we might end up. We should never forget that when we choose the lesser of two evils, we are still choosing evil.

H. Arnett
6/4/19

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Trimming the Hedges

Posted on June 3, 2019 by Doc Arnett

I’m not sure about the age of the ornamental bushes that line the west side of our house. I suppose I could cut one or two of them off at the base, get out a magnifying glass and count growth rings. Seems a bit extreme for finding the answer to what amounts to nothing more than curiosity. Kind of like drawing out a pint of blood for a DNA test. For a Chihuahua.

Whatever their age, it has allowed them to grow sufficient foliage that the whole line looked like a single rectangle of green. It basically stretched from one corner to the other. If long green rectangles are key to your sense of aesthetic balance in landscaping, then I guess this one was right on track.

Our big green rectangle had grown up well past the lower level of the windows. Last year, I trimmed them down about a foot or so. Thus, from the street view, the windows were visible. However the top of the bushes was still higher than the brick wainscoting that wraps around the house at about four feet above ground level.

While searching for some means of entertaining myself on Saturday afternoon, I decided to trim those boogers down a bit more. What I discovered, in process, was that if I cut the bushes down to where their tops are below brick level, there is hardly any foliage left. What to do, what to do?

Well, folks, I can tell you two things: 1) Randa was not home at the time, and 2) the brick on the west side of our house has a level of visibility it has probably not had in at least twenty years.

I am now the proud Zen master of an outdoor bonsai project, Randa’s aesthetic sense has taken a big hit, and I keep reassuring her—with some degree of optimistic conviction—that the bushes will still be able to grow leaves.

Some things in our lives get to the point where a subtle trim isn’t going to be sufficient to restore the proportion and attractiveness that we need. Until we return the basic structure to a proper sense of balance, we can never achieve genuine beauty. With some things, like hobbies, civic opportunities and such, it’s simply a matter of scaling back a bit. But if things are really out of whack, it takes something a bit more drastic.

H. Arnett
6/3/19

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