Behind the Seens

Posted on December 19, 2024 by Doc Arnett

For the past few decades, Randa has made my traditional birthday cake each year. For as far back as I can remember, my Mom made a yellow chiffon cake with strawberry icing for my birthday. Well, actually, the first several years it was a shared birthday cake. My oldest brother, Richard, was born exactly ten years before me. And, conveniently, I was born exactly ten years after him. So… Mom would bake one cake. No sense in wasteful duplication, you see.

I really love chiffon cake. I love the taste and the texture, the lightness and shape. Mom always made it in a big pan with a rounded “spike” that left a hole in the middle of the cake. You know, the traditional angel food cake pan. Sometimes, Mom would fill that hole in the center of the cake with a mix of cake crumbs and icing.

I never suggested that to Randa after she got the recipe from Mom and started making the cake for me. Seems excessive, I suppose. No need going to that extra trouble for something that’s already wonderful. On her own, Randa would sometimes add fresh strawberries as a decorative flourish to the cake.

Yesterday, though, given that Randa’s recovery from a broken humerus is still a noticeable distance from complete, she wasn’t able to do as much on her own. It started with her asking me to get the cake pan from the top shelf in the kitchen cabinet.

“You know, you have a pretty good excuse for not making a cake this year. I will not be offended.”

She looked at me as if my head had just split open and alien spaceships had flown out. I quickly inferred that I should not waste further energy on attempted dissuasion. She did acknowledge, however, “I may need your help at a couple of steps.”

Sure enough, about an hour later, she asked me to come to the kitchen. She’d already separated seven eggs, blended up the yolks into the flour mixture, and whipped the whites into a frothy mix that reminded me, somehow, of fluid Styrofoam. She handed me the bowl of dough and said, “I need you to tip in just a little of this at a time into this other bowl.”

So, I tipped in a little of the yellowish dough mix into the bowl of whipped whites as she folded it in. Repeat eight or ten times and the two were thoroughly but gently blended together. Then, poured into the cake pan while being careful not to pour it directly onto the spindle in the middle.

After the pouring, baking, inverting over a wine bottle for cooling, and watching a bit of football, it was time for the icing. Once again, Randa solicited my assistance. “Assistance” being loosely defined and dubiously interpreted.

Details aside, we managed to cooperatively blend the softened butter, three cups of powdered sugar, and a few tablespoons of strawberry juice. Randa spread that onto and over the cake, making a very nice job of it for a one-armed baker and cake decorator.

As usual, the cake is delicious. I had one big piece last night and a slightly smaller piece for my breakfast dessert this morning. Goes mighty fine with a cup of coffee. One small difference this year, though. I had no idea how much was involved in making a chiffon cake with strawberry icing.

Like a whole bunch of other things in our lives, it wasn’t until I got personally involved, albeit rather slightly, that I understood how much time and effort had gone into making this very valued part of my birthday tradition. I think a lot of us spend too much time at the table and too little in the kitchen. All those years of Mom and then Randa making something so cherished and appreciated had passed with no true understanding of the gift.

God bless those folks who do so much for those of us who understand so little of what they have done. I’m pretty sure God understands what that’s like…

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At the Meeting Place

Posted on December 12, 2024 by Doc Arnett

Every other horse of the twenty or so we’ve owned since 2010 has rather quickly developed the habit of coming to the gate when it’s time for us to move them back from the pasture to the barn. It’s not uncommon for them to be waiting at the gate when we go out in the afternoon to move them over.

Usually, it took no more than three or four consecutive days of providing a little tasty horse treat. And, as additional motivation, we’d feed them a bit of commercial horse feed as soon as we took them back over. Then, skip the treats for the most part and let the feed continue the rewarding part.

That hasn’t worked with Harley, our recently acquired beautiful, flashy, black and white gelding.

About once every ten days or so, he’ll join Earl at the gate, waiting for halter and rope and the slow walk back over to the barn and feed pellets and hay. But, at least once during that same interval, he’ll indifferently keep grazing fifty to a hundred yards away while I halter Earl at the gate. Then, while Earl waits at the gate and I walk over to where he is, Earl with wait until I get within just a few feet of him. Then, he’ll turn and walk off. Sometimes he’ll walk just a few yards away and grab a few more bites of grass. Sometimes, he’ll walk off and head straight to the gate where Earl is waiting. And then, just as I reach him again, he’ll take a couple of steps away before letting me catch him.

After yet another of those events recently, I was venting my frustration to Randa when I got back to the house. “Hon,” she reminded me, “you’ve got to meet him where he is, not where you want him to be.” Which, as it turns out, is true both literally and metaphorically.

Most all of us have had a time when we wish that a particular horse, child, student, neighbor, co-worker, church member, or whomever or whatever was more like one that was easier to work with. Some of them come to us with a better attitude or with more previous training. Some come with both. Admittedly, those do provide quicker results and more visible immediate progress. The others can be both frustrating and disappointing.

Like most buffets, travel routes, and clothing stores, we have a choice. We can focus on that disappointment in ways that practically guarantee additional disappointment. Or we can use patient acceptance to help us both move forward.

That seems to be more the strategy that God has adopted with us, don’t you think?

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An Illusion of Unity

Posted on December 10, 2024 by Doc Arnett 
At this particular moment
on a bright December morning
when most of the frost that formed in the night
has been melted by the sunlight
and now shows white only in the shadows,

I look down the hill past our pasture
and across the road
where the neighbor’s cows 
feed in the narrow flat of the creek bottom pasture
between the old railroad and the bare branched bluffs
that rise up south of Peter’s Creek.

All nine Angus,
scattered across Whitten’s field
and yet all perfectly in line 
with the low mid-morning sun,
harvest their own yields,
feeding in their own shadows,
noses bent toward earth
in the blending of their black
casting forward in a darkening outline of stubborn grass,
moving slowly through the darkness of their own passing.

It is tempting to search for meaning in such moments,
but even if it is only the pleasure of feeding their hunger
while feeling warm sun on their own rumps,
it is intriguing to see such a small wonder
on a crisp winter morning.

And though I would never counsel 
the abandoning of understanding,
sometimes simple appreciation
is sufficient for the moment.


H. Arnett
12/10/24
Posted in Christian Devotions, Farming, Metaphysical Reflection, Nature, Poetic Contemplations, Poetry, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , , , | Comments Off on An Illusion of Unity

Even on a Gray Morning

Posted on December 9, 2024 by Doc Arnett 
Even on a gray morning,
With freezing fog forming a slick glaze
On the dead leaves layered on the driveway, 

A moment's sun brings light and hope
To those who've learned
That a greater Light is always burning
Beyond this world's passing troubles
And illusions of power and presence, 

Whose hope is anchored to things unseen, 
Things that last beyond glazed dreams
And half-dazed moments of meaning. 

H. Arnett
12/9/24
Posted in Christian Devotions, Christian Living, Nature, Poetic Contemplations, Poetry, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Even on a Gray Morning

A Gentle Morning

Posted on November 27, 2024 by Doc Arnett

Peace murmurs from the frost-lanced branches
of the cottonwood tree lofting up above the corral
while low layers of pastel color slowly dance in the east
above the bare-branched ridge beyond the creek.

An unseen sun leaches the slightest hint of heat
into a gray-crested sky
while a pair of gaited paints send steaming breath
curling through the polished panels of the round pen.

I dump metered measures of pelletized feed
and a small handful of chopped alfalfa
into each horse’s mounted plastic trough,
chuckle to myself at their eager embrace of this routine.

It is not at all glory or grandeur so readily feeding and fueling
the absolute mundaneness of the body’s needs
that moves me toward this thanksgiving,
but rather a somber amazement that even a slight slip

on glazed gravel could completely unravel
the simple threads that keep us fed
and attend to more than daily bread
for ourselves and those that depend upon us.

A broken arm, a fractured hip,
and all that was taken for granted
becomes a cherished blessing:
wind-chapped lips breathe gratitude for every un-aching motion.

I halter the geldings, lead them
across the hard-packed driveway
to whatever remains of green in the small pasture
between the house and the highway.

I hang the ropes on galvanized hooks
screwed into the brace of the fence posts.
The horses head toward the near corner of the field
and I walk up the slight slope,

toward steaming fresh coffee and buttered rye toast.


H. Arnett
11/27/24

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Watching for the Bus

Posted on November 21, 2024 by Doc Arnett

After coming around the curve and down the hill past Buster Simmons’ driveway a mile from our house in Todd County, Kentucky, the gravel road crossed the creek. Just past our old dark-fired tobacco barn, it turned slightly west and then ran straight north along the west end of our largest pasture. Maybe two hundred feet past the end of our driveway, the gravel road made a sharp turn west and up the hill toward Mister Raymond Stokes’ place. Just past his place, it made another sharp turn back north. From there, it ran in a fairly straight line for a while, passing by what we just called “the rental house,” eventually crossing a creek and connecting to another gravel road about three miles from our house. Our school bus came from the that direction.

Our driveway was nearly a tenth of a mile long and Mister Perkins, the bus driver, didn’t have much patience for kids that weren’t waiting and ready to get on the bus. So, my brother Paul and I had a pretty consistent habit of being there at the end of the drive before the bus came. Mister Perkins kept a fairly consistent schedule but sometimes we might have to wait for ten or fifteen minutes for him to show up. Not a big deal in decent weather but if it was raining or cold, that could seem like quite a while.

In the green months, we couldn’t see the bus coming until Mister Perkins rounded the curve right before the Stokes place. That didn’t give us enough time to run from the house to the end of the driveway before the bus got there. But Paul had figured out something.

During the months when the trees were bare of leaves, he’d discovered that if we stood at the left hand side of the big picture window in our living room, we could see the road between the rental house and the curve at Mister Stokes’ place. From that vantage point, you could see the bus pretty easily. In dry periods, you could see its cloud of dust rolling up above the treeline before you could see the bus. Since standing in our living room was a lot more comfortable than standing at the end of the driveway in a single digit windchill, we’d change from milk barn clothes to school clothes and wait there.

“Here he comes!” Paul would yell and we’d grab our books, tear out through the front door, jump off the porch and hit the ground running. By the time the bus had picked up the Stokes kids and made the curve at the bottom of the hill, we’d be standing at the end of the driveway. Provided, of course, that we hadn’t got distracted at the window and missed seeing the bus on the back side of the neighbor’s place.

There are some things we can see coming, if we stand in the right place and don’t get distracted. Old age drops a few hints on its way to the door, kids have a way of letting you know they’re growing up. Sometimes, even an old car will let you know it’s going to need some mechanical attention in the near future. Sometimes, you can see the cloud of dust from life’s next challenge rolling up the road from miles away. Other times… it’s already honking its horn while you’re still looking for your homework.

H. Arnett
11/21/24
Posted in Aging, Christian Devotions, Christian Living, Death & Dying, Family, Farming, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Watching for the Bus

Clouds and Coffee

Posted on October 28, 2024 by Doc Arnett

Since Randa was leaving a tad early this morning to help a friend go pick up a new horse, and since her car had a tire holding just over half the recommended air pressure, I felt slightly obligated, err… I mean, was delighted to have the opportunity to do something nice for her. This opportunity required getting up at least an hour earlier than my usual habit. Which in turn meant I was outside before sunrise.

Even though the sun was not yet visible, I’m pretty sure the light tints coloring the lower edges of the clouds scattered across the sky were primarily the result of the sun’s general influence. Loving the tones and textures, I took a picture and posted it on one of my Facebook pages. It wasn’t stupendous but it was rather nice.

Then, after transferring some pressurized air from tank to tire, I went back into the house. Randa kissed me goodbye and headed over to meet her friend. I shoved a couple of pieces of Pumpernickel into the toaster, set a cup of coffee into the microwave and pressed the beverage button. In due time, I buttered two pieces of dark toast, spread on some homemade strawberry jelly, dumped a package of sweet flavoring into my hot mug of coffee and enjoyed my little breakfast.

After that, I walked back out the door and headed toward the barn to tend to the horse chores. As soon as I stepped outside, I noticed a whole different vibe to the sky. Fifteen minutes earlier, the tones were very light, pastel hints of color. Now, the drifting clouds were vibrant with darker, richer, more dramatic tones.

Just fifteen minutes…

I thought about how often in photography, even as little as a couple of minutes can make such a change in the view—especially with sunrises, sunsets, storm clouds, rainbows, and such. Similar phenomena with raising kids, falling in love, traveling, vacations, and all sorts of other things. We turn our attention for what seems like only a moment and miss the transitions that sometimes turn ordinary wonder into heartwarming extraordinary scenes, events, memories.

I can’t begin to count how many precious opportunities I missed over the decades because—for only a moment—I quit watching, paying attention, or started attending to something else, focusing on some other thing that seemed rather important, I suppose at the time. Yes, I lost way too many of such moments.

But, thank God, not all of them.

H. Arnett
10/28/24

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The Comfort of a Cloudy Autumn Day

Posted on October 24, 2024 by Doc Arnett 
Gray clouds burnished by hints of hidden sunrise
bunch together in the autumn skies of northeast Kansas.
Above the slopes and bluffs,
slight hues of pink color the scuffed edges
that trail eastward above the ridges.

In this particular tint of day,
the greens seem to fade like the patterns 
of a well-worn blanket draped across the shoulders
of an old woman standing silent in a warm kitchen,
one hand braced against the counter,
staring out through a small window.

In this quietening morning of frost and chill,
with stillness spreading across the hills,
the orange, yellow, gold, and red colors of fall,
though absent the bright sun,
somehow seem to glow in this low light.

Sometimes on a somber day,
quiet beauty speaks through muted tones.
Perhaps, sounds of aloneness and loss,
whispering soft as moss on stone 
in the moist shadows of a creek falls
as clear water rinses clean the smooth edges
and murmurs comfort along the ledges
stretching from the shallows.

Even in this, 
or perhaps, especially in this,
the Spirit eases into the emptiness,
speaking peace and promise to the still-aching heart,
its pain seen by the eyes of angels,
its needs spoken 
before the very Throne of Heaven.

H. Arnett
10/24/24

Posted in Aging, Christian Devotions, Christian Living, Death & Dying, Nature, Poetic Contemplations, Poetry, Spiritual Contemplation, suffering | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on The Comfort of a Cloudy Autumn Day

The Sound of a Mighty Wind

Posted on October 22, 2024 by Doc Arnett

Sometime between ten o’clock and midnight, something woke me. I’m not sure exactly what it was; sometimes it doesn’t seem to take much. Other times, it takes something on the order of a freight train running through the living space below me. Whatever it was, I almost immediately became aware of the sound of strong wind.

Now, admittedly, the sound of strong wind isn’t a rare phenomenon in Kansas. But, wind strong enough for a deaf man to hear is another matter.

“Can’t be the wind,” I mused to myself, “considering how deaf I am… that would take something like a tornado… pretty sure we aren’t having a tornado… are we?!” After a moment or two of my murmured wonderings, I decided to get up and check it out. Might still have time to make it to the basement…

I stepped out into the hallway and over to the door opening onto the flat roof of the back porch. Lightning flashed constantly. I opened the door and looked out and quickly realized it wasn’t wind I’d been hearing; it was uninterrupted thunder. Which kind of made sense given the uninterrupted lightning.

It’s not the first time in my life that what I thought was happening turned out to be something else. Sometimes the reality was better than the perception, sometimes the other way around. Sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel really is the better day we’d hoped for. Sometimes, it’s a freight train and we’ve barely time to get off the tracks before it smashes us. Other times, it might just be a goat eating a flashlight.

Whatever it is, it’s often a good idea to prudently investigate. If it is that better day, it’s good to not get in too big of a hurry and trip over the trestles on our way to the end of the tunnel. You know, when the bright light of expectation blinds us to the challenges that still lie between us and that glorious goal. Be kind of a shame to cripple ourselves right at the threshold of a wonderful new day.

But not nearly as big of a shame as it would be to give up on it.

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Winter Is Coming

Posted on October 16, 2024 by Doc Arnett 
         Part I

We have had a few cool mornings
here in the northeast corner of Kansas
but there is something a bit different,
a sharper chill in the midst of these glacial hills,
a deeper hint than the pastel tints of early autumn
in the hardwoods topping the bluff across the creek.

The last tinge of green 
has left the upper blades of corn
and there is a shifting of the golden tones 
in the lower dips of soybean fields
moving toward the brown that already
rides the crests.

After a restless night,
I walk down the slight slope
from the house toward the barn,
feel something more like cold
and see my breath hanging in the air.
Just briefly, yes, but enough to test the thought
that we ought to have a few more warm days
before easy autumn gives way to harsher truth.

In one more week, 
we will have our first freeze
and it will leave the tomato vines
hanging limp and wilted on their frames,
un-ripened fruit turned useless on the stem,
telling us in more certain terms:
winter is coming


	Part II

A message from a former student
and a text from my son
who teaches at the same university
where I once taught—part time
confirm that the wife of a former colleague
has passed away in West Kentucky.

Danny and I taught together
for a few years,
doubled enrollment in Industrial Arts
at Calloway County High School,
mainly by loving what we did
and the students that we had.

We both taught drafting and woodworking.
He also covered sheet metal fabrication
and built the starting gate
for the CO2 dragsters the kids made from a block of wood.
We both won bets against kids half our age
when we proved that we could jump over
five-foot square workbenches—
without crashing into the wall or the window.

We both went on from there
to doctorates in education,
careers in college,
and grandkids.

Forty years later…
I called to offer my concern and care
and he shared a sketch of the story
of Gina’s last days
and the way the cancer took her
after over a year of fighting
with a sudden end.

He is the first friend my own age
to lose his wife.

I hung up the phone,
felt a tightening in my chest,
shuddered at his loss
and an even deeper knowing:
winter is coming.
H. Arnett
10/16/2024
Posted in Aging, Christian Devotions, Death & Dying, Metaphysical Reflection, Nature, Poetic Contemplations, Poetry, Relationships, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , , | Comments Off on Winter Is Coming