Night Planting

Posted on August 27, 2015 by Doc Arnett

After a late evening run into town in order to buy paint for the dining room makeover, we sat in the kitchen for a while. Having skipped supper for the fun of whatever else it was we were doing, I compensated with crackers and cheese. I’m not sure the meal rates high on the best foods list of the American Society for the Criticism of Whatever It Is You Are Eating, but it satisfied the purpose of me not feeling hungry. Maybe it is a bit elemental but sometimes serving the lower purpose will get us by until we are better fortified for the higher one.

While I was doing that, our son Jay brought over supplies for the next evening’s celebration supper. According to the conversational fragments I’ve managed to hear well enough to decipher, he and Leah are planning a small private wedding. Per the previously cited source, that will be followed by a small private supper at our place.

Even though it was nigh onto bedtime by the time Jay arrived, not to mention by the time he left, Randa and I nonetheless opted for some more private time outside on the patio.

A nearly full moon shone from its nocturnal zenith in a clear sky. Soft shadows formed beneath the trees. The evening air was cool and pleasant, bringing more a sense of September than August into the night. While we sipped our drinks, the cat prowled about the planters and chairs, stalking whatever was crawling about that hour of the night.

There was a soothing stillness in the breezeless quiet, a calming presence. In between questions and answers and more questions, I leaned my head against the back of the chair, stared at the moon and closed my eyes.

Even on a tired night after a long day, there may be things worth giving up a bit of sleep. When we keep such moments as this, we both reap the harvest and sow good seeds that help relationships provide even more than what is needed.

For the richest harvest, we also need to invest such time in conversation with our Heavenly Family.

H. Arnett

8/27/15

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Fruitful Even in the Lean Season

Posted on August 26, 2015 by Doc Arnett

It was never intended to be orchard stock, I’m sure. Even though its fruit is sweet, the peaches from this tree have very little meat. Their pulp barely covers the seed and every year it seems that something makes the core rot around the pit. I suppose I could spray something if I knew when to spray and what to spray. I don’t and as of yet haven’t mustered up the necessary gumption to find out.

What I do know is that most springs the little tree is absolutely covered with pink blooms, justifying its place in the yard and bearing a most welcome offering of beauty and color. This year, on the whole tree, which is now about twenty feet tall and twenty-five feet wide, there were only two or three blooms. A late freeze did not kill the leaves but destroyed nearly every bud.

Absent its usual offering, the little tree still adorns the back yard and anchors the curving sweep of our back patio area. River rock and Kentucky flatstone fill in around its base and connect it to the maple tree and the rest of the area. A curved wooden deck, built around the maple, offers a place to sit and the peach tree accentuates that. Small but densely branched and thickly leafed, the little tree provides shade in mid-afternoon.

We took a break yesterday, sipping our drinks and enjoying the shade on an August afternoon. We talked of the week, our work on the house and coming plans. We reminisced about past company and visits to come. In the breaks between conversation, I studied the shape of the branches on the little peach tree.

I also considered that there are times in our lives when we do not feel that we are bearing our greatest fruit. Sometimes we feel bare, perhaps even useless in our worst moments. Sometimes, maybe, the summer has been too hot and too long and we feel like giving up. Other times, we feel that some unseasonably late freeze has brought its sting and ruined our blooming.

Certainly the years of heavy bloom and rich fruit seem more fun. But as long as we persevere, we will see the sprouting and seed and the ripening of fruit planted long ago. And we might keep in mind as well, that even when we do nothing more than give a bit of shade on a hot day, we have still yielded fruit. We have given rest to someone else and borne witness that we were made to serve.

H. Arnett

8/26/15

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An Hour of Prevention

Posted on August 25, 2015 by Doc Arnett

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been working on the new dining room ceiling. On one side of the room, mice had eaten away a pretty big chunk of the old acoustic tile. There was another hole left for access to plumbing and covered with a plywood patch. Even though such things give a place a certain nuanced charm, I suppose, we decided those quaint qualities had to go. Now, there’s a new drywall ceiling that does not as yet have any mouse holes or utility access.

It also doesn’t as yet have any paint but it moved a big step closer yesterday. After a half-dozen or so steps and layers of finishing, we finally got to the sanding phase. Of course, when it comes to sanding Sheetrock ™ at our house, “we” means “me and the mouse in my shirt pocket.” Even he shirked work yesterday.

Mouse is apparently averse to drywall dust, which is admittedly rather pernicious. About the consistency and color of talcum powder, it has a way of drifting into and onto every crevice and surface in the house. Having learned the hard way about the less than complete effectiveness of just closing doors, I took the extra measure yesterday of also sealing the doorways with plastic.

Randa helped me cover the double doorway into the living room, the kitchen doorway and the large built-in china cabinet. After she helped me start covering the final doorway into the den, she then abandoned me as prescribed by ancient rules of remodeling and local ordinance. I sealed the final doorway and began sanding.

An hour-and-a-half later, with arms aching and neck sore, I emerged, looking like a cross between Fuzzy Noller and the Abominable Snowman. Fused by sweat, layers of gypsum had built up into a cocoon on my arms. Puffs of dust rose from my shoes with each step. There was so much white dust in my beard and hair that I looked nearly three years older. But there wasn’t a speck of drywall dust anywhere else in the house.

There are jobs that by necessity involve some measure of mess. The best we can do is to get through them without making the mess more work for those around us. I believe the old adage says, “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” Sometimes, it’s also worth more than that in preserving marital relations.

H. Arnett

8/25/15

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August Evening

Posted on August 24, 2015 by Doc Arnett

How rare it seems on an August day

to see such a cool breeze

rippling through the leaves of the trees,

moving across the grass

as if summer were already past

and long chill nights were upon us.

How good it seems to sit

and feel the fading sun warm on my back

as we gather around the table

for popcorn and coffee

and the light laughter of family close and ready.

How comforting it seems as evening draws near,

to halter the horses in the north pasture,

heads bowed and manes blowing

as they follow across the curling ryegrass

in the sifted shade of the locust tree,

beneath the bleached birch

and across the fescue-ed terrace

that rolls down toward the round pen.

In the ending of this good day,

we do the things that need doing

give thanks for the need and the doing

in this place of peace and presence,

where something as simple as a cool August evening

could lift callused hands to worship.

H. Arnett

8/24/15

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Summer Serenade

Posted on August 19, 2015 by Doc Arnett

Summer Serenade

There is an unusual breeze this evening, not the sort of thing we usually expect in August in northeastern Kansas. The slender branches on the locust bend toward the south as cool air moves in across these rolling hills. We do not complain.

My wife, Randa, my second-oldest son, Sam, and our friend Neil and I are singing on the patio. We do not know whether or not the neighbors object but we have no evidence that they do. Three guitars are ringing into the darkness and our voices blend into the slight wind. Standing next to the table, we are able to hear one another and take pleasure in the harmony.

Our material ranges quite a bit: from Merle Haggard and Hank Williams to Jimmy Buffet and the Eagles. There are a couple of songs that only Sam and Neil know, perhaps owing to the generational difference and perhaps more to the seeming coincidence of common likes that have brought Sam and Neil into faster friendship than might be expected. Sam is living with us during his temporary station at Fort Leavenworth and Neil, in addition to the light burden of association is also worship leader at the congregation where I have pastored for over four years.

In that vein, we sing “I’ll Fly Away” and “O Come, Angel Band.” If not by subject matter, then at least by beauty of melody and lyrics, we next do “Seven Bridges Road.” It might not quite rival the Eagles’ version but, in the closeness of faith and love, it has a thoroughly enjoyable harmony. There is something magic in music, both in the making and in the taking.

As Randa goes in for the evening and we three men begin another song, I am thinking that we might not be all that far from heaven in such moments as this. Not all of bliss waits beyond the river.

H. Arnett

8/19/09

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August Morning

Posted on August 6, 2015 by Doc Arnett

An hour ago, the fog held above the creek,
above the bottom ground pasture,
above the road.
The sun shone a bright red circle
through the smoky bank,
a fiery glow just above the trees
on the hill to the east.

Now, not even the least hint of sun
shows through in the morning sky,
nothing other than a faint lightening
above the falling mantle.
The horses barely show,
dark shapes grazing beside the scrub oak
less than a stone’s throw away.
Beyond them, beyond the drive,
cars pass by in the haze,
colors faded by the fog.

Beyond that, there is nothing
but the shifting gray that hides Randolph Road,
the bluffs beyond the creek
and the farms and fields that lie beyond the bluffs.

We sit on the patio, sipping steaming coffee
and savoring both scent and feel of this cool morning.

Past noon, August can burn as hot as June and July.
But the evenings usually bring a gentle forming of cooler air,
a cleansing of sorts.
And the mornings—ah, the mornings—

they bring this.

H. Arnett
8/6/15

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Deeper Than the Covering

Posted on August 4, 2015 by Doc Arnett

The plaster of this house, covered with layers of paint and paper, has seen its better years. A century of settling and storms, winds and shudderings, has taken its toll. A brick flue rises through the basement, passing through the first and second floors and then the attic. In the corners of whatever walls are anchored to it, deeper fissures have formed. A half-inch of plaster, no matter how masterfully shaped, cannot keep tons of brick and mortar from settling into the earth.

These are not thin-seamed cracks that track their way along the lath and then turn upward; these are openings that run deep and diagonal, breaking clear through to their rootings. Peeling off the layers shows what wallpaper may disguise for a while but cannot heal. Eventually, the ruptures show through.

A week or a month of chiseling and gouging, scraping and tracing, followed by the layers of fill and smoothing, could repair this. A talented plasterer, or one stubborn in the sanding, given sufficient time and stamina, could make these wall surfaces level again.

I have chosen a different route, forgoing the hours of scraping and chiseling to remove the bottom layers of paper, covered with coats of paint. I have taken that path before and its memories are not dulled within me. Instead, I am using thin sheets of drywall that will cover all the unhealed cracks and crevices. In much less time, and with much less work, I will have a finished surface that meets the purpose, provides a seamless smooth for whatever we and future lovers of this home desire to do.

Of course, if the foundations do not hold true, new cracks will eventually appear. There is no covering that can handle the shifting of its deepest rootings without damage. Years of drought can turn firm footing into weak powder; months of flood can mud what lies far below the surface. Earthquakes can shake the deepest stone.

Whatever is of this world cannot escape its origins or its nature. To outlast it, we must build with things that cannot be seen, that are shaped with better tools than our own hands.

H. Arnett
8/4/15

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The Lord’s Day

Posted on August 3, 2015 by Doc Arnett

After church and communion, young friends take us out for lunch at our favorite restaurant. Later, I sleep on the couch while Randa and Sam do their own things in the afternoon.

In late evening, Sam and I sit on the patio, watching a swarm of swallows flit about in the fading light while Randa tends the horses. Sam is thirty-eight and living with us during his temporary stationing at Ft. Leavenworth. It is a rare blessing, at least in the framework of my life, to have the opportunity for extended visiting with an adult child. It has been fascinating for Randa and me to finally see the man he has become in something other than the glimpses of visits and Facebook posts. There are traces of early personality and manifestations of maturity blended together. We knew about the humor and wit, intelligence and gregariousness; the generosity, sensitivity and appreciation are fruits of higher branches.

Daylight fades into dusk. “Look at that bit of pink on that cloud,” I say, pointing to the east. Among a clustering of small, charcoal clouds, only one carries a tinge of color. Sam leans forward enough to see past the big spruce. “That’s cool.”

The swallows swoop and dart in their last feeding of the day. These work mostly around the cottonwood tree that towers above the Bartlett Pear on the opposite side of the driveway. Sam asks, “Why do you think they keep working that area?”

I speculate that mosquitoes are nesting in that vast reservoir of leaves and are just now beginning to stir out for the evening. “Of course,” I confess, “I’m not really sure… but I am pretty sure that there’s a lot of whatever the swallows are feeding on hanging out around that tree.”

The sky darkens somewhat as Randa comes up from the barn and turns our attention from south to northwest, “Look at the sunset!” We turn and see an intense orange red glowing through the trees. Fascinated by the workings of the swallows, we hadn’t even noticed the colors as the sun settled into the horizon.

The three of us sit on the patio. A few bats take over the sky-hunting as the swallows retire. Leaves and branches shift into silhouettes. Occasional faint reflections of lightning far off to the north flicker against the sides of the garage. Stars emerge as dusk darkens into night. Traffic fades away on Highway 36. We talk in quiet voices about things that matter. I lean back in my chair, study the sky for a while, grateful for all the good that this good day has brought.

This day that the Lord has made.

H. Arnett
8/3/15

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In Memory of Vachel Murphy

Posted on July 21, 2015 by Doc Arnett

You watched the wasting
until you wondered
if you could stand one more glimpse
of those hands,
bones shining beneath the skin
stretched thin as hope
in fourth stage cancer
across the knuckles…

Hands that once held the hammer,
guided the saw,
marked the lining draw
that defined beams and jambs,
length and angle,
the intersection of design and doing…

Hands that curled notes from steel strings
and wove them like soft curls of cedar or pine,
voice and thought lined into melody and passion,
a deep caring born of life’s hard-learned lessons
and a loving as genuine as the feel of oak grain.

You saw the pain,
felt it in his voice
and knew it from the way his eyes
couldn’t keep from narrowing at times

and at times wanted to curse the darkness
that seemed to close in on his shrinking frame,
the footings giving way to the devouring cells,
body taken ahead of the grave in slow motion dying.

Even when all of hope for this world
was finally clawed away,
planed clean of the last lingering
of best-intentioned comments,

You knew of promises spoken
by another Carpenter,
another man of suffering and love,
a man who crafted beams and worlds
and promised that none who believed in Him

would ever truly die.

H. Arnett
7/21/15

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July in Doniphan County

Posted on July 13, 2015 by Doc Arnett

Days like this could suck the sap out of a dead pine tree;
Heat and humidity flirting with triple digits
Even in the shade of a huge cottonwood
Shrugging its half-million puffs of seed
In something other than the needs
Of three acres of lawn and pasture
And whatever other edge catches the rapture
Of downy drift shifting with the slightest sense of breeze.

We walk out in the fading light beneath the locust tree,
Calling to the horses in the pasture to the north.
The geldings gather themselves in calm gait,
Sweat-darkened forms slickened along the back and withers.

Haltered in hand, they step out through the gate,
Hoofs quiet against the wilted grass,
Passing beneath the white curling bark of the birches.
Browning leaves skeleton-ed by caterpillars
Cluster delicate lace at the base of hosta and lilies.

By the time we finish with the feeding and watering,
Venus and Jupiter gleam in the lean light of the western sky,
A gentle brightening above the dark forms
Of Angus on the long hill beyond the creek.

H. Arnett

7/13/15

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