Things That Go Bump

There's a tree that grows sideways in the pathway where Husband walks the dog.

He said he was looking down, kicking the wheel thingie the dog plays with, when he smacked his head against this tree, by walking right into it.

Again.

For the sixth time.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen. SIX times.

You can make an excuse for the first time. You can maybe make an excuse for the second time, if there has been a huge lapse between the head smacking.

But....six times?

Now, it's true Husband's life insurance is paid up.

But still, I am beginning to worry. As evidenced by this very behavior, Husband cannot afford to lose more brain cells. You know, and I know, that head smackin' ain't doing him much good in the save-the-brain-cell campaign.

What are ways to prevent this, you ask?

Perhaps wrap Husband's head up in a foam filled do-rag each time he goes out? Install one of those contraptions that go 'beep-beep-beep' when one is backing up, but install this one to go in the forward direction? Attach a motion sensor devise to the tree,so that when Husband's noggin gets too close he hears a voice screaming, "Yo, fool! Don't you go hittin' me no more!"

I suppose there are other creative ways to prevent this tragedy from reoccurring.

Husband says he has the solution.

He's gonna cut the tree down.

After all, it's the tree's fault, right?

Adding to this on 3/31/15: Make that Seven. That's right. And Husband has gone to the wood with his little hatchet...

I've Looked at Clouds from Both Sides Now/Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

How long has it been since you laid down in the grass, put your hands behind your head, and gazed at the clouds, identifying all the amazing things  you saw there?

Or watched the stars, waiting for a falling one, identifying the constellations?

It's been a long time for me because:

a. I'm afraid a bug would get on me  b. the ground might be damp  c. I couldn't get back up d. all the above

As a child, I would do these things alone or with a friend or two when we were so bored we couldn't think of another thing to do for fun.

"There's an elephant! There's a whale! Do you see the bear?  Oh, come on, it's right there! See?"

And so on.

And looking at the stars at night always fascinated me. Like chips of winking diamonds, they seemed alive and secret.

In 1997, when the Hale-Bopp comet was streaking through the skies, we took Daughter to a darker place than our yard to see it. I guess we did that about three times during it's streak. It interested us more than it did her, but it brought back a lot of star gazing memories for me.

We have, over my adult years, identified cloud shapes, too. Usually from inside a moving car where we might have  stretch of road to see the sky.

In this way you can watch the dinosaur lose shape, either turning into something else entirely or nothing at all.

My childhood was spent outdoors a lot, especially in summer. In fact, the door may have been locked during the day. (I kid, I kid, we never locked our doors.)

Before air conditioning, the coolest place was under or up in a big old tree, the adults sitting on the porch, maybe with the floor fan blowing from the inside of the screen door, if you could find a cord to reach that far.

How long has it been since you climbed a tree?

I don't anymore because: a. there might be a bug on it b. the bark might be damp c. I couldn't get back down (well, even up to start with) or d. all the above

But I can still sit on the porch!

And when we occasionally come home late, I lean against the car, gaze up at the sky, looking at my small patch of sky the trees don't hide...

And I make a nostalgic wish.

Today, take a moment, glance at a cloud, gaze at a star.

Even if you ain't laying on the ground to do it.

Being in God's Will

Wouldn't it be grand if we could just say, "Okay, God. I want to be totally in Your Will now. Amen."

And voila'! We are. No more temptations, no more sin, no more being unsure of what to do next.

Of course, being the ornery cusses we really are, we'd start to wiggle around till we got out of it. I mean, don't we already do that all the time?

And I understand until this age is over, that's the way it will be. And when good old Eternity begins, we won't have to worry about it any more.

I'm looking forward to it.

But for now, even when I am really, really good with God, feeling like I'm in His Will as much as I know how to be, things still happen.

This discourages people, and sometimes, those who are in weak moments, get angry enough at God for this that they turn away. At least for a little while.

But  look at what we've done to poor old nature. When we fell, we took everything with us. And all was innocent in it, except man. And all has suffered since.

I'll be glad to live on the New Earth with the New Heaven.

But until then:

I am all that God wants me to be,

Tall and strong and so lovely.

My branches are filled with leaves of green.

My bark brown as any you’ve ever seen.

I am a tree,

And in God’s will totally.

So why is that axe headed for me?!

The Tree

When I was a small child, a giant oak tree grew in my grandparent’s side yard.  It was an ancient thing, the circumference broad and strong.  The roots were gnarled and raised so high above ground that I used them as steps to come from the sidewalk to the yard.  Its trunk was a sloping mountain that I walked up, rather than climbed, to sit in the low hanging branches to look at books or view the world from a higher place.

In late spring wild day lilies spread themselves around its trunk in a glorious orange skirt that, to me, was an exotic and rare display of nature’s flamboyant side. 

But the most delightful thing about this tree was that sometime in its long history, lightening had struck it at its base and had opened the trunk, causing the bottom of the tree to hollow out and welcome a tiny person right into the heart of the old soul. 

I would crawl into that space, where the cool mossy darkness enveloped me, with only a trickle of summer’s heat and light allowed inside.  I would hold secret tea parties and dream big dreams inside the tree’s girth and thought that only I alone could enter.

But one day as I knelt and scooted in I was instantly attacked by a ferocious mother hen who had sequestered her brood inside.  I came out screaming across the yard, baby chicks being scattered asunder, the upper part of my four year old self completely hidden by, what to me, was an enormous winged monster.  My grandfather came running out of the house, down the porch steps, and knocked her off me.  I survived with no more than scratches from her claws and beak.  But I never looked at a chicken the same way again!

When I was eight I came down with Red Measles. I became critically ill as my temperature shot to over 106.  I hallucinated, I cried for my parents to help me.  The doctor came to my bedside because he feared I’d become chilled if taken outside.  A great-grandmother had died at age nineteen from this same illness and doctors speculated I had inherited a weakness, which made the measles more dangerous to me. 

Recovering from the point of death, I learned I was not the only creature who was suffering. 

My parents came into my darkened bedroom to talk to me.  I knew something was wrong by the way they glanced anxiously at each other. They gently explained that the tree was dying, which they had known for some time.  Its slow death probably began years before when the lightening strike had split the trunk.  But today, the electric company was arriving to cut my tree down, because the night before one of its massive limbs had separated from the body, crashing to the street below taking a power line with it. 

I began to cry and beg my daddy not to let them cut my tree down.  His hands were tied. Legally the power company had the right to take the tree down as it leaned over into the street and was now a danger in its advanced decaying state.  I struggled out of bed, hysterical and sobbing, as I heard power saws crank up.  Daddy picked me up and carried me to a window to watch the beginning of the end of my friend.  I couldn’t bear to see it, but I could not turn away. 

It was awful.  It was heartless.  And in my mind, it was murder.

That night I had a back set and became critically ill again.  The doctor was called in and he said it was caused by my distraught emotional state.  He was angry that the electric company had not waited until I was stronger to cut down the tree.  But what company would bother to consider the feelings of a sick child regarding something like this? 

After all, it was just a tree.

Most of the time when we think about our first experience with grieving, we remember losing a family member or even a pet.  But my first encounter with grief was when my giant friend was downed.  That tree was more than a tree to me, he was a friend.  He opened himself up to me and wrapped me around his very being.  He held me in his branches and let me see the world.  That tree was a place of comfort, a place of privacy, a place that was all mine. Well, mine and a mad mama hen.

When I think of home as a small child, I don’t think of my playroom, or my bed, or the kitchen table where I ate my meals.

I think of the tree.