AT THE METHODIST CHURCH, WATROUS

That day in 1969, while on a picture-taking 

trip to old Ft. Union in northern New Mexico,

I spied an old Methodist Church, almost

hidden amongst a random bunch of ancient

gnarled overgrown cottonwoods.

It was the door latch that grabbed my 

attention as my friend and I drove off 

the highway and parked in front of the

historic church. It was an ornate, though

rusted (and interesting) old door latch

on the rather well-maintained little church

building.

The photo taken that day

    with my Rollei, of the 

door latch on the front door

    of the ancient 

Watrous Methodist Church

     came out a bit blurred...

maybe befitting the blurring

     Mists of Time..and events

of a hundred years ago, when

old Americans---early settlers

    and their children 

came during hard times to 

     worship and seek

forgiveness and salvation...

The strains of ancient hymns

     could almost be heard

that day, as if wafting out on

  the gentle mountain breezes---

"Brethren, we have met to worship

     and adore the Lord our God,

Will you pray with all your power

     while we try to preach the Word.."

or

"On Jordan's stormy banks I stand

     and cast a wishful eye

To Canaan's fair and happy land

      where my possessions lie...

I am bound for the Promised Land..."

"O happy day that fixed my choice..."

Those old-timers, whose hands 

     grasped that ornate unrusted

door latch a century ago....in a sense

     were opening the door to 

eternity, and though they are gone

      forever from the earth,

they still live...and even the young

    children who opened that door,

are gone also ...along with their 

    little handprints...on the latch...

They all still live, not because

    they looked for "religion"

in that church..but because they

   sought...and found forgiveness.

*************

BY MIL

25 AUGUST 18

"NO MAN IS AN ISLAND....ANY MAN'S DEATH DIMINISHES ME"

                        JOHN DONNE, 1624

"Any man's  death diminishes me,"

a truth pointed out to us long ago,

is as true as ever. And it is more true 

and obvious after one has breathed

and has trodden the earth for many 

decades. Some losses are felt more 

than others...

It is true also that the closer in one's

life that he is to another man or woman

the more he is diminished.

How are we affected? Need we count

all the ways? Some might posit that

death is a victorious time at which we 

remember and celebrate the lives of the

departed. 

Any way we see it, they are missed and we

are lessened.

Consider our peers---our early childhood 

friends, our comrades we graduated high

school with---seeing or corresponding 

with them! We all from time to time---say

to them something like: "Remember that 

night or that game or some event..."

This sharing somehow refreshes us, takes

us back, reinforces us, cheers us...as we

once more relive old times that were part

of our history and part of us---("I am a part

of all I have met...")

But... as times goes on and more "pieces 

of the promontory" wash away, we become

fewer and fewer, and the body is lessened

until maybe only two are left---custodians

of marvelous memories...and then...there

is only ONE......   who remembers.

He is the most diminished ...of all...

John Donne was right. I know.

*************

BY MIL

22 AUGUST 18

THE ORANGE SCISSORS AND THE BARLOW

A thousand tasks
    can be done
right at my writing desk
     with merely two
marvelous little tools
            which
people seem to always
      want to borrow
(but they never bring back)

These are--- a very sharp
      Barlow knife    and
the Orange Scissors....
     almost like my second
grade ones....    which
    were melted into a
P-51....in the Forties....

***************
BY MIL
24 AUGUST 18

BUBBA...."FAMED GUIDE OF THE YUKON"

Gather round my children, here behind the barn

     on this beautiful summer's morn---

Pull yourself up a log and set with yore Pepsis...

     or coffee ...and I will tell you a tale 

in the shade of this here old elm tree

     (which has seen better days....)

Whittle...iffen you got yore Barlows...

I'm gonna tell you a tale you won't never forgit

     about a grizzled old-timer hunting-and

fishing guide---who has spent a good deal

    of his life in the Yukon and Far North

parts...teaching greenhorns  about the

    great outdoors and bears and such...

Now then, he's up there right now...

     way up there in Alaska and fact is---

nobody never knows just whar...I mean

     look deep in the wildest parts...

and then deeper...there he will be...

Oh they say,

    ----You can find him out in the middle

    of the wildest, fastest, scariest  rivers---

    happily floating his Rio Grande Kings---

    ----He can hip shoot an elk at 600 paces,

     gauging the wind speed in his head

     ----That he goes out hunting mean grizzlies

    middle of the night, with nothing but a 

    Randall 'tween his teeth, and his track shoes

      on...

     ----He's got his choice of a rack full of pieces

     but always carries an old beat up .270 Win.

     -----That he sleeps with a slab of bacon right

      in his tent, while on a hunt in grizzly country,

      just hoping a bar will show up...

    ----That he chews something while on an intense

     trail, and spits...some say it is Spark Plug 

     "baccy,"--- others that it's Copenhagen--- and

      then we hear he chews on unlit Swisher Sweets

       cigars...

    ----Get this, he can cook better than most chefs,

     and can smoke a turkey right there in the field...

    ----He can wrangle your horses and pack mules

     on a hunt and has stories galore of jumping

     precipices ridin' for his life outta storms...

    ----His fans and admirers and satisfied customers

    like to speak of his sense of humor, congeniality,

    and a "soft-streak"---how he has been known

    to hep little lost baby ducks back to water...or

    put an eaglet, back into its aerie on a cliff, or pour

    a can-'o- Carnation down the throat of a little 

    bitty fawn....or a bear cub...

    ----Ah...but they say---you CAN rile him up iffen

    you don't follow directions...and to the nearest 

    airport you will go !! Bye, Bye.

     When you're setting around the campfire at night,

git him to telling you stories...of which he knows a

thousand---many of them even true...or ask him

to play an Irish  jig on his harmonica and maybe...sing

an old ballad...

And my my, I haven't even broached the subject of 

him chartering planes to remote places up thar in

the North ...or his prowess out on the ocean bays

around there, deep-sea fishin'....

My, just thinking about this skilled outdoorsman

makes me want to head out up thar and find 

him and spend the rest of the summer fishing...

I'll always remember advice I heard him tell

a bunch of tenderfoots one day (in humor)---

He said:

     "Always remember, very old and experienced

      bear hunters have learned a principle---and

      always adhere to it, without fail:

          'When bear hunting, go in pairs...and 

           always take a friend along, who is 

           slower than you,' "

------Good luck to old Bubba, wherever he is.

-------------

BY MIL

8 JULY 2018

SO LONG....HEADED FOR A QUIET PLACE...AND SOLITUDE

     "WHITE SANDS", by MIL, circa 1969

Have you ever    just got tired

     of all the melees, controversies

kerfuffles       noise       and fury

    signifying nothing....around us

and wanted to escape to 

     a place of peace      somewhere

like a little mountain cabin with a 

    gurgling stream, ever-flowing...

or maybe a remote tiny lake

    with jumping Dolly Vardens?

Where would you go.....?

I know a spot (if it is still there)

    a place with an old gnarled

cottonwood  tree---

    a symbol of life on this earth

as it has had to fight 

and work

        just to live and have

water to drink    along with a

    yucca and other friends

          huddled together

away out there where nobody

     hardly ever goes,  

Tho poet once walked 

     and discovered this peaceful

          bucolic place    on 

a cool  spring day, years ago

and 

     I sat and rested on the

warm sand under the lonely tree...

          and breathed, and hummed

some tunes, and maybe recited

    a poem or two to myself

         and pondered  a bit...

I liked that PLACE. !!!

Now I'm headed back there, to maybe

     "camp" a couple of  days...

    to reset my buttons....got a sleeping

         bag, my canteen full of water, a few

cans of beanie-weenies, and my 

              trusty old Randall...

Oh, I know       me and that scrub tree

       have both got old

I just hope it's still there....

------------------

MIL

28 JULY 2018

COUNTING LEAVES, TOMATOES, KERNELS....AND BLESSINGS

Whenever
     I need a boost
           or want to find inspiration
to write a poem
      I go to my worn copy
             of A THOUSAND MORNINGS"
by  Mary Oliver

This inspiring, perceptive, and yet writer
      of simple verse      never fails me
            It is said   that she was
so dedicated to seeing the wonders
      and beauty of nature      
              and of the world

that she carried a small worn leather
      notebook on her daily morning walks
            in the woods       and had
even stashed spare stubby pencils
       in random tree forks      in case
             she forgot or lost hers

And one day
      when she was writing a poem
            about TREES
friends found her up in the branches
      of one    counting the leaves---
             ....The Compleat Poet !

I learned something from that story---
      Count your heartbeats
          Count your breaths
       Count your tomatoes
           Count your pintos
       Count your minutes
             Count your kernels
                      of corn
and your blessings....
----------------
BY MIL
5 AUGUST 18