DIRT

Dirt is uniquely fascinating for small children.  As parents, we invest a tremendous amount of energy in our children's cleanliness.  This is entirely at odds with a child's natural attraction to dirt as a source of entertainment.  Not to mention that dirt is known to be able to detect clean children up to 100 feet away.  (Remember 'Pigpen' from 'Peanuts'?)  Dirt comes in an endless variety of colors and textures.  Just add water and you have something even more useful: mud.  So many things can be made from mud.  At the beach, in the yard, in parking lots, children head directly for sand, dirt, mud and water with parents trailing along behind shouting such foolish admonitions as 'don't get sand in your hair' or 'don't splash in that puddle'.  Why not?  I have never heard of a child suffering serious harm from too much [external] dirt.  Yet, as a parent, I persist in the age-old battle.

"My" Tonka Buggy

All that to say, I was a normal child in my own appreciation for dirt.  On one side of our trailer was a small asphalt parking space, on the other a small plot of grass yard.  But, underneath was dirt.  Some trailers of the nicer variety had aluminum 'skirting' to lend an air of permanence to these houses with wheels and axles temporarily set up on blocks. Ours lacked such cosmetic elegance.  With the trailer somewhere between two and three feet off the ground, there was plenty of room for a small boy to sit underneath and play.  The dirt underneath our trailer was plain brown dirt.  It wasn’t the dark and rich kind farmers like to roll through their fingers or light and gravelly decomposed rock or even gray with lots of clay.  It was just medium brown dirt.  It was packed pretty firmly, but on the surface was a layer of loose stuff -- just right to grade roads with.  One Christmas, both my younger brother and I received Tonka Toy dune buggies.  Dune buggies were quite the rage in those days, and these were small-scale models of the ‘real thing’, right down to the flower decal on the hood.  My hand was just wide enough to match the width of the dune buggy.  So, I would sit for hours in the cool shade underneath our trailer carving elaborate roadways for my dune buggy and making those odd ‘vroom’ sounds boys favor that are so incomprehensible to mothers and girls.  When I was under there, it was my own little world.  I can only imagine what it looked like: a small boy running his hands in the dirt or pushing a small, metal toy car endlessly.  Either Philip was too small or just didn’t find dirt as appealing as I did, because I don’t remember spending much time with him down in the dirt.

I discovered that the dirt underneath the trailer had a mind of its own.  At one point, I had some boyhood treasure that I wanted to hide.  Now, why it is important to hide treasure is obvious: you don’t want the pirates to steal it.  Pirates always know how to find treasure unless you bury it.  My treasure was some kind of small medallion, an award from Sunday School.  It was in a little hinged plastic box.  You know the kind.  The bottom half was opaque and the top was clear to display the ‘treasure’.  Secretly, I fetched a large spoon from the kitchen and headed for my refuge underneath the trailer.  After making sure no pirates were watching,  I dug a small hole and reverently placed my treasure down inside.  Then, I covered the hole carefully to make it appear as if no hole had ever been dug.  Now in my simple mind, I made sure I buried it in the center of a line going down the middle of the trailer, just a little way from the rear.  Not wanting to risk it, I didn’t draw a map or take measurements -- pirates might find the information.  Sometime later, after the danger had passed, I went back to recover my treasure.  But, it wasn’t there.  After digging down in what I was sure was the right spot and finding nothing, I expanded my search until there was quite a large hole.  But, I never found my treasure.  I concluded that there had been a shift in the tectonic plates of the earth and my treasure was probably miles away, perhaps under the sea bed.  Like the parable Jesus told, I found that burying one’s treasure is a sure way to lose it.  Treasure is meant to be shared, not hoarded, and when I buried my treasure, it was taken away.  Now, that ‘treasure’, if it still exists, is decayed and ruined and neither I nor anyone else got any enjoyment out of it.  So now, I try to put my treasures to use to bring joy to others.  Except, of course, for pirates.

Wives and Daughters

In our bookish home, we read for inspiration, not just information.  Charles Dickens (so far as I have read) always succeeds.  There is a richness in Dickens that cannot be found elsewhere: unforgettable characters are very good, very evil, very silly, very simple and often a combination.  We have found another author from that era equally ennobling: Elizabeth Gaskell.  Gaskell weaves a more subtle tapestry than Dickens, creating characters a bit more human, a bit more believable.  I just finished reading her final, not-quite-complete novel: Wives and Daughters.  This was after viewing the BBC mini-series.  Yes, I know this violates my 'read before movie' precept.  My family forced me into it, truly.  Tied me to the couch and pointed my face at the screen and sat a bowl of popcorn on my lap.  At that point, I gave in.

GASKELL and DICKENS

Wives and Daughters shares a common theme with a splendid Dickens work: Little Dorrit.  Both tell the story of a young woman coming of age without a mother whose strength of character is sorely tested by the foibles and weaknesses of those around her.  Both illustrate the clear boundaries of class in England at that time.  Of great importance to me, both show the unique place a father has in the heart of his daughters.  Both show the value of good character in attracting the right partner.

In Little Dorrit, the father is a flawed, weak man with a misplaced sense of his own importance given his residence in debtor's prison.  Though he no doubt loves 'Little Dorrit', the tension between who he wants to be and who he really is causes him to frequently hurt her while favoring two older siblings who are ungrateful and selfish, and following their father's pretentious footsteps.  The father in Wives and Daughters is a wise, loving, albeit stern country doctor who makes one crucial mistake: thinking his nearly grown daughter is in need of a mother figure to replace the wife he lost when Molly was young, when she really just wants more of her father's precious time.  In spite of this vast difference between the two men -- one with significant flaws, the other with significant strengths, both authors show how deeply each daughter loves their father, simply because of who he is.  You can see why a Dad would like that, right?

BOOK VERSUS MOVIE

Both books were turned into BBC mini-series by producer Andrew Davies.  These are  compelling dramas.  Here are excellent reviews of Wives and Daughters, and Little Dorrit. Though a century and a half removed from the time they were written, Davies mostly 'gets it right', particularly with Little Dorrit, where he had seven and one half hours to work with.  Wives and Daughters is about half that, making it at times feels rushed.  In both, Davies leaves out a crucial element.  The books have clues to the source of Molly's and Little Dorrit's goodness.  It would be easy to say they are simply illustrating the romantic innocence of young womanhood.  But no, the stories have other young women not so noble and other noble characters that are not young women.  There is something singularly, divinely beautiful in the life of one who consciously chooses to subsume their desires in a surrender to other-centeredness.  This is what Dickens and Gaskell recognize.  References to Providence or The Good Book are not by accident.  They lived in an era where science was making broad leaps forward, but the rejection of a Divine Creator had not yet happened.  They recognized that science cannot produce goodness, nor can it thwart evil.  The power to love, particularly one's enemies, is super-human.

In the movies, you see how good Molly and Little Dorrit are.  In the books, you better understand why they are good.  And that is why I want my daughters to read.  In the end, I was reminded of how I need to treasure the time I have with my daughters and how I must prepare them to give their hand to the next man in their life.  These are stories I can point to and say, isn't that the kind of young lady you would like to be?  And so far, the answer has been 'Yes'. 

Breaking Bread (a Trailer Park Tale)

Providentially, though our family was uprooted both emotionally and physically by our move to Trailer Village, we were plunked down in the vicinity of a pair of God’s quiet servants.  A few doors down from our 'new' home, on the opposite side of the street closer to the park entrance, lived Jimmy and Jeanine Williams.  Two things I remember clearly about this older couple: they introduced my mother to the local Assembly of God pastor and his wife, and they introduced our entire family to the spicy pleasure of greasy tacos.  I remember the former because we started attending church, a turn of events that profoundly affected the rest of my life.  I remember the latter because -- for reasons known only to the Creator -- memories often travel on the back of food.

It seemed to me that Jimmy and Jeanine were a good deal older than Mom, but by how many years I can't say.  As I was barely school age, all adults were old.  To me they were ancient -- ideal grandparent figures.  Jimmy had finished a 20 year career tour in the United States Marine Corps.  As Trailer Village was less than a mile from the back entrance to Camp Pendleton, any number of residents had connections with either the Navy or Marine Corps.  Both Jimmy and Jeanine had gray or graying hair.  Jimmy's was getting thin.  Both wore glasses, both were solid and stocky.  At some point, the Williams noticed the new family down the street and opened their hearts and home to a noisy, awkward group of kids and their mother.  Tacos at their home are one of the first meals I remember.  Other meals from my early childhood were more in keeping with my Mom’s Wyoming farm heritage.  I remember meat and potatoes and canned vegetables.  Consequently, tacos were a foreign and exotic treat.  There we would sit, all huddled around the tiny, circular dining table in the Williams trailer.  How they managed to fit in five additional people is a wonder.  

The ingredients were in various bowls in the center of the table.  The process was simple: take a tortilla and load it up.  Wonder Bread was my frame of reference, so the concept of a tortilla was baffling at first.  Tacos can cover a whole gamut of ingredients; the Williams variety was quite simple:  corn tortillas heated in some kind of oil until hot but not hard, ground beef (not lean), cheddar cheese, tomatoes, and lettuce.  Jimmy, Jeanine and Mom also made use of something called ‘hot sauce’, a pungent reddish-brown liquid in a small bottle.  A sample of the stuff warned me off for years.  Although middling on the scale of hot sauces, to my tongue it was fiery.  My alternative salsa was ketchup, no doubt repulsive to purists (and to me now), but ketchup went on a LOT of things in my childhood.  In those days, cooking oil usually meant lard or Crisco.  The Better Homes and Gardens cookbook recommended meat 'with good fat marbling for enhanced flavor’.  Cheddar -- as it is now -- was a rather oily cheese.  This made eating tacos an oily, messy proposition.  While munching on one end, the other end had to be held over the plates (usually paper) so the combined greasy residue from the meat, tortilla, and cheese dripping from the other end would be safely collected.  Each bite squeezed several drops out.  I found it fascinating to aim for the same spot, so that by the end of the meal, I had a nice, round puddle which congealed into an opaque yellowish-white mass.  It was fortunate that none of us were aware of the contribution such a meal would make to our cholesterol levels.  The pleasure of eating is vastly diminished when every bite is evaluated for fat (saturated or not), sodium, sugar, carbohydrates, and calories.  To this day, tacos remain a favorite meal, though long ago I graduated from ketchup to Pace Picante sauce and more recently to a delightful home-made salsa.

Simple hospitality.  Never overestimate the impact of a friendly meal or two on a small child.  My journey towards heaven started out on a road paved with greasy corn tortillas.  

Belated Mothers Day

This entry was intended for Mother's Day.  But a week or so before Mother's Day, I pinched a nerve in my neck.  It was probably the result of seasonal brush pruning on our back hill.  I must confess that I am not much for whacking away at spring growth, but the fire ordinance requires it and so I get out each year and do my duty.  Somewhere along the way, my neck rebelled, though I cannot pinpoint an injury 'event'.  In any case, the pain got bad enough that I missed a day of work and actually went to the doctor, as no man should ever do.  At this point, with a continued regimen of Ibuprofen, prescription muscle relaxant, hot showers, neck exercises and lots of time flat on my back, my condition is much improved.  Enough so that I can actually think about doing something I enjoy.  Although at the moment, my grandson is trying to help me type, which makes blogging a challenge!

Without further ado, and so I can pay my grandchildren proper attention, here is my tribute to a some very special mothers.

THREE MOTHERS

Your hair is gray, your home is empty.

Still, you start every morning 

with prayer for your children, 

and their children

and their children's children.

Some nearby, some far away,

always in your heart.

Though you have toiled for years,

your hands are not idle,

you do not ask for leisure.

Instead, you spend your time

with boys and girls who need a grandma

telling stories, playing games, doing crafts;

writing to missionaries

who so rarely hear from home;

finding a place of service

wherever you are.

Your step is slower, your smile just as ready.

Though the years run to their end

and many who started the race with you

have gone before to their reward

You keep fighting the good fight, 

Greeting the Creator

of the new day.

Another day to love, to serve, to pray

My mother.

In the darkness before dawn,

you rise to prepare, 

with little thought for yourself.

Your hours and minutes 

are full to overflowing.

Like birds in the nest,

a house of girls clamor:

Food for the mind.

Food for the body.

Food for the soul.

The bounty of your womb and your heart

stretch the limits of energy, of patience.

Your daughters grow 

in grace, in wisdom, in stature.

They show the depth of mother love

in unthinking reflection,

still drawing life from you

though no longer infants.

Happy and wholesome, 

roots sinking deep

in the rich soil of family.

And when evening comes, 

the day's toil ceases.

With grateful heart you go to rest,

knowing tomorrow will come,

another day of hidden service.

My wife.

Your eyes sparkle with

the fresh discovery of mother love.

New life has blessed your marriage:

the miracle of children.

A little girl, with impish grin and new words every day.

A little boy, crawling everywhere with boundless energy.

And I see a young woman,

learning the richer joy found

in the daily toil of endless nurturing.

Pouring your life into the lives of your offspring.

The small attentions,

touching, holding, cradling,

gentle words, firm words.

Smiling at small victories,

always guiding, always loving.

Seeing your own mother

in the new light of your shared mission,

the unsurpassed beauty of motherhood.

My daughter.

That First Trailer

Even though I was only 4 years old, I did notice some unique features about our "new" home.  Hey, it was new to us.  Of course, the outside was aluminum, painted a slightly oxidized lavender and white.  At 8 feet wide and 32 feet long, it was definitely smaller than our old place.  But, it DID have a raised foundation.  Well, actually, just a collection of concrete pylons placed at intervals along the frame with threaded steel brackets to level the trailer.  Simple wooden steps led to the only door.  I remember crawling under those steps and no-one would know where I was.  For a kid my age, the pleasure of peeking through the small gaps between the 2x4's, watching people come and go or creaking up and down the steps oblivious to my presence was a rare treat. I had a sense of both omniscience and invisibility.  The only problem with invisibility is that it makes mothers worry.  I got into a trouble at least once for hiding out there just a little too long. 

Inside, the walls were a honey-colored wood paneling that flexed if you leaned on it.  Sturdy stuff.  Another cool thing about this trailer was that it had holes in the roof.  It isn't what you are thinking.  There were a couple of hand-crank ceiling vents, that would open up a few inches to let in fresh air and a glimpse of the sky.  I have never had hand crank-ceiling portals in a home since.  (We did have real holes in the roof of our next trailer, but that is another story.) Sitting on the hitch on front of the trailer was a small roundish steel tank.  I found out later it was where the gas came from for the stove.  One of the big events of trailer park living was when the propane truck with its BIG tank would come around to fill up all the baby propane tanks.

The back of our trailer was up close to a steep bank planted with ice plant.  At the top was a hedge of oleanders, a drainage ditch, and the road that led to the entrance of Trailer Village a few hundred feet from our place.  The bank was perhaps 5-6 feet high and I could see traffic through the gaps in the plants.  I developed a habit of amusing myself by tossing small rocks up onto the road until the inevitable happened and I hit a car going by.  I dashed into the trailer, filled with certain dread that a car with a dent or cracked window and a livid driver would be pulling up in front of our home any minute.  The car never came, and in the future I limited my rock-throwing to other venues. 

So, there we were.  One young mother and 4 small children living in less square footage than currently makes up my living room or the train car I ride to work most mornings.  Where did we put everybody?  I remember my brother's small crib up against the wall in the living room that also doubled as bedroom for Mom, myself and my little brother.  Our two older sisters got the 'real' bedroom, which was as in the back.  What little furniture we had seemed more than adequate in the narrow confines of the trailer.

For children, geography is destiny.  Adults and circumstances determine your neighbors, your school, your home.  On that little street in Trailer Village, I would make my first friends.

Only Today Matters

My 94-year-old aunt had a stroke yesterday.  Her husband (my Mom's brother) had gone out for a few minutes and came back and found her unconscious on the floor.  Now she lies in a hospital bed surrounded by machines and strangers.  Her breathing is regulated by a ventilator, her vital signs monitored on an array of devices, her nourishment is liquid.  Her eyes opened when my wife and I went in to visit last night, but her face made no expression.  Whether because of the stroke or her weariness or the tubing in her mouth I don't know.  One can only wonder what lies on the other side, much as with an infant.  Her body is small and frail, her arms bruised and broken from the fall.  Her trademark red hair is showing gray roots and I know if she could speak, the spunky lady I know would be distraught at her appearance.

So, we prayed and then my wife talked quietly to her.  Conversation is not easy for me in the best of circumstances, so the notion of a monologue with my stricken aunt left me tongue-tied. But my better half is able to express love and concern and cheer and compassion without needing a response.  Out of the abundance of her heart her mouth speaks.  I just sat and held my aunt's hand and she feebly returned my grip.

After awhile, I went out to call my mother and my sisters to tell them what little we knew.  Since my uncle was not there when we came in, there was very little the nursing staff could say about my aunt's prognosis.  Still, a stroke for a woman of 94 years and poor health to begin with clearly means the long-term prognosis is not good.  As I sat with her, I was reminded that the long-term prognosis for my body is limited also.  I just have few immediate indicators of how short my time really us.  I am just a vapor in the scope of eternity.  But today I have another day to live. God help me to expend each minute purposefully.

What am I doing in the theater AGAIN?

OK, I already did a movie review this month.  And, really, I do not see that many movies in the theater.  Honest.  My wife and I have had gift passes since Christmas (see, we DON'T go that often).  But, we just saw a movie I need to talk about and that you should see:  October Baby.

There are many reviews.  I quickly read a handful just now and few stick to evaluating the movie on how well it tells a story.  October Baby has touched a nerve.  There is often a hint of anger shown by reviewers, the kind of passion that indicates an unpleasant truth has been brought out of the closet and quickly needs to be shouted down and dismissed back to where it came from.  The truth that October Baby gives a voice to is that many women who have lived since Roe v. Wade have suffered, suffered deeply, mostly in silence.

October Baby, unlike the vast majority of faith-based movies produced in my lifetime, is an artistic success in its own right.  It isn't perfect.  But, there were not any moments where I said to myself, "So, I get what they were trying to do, but that was really awkward."  You know the feeling.  Where a well-intentioned movie is so bad that you wouldn't ask someone who is not in our 'Faith Club' to see it.

I cried.  I am a father who regularly disappoints his daughters during movies because they are bawling their eyes out while I sit there apparently unmoved.  It takes an incredibly powerful movie to turn off the switch in my head that defies the movie to transport me beyond the fact that I am sitting in a dark room with a  bunch of other people eating junk food watching a large, moving two-dimensional picture enhanced by surround-sound.  I am very aware of the technical presentation of the movie.  Can't help it.  October Baby took me beyond that.

I am glad I went with my wife.  This is primarily a young woman's story, but also the story of several other women.  I was glad I could hold her hand and be thankful that the story was not her story.  But, I came away wondering about all the others who live this reality.

It was also the story of a father who, like me, while trying so hard to do what is best, fundamentally fails so often to understand his daughter and finds the only path back to her heart is to humbly ask forgiveness and the chance to try again.

And that is October Baby's message: forgiveness is the path back to wholeness.