Dear Blog Reader
I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. I am still basking in the glow of the work of others. The unveiling of the talented Hoover clan’s limerick writing was fun and always generates a lot of readership for the week. It is sad to admit. However, it is true. I do not write for the creative outlet, the opportunity to let my mind soar to new heights, or to gain and express insight about the human condition; at least not exclusively. A part of me writes for the attention. So last week, I was able to ride on the creative coattails of others, copy down their fabulous words and still get a lot of readers for the week. Also feel free to reach out to Bill Hoover, winner of the 2014 cousin’s limerick contest. As of writing this, he still has not claimed his pie prize or let the lovely Miss Beverly know what flavor he will savor.
As mentioned in the opening paragraph of last week’s blog, life has been coming at a fast and furious pace. In fact, I have three of four topics backed up in line, waiting on exposition. This is a new and welcome phenomenon. In the early days of the blog, I would struggle to have any idea for thematic topics. In fact a time or two, I had to set down with a blank screen and just start typing in hopes that, like spaghetti, some of the words would stick together on the wall and something coherent would emerge from the mental soup.
Last weekend was big; very big. Last weekend I had the opportunity to pay off a debt that was approximately 26 years old. No it wasn’t a mortgage. Although if I had had the good sense to stay in that same house since then, we would have been rounding third and heading for home on owning the house that we live in.
It seems that many couples in their early married lives move around so often that they out maneuver their friends. Friends go off to their own worlds. The car that takes them off to a honeymoon is followed by a Uhaul to destinations far flung. Inevitably, with each move, the pool of moving friends shrinks. Until one weekend, you find yourself with a house full of boxes; you and your significant other looking at each other; both coming to the realization that you need to get more friends.
So 26 years ago, the lovely Miss Beverly and I came to that realization. After my Purdue graduation we had stayed in Lafayette while Bev finished up her teaching degree. Many of our friends had moved off. We found a nice little house a block from where we were renting. Because of poor planning on our part the lingering friends still in town weren’t that weekend. So we had a very small crew. Plus, I was very cheap. Rather than rent a Uhaul and make a couple of trips, I figured that we could just walk all of our worldly possessions across the street and down the alley; easy peasy.
By mid afternoon, we had had it. We were tired. It was hot and muggy. The stress had caused me to find the lovely Miss Beverly not so lovely any more. That is when mom and dad showed up. This was a time when they probably didn’t have time to come up. Central Indiana was in the throes of an eight week drought. Dad was milking 100 cows at the time. Time was at a premium, and they showed up. After that the move went easier. We finished around three and were giving the “this is what we want to do to the house tour.” After mentioning that we wanted to put in a ceiling fan in the bedroom, dad suggested that he had time for that.
I don’t know if you know where milk comes from. While it does come from the dairy aisle at the grocery store in plastic jugs, its journey actually starts on a farm with the most time bracketed people in the world. Every day there is a hard start and a hard stop to all activities. 5:00 a.m. to start milking the cows in the morning, 5:00 p.m. in the evening, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. While a cow’s udder is somewhat elastic, there are limits. It starts to get pretty full at the 12 hour mark. As a result, dairy farmers, through the ages, have tried to keep to that 12 hour schedule.
If my parents had left at about 3:00, the milking would have started at 5:00. The two hours spent getting to the hardware store; making the proper selection and hanging a ceiling fan would definitely make for a late evening and some tight udders. At five the light came on, the fan started whirring and the rain started to fall. Nothing smells as sweet at rain that breaks a drought. It is like the country side exhales a sigh and on its breath is a sweet, loamy, tired scent. A rain like that is to be enjoyed on a front porch swing with a pitcher of iced tea. That is what we did. Mom, dad, Bev and I sitting on the front porch listening to the soaking rain wash the dust off the maple tree, while swinging on the porch swing and sitting in wicker chairs. Five became six and dad announced that it was time to get going.
Time being time, I figure that the last cow would have been milked around 11:00. Dad would have crawled into bed around midnight with a 5:00 a.m. wake up call to get the cows back on schedule.
Last weekend, the Kozaks and the Sharritts had the opportunity to help their fiercely independent son and daughter. Being fiercely independent, I don’t think that it was necessarily easy for them to accept the assistance that was joyfully given. That is okay; independence being what it is, it would be difficult.
Isn't that the challenge with raising fiercely independent children. They don't turn out that way on their own; no matter what they may believe. Philosophically, those parents sit back and watch. The kids fall. The parents wait to see if they can dust themselves off and get back in the race. Over time, one finds that there is little that cannot be over come with time and tears. Yet the falls are watched, breaths are held, hands are wrung. Then one day when help was needed we had the opportunity to pay back a helping hand 26 years later.
Take care
Roger
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