camp crumpet?

Sitting in a cabin deep in the woods, surrounded by swarms of deer flies that blot out the sun and drink deet and eat crumpets for afternoon tea, I am waiting for the youth of America to arrive at church camp. I must say that in my more devious moments that I feel a bit like the Grinch standing on Mount Crumpet waiting for all the high school Who-boys and Who-girls to come in and realize what they had gotten themselves into.

"Then the Grinch went to the ledge and put out an ear."
"Hoping that whining and moaning is what he would hear."
"Soon the boys and girls would sit down on their bed "
"And wonder where this path through the woods had led."

"Where is my phone, my text, and my tweet?"
"Why does my body stick to my sheet?"
"Ouch that stings. Ooo that smells."
"You know it really is hotter than hell."

Oh don't tell me that writing "hell" in a blog about church camp is inappropriate. It is that hot and it's in the bible. Check it out.

That's right. Bev and I decided to counsel at highschool camp during the hottest week of the year. The kids have been great. The bugs have been thick. The heat and humidity high. The bug truth proved itself the first morning. Walking from the cabin, commonly refered to as "the kiln", to the cafeteria, I took four steps out of the cabin and immediately, 30 deer flies descended upon me.

The comedy of the situation is not lost on me. Fat man running thru the early morning mist flailing his arms, looking over his shoulder while frantically spraying 40% (the highest permitted without a perscription) deet into tiny teacups. In fact, I have laughed heartily sitting on the screened-in-porch watching one of the smaller campers being carried away. Their little feet flailing in the air as they keep getting smaller and small off in the horizon. A swarm of hungry deer flies looking for their small camper crumpet recipe.

I have found a good coping strategy for the deer flies though. Any time I have to perambulate from the cabin to main camp or vice versa I send a couple of campers ahead of me down the path about forty feet in front of me. They draw the flies and I saunter along behind fly free and unmolested.

You may think that I am being a bit cavalier with the safety of my charges. Don't judge me too harshly. They are highschoolers after all. If they were a bit easier to understand, I might be inclined to take a bit better care of them. Being a firm believer Mazlov's hierarchy of self-actualization, I do not understand why 80% of the kids are here. How can a person disengage and act disaffected from 9:00 a.m. until 3:00 p.m. and then suddenly re-engage and come out of their walking coma to be playful, caring, and full of life. No wonder zombie and vampire movies engage high school kids. It is who they are.

Dallas Willard says that we learn to disguise our facial gestures as we get older. It allows us to listen to really boring conversations and not be slapped by the speaker for looking like an insolent teenager. Also, we learn to disguise our facial expressions so that others will look attentive as we prattle on an on about nothing.

After several days of that dead-eye look, I finally broke down and asked my small group why they came. This is what I heard. High school students like to be able to hang out for a week without stress. They find that when adult supervision is strong enough kids feel safe because there are boundaries set and adhered to so their peers aren't mean to them. They do not feel safe just hanging out or at high school.

And it turns out that feeling safe while experimenting, trying to figure out who you are is worth the risk of being carried off by a swarm of deer flies during the hottest week of the year.

Take care

Roger

A guest writer?

Let's give it up for our guest writer. The hostest with the mostest. Bev Sharritt!!!!!

Take care

Roger

“North or south?. . . north or south?” Roger moaned from the bed in the vacation rental house in an undisclosed small town on the shores of Lake Michigan.

10 hours earlier:

                “Was that your phone, Grace?” I asked, as we lay on the beach. 

She checked, and replied, “missed call from dad.” We had planned a longer excursion to the lovely Lake Michigan sands today, involving the need for someone to drive with gear: a cooler with lunch, chairs, a pirate kite, etc. . .  I volunteered to drive, and Grace and her 3 college friends who met us here decided to walk to the lighthouse then find the spot that I had staked out. Roger decided to go back to bed, and join us even later.

We had discussed geography over dinner the night before.  As an orientation and mobility instructor for the blind I have become more aware of cardinal directions than I used to be.  Growing up, I remember being amazed by my sister Patty’s ability to find her way anywhere after being there just once. She would ask my mom if we were going to be going by the pool on the way to Emma Lou’s or by Robin Hood? How did she know these things? We lived on a dairy farm on a perfectly flat, perfectly square grid for miles around.  In the summer, we would ride the 5 miles to North Manchester, and, once there, I would always let her lead, not always sure which way to turn.  In my early years, my mom remembers me saying, “Moso home,” when we would be ½ mile or so from the farm—not a huge radius of orientation, but a cute enough phrase, that it is still repeated as we approach home from anywhere.

After two  field classes of under-the-blind-fold training to prepare me to teach clients with blindness and low vision how to move about a city independently, I had been forced to engage this part of my brain. At the end of these two summers, I felt confident that I could lead even Patty across an Indianapolis street, literally, blind-folded.

So we had talked about where to meet.  South of the lighthouse.  Grace had no idea which way this was, “right or left facing the lighthouse?”

“That depends on if you are looking at the lighthouse from land or a boat,” I answered. She was not impressed with my best O&M instructor guided discovery methods.  “Lake Michigan is west of the beach. Does that help?” I said. Her eyes clouded over as she looked to her friends to see if any of them had an Aunt Patty kind of brain.  Her boyfriend, Chris, nodded confidently, and she looked relieved that she wouldn’t have to be lead bike.

After setting up camp, and only one more “left or right?” phone call from Grace, the college kids made it to our location. We had a nice cucumber sandwich and Twizzler lunch and awaited Roger’s arrival. He had been present, albeit silent in the discussion the night before, but I was confident that he knew where to look—two killer stair cases south of the lighthouse.

 Roger grew up on a dairy farm, as I did, but nestled in some rare Indiana hills of Madison County, and bordered by the reckless curves of Fall Creek, Reformatory Road, and prison escape routes. Even today, we advise folks not to use their GPS to find us, because it inevitably leads them to an unexpected tour of  the odd wilderness between Fortville and Geist or the odd wilderness of the state Reformatory.  Roger knows his cardinal directions, but the chaos of his surroundings in his formative years caused him to develop phrases like, “on up from there”, “towards the secret garden field”, and, our family favorite, “over the hill”.

So after the missed call from him to Grace’s phone I decided to pull out my phone. Dang. It was dead again, trying so hard to get a signal near the lake. I grabbed Grace’s phone and headed up the dune to the 75 steps, and on to the flow of electrons above. Three broken attempts later, I found out that he had headed south from the lighthouse, had not seen us (“were you guys over the hill?” he asked), and had given up and tried north. Given that there is a canal separating north from south, he was an hour and a half into his sandy walk and would be another 45 minutes to reverse to the lighthouse, head east to get to the bridge over the canal, then back to where we promised we’d all be vertical and visible.

This day was supposed to be a rest day for Roger, as you know, if you have been reading about his high-mileage bike treks to celebrate the first day of the rest of his summer vacation. He was smiling weakly as he approached. Thank God it was overcast and he had a shirt on, because we had hoarded the sunscreen. We gave him what we could find in the cooler:  the few last cucumber  sandwiches, a string cheese,  and some chips. Then he promptly collapsed on the sand. We went home a couple of hours later. He made it through dinner, then headed upstairs with a bottle of Tylenol. 

We called up the stairs as we were headed out to Sherman’s creamery for the 4^th time this week to  try “carmel, carmel, carmel” instead of “chocolated covered pretzel” (a fabulous mix of sweet and salty). Roger said that he wouldn’t be going.

This was more serious than I thought. I walked upstairs.

“north or south? . . . north or south?”

I went up to sit on the side of the bed,   “you o.k.?”

“Not sure. . . a little queasy. . . maybe dehydration. . . maybe just worn out.”

“Can we bring you anything?”

“A banana.” (Serious indeed, as he did not follow the word  banana with the word split.)

I headed back down to catch up with the teens and heard my phone beeping from where I had plugged it in to charge. There were 3 messages in my inbox, each of which read simply, “north or south”.

Salves of summer?

Sitting here on the porch in an undisclosed location on the first day of the rest of my summer vacation. I am sitting here at noon on this beautiful sunny day because I have overdone it. Two back to back 24 mile bike rides followed by a rousing game of kick ball will require a day of sitting on the front porch and some beach down time. Even though I promised that I would take it easy, my family performed an intervention. Ben was heading home to get to work for the rest of his week; so the family tied me down and loaded the bike and sent it back home. I guess that my need for speed will be squelched as I am forced from biking to bi-pedal mode for the rest of vacation. Which is???? Who knows? This is the first day of the rest of my summer vacation.

The kick ball game was epic last evening; nearly perfect in every way. The crushed shale diamond was in perfect condition. The outfield was perfectly rolled and had no mole runs through it. With no mole runs, there were no attendant dog excavated Grand Canyons (see my blog; lawn care?). It is true; the Sharritt diamond has fallen into disrepair from disuse and doggy excavation. It remains to be seen if this will provide the impetus for kickball rejuvenation when we get back.

The only problem was that the bases had all been destroyed. Homeplate was great, but first and second were shattered hulls of their former selves and third base was completely gone. (Run to google; type in cities on the shoreline of Lake Michigan with more than six blocks, a 4th of July parade, and Optimist Tot Lot without infield bases, and not Chicago.)  This was not an ideal situation. My gorgious wife, Bev, was playing on the other team, and I was definately planning on getting to third base with her.

It was an epic 5 inning defensive struggle. My team lost 18 - 14. Congratulations sworn enemies. For Grace's friends it was an immersion into Sharritt ball and probably answers why they find Grace sobbing in the corner clutching a playground ball from time to time. Becca got the worst of it. She was on first base when I had a particularly good kick. I am running the bases when the possession took hold and I shouted "Run Becca Run!!! I'm coming to get you." In a small peaceful Mayberry of the upper mid-west, this appears to have a very motivating effect. We both scored; making it my only home run in the evening.

I am sitting here on the porch of this undisclosed location listening to Simon and Garfunkle on the first day of the rest of my summer vacation. I am listening and suddenly "Sounds of Silence" comes on which reminds me of a blog that I have been wanting to write this summer. For some reason, every time I have heard that song this summer, my alliterative mind has taken over and I think the salves of summer.

How did we every get along without salves and ointment? It is a wonder our ancestors ever survived to get through to this over the counter mecca. It starts in April with the athlete's foot. A few warm days of my feet being kept securely in the foot cages (shoes), and my toes are burning. Out comes the Desinex. Next comes his northern cousin (how can I say this delicately) jock itch. Thankfully, the same ointment works on this condition. Since contemplaiting this blog over the past few days. It occured to me that if it wasn't for our ankles, knees, and legs the fungal cousins would become kissing cousins. Which makes me wonder, is meditation on a theme really all that beneficial?

Late May brought weed eating the side ditch out by the road. I was glad that the poison ivy had died over winter. Five days later and wrong. The juice splatter was extensive on my feet and ankles, and one spot on the forearm. Out came the cortizone ointment for a month long battle against the itching, blistering and oozing

On to June, fireflies, wild black raspberries, an evening in the garden and I get a great case of chigger bites; five of them as a matter of fact, three of them at the ankle, one at my shorts hem, and one at the waistline.

I hate chiggar bites most of all. It requires no less than three concoctions to conquer. First the cortisone ointment stops the itch. Second, the triple antibiotic is applied to make sure that the inevitable scratching does not get infected and you get the dreaded infection that our mothers used to warn us about. Phonetically I would spell it infantago. My dictionary doesn't recognize that spelling. But my readers of a certain age know what I am talking about. I suppose "infantago" has been replaced by flesh eating bacteria. Thankfully, I grew up in simpler times.

You would think that two salves would be enough to put an end to a small pest like the Chiggar but no. That irritating bite will persist for weeks if you don't complete the concoction by plastering the bite with clear nail polish. But put clear nail polish on it and I gaurentee that you will be chigger free within 14 days.

The list goes on and on; Deet, calamine, sunscreen, noxema. Our pharmacies are full. The only thing that I know no salve can heal during summer time is the bitter taste of defeat on the kickball field. Only a rematch with my sworn enemies can ease that pain.

Thank goodness today  is the first day of the rest of my summer vacation.

Take care.

Roger

from an undisclosed location?

Happy 1st day of the rest of summer vacation. I would tell you that I have already wasted several days of vacation already, but Bev and I have made a pact this summer. In an effort to combat the feeling of panic for every day that goes by before she starts a new school year or before I have to get back into work mode, we have decided to share with each other a happy first day of the rest of your summer vacation. It helps. I have been a chronic chronicaler of the passage of time. I do not think that I have ever enjoyed a Christmas or summer vacation; because I always knew how close we were to half way through. Once you were half way through it was almost all over.

So I am here on the front porch in this fabulous vacation paradise. I would love to tell you where we are located. However, it is so perfect; you would want to come here yourself that then we would be experiencing over crowding.

I am sitting on the screened in front porch of a vacation rental house. The street is lined with small American flags that the local realitor gave out at the 4th of July parade today. There is a slight breeze blowing in from Lake Michigan six blocks a way making the 82 degrees at 6:00 p.m. feel not that hot. I know your thinking that I am in jeopardy of giving away my undisclosed paradise vacation spot. You are loading up the station wagon and getting ready to head this way. "Dear; get on google. Look up Lake  Michigan towns with more than six city blocks and that had a 4th of July parade." I will help you narrow it down. It isn't Chicago. That's it no more hints.

Where was I? I am sitting on the front porch in the evening and I happen to be listening to Frank Sinatra on a record player. I do so wish that I had kept all of my Eagles albums from college. That would have just about filled the vacation time we have up here. I could have even listened to Steve Martin's "wild and Crazy" album to bridge any gaps. Speaking of the trip to half way, wasn't that what album listening was all about. Side A then side B. It is a really short trip too. The kids of today really have it easy. Not like the bad old days.  Select the entire album and just about the time you get it memorized just hit the random and you don't know when the thing is going to end. It is so much easier to live in the moment these days. 

The following are some of the best instances of vacation so far this summer. On the way up going through rural Indiana we went by the following words on a sign outside a

VFW.

     

And you crazy kids didn't think that you had to pay attention during english class. "I don't need to learnt no punctuation you said. When would I ever need to use that?" Let me tell you. One misplaced semicolon and you go from marital bliss to social faux paux of the rural Indiana summer social season.

Another funny moment? Or it could be characterized as an  awkward moment. I think that in the end it will be ruled to be entrapment. We were on the beach yesterday. I was nodding off when Bev yelled "look its popping out." I came too and started looking around to see what was popping out. She then let me know that she meant the sun was popping out. Busted. But in my defense there were more things with popping out potential on that beach than a kernal at an Orville Redenbacher convention. How was I to know?

I just realized why our teachers had us write "what I did on summer vacation essays" at the beginning of every school year. It was because they were stuck with sucky vacations each year and had not found this vacation paradise. They were in search of vacation Holy Grail. May they continue to search in vain.

Speaking  of great quests, I had one today. This place has a 32 mile bike trail. As I have mentioned in past posts, I have become a bit obsessed with biking recently. So a 32 mile bike ride sounds a bit intriguing. I haven't approached any thing like it as far as distance goes in the past. I don't think that I could do 32 miles in one sitting. Today I went 12 miles out. I figured that I could turn around there and come back. That would be 24 miles or 2/3 of a one way trip. The way out was perfect. I kept a really good pace. My seat didn't hurt and I was doing great. I decided to stick with the plan and rest for a minute and then come back. Big mistake. In the five minutes that I was out of the saddle, my legs tightened up and I never did get them loosened up the entire trip back.

What did I learn from my excursion? I learned that there is an "Optimist tot lot" between our rental and the trail head. I know run to the google screen. Type in cities along Lake Michigan, with more than six blocks, a 4th of July Parade and an Optimist tot lot.

What is an Optimist tot lot you ask? Well contrary to what its name might suggest, it is not a place to purchase young children with a positive outlook on life. No and Optimist tot lot is where Bev and I, Ben and Grace and several of their friends will play kickball tomorrow on the first day of the rest of our vacation.

Take Care

Roger

Aliens can do that?

I am such a liar. I have complained that summer was kicking my butt the last few weeks, and that is why I haven't been getting the blogs done at a decent hour on Sunday nights or at all. But summer hasn't kicked my butt this weekend. It has been a very leisurely weekend. Friday evening was spent. . . . It was so relaxing that I can't even remember what we did Friday evening. Thank goodness, Bev and Grace can't remember either. No need to call the Alzheimer’s ward yet. I guess that we could have been abducted by aliens and had our Friday night memories erased. Who can remember?

So okay I don't think that the aliens kicked my butt. I don't even think that they have legs that are articulated in the same fashion as ours are. I imagine that they have the same articulation as a donkey. Surely, I could move out of the way as an alien made the decision to kick my butt, turned around, took aim with his evolutionarily selected rear-facing camera and lashed out with fury.

Saturday, was non-derriere punting also. We got up at 5:30 a.m. to get Bev and Grace to Waffle-House with our friends Sherri, Dave, and Josh so that Bev, Grace, and Sherri could carbo-load before their premier mudathalon. 3.5 miles of grueling athleticism though the Indiana countryside facing mud, obstacles, and beer. Dave, and I were carbo-loading to support our wives and in my case my daughter. Josh was carbo-loading to drown the embarrassment he felt having his mom act this way. Actually not, Josh seems like a well adjusted teenager that likes and supports his mom. I was just channeling my own Neanderthal teen years. I would have died if my mom would have done that. Actually, she might have died too - high blood pressure.

The women had fun. The support crew did its job and supported the women as they went through the woods and the weeds. And since the objects of our affection have world class hearts and less than world class athleticism, I was able to sit down beside the track and write Ben his snail mail letter.  I would keep an eye on the track and as I saw our intrepid band slogging through the mud, I would jump up. yell some words of encouragement and snap some pictures. Everyone had a good time, and is very proud of their aches and pains this morning. "My arms and legs are good but my core is a little sore." I, too, get a secret pleasure when I wince as I flex my shutter snapping index finger.

We got home in time to take a thirty minute nap (the morning's activity had left me exhausted) before my sister's family arrived. They are great. They have adopted three boys, that started young, and as boys will do, have maturated into their teen years. It is always good to have them at the farm. They are very good workers and we have some cool toys; so getting them to do my work is easy. James jumped on the zero turn radius mower and peeled off across the yard. He effectively knocked two hours off of my chore time. Then John and I went off to the woods to cut some fire wood for the fall; condensing a five hour job to three. It is always good to see a young man swing an axe with all his might with joint numbing, blister raising, results and then taking the axe out of his hands and with a few well place strokes, reducing the block to kindling. It is good to see the strength and exuberance of youth at work, and somehow comforting to know that it is wasted on the young.

A good day's work deserves a good meal with conversation at the FortGrille. I know horrible name. They were trying to cleverly combine Fortville with Grill. It just doesn't work. I will give them credit. They could have taken their second choice of GrillVille; just not much to work with there. I do give it two big thumbs up though. They do not just open up the Cisco can and pour the contents into a warmer and wait for you to show up. It is good food. They have way too many people on the wait staff so you feel a little hovered over.

Back to the conversation, as middle America is want to do, we sometimes start to obsess and start talking about the things that will kill us; cigarettes, lack of seat belts, texting and driving, dipping your onion rings in Ranch dressing. At this point, I saw my opening. I have several beliefs that many people think are odd, or strange, or they just don't get. But I have found that many of my nieces and nephews are more accommodating in their acceptance of Uncle Roger's big ideas. This is truly a testament to their parents and the strict regimen of politeness they have forced on their off-spring.

Seeing my opening, I said "well if the government really wanted to protect us from the things that will kill us, they would close down all of the nursing homes." They look at me with slack jaws. Huh?

My voice rising; "You go to a nursing home and you are going to die." "Sure cigarettes will kill 70% of smokers in 40 years or so, but a nursing home will kill 99% of their occupants in 5 years."

I can see that I am starting to persuade. I start to gesticulate with my hands.  "Sure you’re 10 times more likely to get into a fatal accident while texting and driving but a million times more likely to die if you go into a nursing home; whether you text or not. What is the government doing by not protecting us from this national disaster?"

I had lost them. All three silently sitting noncommittally nodding their heads like three nephew bobble heads.  Probably thinking, I like Uncle Roger but I think sometimes he's had his butt kicked by aliens.

Take Care

Roger

Counting Sheep?

As promised last night, the following is a recount of my most memorable Father's Day.

My disjointed dream was thankfully interrupted by an incessant knocking, no, pounding, on the front door.  I sat up groggily taking in the 7:00 on the radio and the early sun through the easterly window. Thinking that those were two sights that I had no intention of seeing before my waffles in bed, I hollered at the knocking that I was coming.  Stumbling towards the door dragging on my pants one leg at a time (for those who are in awe of my celebrity, one leg at a time for me too), I was wondering what the heck is going on.

We have been conditioned through many years of living on the farm that any knock on the door after 9:00 pm and before 7:00 am means that the cows are out. We had just quit farming and sold the beef herd in February. We were a cow free zone, and in the intervening 4 months, we had let our emergency cow chasing readiness slip to C.O.W.C.O.N. 1. (My expatriate farming fan base knows exactly what I am talking about.) The knocking had only slowed and not stopped in the few moments that all of this was going through my head.  I swung open the door and it was Felipe Reyes. What the heck? Felipe is a migrant worker who had worked our farm for the past 3 years. Never in a million years did I expect to see Felipe ever again. He had moved on to Chicago the fall before with full knowledge that the farm was kaput - el terminado. Sure his light blue $200 Cadillac still sat out in the hydrangea field sans radiator, but Felipe was long gone.

He wasn't gone though. He was standing on my front porch gesticulating and pointing to the west, telling me over and over ovejas escapar. To which I give the international hand gesture of palms up saying huh. Felipe, remembering that a gringos' comprehension abilities expand when the speaker slows down and enunciates clearly and loudly, tries it again. OVEJAS ESCAPAR!!! I get it. He's saying "look where I am pointing to stupid." I look and see the last of the renter’s sheep heading south to town.

I had never been prouder of my family. While we had slipped to C.O.W.C.O.N. 1, we immediately shifted into our prearranged battle readiness roles when the alert went out.  I jumped into the car.  Ben went out to the first scout position. Grace and Bev went to the field they escaped from to open the gate and get ready for the herd’s return. Leaving Felipe standing there dumbfounded by our crisis efficiency, I tear out of the drive hunting for a street where I can take a parallel track and get around them. I was starting to panic as the street numbers rolled down 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2. A flood of relief swept through me as I rounded

1st street

and saw that I could get around them with a burst of speed.

Tires squealing, I come to a stop, jump out, and stare down the marauders just as they entered the intersection. They turn and head back towards home.  On the way I notice that they were stopping at every bucket, birdbath, and mud puddle; they were draining every ounce of standing water in a 7 block area.  Once they were surrounded and had their thirst slaked they were easy to get back in.  We called the owners and suggested that they provide water. Chagrinned they assured me that they would be right on it. A roll of wire and some pliers and the fence was tightened up.  Finally, excitement past us, we were able to visit with Felipe.  It seems that he had brought the title to the powder blue Cadillac and presented me with a very fine junk car for father’s day.

It was off to church and the disappointment of going 0-3 in the father awards.  Not the oldest, didn't come the farthest, and thankfully not the youngest. Christians are sneaky like that.  "Let's offer a prize to identify all of the young fornicators out there." After those awkward moments, we came home, had a wonderful pork roast, opened my presents, and settled down for my late spring nap. And . . .

Knock, knock, knock, "excuse me sir. Do you own those sheep out there? They are out."

"Kids!"

We were off.  Once again once the lead sheep was turned it was easy.  We were just crossing the road into our yard and one was spooked by something. Who knows what? Maybe a butterfly, or cricket; through the years I have come to believe that the porcine gods communicated with the ovine gods to punish me for the wonderful lunch that I had enjoyed.

Whatever, it was I was facing the horns of a dilemma. I had 25 almost in. There was still a hole in the fence and only one out. So sending Ben after the one with instructions to just follow and not apprehend. We corralled the rest of the sheep. The van was parked in front of the hole. The owner was called for extraction, but he was taking his father's day siesta with his cell phone turned off. 

Off I ran to the house to get my bike to find Ben.  Just three blocks away I found him and his quarry.  To this day I can see the following sequence vividly in my mind. I had spent numerous hours chasing animals in my previous 44 years; many of them under the harsh tutelage of Lloyd Sharritt. Life and his verbal barrages had taught me well that driving an animal is all about spacing. And inch here or there, a verbal prod at the right instant is the only difference between success and failure. I can close my eyes and see that ewe running down East street towards the train track and the busy state highway just beyond. I am on my bike trying to swing wide to make an outride that will get me between she and certain death on the tracks or the road and there is a chain link fence that kept me too close. I sped up as she sped up. We were racing for the same spot at the intersection of 1st and East streets both knowing instinctually that it would be decided at that spot. I had to swerve around a crotch destroying (44 year old on a bicycle) pothole and both of our fates were sealed.

She got by and into the thickets around the train tracks. I couldn't find her. Ben and I picked up the bike and walked back home to find Grace and Bev fighting to keep the sheep in. It appears that once they have seen gay Ingalls it is hard to keep them down on the farm.  We shored up the fence and a neighbor came driving up with a sheep sighting. Thinking that she is on the right track, she was heading West down the middle of the tracks.

I go trotting off to jump in their car and Bev hollers at me to throw her the keys to the van. I pull them out of my pocket and in an adrenaline charged throw, they go sailing through a maple tree that was between us, and they never came out. Stuck up there in the crotch of two limbs, later that evening I would throw a basketball at it for a half an hour, to no avail.  It stayed up there for 3 months before a zephyr strong enough to dislodge it would come along. I found it in September. It's acrylic "best dad ever" busted to pieces. Oh the irony.

I know what you’re thinking "what about the sheep." She was still heading down the railroad tracks.  I jump in my neighbor's car and off we go.  At the west edge of town, I she her tail bouncing along, and a crowd was gathering to see the drama. I hop out of the car and take off after her. I am starting to wonder about trains. The tracks, that we live near, are some of the busiest in the nation. Sure enough, I look up and see the white eye of rage about 4 miles away and about 100 yards away is the sheep obliviously heading for her doom and destruction. I remember thinking to myself. “At least it would be over.”

I run back to the neighbor’s car and tell him to drive down the road and I will try to get around her. We do and I scramble up the railroad bed to find the sheep about 300 yards from town and the train closer but not dangerously so. I take off running after her. We are heading back to town making pretty good progress. As we are running,  I see all of the town folk gathered on the North side of the train tracks jostling for front row seats for sheep meets train. “Hon what do you want to do for father’s day? You want to watch NASCAR in a wife beater and drink beer?” “Nah. I got a hankering to watch the Sharritt’s chase a sheep over hells half acre. Who knows maybe it will get hit by a train.”

There must have been thirty people there on the North side of the track trying to be helpful. If that sheep ever got there, they were going to drive it North. If you are good at directions you will have realized that we wanted to head south back to the farm. So I am screaming at them, waving for them to get on the south side of the tracks which they mistook for get really close to the tracks because I want to drive this sheep into on coming traffic on SR 67. The closer they got. The louder I yelled whipping the sheep and the crowd into a frenzy. The situation was reaching a crisis point when the sheep cleared the under brush along the tracks and bolted south behind the post office into the middle of SR 67. Cars honking and dodging. The crowd ooohing and aahing. One wife beater clad hill jack came up to me and said “that sheep sure can run.”  No shit Sherlock I thought; channeling my father in homage to the little sayings he used to shape and sculpt my future alliterative skills.

By this time my neighbor had to leave; Bev and the kids had found me, and we started a grid search on the south side of the tracks. There was one sighting to keep us energized, and we found some tracks in a corn field over the next three hours. After three hours of hopeless searching, I decided that when Christ told the parable about the lost sheep, He didn’t know what he was talking about, or the scholars got the Greek translation wrong. It actually said after 6 hours the good shepherd got tired of hunting for that stupid sheep and decided that 99 wasn’t too bad and went home for some father’s day homemade ice cream. There was a message on the phone about a month later. They had spotted our sheep south of town. I didn't call them or the owner. You know we never saw that sheep again.

I was remembering this story yesterday and sharing it with Grace. She told me that she had been telling friends at an ice cream shop at Ball State this past year. When a man approached them and said “I’m sorry but couldn’t help over hearing. Was that farm down by Ingalls? I wasn’t there but I heard that story.”

See I knew there is an award for leaving your kids with good stories.

Take care,

Roger

Good communication starts with listening?

Quick blog this evening. Full blown my most memorable father's day ever later today. Stay tuned.

A few weeks ago, I offered the insight that nuns can't be marinaried so be careful the sauce served at your spaghetti dinner at the church social it could cause a scene. This is the second of many hopefully helpful blogs that will provide insight to being all that you can be. (Without enlisting in the army)

Lately, I have been listening to a book on tape about stonger communications skills. I was struck how improper listening skills can cause disaster. Consider the idiom "putting your neck on the line." Then imagine that you are a fire brand democrat from New York and aspire to greater things. You go to a career counselor who tells you "if you want to be governor some day you need to put you neck on the line." Well you don't always listen well and you hear "you have to get neckid on line." You can imagine the disastrous consequences.

Just some advice from a friend.

Take care

Roger