Siren song of the chain saw

Clinging to early morning slumber, I turned my head toward the voice calling to me and managed a semi-conscious “What?”

“I’m going to walk.” Why was my husband telling me he was going for a walk? He went for a walk most mornings.

“When I get back,” he continued, “we are going to cut down a tree.”

“Who’s cutting down a tree,?” I asked, still not fully awake.

My husband called out the names of two neighbor men. I asked him if the guy next door would be helping and he said, “No, he wanted to, but he has an appointment this morning.”

“Where is the tree you’re going cut down,” I wanted to know.

“The tree that’s blocking the sun from my garden,” my husband said, as he went out the garage door.

Now fully awake, I walked to the window to see if I could figure out which tree he was talking about. I saw two trees, both blue spruce trees, on opposite sides of the garden. One of them had been decorated for a Christmas tree the first year my husband had lived in this house. The other tree was OUR first Christmas tree.... a tree, we had bought and decorated together during our first month of marriage. So which tree was he planning to cut down? After 20 years, I could no longer remember which one was OUR tree and wondered if he did.

As I continued to stare at the trees, sentimentality gave way to a feeling of imminent danger. Both trees had grown far above the lines that extended from the nearby utility poles. I didn’t know if they were power lines or telephone lines, but to me, this looked like a job for professionals.

When my husband returned, I told him that I was concerned about the height of the trees and how the tree might fall after it was cut.

“We’ve got it all figured out,” he told me, excitement somewhat softening the impatience in his voice, as he hurried to get outside to join one neighbor who was already stationed next to the tree with the ladder he had brought over.

Following my husband to the tree, the neighbor greeted us both with a smile, signaling that he was eager to get started on this project. My husband could barely contain his own excitement.

“Guys, I just don’t think you all should be trying to cut down such a tall tree,” I told them. At these words, the neighbor’s smile instantly died. He looked crestfallen. So did my husband.

“We’re going to use ropes,” said my husband, as he tried to reassure me. “We’ve been planning this for days. We know how to do it.”

Just then, our other neighbor arrived with the chain saw.

I said, “Okay guys, I’m going into the house to pray.”

After I went back into the house, I picked up my cell phone and walked to the window to watch the guys. I said a prayer and kept the phone in my hand just in case I needed to call 911.

Taking their places next to the ladder with the ropes, my husband and neighbor, both smiling once again, each kept a steady hand on the ladder, while the neighbor, who had brought the chain saw, climbed the ladder to begin work.

Until now, I had never seen any chain-saw work up close. I was only familiar with the sound, which to me, is one of the most annoying sounds around. But as I watched the neighbor on the ladder move the chain saw back and forth like a wand, I thought, “How graceful is that?”

My husband and the other neighbor both kept their eyes fixed on the guy with the chain saw. Each time he pointed the saw to a branch of the tree, it seemed to be moving through nothing but air, as it smoothly and seemingly effortlessly brought branch after branch sailing toward the ground. As irritating as the sound was, it was fascinating to watch the chain saw in action.

“No wonder most guys want one of these things,” I thought, as I continued to watch.

About this time, I saw our other neighbor, the one who had had an appointment, run into our yard and join the guys at the ladder. In the 20 years we had lived next door to this guy, I had never seen him so dressed up. It must have been a pretty important appointment. But he hadn’t taken the time to change out of his good clothes before joining the guys gathered around the chain saw. I wondered if he had even waited until his wife had fully stopped the car, before scurrying to get in on the action.

Finally, the tree was down and the clean-up was finished. All the guys returned home, and supposedly all the thrills of this event were over. But no...

Throughout the afternoon, whenever the phone rang, my husband would tell each caller about the tree that had been cut down that morning and each time, he seemed to relish the retelling of all the details.

When my husband’s 92-year-old father called and was told about the tree, he seemed to have lots of questions. And my husband was clearly delighted to answer each one. “Yeah...” I heard him telling his father. “It was at least 30 feet tall.”

The call from my husband’s father had come about two months before his passing, during a time when he was home between hospital stays. After my husband got off the phone, I said, “Your dad seemed to really perk up while you were telling him about cutting down that tree.”

“Yeah,” agreed my husband. “He would have liked to have helped us.”

Sometime later, I asked my husband if he knew which tree had been cut down? His tree or OUR tree? It was OUR tree.

“We should have cut ‘em both down,” he said. “The other one is shading the garden, too.”

For some reason, it really didn’t bother me that the tree was gone. That 30-foot monstrosity looked nothing like our first Christmas tree. I had to admit that the yard looked much better with it gone. And we had more yard.

“Next time, you all can cut down those ratty looking hemlocks in the backyard that the hornets build their nests in,” I told my husband. He just stared back blankly at me.

“Hmm...aren’t hemlocks challenging enough?”

B

The Fourth Rule

What makes for a perfect summer? If anyone had asked me that question at the age of 11, my list would have been pretty short: swimming, playing neighborhood baseball, catching lightening bugs, popsicles of any kind and bicycle riding.

Everything on that list was actually part of my summer enjoyment except for the last one – bicycle riding. I didn’t own a bicycle and had never ridden one. In fact, I didn’t know how to ride a bike. In my neighborhood, few kids did own a bike and those who did were boys. During the summer months, I would wistfully watch them slowly pedaling by, and it just seemed to me that all the sights, sounds and smells of summer could be more fully appreciated during a leisurely bicycle ride.

The greatest obstacle preventing me from this pleasure was not just the fact that I didn’t own a bicycle but that I was forbidden to even be on a bicycle. I grew up in a home where there was a short list of rules to follow: no sassing, come straight home from school, stay out of the neighbors’ houses and stay off bicycles.

At one time or another, I had broken all of the first three rules and received either a reprimand or spanking. Neither of my parents did a lot of spanking, and I could probably count on the fingers of one hand the times I was spanked by either of them. My daddy consistently and speedily dealt with the breaking of any rules, so we knew what to expect. With only a few rules to remember, most of the time we could stay out of trouble.

Since I was prone to sassiness, it was usually the first rule I had the most trouble with. Sometimes daddy would only reprimand if the sassing was directed at him – but never at mama. Sassing mama in front of him always meant a spanking was coming my way.

I could understand the purpose of the first three rules: learning respect for authority from the first rule; learning responsibility and consideration for others from the second rule {We had no phone at our house, so lateness was a big worry for my parents.}; and from the third rule, respecting the property and privacy of others.{When I was growing up, this was a standing rule for most kids.}

Although I had never had an opportunity to disobey the fourth rule, it was always reiterated by daddy whenever he went over rules. I knew without being told why it was on the list. My parents had lost their first child at five months. One day, he was a healthy baby who came down with sniffles. Taken right away to the doctor to treat his first cold, he was put on an antibiotic as a precaution. In spite of proactive treatment, the sniffles progressed to pneumonia which took his life. Needless to say, this loss was life changing for both of them.

Years later, when more babies were born to them, both my parents carried a floating anxiety about the well being of their children. For my mother, her anxieties seemed mostly focused inside the home and keeping her children and house as free of germs as possible. She strongly enforced rules of hygiene, not allowing us to eat or drink after each other or anyone else.

But daddy’s anxieties seemed more focused on lurking dangers outside the home. For this reason, we usually lived within walking distance to school, so we wouldn't have to ride a bus. During times of snow, when there would still be lingering ice on the roads, he would walk us to school a little early to make sure we were out of the way of any sliding car. I knew the reason for the fourth rule was his fear of us being injured on a bicycle. I understood the reason, but I still longed to ride a bicycle. Really, I just wanted to learn to ride a bike, even though I had little hope of owning one.

We lived on a gravel road with all the houses on one side, facing a narrow stretch of low-lying land, thick with weeds and bushes, that bordered a creek. On the edge of the thicket, next to the road, sweet peas, blooming pink and fragrant, crawled toward clumps of orange tiger lilies.Wild pink roses climbed and wrapped around any bushes nearby. Hidden among the bushes and honeysuckle vines were blackberry bushes. Every day, kids in the neighborhood would walk the length of the road picking all the ripe berries off the bushes. Some days we would check morning and afternoon for ripe berries. Although there were quite a few bushes, you could never find enough blackberries for a pie, because of the constant gleaning from so many kids.

During those long summer days, we stayed outside nearly all day, and the only awareness of time was when mama called us for lunch {or dinner as we called it} and later for supper. After supper, we went back outside until bedtime.

One afternoon, sometime between dinner and supper, I decided to go look for blackberries. I found enough to fill each hand, and as I walked back down the dusty road toward home, I was met by the skinny dark-haired girl who lived next door, who was riding a shiny red boy’s bicycle. She rode up to me and stopped.

“Whose bicycle is that?” I asked her, curious to know who, in our neighborhood, had a new bike.

“It’s my brother’s,” she said, her brown eyes brimming with excitement. “He just got it, today.”

“When did you learn to ride a bike?” I was pretty sure this was the first time I’d seen her riding.

“Oh, I just learned to ride today,” she answered, breezily. “It’s easy. I learned to ride in just a few minutes.

"You learned to ride in just a few minutes?" I marveled.
“I can teach you,” she offered. “Do you want to learn how to ride?”

Did I ever! Finally, here was the opportunity I had been longing for. As I accepted her offer, rule four never entered my mind.

Handing her my berries, I sat down on the seat and waited for further instructions. After showing me how to apply the brakes, she said I must first learn to balance the bicycle. She would hold the back of the bike while I pedaled.

Thrilled beyond words, I pushed the pedals forward, and as the bicycle smoothly glided along, I marveled at the joy of it. It was just as wonderful as I thought it would be.

As I rode past my house, I asked her, “How am I doing?”

“You’re doing great!" she called after me, adding, "Now slow down a little and turn the handle bars a little to your left, so you can turn around."
Thinking her voice sounded a little distant, I looked back and saw she was standing in the road just past her own house.

“How long have I been riding on my own?” I yelled back to her.

“Since you rode by your house,” she yelled back, laughing.

After successfully making the turn, I rode back to where she was standing and told her, “I want to ride down the road again, this time all by myself.”

She agreed and said confidently, “You’re learning fast, just like I did.”

Starting off again, this time without any help, I rode down the same stretch of road and turned around. On the return trip, I looked toward my house to see if my younger sister was watching. She was watching and so was the man standing behind her – my daddy.

I rode up to where my friend was still standing in the road, and without a word got off the bike and moved the handle bars toward her. Then I walked up the sidewalk in front of my house to present myself to daddy and whatever punishment was coming my way.

My friend, who knew nothing about the fourth rule, followed me and squealed to my daddy, “Did you see her? Wasn’t she doing great?” Not waiting for his answer, she raved on, “And I taught her! I just now taught her to ride a bike!”

As I stared down at the sidewalk, I heard my daddy begin to speak, “You were doing pretty good out there. Is this the first time you’ve been on a bicycle?”

I nodded my head upward.

“Yes, it was the first time she has been on a bike, and I taught her to ride,” chimed in my friend, her voice spilling over with pride at her own achievement of teaching me on the same day she learned to ride herself.

“I just learned to ride today, and I taught her,” she said, looking at daddy for affirmation of this amazing feat.

“Wasn’t she doing good?” she asked daddy, again, still unable to wait for him to answer.

“Yes, she was,” daddy agreed with her.

Turning toward me, daddy said, “Well, if you are going to ride a bicycle, you need to be watching what is in front of you and stay out of the way of cars. Stay off busy streets, and don’t try to do any tricks.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Not only was I not getting punished, but now it seemed I had permission to ride a bicycle. Just to be clear, I asked, “Can I get back on the bicycle and ride down the road again?”

“Yeah,” he said, and added, “I’m going to stand here and watch you.”

Until her brother came to reclaim his new bicycle, my friend and I took turns riding it down the road and back. For me, the joy was now exponential. In one afternoon, I had learned to ride a bike, and now with my daddy’s permission.

The day my daddy reversed his decision about his fourth rule is a day in my childhood that still stands out for me. Now as a parent myself, I can put myself somewhat in his shoes. I’ve had to set a side some of my own fears to let my children have certain freedoms. What parent doesn’t feel joy at the sight of their child’s joy? Who would want to take that joy away?

Daddy’s fourth rule had never served the purpose of teaching character as the other three rules. Rule four had served my daddy’s fears. But in a moment of time, and in a moment of childhood bliss for me, he put a side his fears and allowed me to experience one of the simple joys of childhood – riding a bicycle.

B

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grandpa's chair

Before he left for heaven, Grandpa wanted

all his monthly bills paid and his yard mowed.

As I watched my husband and son carry a large recliner chair into the family room and place it in the middle of the floor, my first thought was, “Well, it certainly blends in with our dark brown leather couch and the over-sized brown chair and matching ottoman.”

While father and son waited a moment to catch their breath, my husband observed, “I don’t think this chair will fit in her bedroom,” nodding toward our teenaged daughter’s room.

During the 20 years I had known my father-in-law, he had owned several recliners, and when our 15-year-old daughter had urged her father to bring home “Grandpa’s chair” after his passing, I couldn’t quite picture his current chair. During the last year or so, Grandpa had also used an electronic chair that made getting up and down easier.

As I looked over the chair with its handsome brown leather, I told my husband, “We can make room for the chair in here. Let’s keep it in here.”

A few moments later our daughter entered the room and gave her approval to leave the chair in the family room. But before the chair could be moved to a designated place, she sat down and leaned back in the chair, and ran her hands lovingly across the smooth leather. Smiling with satisfaction and leaning back once more, she announced, “This chair even smells like Grandpa’s house.”

As I stood there watching my daughter basking in the comfort of her grandfather’s chair, and then, reluctantly, let her brother have a turn sitting in it, I was suddenly struck by the qualities the chair shared with its former occupant.

Crafted to be a strong, durable piece of furniture, the chair was covered with a high grade leather, finished with a smooth sheen and comfortable surface. Free of all pretense, and with a deep and abiding love for God and his family, Grandpa was just as genuine as that leather-- a man who could be trusted and whose honesty could be avowed by his family and community. A hard worker all his life, he was still putting his handyman skills to use at the age of 90. With a voice that was naturally a little gruff, surprisingly the same voice took on a pleasant and cheerful tone when he made phone calls to our home.

Both history buffs, our children were intrigued with their grandfather's birth year, 1917, and enjoyed quizzing him about some of the historical events of that time period. In some ways, he was like grandfather and great-grandfather to his two youngest grandchildren.


Married to one woman for 67 years, Grandpa and Grandma had renewed their wedding vows in honor of their 65th anniversary, and two years later, Grandma passed on. For the last three years of his life, Grandpa had lived alone. Our daughter talked frequently about her concern for him and worried that he was missing Grandma.


A few months before his 92nd birthday, an unrelenting bout of pneumonia drained physical strength from Grandpa’s body. Weeks turned into months as Grandpa fought to regain his strength. My husband and daughter frequently made overnight visits to Grandpa’s, and it was during these visits that the bond between Grandpa and his youngest granddaughter forged even stronger.

And although work and school kept our teenaged son from visiting as often, we found out after the fact that our son, who had just turned 18, made the out-of-state trip alone to visit Grandpa in the hospital. Upon his arrival at the hospital, Grandpa dismissed his physical therapist and daily treatment, telling the therapist that he had to visit with his grandson. Grandpa kept his grandson’s secret for a few days until we were told about the visit. Neither his dad nor I had a word of reprimand for him. Our son had caught the undercurrent of concern when we gave him progress reports on Grandpa and just needed to see him.

As his body grew weaker, the strength of Grandpa’s character remained as strong as ever. Upon reaching his 92nd birthday, Grandpa announced he was ready to move on to heaven. But before he left, he wanted all his monthly bills paid and his yard mowed. And that’s the way he left this earth, with all his affairs in order.

A few weeks later, when the family was to gather at Grandpa’s house to divide up his furniture, our daughter begged her dad to ask for Grandpa’s chair. And now that chair has a special place of honor in our home.


We don’t use Grandpa’s chair as a lounging chair but rather a chair to sit in occasionally, or just in passing it, remember a man who lived through the uncertain times of two World Wars and the Great Depression, holding to the faith and values he learned from his own parents and leaving a hertitage of faith and the same values to his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

B

Remembering Elvis

Just as I can’t imagine Elvis as a 75-year-old man, neither can I imagine selecting one of his songs as a favorite. Just when I think of one as a possible contender for the top spot, another one comes to mind and nudges it down.


An Elvis fan since the age of 13, all of his music pleases my ears, and I think his covers of other songs are even better than the originals. Now when I hear his version of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” or “Sweet Caroline,” I’m reminded of the American Idol judges who always challenge the contestants “to make a song their own.” Well, Elvis knew how to make every song he sang his own.


Choosing a favorite Elvis movie is easy. “Girls, Girls, Girls” was the first movie I saw starring Elvis and has remained my favorite, as well as my favorite movie soundtrack, which includes the top ten hit, “Return To Sender.“ After losing two albums of this soundtrack, I tried to replace it with a CD. For several years, I could only find it available on Amazon Auctions, with a beginning bid of $49 for a used CD. In recent years, the soundtrack was re-released with the addition of the tracks from “Kid Galahad,” which I now enjoy listening to on my iPod.


For all that’s been written about his movies--and with the exception of loyal fans, most of the reviews are critical of his movie career--I must say that I still enjoy watching his movies for the very reasons critics pan them. Yes, they all follow a pattern: cute kids, a love interest, a fight scene and about a dozen sanguine songs. And I can also count on his movies to not assault my senses with violence and vulgarity.


For entertainment value, Elvis’ charisma could transcend the recycled plots and simplistic music offered in the soundtracks of these movies. And just as the reruns on TV Land bring a certain comfort to viewers of a simpler and more wholesome time, so do the movies of Elvis for both his loyal and casual fans.


For these memories, thank you very much, Elvis.

Another Christmas packed away in the memory book

As the Christmas trees come down and decorations are put away, so are all the festivities of another holiday season packed away in our memory books. Some are captured in photos and videos and will be revisited from time to time.

For some the end of the holiday season brings relief from all the extra work of shopping, cooking, entertaining and just trying to keep up with the expectations and obligations that are supposed to make for a memorable Christmas. For others, the end of the season is an end of forced cheerfulness or just trying to avoid the season all together.

What makes some Christmases special and others just a trial to get through? Of course, the first Christmas newlyweds spend together is special. And who doesn’t treasure watching a new baby experience their first Christmas. Getting engaged at Christmas or meeting someone new at Christmas also adds a sparkle to the holiday.

But a season that comes loaded with so much expectation takes on “special” when the unexpected is experienced. Most of the Christmases that stand out for me were not those where I plowed through a pile of gifts but those with a pleasant surprise-- an unexpected visit or call from a long distance relative or friend, an unexpected gift that met a need or a thoughtful homemade gift from someone. It’s that element of surprise that adds the specialness.

During December, in several cities around the country, some restaurant patrons decided to “pay it forward” and picked the tabs for strangers around them. It’s one thing for someone to pay your bill, but the surprise element of learning it was a stranger somehow doubles the blessing.

And this Christmas, I encountered the surprise element several times. About a week before Christmas, one evening FedEx knocked on our door and left a package from a catalog business I've ordered from many times over the years. Knowing I hadn’t ordered anything recently, I was baffled at what could be in the box. When I opened the box, I found a beautifully decorated live Christmas wreath inside. The accompanying invoice did not have any pricing info, so I went online to check my account and nothing had been charged to me. I had always wanted one of these live wreaths, but my practical side always insisted on buying one that could be used again. Thrilled, I hung the wreath and am still enjoying it.

A few days later, my husband came home with enough poinsettias to bank around our fireplace, which were given to him at a local nursery, along with a beautiful potted red plant that I used for a centerpiece on the dining table.
Then on Christmas Eve morning, we had an unexpected water overflow in the laundry room that necessitated taking up the flooring. Not knowing if anyone would even come to the house on Christmas Eve, I nevertheless made a call to a local restoration business.

Not only did the business owner say he would come to the house that morning, he said he was already on his way to another house in our neighborhood to assess some smoke damage. Within 30 minutes, he was at our house, surveyed the situation and took up the flooring before it was damaged. After assuring us that the room only needed a couple of days air drying with the help of a fan before putting the flooring back, he proceeded to tell us that he was not going to charge us for the service call. That would have been a nice gesture at any time. But on Christmas Eve?

I would say this was a special Christmas this year!

Derby Day

Growing up in a neighboring state, I, of course, always knew about the Kentucky Derby but didn’t know the date it was held each year.

That all changed the fall I announced my pregnancy and due date to my husband’s family and friends in Kentucky. When they heard May 3 was the baby’s due date, the comment was made more than once, “Oh, a Derby baby.” That’s when I learned that the Kentucky Derby is held the first Saturday in May at Churchill Downs in Louisville.

My baby was born on Derby Day, shortly after the race had concluded. My husband, nurse and I watched the race, and then I was taken to delivery. Since then, I’ve tried to watch the race every year.

After my husband told me the Cinderella story of General Quarters, a long shot contender in this year’s race, I have picked him as my favorite.

General Quarters is owned and trained by Thomas McCarthy, a septuagenarian and retired educator. Prior to his retirement, McCarthy was a science teacher and served as a high school principal in the Louisville school system.

Throughout his career as an educator, McCarthy, who is a grandson of a former jockey in Ireland, owned and trained a few horses. Last year, he purchased General Quarters for $20,000, the only horse in his stable, and in addition to his role as the horse’s trainer, he also grooms him.

General Quarters is among four horses listed at 20:1 in today’s race, with two at 15:1 and four at 5-1 or less in the field of 20 horses.

Although he is considered an underdog, the General is the horse we’ll be watching in the 135th Kentucky Derby.
　

B

Update on General Quarters

With I Want Revenge scratched as a contender in today's Kentucky Derby, yesterday's underdog General Quarters has moved from 20:1 to 8:1 in the field of 20 horses.