Lemonade

Last Friday I stopped off for a drink after work. It’s just something I feel I must do – and I don’t even like lemonade. Whenever I see a kid sitting behind a card table in front of what I presume to be their house I pull over to see what’s on sale. Usually it’s lemonade, which I usually find intolerably sour.

Sometimes I have to go around a corner or turn around if I notice it as I am driving by. Last Friday it was pointed out to me by a helpful young lady holding a sign on a street corner. In the tradition of “Eat at Joe’s,” the sign read “Lemonade for Sale.” Not seeing any make-shift stand, I thought perhaps it was a small start-up with only an on-line presence.

“Where’s the lemonade?” I asked.

“Two blocks that way,” she said with a big smile.  Great front-line marketing: friendly, informative and helpful. This was easier than normal – right on my way with good directions.

I was lucky – they were also serving grape Kool-aid, my favorite of the artificial flavors; I can drink an entire pitcher myself on a summer Saturday. At some of your fancier sidewalk stands they will also have home-made cookies (for a nominal charge, of course).

This particular establishment was selling drinks by the cup – fifty cents a Styrofoam cup.

The sales group consisted of four girls (including the girl with half of a sandwich board); fifty cents leaves two pennies to sort out between the four of them, whereas one-dollar is divided into four evenly – so I left a 100% tip. I poured drinks at an establishment in St. Cloud during my college years, so it was simply a matter of professional courtesy to tip generously.

There was a man mowing the lawn during business hours, and when I approached the stand he stopped mowing.  As he was only partially hidden behind a tree, I was keenly aware of his presence. As I placed my order, I wondered why he stopped to observe. Was he listening to our transaction so he could offer the girls pointers on cross-selling and asking for referrals, was he security or perhaps just a protective father?

With no outside seating available I carried my cup to the truck. As I drove away I carefully sipped my grape Kool-aid so as to not spill it all over me. I figuratively rolled the windows down to let the late-afternoon air flow through the truck and blow the cares of the day off me. Tomorrow is the first day of summer, and I sense the carefree feeling of relaxation that can only come with summer.

It’s not only buying lemonade, driving with the windows open, it’s lying in bed falling asleep to the sound of the crickets;  parades with fire trucks; small town festivals and county fairs; swimming pools and backyard picnics; fishing off the dock and boat rides on the lake; biking and walking; camping and traveling. 

No secret, I can do without the bugs, the heat and humidity, but I think I can stand the summer, with or without sour lemonade.

Out of Control

 Friday I was reminded that I am not in control of what goes on around me. I got home about seven in the evening from a graduation party. I had gone there straight from the office (with some bends and turns on the country roads). My wife, Rhonda, had left the farm about four in the afternoon to help at the same party. So for about three hours the place was left to the whims and ways of wildlife.

When I got home it was quiet, too quiet (setting the stage), so I walked to the barnyard to get a lay of the land. Olivia, our regular cat, was acting nervous as she greeted me in the driveway. We have another cat, Bell, that calls the farm home, but she is frequently gone, and two other cats who aren’t ours but appreciate the amenities and concierge service.

Olivia stood with her legs slightly bent, ears swiveling and head turning back and forth as she was trying to determine if it was safe to be out in the open. There were no chickens moving about – which was unusual. So I went in to the barn and found the converted horse stall empty of birds but plenty of feathers were scattered about.

When I went outside I found four dead birds, two injured ones and one large pile of feathers minus the chicken. If you are keeping score at home, that’s seven birds – not a large flock mind you, but one that was appreciated, especially by Rhonda.

All the birds had the same single bite mark on their back; hiding near each other in the tall grass of the pasture I found a pair of matching black ones badly injured. I carried the two to the barn and shut the “chicken door.”

The chicken door, about eight by nine inches is designed (with obvious flaws) to let the chickens roam in and out, while keeping large predators out. I secure the door every night after they are inside roosting, and Rhonda lets them out in the morning.

I considered the predator possibilities: The bear that had been roaming the southern metro area was too big and had been shot (I don’t know why they didn’t use a dart gun and put it to sleep). The neighbors’ horses were also too large and not likely to change their stripes from herbivore to carnivore. The middle of the day seemed to rule out the night beasts, and the bite marks suggested a dog, or like-jawed creature that chases and kills for sport.

Grabbing my rifle, I walked the wooded pasture, thinking I might find something. When my shoes were sufficiently wet, I went back to the house and sat on the front steps to ponder the situation. As the sun began to set, the mosquitoes drove me inside. I set my rifle down in the garage and waited for Rhonda to come home to give her the news of the day.

  

Within a few minutes I heard a noise outside similar to that of injured rabbit. Thinking that Oliva had caught one, I went outside to investigate.  Fifteen yards away, Olivia was crouched very low in the grass beneath a dying apple tree. Fifteen yards beyond her, standing in the yard making an awful yelping-crying sound was a coyote. It hadn’t moved when I opened the door, it had not moved when I walked towards it, and it did not move when I eased my revolver from its holster. Wishing I had my rifle instead of my .38, I fired and missed; the coyote bolted across the field untouched by the remaining four shots.

I don’t know if this was the predator or not, and I am getting mixed reviews from my hunting friends. Perhaps it was coming back for another bird. About three on Monday morning I woke to the same rhythmical, wheezing cry outside my bedroom window.

The wily animal had come back again. I went outside to answer the challenge but I did not find it. For now I will secure the gates and fence as best I can, but wildlife by its very definition is beyond my control.

June Changes

“What age would you stop them?” This was the question my mother asked me when I told her how I wish my children could stay little longer. She was trying to get me past my narrow view to look at the bigger picture. If it were it in my power to hold back time what would I have deprived my children from –  walking, talking, reading, learning, growing, graduating, marrying, or having their own children?

Certainly none of those, even so I think there might be something wrong with me. Whereas June is the time of celebration with graduations and weddings, I find myself thinking of the looming future and the inevitable good-byes; the comings and the goings. So, in addition to the wishes of well and good fortune, I seek out the parents to compare notes and see how they are doing with all this change going on around them.

Normally, everyone is happy with the day and the promises of tomorrow; usually the men are tougher than me and it’s the mothers who feel the empty arms. I’m not trying to be a kill-joy, but I simply cannot help but consider the cause-and-effect relationship between such significant events and the changes that are certain to follow. So, I check with others to see if I am the only one with the tear behind the smile.  Misery does indeed love company.

Now being several pages past high school and college graduations, one wedding and the arrival of a charming grandson, I can say with confidence that I survived the upheaval, and it was all for the good and necessary for the march to continue. But for some, the month of June marks the end rather than a beginning.

One year ago my brother, Dan, died on the fourth of June. I couldn’t stop that from happening either, and I find no joy or happiness in that good-bye. Still, I am expected to let time march-on, to move-on, and not dwell-on the sadness of change and loss. So when I think of Dan I try not to be angry with his early exit.

It feels much better instead to smile when I hear a song that reminds me of him, or to hear myself saying something that could easily have come from his mouth instead of mine.  As brothers who were close in age (and closer now every day) similarities in appearance are expected, yet it’s a bit shocking, however, to look in the in the mirror and see Dan shaking his at me and calling me “Kook.”

It’s early on Sunday, a day he liked to sleep in. The sun has nudged its way past the trees to the window at my writing table. As I try and avoid its glare, I see the mist rising from the roof below my window and think of how Dan would have found beauty in such a moment if only he had gotten out of bed; if only he hadn’t died.

I no longer have the impulse to call or write him, but every day I think of him. I just wish his life had not stopped at the age of 57. 

Middle Ground

Saturday’s rain reminded me how little the difference between too much and too little can be. It’s just a matter of inches; too little can mean a drought, too much can create a destructive flood. Somewhere in the middle, there is a balance between the two.

Goldilocks searched for the comfortable middle ground where everything is just right. There even has to be middle ground between work and play. All work and no play made Jack terribly dull and no fun to be around.

When I first started my business I was Jack; I worked four, sometimes five nights a week (in addition to the full five days) and all day Saturday. Then one night when I came home and kissed my sleeping children I realized they were growing up and I was missing out. I began to limit my evening appointments and closed the office at noon on Saturday. From then on I concentrated on finding the balance between work and everything else (home life, church, friends, reading and leisure time).

Now I have a grandson to find time for. Again, balance is called for – I don’t want to smother him, but I want to be part of his life. At his age, about four months (or seventeen weeks for those of you who like that kind of talk), our time together is spent trying to make him smile and listening to his happy sounds. When the sounds become unhappy I give him to someone else – his mother, his father, his grandmother, even his uncle.

Soon Micah will begin to crawl, and I will crawl around after him. When he begins to stand I will stand next to him, when he walks I will walk beside him and hold his hand.

We will sit, and I will read to him, or I will make-up stories and cast him as the main character. Other times we may lay on the floor and wrestle and laugh. I just want to be there, so similar to Archimedes just tell me where I need to stand to make a difference.

Archimedes (287-212 B.C.) one of the old great mathematicians said “Give me where to stand and I will move the world,” he said this in reference to the use of a lever.  He theorized and proved that with the right amount of leverage and a properly placed fulcrum it was possible to move almost any object. Webster’s defines a fulcrum as “the support on which a lever turns in rotating a body.” To be effective there has to be proper balance over the fulcrum; too much on either side and it won’t work.

A teeter-totter comes to mind when I think of the lever and fulcrum working together. I can see Micah and I spending time at parks and playgrounds, maybe even one with a teeter-totter. If I can find (or build) one I will give him Micah rides on it by simply pushing down on the other end (provided that somebody holds him so he doesn’t fall off).  I will be able to do this until he gets too heavy. 

But right now I will find the extra hours in my week to spend time with him while he grows and gets bigger. I just have to find the right balance, because whether it’s a few pounds, a few hours or a just a few inches, balance is found in the middle- it just takes a few to make a difference.