The White Dog Days of Summer

I got to keep moving

Blues falling down like hail 

And the day keeps on remindin' me 

There's a hellhound on my trail 

("Hellhound on My Trail," by Robert Johnson)

At least one dog lives at most of the houses and trailers along the route between our humble abode in the back woods and the state highway that takes you into town. As we motor along, sometimes a beagle or retriever or pit bull will run out and give chase for a couple of yards before turning back to continue the important work of laying in the yard and staring at the mailbox. Very few bark or actually come close to the moving vehicle. But there is one, a white greyhound, who finds me particularly disturbing. Everyday he lays in wait at the bottom of a hill, crouched in the gulley across from his trailer. Then, when I am right on him, he springs out in full bark mode. Bearing his fangs between barks and growls, he comes right up to the door and runs beside the vehicle down to the three way. Devil dog followed this script all summer without fail, until this weekend.

Saturday mornings at our house normally do not require or involve a trip to town, but this past Saturday I wanted to be at the tractor mechanic's shop when it opened. Coming over the hill in the truck, I prepared mentally and braced for the imminent attack. But it did not come. Hesitantly, the truck came to a rolling stop at the three way and still no attack. "Oh, no," I thought. "Someone must have come flying over that hill and hit him." The truck pulled away and I felt a little sad. Then, about a half mile up, there he was, trudging toward me on the right edge of the road, tail between his legs. As we met, he slowed down and looked up with a worn out face as if to say, "Not today my friend." My four-legged nemesis then drooped his head and plodded on toward his house. "Aha!" I reconsidered. "He may not have been hit by a barreling automobile, but I bet he was hit by a barrel of whiskey and is nursing one humdinger of a hangover. The old boy must have stayed out all Friday night and is trying to slink home before they wake up and find him gone!"

Sunday morning, as I headed into town for Mass, the hellhound was back on my trail, ornery as ever. I guess he stayed home Saturday night.

Do the Dew

Today the dawn brought an unexpected pleasure to the northwest Mississippi hill country – at no charge to boot.  A heavy dew covered the pasture and the freshly cut grass around our house.  I fed the dogs and then took a barefoot stroll.  The grass was ICE COLD!  It reminded me of wading through the shallows of the White River early in the morning just before the dam opens.  What a welcome relief after months of sweltering heat and humidity.  Even after taking a shower, my soles still felt chilled.  Which leads me to relay my other experience this morning - contemplation of life’s great unexplained mystery.  Only two heads of hair (as far as I know) reside in our house.  Mine and Mrs L's.  So why does the window ledge in our shower display no less than twelve different shampoo and conditioner bottles?  But, I digress.  After hearing of my good fortune, Mrs. L took her own barefoot stroll.  She, too, got a thrill up her leg.  In light of which, I think we should do the dew together tomorrow morning.  You are welcome to join us.  We will be out front about 6:30 a.m.  The first ten people through the gate get a free bottle of shampoo! ~

In related Mother Nature news, we discovered a vine of these interesting gems climbing on the fence along the driveway down by the front gate.

Mrs. L. looked them up on Google.  It says they are Purple Passionflowers (Passiflora incarnata), a herbaceous vine that grows up to 25 feet in length. 

Finally, as a bonus just for reading to the end, here is a gratuitous picture of some trumpet honeysuckle (Lonicera sempervirens) that also grows along our driveway fence.

 Et cum spiritu tuo

Today is My Eleventy-First Birthday!

Nobody left to run with anymore.

Nobody wants to do those crazy things we used to do before.

Nobody left to run with anymore.

(“No One to Run With” by Dickie Betts & Joe Prestia)

Today is my eleventy-first birthday!

Where’s our birthday present, my precious?

Ok, I am not really as old as Bilbo, but it is my birthday nonetheless.  No. 49.  Geez.  This is uncharted territory.  Stevie Nicks never sang about the edge of 50.  That said, my number by itself tells you very little.  You need other people’s numbers to go with it.  Our oldest child celebrated a landmark birthday in June.  Before the alarm went off that morning, I shook Mrs. L. up out of her slumber and  in a panic asked, “Do. You. Realize. That today. Our children. ... OUR CHILDREN. … Are 30. And 21?”  She mumbled something about me being an old man and told me to go back to sleep.  Our oldest grandchild turns 13 in less than two months.  Our youngest grandchild turned 7 back in March.  As for Mrs. L … well, let’s just say that I am married to a younger woman.  These are not complaints mind you.  Just observations.   After all,  Steve ver. 49.0 is alive and well despite the best efforts of Steve vers. 15.5, 16.0 and 17.9.  And, ver. 49.0 is still a  whole lot younger than ver. 9.0 thought he would be.  Considering everything, I plan to do this again the same time next year.  As my wise friend reminds me, we want to have as many birthdays as possible; it beats the alternative.

I'm Alright. And You?

The juice is not flowing this week.  (Perhaps I should get some from Melky Cabrera)  So, here's one from the archives.  I wrote this piece in 2003.

The earth here gives us life.
Today we return another life to it.
After more than a week of barely eating
and not moving on or from his pillow,

we had Rufus, the oldest of our three dogs, put to sleep.

When asked what happened to him, our vet simply said,

“He got old. He had a long life and he’s just lived it all up.”

My wife started a hole

in the grove of trees between the house and the lake.

When I got home this afternoon,

I picked up the shovel and took my turn.

As I dug, I heard a steady and methodical rustling of leaves on the ground behind me.

I turned several times,

but saw nothing.

Eventually, one the ducks living in our pond

waddled up within two to three feet,

stopped and watched for a while.

I looked up and spoke to him in a normal conversational tone of voice

several times as he approached.

Not once did he hesitate or act skittish.

In fact, he proceeded toward me with a determined sense of purpose,

like it was every duck’s daily duty to walk up and watch you dig a hole.

Some time passed

and when he had assured himself

that I was digging to his satisfaction
or simply lost interest,
he waddled back down to the pond
without a word.

As I continued digging,
Pippin, our six month old Golden Retriever,
so full of life and youthful playfulness,
ran out into the water to pounce upon him
like Tigger greeting Pooh.
There was a solitary bark
followed by a splash and the sound of rapidly flapping wings skimming across the water,
and then silence,
broken only by a few mocking quacks from a safe distance away.
Pippin soon bounded back up the hill toward the house
and shrugged as if to say,
“Stupid duck.  I didn’t want to play with it anyway.”

I finished my digging
and thought again of the life we were offering to this land.
Some are calmed by the steady noise of a bustling city.
Others find serenity in nature’s silence.
Rufus experienced both.
He first wandered up and made himself at home with us in the heart of the city
almost 14 years ago.
We know not from where he came.
He was 5 – 7 years old then.
Thereafter, from house to house and fenced yard to fenced yard,
he followed us to new places in the city, then a smaller town,
and finally here where he enjoyed his last few months.
Out here he had no fences to limit his wandering fancies
and the carriage-less horses stampeding across the pasture was the only traffic he had to avoid.

We knew before we left our last house in town
that Rufus was slowing down and that his time was getting short.
I am comforted to know that his last months were here in the summer and fall
and that he went to his rest before suffering through a harsh winter
his body could not endure.

As soon as he arrived here, new life entered him.

He took right to the place

as if he had always been here and somehow belonged here,

a feeling he shared with each of us.

Rufus loved the pond and the open pastures,

and had all the freedom he could want,

but I sensed that he found the most joy

simply laying in the shade under the front porch

listening to the wind and the birds,

surveying his kingdom

from the ridge,

knowing

that all was well.

So today

we gave him to this earth,

earth that has restored us
and continues to give us life.
Perhaps
I too
have been brought to this place
to live out my final days.
Be they many or few,
I am at peace and pleased with the thought
that of all places
they would be here,
and I know that all is well.

(2003)

Et cum spiritu tuo

No Animals Were Harmed in the Writing of This Blogpost

The conversations you are about to read are true.  There were no actors and no scripts.

Me:  "What did you do at your friend's last night?"
Granddaughter:  "We took the chickens for rides on the 4-wheeler."
Grandson:  "Who drove?"

~

Grandson:  "Grandpa, will you buy me a goat."
Me:  "You know that your mom and dad are not going to let you keep a goat at your house."
Grandson:  "I know, but we could keep it over here."
~
Me:  "What's that knocking?"
Mrs. L.:  "It sounds like there's a horse in the garage."
Me:  "Oh, *!, I forgot to close the garage door last night."

Families who live in the city do not have these conversations.  We had all three within the span of 72 hours.

In case you are wondering:

The chickens apparently enjoy this;
no, we did not buy the boy a goat; and
we got the horse out of the garage without damaging the car this time.


Et cum spiritu tuo

Had this Been an Actual Emergency

Our son the audio engineer is working with Robert Plant at the Sunflower Blues and Gospel Festival in Clarksdale, Mississippi, tonight.  Yes folks, THAT Robert Plant!  Some of you may not know, that despite his current success, Mr. Plant toiled in virtual obscurity throughout the sixties and seventies as the singer and tambourine tapper for The New Yardbirds, who later released a few albums under the name Led Zeppelin.  They recorded a song called "Stairway to Heaven" with hopes of having a big hit, but it was too long to play on AM radio and  never caught on.  The band apparently made so little money that Mr. Plant could not afford to purchase pants that fit him or replace the buttons that fell off his shirts.  Thus, he often appeared on stage sleeved, but bare-chested, and wearing jeans he had outgrown. Fortunately, Fate did not intend Mr. Plant's dire circumstances to last forever.  Country/bluegrass songbird Alison Krauss discovered him a few years ago and the rest is history.  They recorded  a Grammy-winning album and toured the world to critical and popular acclaim.  Now, with a few coins in his pocket, a new suit of clothes in his travel bag, and his confidence firmly intact, Mr. Plant has emerged from his famous benefactor's shadow as a fine solo artist. ~

In other family entertainment news, Mrs. L. now has her own weekly radio program in Sardis.  For the next three weeks, she will push the button that initiates the Emergency Broadcast System's test signal and public service announcement.  She even promised to look into using one of the alternative ring tones I suggested.  Between you and me, the current one is rather annoying.  Let us know if you want to tune in and listen.  We'll send the frequency and broadcast schedule.  I really intended to allow Mrs.  L. to tell you this bit of good news herself, but I am too excited.  We have never had an off-air radio personality in the family and, besides, it's been a long time since I rock-n-rolled.

The Strength of Quiet Virtue

Rough water tosses our little parish family from all sides this week.  Huddled together in the barque of Peter, we hope the seas soon calm.  First, our “neighbor” (as defined by country living standards) suffered a massive stroke.  He remains in ICU after undergoing a procedure to relieve the pressure from his brain.  Then, within days, the patriarch of one of the parish’s founding families passed away after battling a variety of recent health issues.  In Genesis, the Angel of the Lord comes upon Hagar beside a spring of water near the road and asks, “Where are you coming from and where are you going?”  Great questions!  I cannot tell you everything about where these gentlemen came from.  I can tell you that their lives of quiet virtue inspire and sustain those who know them.  One, I am sure, is finally going to the home of his Father and we pray for the repose of his soul.  The other we pray will presently recover and return to his own home.

Et cum spiritu tuo

*The photo is of Shoal Creek, which runs through Davey Crockett State Park near Lawrenceburg, Tennessee.

Sometimes You Have to Stand Back For a While

(or, If You Build It, He Will Come)

A series of nine square portals wrap around the inside walls of our den just below the ceiling. Some look out on a small grove of trees to the side of the house and some look out across the font pasture.  One afternoon a few weekends ago, a large Orb spider hung on a web outside one on the front wall.  I decided to take a picture of it for no reason other than to get up off of the couch, which I had been reclining on for far too long.  My muse had chosen the window in which a hand-carved wooden cross stands on the inside ledge.  I took the picture from inside.  It turned out that the glowing flame of the chandelier reflected in the glass and also made it into the photo.  Mrs. L. looked at the finished product and jokingly said that I should post it on Facebook without a caption and see how many commenters want to know what it means.  Then, as quickly as I had decided to photograph the spider, and about as randomly, I decided to get a bowl of ice cream and thought no more of the picture or the spider.

A few days later, while reading a story about the recent Colorado theater shooting and the miracle of one young girl's survival, I remembered the picture and it's meaning became all too clear:

"I say to you, you are Peter.

And on this rock I will build my Church and the gates of Hell will not prevail against it." 

The spider is a symbol of evil, waiting in the midst of the web of lies it spins to pounce on the unsuspecting and the complacent.  The flames are the suffering caused by sin that seem to spread across and engulf the world we live in.  In the midst of evil and suffering, however, stands the Cross.  Firm, immovable, ever present, and unafraid.  Good and evil co-exit in this world.  But be of good cheer and keep your chin up, we know how the story (and our story) ends!

Et cum spiritu tuo

And the Rabbits all Jumped

"Yesterday Father Macarius and I went out and blessed the fields, starting with the wheat and oats. ... Out in the calf pasture we blessed some calves who came running up and took a very active interest in everything.  Then we blessed pigs, who showed some interest at first.  The sheep showed no concern and the chickens ran away as soon as we approached.  The rabbits stayed quiet until we threw holy water at them and then they all jumped." - Thomas Merton, The Sign of Jonas

~ This is one of my favorite passages from Merton's diaries.  Our house sits atop a small knoll in the rolling hills of rural northwest Mississippi.  Not exactly the Abbey of Gethsemani, but tranquil nonetheless.  We have horses, a good bit of pasture and a grove of shade trees on one side.  A lake, that often serves as a resting place for migrating Canadian Geese and an oasis for thirsty deer, waits at the bottom of the slope just beyond the trees.  We get our fair share of brown bunnies, too.  Our neighbors have cows.  Our friends have goats, pigs, and guineas.  So, the idea of blessing the land and all that is on it just seems natural. That last line, however, always cracks me up!  Built into the importance of our own vocations and how we carry those out is a abundance of joy and humor.

Et cum spiritu tuo