By Jerry Mack Grubbs
As the time approached for my release as Bishop of the Young Adult Ward, I became apprehensive about being able to emotionally let go of all those ward members whom I had come to love so much. My mind raced back to when the previous bishop had been released, and how he suffered during that adjustment. My release was not a surprise. I was instructed when I was called to be bishop that the call was for three years and my release would happen within a couple of weeks of that time frame.
The Stake President informed me that I would be replaced the coming Sunday. The night before that Sunday, I poured out my heart to Heavenly Father to help me through this adjustment. The main thing that I wanted to do was make sure that I did not create problems for the new bishop, yet I had come to view these young adults as my own. The instruction that had come from the Stake Presidency was: we love you; we appreciate what you have done for the ward, now please step aside and let the new bishop do his job. I had strong reservations about being able to emotionally step aside.
As I retired for the evening, I was very restless. I did not want the next day to ever come. I could not bear the thought of not being at the Ward with the young adults. I had no desire to return to my home ward. I just wanted things to stay the same way they had been for the last three years. At the beginning of my call as bishop I had never dreamed that I would come to love the members of the ward so much. Now it was all coming to a crashing end. As I drifted off to sleep I experienced the following dream:
We were on a ward outing up in the mountains. The surroundings were familiar, but I was not sure where we actually were. We were hiking up a river drainage with everyone having a great time. Some were having water fights and others were just enjoying the outdoors and nature. I engaged in light conversation with several members of the ward as we worked our way up the shallow river. The bottom of the river bed was rocky, and I remember having to be careful how we stepped because of the slipperiness of the rocks. A couple of members lightly sprained their ankles due to the condition of the river bottom.
I was swept away in thought of how much joy and happiness the ward members had brought into my life. It was indeed the best, most enjoyable calling I had experienced in the church. I do not make light of the calling or imply that everyday was a holiday, but through the thick and thin of it all, I was very happy to be serving where I was.
A couple of the young men got carried away with the water fighting and had to be toned down a little. I knew that they were doing nothing different than l had done as a young adult. While thinking about their actions and my own past experiences, I felt an uneasiness wash over me. I first searched inside myself for definition of the feeling, but finding nothing of significance there, I began to be more aware of my surroundings. I moved a little ahead of the group so that I might listen and hopefully learn something concerning what was going on. I heard nothing. I saw nothing that should be of any alarm. I returned to the group and actually participated in some of the water fighting.
One of the sisters slipped on the rocky bottom and injured her knee on a large stone. I assigned two men in the group to help her. As I, along with the two young men, examined her injury, I felt that same uneasiness wash over me again. This time it was an even stronger feeling. Once again I moved ahead of the group, and this time I vocally expressed my concern and feeling of uneasiness to my Heavenly Father. I plead with Him to give me assurance that He would not leave us to our own demise and that if there was danger ahead that He would make it known to us so that we might properly prepare. As I finished my silent prayer I realized that there were no longer any birds singing or any other of the normal forest sounds. All I could hear was the sound of the river and ward members laughing and playing in the water. Although I still had no definition of what danger might lay ahead, I felt strongly that we should move up the embankment and get out of the bottom of the riverbed.
The announcement to move out of the water and up the embankment was not accepted with much enthusiasm. I had to become quite forceful with some of the young men. Eventually everyone complied with the request to travel along the higher slope. I noticed that some did not question the decision. They just accepted the request and moved up the bank without any complaining. Others were more reluctant, needing an explanation of why we couldn't stay in the water where the traveling was much easier. A select few refused to come up the embankment without being issued a direct order to get out of the water. Those same few tried their best to make the journey miserable for the rest of us through their complaining and whining. I remember a sister in the ward suggesting that I allow them to go back down in the water so the rest of us could get some relief from their bickering. I told her that I was the bishop of all the members not just those who willingly obeyed.
The way became very difficult as we hiked along the embankment. It was overgrown with briers and vines which made the passage very arduous. For a brief time I even began to doubt my feelings about the supposed danger. As I thought about my responsibilities to the members of the ward, the same feeling of uneasiness swept over me again. This time it was so strong that I immediately told the ward that we were going to get even higher up the embankment. I wondered if my own imagination was getting the best of me. I heard one young man suggest that a group break away and have their own hike where they could have some fun. My faithful counselors put a stop to that talk immediately.
Moving further up the embankment had only added to the difficulty of the way. We were in such dense undergrowth that I was fearful that we would become lost. Some of the weaker members were beginning to fatigue from the exertion. I once again poured my heart out to Heavenly Father for help. This time I was not asking why, but what I should do to protect the members from harm. What should we do and where should we go for safety? As I closed my silent prayer one of the more ambitious and energetic young men shouted that he had found a trail. We quickly moved over to the trail and the way became easy once again.
We followed this trail until it led us to a small rundown cabin. There was a shed near the cabin and I could see an old Chevrolet pickup parked inside. It must not have been used in years judging by the amount of dust it carried. I went to the door and knocked without expecting to find anyone living there. To my surprise an elderly lady answered the door. After a pleasant exchange I obtained directions from her how we could get back to a main highway. I encouraged her to come with us because I felt that a danger lay ahead for the area, but I could not define it. She declined the offer and wished us well.
We traveled on this well defined dirt road for about an hour when we decided to stop and have our lunch. We gathered under a large oak tree near the road. It appeared to be a land mark for it was taller than anything else around. Many members were now exhausted and just wanted to lie down and rest instead of eat. Some were still talking about how stupid all this was. One suggested that I had concocted all this as some type of weird teaching tool. Five young men and one sister wanted to go ahead of the group on the dirt road and get back to their car as soon as possible. I knew from the elderly lady's comments that we still had half a day's walk before getting back to our vehicles. I was about to give in to their demands when the thought came into my mind to climb the large oak tree and see what was on the distant horizon.
Climbing the tree was no easy task. There were no lower branches to grab onto. The members built a pyramid of human bodies to help me reach the first branch. As I climbed higher and higher, I sensed that something terrible was about to happen to this land. As I neared the top of the tree I could see in the distance a large forest fire. It was destroying everything in its path and was moving directly toward us. Behind the fire was a flood of water. I momentarily felt that the water would quench the fire before it reached us, and we could deal with the flood of water by all getting to higher ground. As I began to formulate my plan of defense, the spirit literally shouted to me that the fire would reach us before the water, and we must escape the area if we were to survive. I looked below me, down at the ward members who trusted me and looked to me for guidance and safety. I knew that I would do anything in my power to save them from this harm. Now they were all mostly lying down and resting from the difficult journey that had brought us to this point.
While descending the tree I made the decision to tell no one what I had seen with the exception of my counselors, the Elders Quorum Presidency and the Relief Society Presidency. I called a planning meeting and laid out the plan that I would return to the cabin with one strong elder and one strong sister. The rest would remain with the ward members to insure that they remained together until I returned. I selected physically strong members to accompany me because I knew that we would have to run all the way if we were going to get there and back in time to save the ward members. I took a sister to help persuade the elderly lady to come with us. I took a strong elder to help me get the old pickup started if possible. I knew that our only chance of getting out of there in time to beat the fire was with the old pickup. I didn't know how we could all possibly fit into the truck, but that was a problem I would face later.
Arriving back at the cabin, we found the elderly lady in her same congenial mood. She assured us that she would be fine and did not want to go with us. Before we could even ask, she suggested that if we could get the truck started we were welcome to take it to aid in our evacuation. As previously thought, the old Chevy pickup hadn't run in years. The three of us, with pushing, pleading and praying were finally able to get it running. We returned once more to the cabin and begged the lady to come with us, but she refused. Reluctantly we left her and headed back for the ward family.
By the time we returned, the smell of smoke was in the air and the ward members were almost in hysteria. Two young men had left on their own, stating that the rest were fools for waiting any longer. We loaded everyone into the pickup. To use the term "into the pickup" would be a lie. We had members on the hood, on the bumpers, in the back and on the roof. I counted eleven just in the cab and I still had to get in to drive. There was a feeling of excitement in the air. We had made a plan and that plan had worked thus far. We said a prayer of thanksgiving and prayed for our continued success. I began to squeeze myself under the steering wheel of the truck. I was almost in, but I couldn't get the door closed. No matter how hard I pulled, the door just wouldn't close. I turned my head back to see what the problem might be. There was another man's hand on the door, preventing it from closing. Just as I. saw the hand a voice said, "Bishop Grubbs, you will not be making the rest of this journey. Your job is complete. I'll be taking your place behind the wheel."
At first I was resistive to the voice. I said that the members were counting on me. They looked to me for safety and assurance of the future. Then, without another word being spoken, I knew that the voice was right and that my mission was complete. I stepped out of the truck and another slipped under the wheel. Some of the members upon seeing that I had gotten out of the truck jumped down and said that they were not going if I was not going. All of a sudden I knew that no matter what happened to me I had to persuade them to get back on the truck and flee the impending firestorm. With some coaxing they all got back on the truck with a promise that they would look for the others who had not chosen to wait.
As the old Chevy pickup slowly began to move forward the members turned and waived farewell to me. At first I was sad, but then I realized that although I may never see some of them again, no one could take away the sweet memories they had brought into my life; how they had accepted me, taught me, and loved me.
As the truck lumbered down the dirt road carrying its heavy load, I could hear the ward members singing the song "In the Hollow of Thy Hand." As the truck disappeared around a curve in the road, suddenly I was all alone. The thought came into my mind, what will happen to me? Is this where I will loose my life? Then, just as strong as any feeling I have ever experienced from the spirit, a voice whispered inside of me, "No, not yet, you have an elderly lady back at the cabin to take care of." I began to run with all my might and strength back down the dirt road toward the cabin. As I ran I began to plan how I would get her to go with me and how we would shield ourselves from this fire and survive the flood.
Most of my dreams are of little significance. But this dream did have significance. It rested upon my soul. It brought me the peace that I sought from my Heavenly Father to help me through this transition in my life. Did my dream make the transition and release as the bishop of the young adult ward easy? No, but it made it less difficult. I felt as though I was in the Hollow of His hand.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Too Proud to Pray
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
I have a saying on my desk that I look at each day. It states "The truly important things of life are not found in worldly wealth and earthly possessions but in the relationships we build with family and friends." After reading that saying, a visitor to my office said, "It was probably a poor man trying to make himself feel better who made that statement." I said in response, "If you truly believe what you just said, you probably also embrace the philosophy that 'religion is merely the opium of the uneducated,' a poor man trying to feel better about himself." Why is it that as a nation, the more successful we are, the more difficult it becomes to recognize the hand of God in our lives?
I invited my visitor to have lunch with me. With a roll of his eyes he said, "You will probably insist that we bless the food at the restaurant." "No, I wouldn't want to embarrass you or cause you to feel uncomfortable," I said. "Many prayers are offered in silence, formulated in the mind and nestled softly in the heart. A prayer offered for show is no prayer at all but merely a one-act play with no curtain call.
I'm thankful I live in a country where our president isn't too proud to admit that he prays. I am grateful that our Founding Fathers weren't too proud to pray as they struggled to create a constitution that would stand the test of time. I'm glad I live among people who remember the God of heaven and earth when turmoil and conflict enter their lives. It was a humbled and frightened nation that returned to prayer following 9-11.
I was certainly offering prayers of pleading the night of July 10th when those precious little ones of our family were in peril. As our boat sped through the darkness, our path being illuminated by a 400,000 candle power search light, I was thankful that I wasn't a stranger to prayer. Those prayers became prayers of gratitude the following day as we were able to reflect upon how blessed we are as a family. The family prayer that I was requested to give that morning was the most emotionally challenging assignment I have had in a long time. How thankful I am that I belong to a family where prayer is a daily part of our lives. That night of July 10th helped remind us just how unimportant worldly wealth and earthly possessions are when compared to the precious relationships of family and friends. How blessed I feel for each of you; for your safety, your example to me, and what I learn through my association with you.
It has been said that you measure a man by what makes him angry. I believe that you also measure a man by what he expresses gratitude for. It is often fear and anguish that brings a man to his knees in prayer; it is gratitude that keeps him on his knees.
I have a saying on my desk that I look at each day. It states "The truly important things of life are not found in worldly wealth and earthly possessions but in the relationships we build with family and friends." After reading that saying, a visitor to my office said, "It was probably a poor man trying to make himself feel better who made that statement." I said in response, "If you truly believe what you just said, you probably also embrace the philosophy that 'religion is merely the opium of the uneducated,' a poor man trying to feel better about himself." Why is it that as a nation, the more successful we are, the more difficult it becomes to recognize the hand of God in our lives?
I invited my visitor to have lunch with me. With a roll of his eyes he said, "You will probably insist that we bless the food at the restaurant." "No, I wouldn't want to embarrass you or cause you to feel uncomfortable," I said. "Many prayers are offered in silence, formulated in the mind and nestled softly in the heart. A prayer offered for show is no prayer at all but merely a one-act play with no curtain call.
I'm thankful I live in a country where our president isn't too proud to admit that he prays. I am grateful that our Founding Fathers weren't too proud to pray as they struggled to create a constitution that would stand the test of time. I'm glad I live among people who remember the God of heaven and earth when turmoil and conflict enter their lives. It was a humbled and frightened nation that returned to prayer following 9-11.
I was certainly offering prayers of pleading the night of July 10th when those precious little ones of our family were in peril. As our boat sped through the darkness, our path being illuminated by a 400,000 candle power search light, I was thankful that I wasn't a stranger to prayer. Those prayers became prayers of gratitude the following day as we were able to reflect upon how blessed we are as a family. The family prayer that I was requested to give that morning was the most emotionally challenging assignment I have had in a long time. How thankful I am that I belong to a family where prayer is a daily part of our lives. That night of July 10th helped remind us just how unimportant worldly wealth and earthly possessions are when compared to the precious relationships of family and friends. How blessed I feel for each of you; for your safety, your example to me, and what I learn through my association with you.
It has been said that you measure a man by what makes him angry. I believe that you also measure a man by what he expresses gratitude for. It is often fear and anguish that brings a man to his knees in prayer; it is gratitude that keeps him on his knees.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Eighty Proof
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Dinner was at a restaurant specializing in barbequed ribs. We ate with our fingers and laughed about the people around us who were trying to eat their plate of ribs with a knife and fork. The meal was delicious and the atmosphere softly lit. Our waitress was pleasant as she presented us with the bill and thanked us for our patronage.
We argued over who would pay the bill. Although I had been invited to dinner, I wanted to pay my own way in this world of business. Should I decide to reject the services of the company she represented I didn’t want the slightest string of obligation to tangle me up. Plus it felt strange having a woman pay for my dinner. We tussled over the bill until I suggested a solution I thought would be fair and agreeable. “How about we toss a coin to determine who pays?” I said. Without hesitation I withdrew a dime from my pocket and said, “I’ll toss, you call.” She called heads. That wasn’t what I wanted to hear so I quickly said, “Heads I buy, tails, you buy.” She agreed. Since my coin was a two headed dime that I carried for just such occasions, she lost the toss. I paid the dinner bill and we headed for the restaurant parking lot.
I walked her to her car and opened the door for her. We said our goodbyes and I proceeded to my rental car. As I slid into the seat and was about to close the door I saw her walking back toward me. She must have forgotten something she wanted to tell me. She stepped between me and the open car door. Before I realized what she was doing, she leaned over and planted a kiss on my lips. I was surprised and startled by her action. She withdrew before I had time to react. Without saying a word she tossed a motel key on my lap and walked back to her own car.
I grew up in the south where gals mature early and guys are said to be slow on the uptake but I knew what she was suggesting. I studied the plastic tag attached to the key and realized she was staying at the same motel where I was registered. I wondered if that was a coincidence. She hadn’t even given me a chance to say something polite like thanks but no thanks. Upon returning to the motel, I left her room key with the clerk sitting behind the desk. He asked no questions and I volunteered no answers.
Just before eleven o’clock a knock came on my motel door. When I opened the door she was standing there in a silk or satin dress. I’m not an expert on fabric. But it was apparent she wore no supporting equipment beneath her dress. “May I come in?” she asked. She had a bottle of alcohol in her hand. In her other hand she held two tiny glasses. In the western movies I grew up watching, they were called shot glasses. I stood in the doorway blocking the entrance or I think she would have come into the room like she was expected. Sensing that the evening wasn’t going the way she had played it out in her mind, she reached out her hand in an attempt to hand me the bottle. I didn’t accept the gift. She said, “A friend suggested you could use a taste of what the world has to offer.” “I’ve never tasted alcohol in my life. I’ve always wanted to remember what I did. I hear you are responsible for what you do, drunk or sober,” I said. She stepped forward to kiss me once more but I was better prepared. I placed my hand on her shoulder stopping her forward movement and said, “No thank you.” She placed the bottle on a small shelf just inside the door and said, “If you change your mind drop by anytime.” With that comment she tossed her room key down by the bottle and walked away. I closed the door, slid the security lock in place and returned to the project notes I was working on.
The next morning I gathered up my belongings and prepared to check out of my motel room. I picked up the bottle. The label said Crown Royal, Blended Canadian Whiskey, 80 Proof. Now what was a boy from Texas who had never tasted alcohol going to do with a bottle of 80 proof whiskey? I kept it as a reminder of that world I had never tasted.
Six months later while sitting in an airport waiting for my flight to be called, a lady sat down next to me. As I looked over she said, “Do you remember me?” How could I ever forget her! “I still have the bottle of whiskey you gave me,” I said. We talked like old friends. She shared what was going on in her life at that time. She talked of the motivating forces behind her actions that night at dinner and later at the motel. She apologized. I accepted her apology. We gave one another a polite hug and prepared to go our separate ways with no intention of ever seeing one another again. Then we realized we were booked on the same flight. I was headed for Salt Lake City. She had a stop over in Salt Lake then the flight would carry her on to Billings, Montana.
On the flight we sat together and talked about our families and how our lives intersected. As the plane pulled into the terminal gate at Salt Lake, she wrote her phone number and address on a slip of paper and said, “Keep in touch.” As an after thought she said, “By the way, that blue dress was silk. I don’t suppose it would have made a difference if the dress had been satin” I just smiled. As I walked through the terminal to retrieve my luggage, I slipped the piece of paper containing her phone number and address into a waste can. I never saw her again but I have held on to the bottle of 80 proof . . . the cap is still sealed. The world might say I missed a great opportunity to get lucky. Luck had nothing to do with it. It was all about choice. There are some things in this world I don’t need to taste.
Prior to elevating me to sainthood over turning down an evening with an attractive woman and a bottle of 80 proof that would give me a taste of what the world has to offer, you should know that there are other things in my life that I have tasted. But you will only discover those shortcomings and weaknesses in the unabridged version of this article. I’ve rarely turned down coconut cream pie, homemade ice cream, cashew nuts, an opportunity to go flying, or sitting by a campfire watching the flicker of the flames with someone who cares.
Dinner was at a restaurant specializing in barbequed ribs. We ate with our fingers and laughed about the people around us who were trying to eat their plate of ribs with a knife and fork. The meal was delicious and the atmosphere softly lit. Our waitress was pleasant as she presented us with the bill and thanked us for our patronage.
We argued over who would pay the bill. Although I had been invited to dinner, I wanted to pay my own way in this world of business. Should I decide to reject the services of the company she represented I didn’t want the slightest string of obligation to tangle me up. Plus it felt strange having a woman pay for my dinner. We tussled over the bill until I suggested a solution I thought would be fair and agreeable. “How about we toss a coin to determine who pays?” I said. Without hesitation I withdrew a dime from my pocket and said, “I’ll toss, you call.” She called heads. That wasn’t what I wanted to hear so I quickly said, “Heads I buy, tails, you buy.” She agreed. Since my coin was a two headed dime that I carried for just such occasions, she lost the toss. I paid the dinner bill and we headed for the restaurant parking lot.
I walked her to her car and opened the door for her. We said our goodbyes and I proceeded to my rental car. As I slid into the seat and was about to close the door I saw her walking back toward me. She must have forgotten something she wanted to tell me. She stepped between me and the open car door. Before I realized what she was doing, she leaned over and planted a kiss on my lips. I was surprised and startled by her action. She withdrew before I had time to react. Without saying a word she tossed a motel key on my lap and walked back to her own car.
I grew up in the south where gals mature early and guys are said to be slow on the uptake but I knew what she was suggesting. I studied the plastic tag attached to the key and realized she was staying at the same motel where I was registered. I wondered if that was a coincidence. She hadn’t even given me a chance to say something polite like thanks but no thanks. Upon returning to the motel, I left her room key with the clerk sitting behind the desk. He asked no questions and I volunteered no answers.
Just before eleven o’clock a knock came on my motel door. When I opened the door she was standing there in a silk or satin dress. I’m not an expert on fabric. But it was apparent she wore no supporting equipment beneath her dress. “May I come in?” she asked. She had a bottle of alcohol in her hand. In her other hand she held two tiny glasses. In the western movies I grew up watching, they were called shot glasses. I stood in the doorway blocking the entrance or I think she would have come into the room like she was expected. Sensing that the evening wasn’t going the way she had played it out in her mind, she reached out her hand in an attempt to hand me the bottle. I didn’t accept the gift. She said, “A friend suggested you could use a taste of what the world has to offer.” “I’ve never tasted alcohol in my life. I’ve always wanted to remember what I did. I hear you are responsible for what you do, drunk or sober,” I said. She stepped forward to kiss me once more but I was better prepared. I placed my hand on her shoulder stopping her forward movement and said, “No thank you.” She placed the bottle on a small shelf just inside the door and said, “If you change your mind drop by anytime.” With that comment she tossed her room key down by the bottle and walked away. I closed the door, slid the security lock in place and returned to the project notes I was working on.
The next morning I gathered up my belongings and prepared to check out of my motel room. I picked up the bottle. The label said Crown Royal, Blended Canadian Whiskey, 80 Proof. Now what was a boy from Texas who had never tasted alcohol going to do with a bottle of 80 proof whiskey? I kept it as a reminder of that world I had never tasted.
Six months later while sitting in an airport waiting for my flight to be called, a lady sat down next to me. As I looked over she said, “Do you remember me?” How could I ever forget her! “I still have the bottle of whiskey you gave me,” I said. We talked like old friends. She shared what was going on in her life at that time. She talked of the motivating forces behind her actions that night at dinner and later at the motel. She apologized. I accepted her apology. We gave one another a polite hug and prepared to go our separate ways with no intention of ever seeing one another again. Then we realized we were booked on the same flight. I was headed for Salt Lake City. She had a stop over in Salt Lake then the flight would carry her on to Billings, Montana.
On the flight we sat together and talked about our families and how our lives intersected. As the plane pulled into the terminal gate at Salt Lake, she wrote her phone number and address on a slip of paper and said, “Keep in touch.” As an after thought she said, “By the way, that blue dress was silk. I don’t suppose it would have made a difference if the dress had been satin” I just smiled. As I walked through the terminal to retrieve my luggage, I slipped the piece of paper containing her phone number and address into a waste can. I never saw her again but I have held on to the bottle of 80 proof . . . the cap is still sealed. The world might say I missed a great opportunity to get lucky. Luck had nothing to do with it. It was all about choice. There are some things in this world I don’t need to taste.
Prior to elevating me to sainthood over turning down an evening with an attractive woman and a bottle of 80 proof that would give me a taste of what the world has to offer, you should know that there are other things in my life that I have tasted. But you will only discover those shortcomings and weaknesses in the unabridged version of this article. I’ve rarely turned down coconut cream pie, homemade ice cream, cashew nuts, an opportunity to go flying, or sitting by a campfire watching the flicker of the flames with someone who cares.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
A Place in Time
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Prologue: I watched an old movie called Cast Away staring Tom Hanks. In the movie Tom Hanks is marooned on a remote island after a plane crash. He learns to survive on the contents of FedEx packages that wash ashore from the crash. I fell asleep thinking about what I would want to have with me if I became stranded on a deserted island for an extended period of time.
The Dream: It was Sunday evening and we had enjoyed a family dinner together. I was slumped back on the living room couch with a contented full stomach and one of my grandsons on my lap. Laziness had already crept up my spine and I felt glued to the couch. The grandchildren were running in and out so the front door was open. Without knocking, a tall man dressed in a dark grey suit and sunglasses stepped through the door and into the foyer. He asked, “Is this the Grubbs home?” I said yes and asked who he was looking for. He didn’t answer my question but said, “I came to give you a message. Someone dear to you has been sentenced to spend three years on a deserted island. Anyone present in your home tonight can serve the sentence in this person’s place if they choose.” “Who is this person who is dear to me?” I asked. “You will not be given that information,” he replied. “What was the crime and what purpose will be served by someone spending three years on a remote island?” I asked. “The act may or may not have been intentional but whether a person falls or is pushed from a cliff, the resulting injury at the end of the fall is the same,” he said. “If no one comes forward and volunteers to meet our requirements, I will return in seven days to escort the guilty person to the island. Just remember, whoever you select to serve this sentence will have no contact with the outside world for three years.”
I must have decided in my heart that I would be the one to go because I handed my grandson to his mother and immediately went to my room and began gathering items for a survival pack to take with me. I selected a knife, a folding saw, two aluminum space blankets, a nylon rope and two watertight cases of matches. I packed my halogen headlamp and twenty-four fresh batteries along with a water purification pump. I gathered a complete change of clothes including a large brimmed hat and sunglasses. I went to the garden shed and put corn and tomato seeds into plastic Ziploc bags. Last of all I put six writing tablets along with pens and pencils into my backpack. I wanted to record my experiences on the island or at least let someone know what became of me.
Just one day prior to my scheduled departure I was told that I would be allowed to take one person chosen from those who had been present at the family dinner to stay on the island with me. My dad immediately volunteered but I knew his health would be compromised by such an ordeal. In reality I couldn’t ask him or any other person at the dinner to put their life on hold for three years. As much as I didn’t want to spend that time all alone, the idea of someone else making that sacrifice tore at my heartstrings. I was adamant that no one else would be going with me. On the outside I was standing brave. On the inside I revealed my personality flaws even if it was only to myself by wishing that someone would argue with my decision or suggest taking my place. I knew what my answer would be but it would have been nice for someone to offer. I chided myself for such childish and immature feelings. Everyone present that night knew that I was the best choice to make this sacrifice. My children were grown and I was healthy and willing.
The visitor to our home was true to his word. Just seven days after that visit it was time to leave for the island. Everyone present at the family dinner was invited to join me on a beautiful ocean yacht for the journey to the island. The yacht had every amenity you could imagine. Beautiful state rooms and a banquet style kitchen open from six in the morning until midnight was at our disposal. We lived in luxury those seven days it took for us to reach sight of the island where I would spend the next three years of my life. On the eighth day, with the yacht anchored some distance off shore, my family and friends gathered on the front deck to bid me farewell. A motorized dingy was lowered down to the water in preparation for my departure. With the hugs and well-wishes complete I told the man in the dark grey suit and sunglasses that I was ready to be taken to the island. He motioned for two large men to join him. With no warning they grabbed me and threw me to the deck of the yacht. They removed my backpack, hat, shoes, socks, belt and the items in my pockets. As the two men held me down on the deck the man in the sunglasses picked up my backpack and dumped its contents over the side of the ship, making sure that the Ziploc bags filled with corn and tomato seeds were torn, spilling the seeds into the ocean. My family and friends stood in shocked disbelief.
Without saying a word the two men lifted me off the deck of the ship and threw me over the side. I tried to prepare for the impact with the water below but only managed to flail in the air as I descended and hit the ocean in a slightly vertical position. The dingy was only a hundred feet away but as I began to swim toward it, the yacht put its engines in reverse and backed away from me with the dingy still tied to its hull. I was left all alone to swim a long distance to the island. I was frightened by what might be lurking in the water beneath me. Fear also gripped me just thinking about what else the man in the dark grey suit and sunglasses might not have told me about the island where I would spend the next three years of my life. True, he had not told me that I could take anything with me but he knew I had prepared a backpack and he had said nothing. As the yacht moved toward the distant horizon, I realized that my loved ones would not even know if I made it to the island. I began to swim.
Hours later, the waves lapped at my tired body as I lay exhausted on the beach. I was totally spent from the swim after I had been thrown from the yacht that carried my family and friends away. As my mental faculties returned, the first thing I noticed was my head being stroked in a familiar way by a gentle hand. Looking up with surprise I said, “What are you doing here?” “I came to be with you,” was the reply. “You can’t stay here,” I said. “I have to stay. My fate was sealed with yours when the yacht sailed away. I knew you would never agree with my decision to stay with you so I came to the island ahead of you. The man in the grey suit and sunglasses brought me over before sunrise. I have been waiting for you. I chose to do it this way so that there would not be an argument between us about my decision,” explained my island companion.
As I sat up in the wet sand and looked around, I noticed six cornels of corn seed that had washed ashore from my spilled backpack. I wondered if the salt water of the ocean had damaged the seeds. I quickly calculated that if I planted those six cornels and each grew and produced two ears of corn, in seventy-eight days I would have plenty of corn seed to plant and harvest in the future. I washed the seeds off in rain water that had collected in an upturned seashell and we went to look for a suitable place to plant them. Although it would require twice as much food to feed two people, I was glad I wasn’t alone. What would people say when the yacht returned in three years to pick us up? I decided to not worry about things I had no control over.
After planting the corn we explored part of the island. We scratched a mark on a large rock symbolizing day one with one thousand and ninety-four days remaining. Of course that didn’t take into account leap year. But what difference would one day make? We walked on the beach and were dazzled by a beautiful sunset. As night fell, we covered ourselves in sun-warmed sand to block the chill of the night breeze. Lying on my back and looking up at the stars that began to appear in the sky, I whispered a silent prayer of gratitude that I wasn’t alone. We called this island home A Place in Time.
Prologue: I watched an old movie called Cast Away staring Tom Hanks. In the movie Tom Hanks is marooned on a remote island after a plane crash. He learns to survive on the contents of FedEx packages that wash ashore from the crash. I fell asleep thinking about what I would want to have with me if I became stranded on a deserted island for an extended period of time.
The Dream: It was Sunday evening and we had enjoyed a family dinner together. I was slumped back on the living room couch with a contented full stomach and one of my grandsons on my lap. Laziness had already crept up my spine and I felt glued to the couch. The grandchildren were running in and out so the front door was open. Without knocking, a tall man dressed in a dark grey suit and sunglasses stepped through the door and into the foyer. He asked, “Is this the Grubbs home?” I said yes and asked who he was looking for. He didn’t answer my question but said, “I came to give you a message. Someone dear to you has been sentenced to spend three years on a deserted island. Anyone present in your home tonight can serve the sentence in this person’s place if they choose.” “Who is this person who is dear to me?” I asked. “You will not be given that information,” he replied. “What was the crime and what purpose will be served by someone spending three years on a remote island?” I asked. “The act may or may not have been intentional but whether a person falls or is pushed from a cliff, the resulting injury at the end of the fall is the same,” he said. “If no one comes forward and volunteers to meet our requirements, I will return in seven days to escort the guilty person to the island. Just remember, whoever you select to serve this sentence will have no contact with the outside world for three years.”
I must have decided in my heart that I would be the one to go because I handed my grandson to his mother and immediately went to my room and began gathering items for a survival pack to take with me. I selected a knife, a folding saw, two aluminum space blankets, a nylon rope and two watertight cases of matches. I packed my halogen headlamp and twenty-four fresh batteries along with a water purification pump. I gathered a complete change of clothes including a large brimmed hat and sunglasses. I went to the garden shed and put corn and tomato seeds into plastic Ziploc bags. Last of all I put six writing tablets along with pens and pencils into my backpack. I wanted to record my experiences on the island or at least let someone know what became of me.
Just one day prior to my scheduled departure I was told that I would be allowed to take one person chosen from those who had been present at the family dinner to stay on the island with me. My dad immediately volunteered but I knew his health would be compromised by such an ordeal. In reality I couldn’t ask him or any other person at the dinner to put their life on hold for three years. As much as I didn’t want to spend that time all alone, the idea of someone else making that sacrifice tore at my heartstrings. I was adamant that no one else would be going with me. On the outside I was standing brave. On the inside I revealed my personality flaws even if it was only to myself by wishing that someone would argue with my decision or suggest taking my place. I knew what my answer would be but it would have been nice for someone to offer. I chided myself for such childish and immature feelings. Everyone present that night knew that I was the best choice to make this sacrifice. My children were grown and I was healthy and willing.
The visitor to our home was true to his word. Just seven days after that visit it was time to leave for the island. Everyone present at the family dinner was invited to join me on a beautiful ocean yacht for the journey to the island. The yacht had every amenity you could imagine. Beautiful state rooms and a banquet style kitchen open from six in the morning until midnight was at our disposal. We lived in luxury those seven days it took for us to reach sight of the island where I would spend the next three years of my life. On the eighth day, with the yacht anchored some distance off shore, my family and friends gathered on the front deck to bid me farewell. A motorized dingy was lowered down to the water in preparation for my departure. With the hugs and well-wishes complete I told the man in the dark grey suit and sunglasses that I was ready to be taken to the island. He motioned for two large men to join him. With no warning they grabbed me and threw me to the deck of the yacht. They removed my backpack, hat, shoes, socks, belt and the items in my pockets. As the two men held me down on the deck the man in the sunglasses picked up my backpack and dumped its contents over the side of the ship, making sure that the Ziploc bags filled with corn and tomato seeds were torn, spilling the seeds into the ocean. My family and friends stood in shocked disbelief.
Without saying a word the two men lifted me off the deck of the ship and threw me over the side. I tried to prepare for the impact with the water below but only managed to flail in the air as I descended and hit the ocean in a slightly vertical position. The dingy was only a hundred feet away but as I began to swim toward it, the yacht put its engines in reverse and backed away from me with the dingy still tied to its hull. I was left all alone to swim a long distance to the island. I was frightened by what might be lurking in the water beneath me. Fear also gripped me just thinking about what else the man in the dark grey suit and sunglasses might not have told me about the island where I would spend the next three years of my life. True, he had not told me that I could take anything with me but he knew I had prepared a backpack and he had said nothing. As the yacht moved toward the distant horizon, I realized that my loved ones would not even know if I made it to the island. I began to swim.
Hours later, the waves lapped at my tired body as I lay exhausted on the beach. I was totally spent from the swim after I had been thrown from the yacht that carried my family and friends away. As my mental faculties returned, the first thing I noticed was my head being stroked in a familiar way by a gentle hand. Looking up with surprise I said, “What are you doing here?” “I came to be with you,” was the reply. “You can’t stay here,” I said. “I have to stay. My fate was sealed with yours when the yacht sailed away. I knew you would never agree with my decision to stay with you so I came to the island ahead of you. The man in the grey suit and sunglasses brought me over before sunrise. I have been waiting for you. I chose to do it this way so that there would not be an argument between us about my decision,” explained my island companion.
As I sat up in the wet sand and looked around, I noticed six cornels of corn seed that had washed ashore from my spilled backpack. I wondered if the salt water of the ocean had damaged the seeds. I quickly calculated that if I planted those six cornels and each grew and produced two ears of corn, in seventy-eight days I would have plenty of corn seed to plant and harvest in the future. I washed the seeds off in rain water that had collected in an upturned seashell and we went to look for a suitable place to plant them. Although it would require twice as much food to feed two people, I was glad I wasn’t alone. What would people say when the yacht returned in three years to pick us up? I decided to not worry about things I had no control over.
After planting the corn we explored part of the island. We scratched a mark on a large rock symbolizing day one with one thousand and ninety-four days remaining. Of course that didn’t take into account leap year. But what difference would one day make? We walked on the beach and were dazzled by a beautiful sunset. As night fell, we covered ourselves in sun-warmed sand to block the chill of the night breeze. Lying on my back and looking up at the stars that began to appear in the sky, I whispered a silent prayer of gratitude that I wasn’t alone. We called this island home A Place in Time.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Droplets of Diamonds
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
It was called Rattlesnake Canyon before a more inviting name was adopted. As I climbed the trail that crisscrossed the creek I encountered two rattlesnakes. No wonder this place was called Rattlesnake Canyon. Several times I started to turn back and find another place to do my hike and get my exercise. Something inside nudged me on. I wanted to make it to the top of the canyon and see the source of this stream. I pushed on until noon where I stopped by the creek and ate a sandwich from my daypack. After a brief rest I pushed on up the canyon.
In the early afternoon I came upon a third rattlesnake. This one was stretched out sunning in the middle of the trail. I found a long stick and poked the snake to encourage it to move out of my way. The snake refused to move. It would give a brief rattle of its tail to warn me off. Because of the steepness of the terrain I couldn't get around the snake. I felt like an intruder into the snake's territory but it was blocking me from my destination so I continued to agitate the snake in hopes it would move away and let me pass. Finally the snake moved into the heavy brush next to the trail. Now I had a worse situation. I could no longer see the snake or the threat it imposed. I had to decide whether I would take the chance to move on up the path in hopes that the snake had moved away or at least would let me pass unharmed.
Although it is difficult to explain now, at the time I felt compelled to go on. I crowded the far side of the trail and cautiously moved along, listening for the tale tale sign of those rattlers signaling a state of agitation by the snake. I passed by unharmed and proceeded on my journey. The trail became steeper and more difficult. The vegetation became denser. For a while the images of the snakes I encountered on my hike dominated my thoughts. Behind every log, nestled next to every bush that crowded the trail, my imagination saw another deadly rattlesnake lying in wait to plant it sharp fangs into my unprotected ankle.
As time passed I began to look up more and enjoy the creations of nature around me. Eventually I came to the headwaters of the creek that fed this canyon. The crystal clear water came pouring out of the rocks from an underground source fed by snowmelt from higher mountains. It sparkled in the afternoon sun. Just below this feature was a natural pool about four feet deep. I slipped off my boots and cooled my feet in the water. I decided that more than just my feet would enjoy a refreshing soak so I slipped off my clothes and slid into the pool. I laid my head back on the bank and let my submerged body lap up the experience.
I must have dozed off because I awoke with a start. The noise that awakened me was a woman standing in the middle of the pool. She acted as though I wasn't even there. I assumed she stood with her back to me to safeguard my privacy. I covered myself with my hands and said nothing but continued to observe her. I watched in silence as she dipped her hair into the pool and let rivulets of water streaming from her hair cool her neck and back. She did this repeatedly, each time pushing her hair back out of her face. Droplets of water beaded on her shoulders and back and sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight. I felt so relaxed I forgot I was undressed. Then she looked over at me and smiled I knew her. When our eyes met, I awoke. I had been dreaming. The experience was so vivid I looked around to see where she had disappeared to. But she was gone. I closed my eyes and tried to will her back into my mind. It was no use.
I climbed out the pool and dried in the warmth of the afternoon sun. After dressing and lacing up my hiking boots, I gathered up my daypack and headed back down the canyon. I saw no rattlesnakes but maybe I wasn't looking for any. My eyes were looking up, not down.
This experience came to me on the 6th of August, 2004, almost three years ago, but it is as fresh in my mind today as it was then. I would paint you a picture if I were an artist and could convey on canvas what my dream showed me that day. But then, you are entitled to your own dreams and your own interpretations. I wouldn't spoil that for anything.
It was called Rattlesnake Canyon before a more inviting name was adopted. As I climbed the trail that crisscrossed the creek I encountered two rattlesnakes. No wonder this place was called Rattlesnake Canyon. Several times I started to turn back and find another place to do my hike and get my exercise. Something inside nudged me on. I wanted to make it to the top of the canyon and see the source of this stream. I pushed on until noon where I stopped by the creek and ate a sandwich from my daypack. After a brief rest I pushed on up the canyon.
In the early afternoon I came upon a third rattlesnake. This one was stretched out sunning in the middle of the trail. I found a long stick and poked the snake to encourage it to move out of my way. The snake refused to move. It would give a brief rattle of its tail to warn me off. Because of the steepness of the terrain I couldn't get around the snake. I felt like an intruder into the snake's territory but it was blocking me from my destination so I continued to agitate the snake in hopes it would move away and let me pass. Finally the snake moved into the heavy brush next to the trail. Now I had a worse situation. I could no longer see the snake or the threat it imposed. I had to decide whether I would take the chance to move on up the path in hopes that the snake had moved away or at least would let me pass unharmed.
Although it is difficult to explain now, at the time I felt compelled to go on. I crowded the far side of the trail and cautiously moved along, listening for the tale tale sign of those rattlers signaling a state of agitation by the snake. I passed by unharmed and proceeded on my journey. The trail became steeper and more difficult. The vegetation became denser. For a while the images of the snakes I encountered on my hike dominated my thoughts. Behind every log, nestled next to every bush that crowded the trail, my imagination saw another deadly rattlesnake lying in wait to plant it sharp fangs into my unprotected ankle.
As time passed I began to look up more and enjoy the creations of nature around me. Eventually I came to the headwaters of the creek that fed this canyon. The crystal clear water came pouring out of the rocks from an underground source fed by snowmelt from higher mountains. It sparkled in the afternoon sun. Just below this feature was a natural pool about four feet deep. I slipped off my boots and cooled my feet in the water. I decided that more than just my feet would enjoy a refreshing soak so I slipped off my clothes and slid into the pool. I laid my head back on the bank and let my submerged body lap up the experience.
I must have dozed off because I awoke with a start. The noise that awakened me was a woman standing in the middle of the pool. She acted as though I wasn't even there. I assumed she stood with her back to me to safeguard my privacy. I covered myself with my hands and said nothing but continued to observe her. I watched in silence as she dipped her hair into the pool and let rivulets of water streaming from her hair cool her neck and back. She did this repeatedly, each time pushing her hair back out of her face. Droplets of water beaded on her shoulders and back and sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight. I felt so relaxed I forgot I was undressed. Then she looked over at me and smiled I knew her. When our eyes met, I awoke. I had been dreaming. The experience was so vivid I looked around to see where she had disappeared to. But she was gone. I closed my eyes and tried to will her back into my mind. It was no use.
I climbed out the pool and dried in the warmth of the afternoon sun. After dressing and lacing up my hiking boots, I gathered up my daypack and headed back down the canyon. I saw no rattlesnakes but maybe I wasn't looking for any. My eyes were looking up, not down.
This experience came to me on the 6th of August, 2004, almost three years ago, but it is as fresh in my mind today as it was then. I would paint you a picture if I were an artist and could convey on canvas what my dream showed me that day. But then, you are entitled to your own dreams and your own interpretations. I wouldn't spoil that for anything.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
The Tree House
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
She was agile as a boy when she climbed up into the tree. This girl was the only female I had ever invited to my tree house. I didn't actually invite her; she just stepped into my mind as I slept. This girl, this dream girl appeared at the base of the tree and said, "I want to share your tree house." She didn't say, "I want to visit your tree house."
This was a girl. Could she even climb the rope? Pushing through all that mental fog I said, "Do you need some help getting up the tree?" Before she could respond I began climbing down to help her. She acted irritated that I would think she needed my help. Irritation wasn't a feeling I wanted there in my secluded world. "This girl better get a different attitude if she is going to share my tree house," I thought. From the moment she sat down on the elevated platform next to me she became a co-owner of all my building efforts. Every board hauled up the rope, every nail driven into the tree and every hour spent planning how I would build my hideaway gave way to a feeling that it had never felt complete until she sat there next to me.
Accepting her was like drinking a glass of refreshing cold milk. She wore all white: white shorts, white blouse, white canvas shoes. She was fair complexioned and had blondish brown hair. When she saw that I was barefoot she removed her shoes. The irritation she originally stirred in me from her independent attitude faded as I watched her remove her shoes. But what drew me in to her were her eyes and her smile. She told me that she was eleven.
Touching her with my eyes, she spilled into me and covered all my insides. Although I didn't realize it at that moment, I would soon learn that I would never feel alone again. She stayed with me in my mind as I journeyed through my life, not necessarily as a living personage but more as a feeling. Down in the woods up in that tree house I forged a relationship with her that would stand the test of time. The tree no longer stands. Development has overrun and obliterated the forest that grew just beyond the home of my youth.
Before leaving for college in 1964 I returned to the tree house and renewed the memories I had created there through the years. On a sunny Sunday afternoon, the 5th of September 1965, before leaving for my mission for the LDS Church, I went back to the tree house and spent some quiet time. It would be the last time I ever sat and dangled my feet off the edge of that platform and looked down on the world below. Four years to the day of that last visit high up in the tree house, I walked through the doors of the Salt Lake LDS Temple and was married to my wife Kaye. Although it has been forty-two years since that last day I climbed up into the tree house it continues to be a place I can go to in my mind and find peace in my heart and a renewed resolve to strive to love others unconditionally as the girl in my dreams loved me.
She was agile as a boy when she climbed up into the tree. This girl was the only female I had ever invited to my tree house. I didn't actually invite her; she just stepped into my mind as I slept. This girl, this dream girl appeared at the base of the tree and said, "I want to share your tree house." She didn't say, "I want to visit your tree house."
This was a girl. Could she even climb the rope? Pushing through all that mental fog I said, "Do you need some help getting up the tree?" Before she could respond I began climbing down to help her. She acted irritated that I would think she needed my help. Irritation wasn't a feeling I wanted there in my secluded world. "This girl better get a different attitude if she is going to share my tree house," I thought. From the moment she sat down on the elevated platform next to me she became a co-owner of all my building efforts. Every board hauled up the rope, every nail driven into the tree and every hour spent planning how I would build my hideaway gave way to a feeling that it had never felt complete until she sat there next to me.
Accepting her was like drinking a glass of refreshing cold milk. She wore all white: white shorts, white blouse, white canvas shoes. She was fair complexioned and had blondish brown hair. When she saw that I was barefoot she removed her shoes. The irritation she originally stirred in me from her independent attitude faded as I watched her remove her shoes. But what drew me in to her were her eyes and her smile. She told me that she was eleven.
Touching her with my eyes, she spilled into me and covered all my insides. Although I didn't realize it at that moment, I would soon learn that I would never feel alone again. She stayed with me in my mind as I journeyed through my life, not necessarily as a living personage but more as a feeling. Down in the woods up in that tree house I forged a relationship with her that would stand the test of time. The tree no longer stands. Development has overrun and obliterated the forest that grew just beyond the home of my youth.
Before leaving for college in 1964 I returned to the tree house and renewed the memories I had created there through the years. On a sunny Sunday afternoon, the 5th of September 1965, before leaving for my mission for the LDS Church, I went back to the tree house and spent some quiet time. It would be the last time I ever sat and dangled my feet off the edge of that platform and looked down on the world below. Four years to the day of that last visit high up in the tree house, I walked through the doors of the Salt Lake LDS Temple and was married to my wife Kaye. Although it has been forty-two years since that last day I climbed up into the tree house it continues to be a place I can go to in my mind and find peace in my heart and a renewed resolve to strive to love others unconditionally as the girl in my dreams loved me.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
The Whistle Stop
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
The day had been long and hot. I was looking forward to stopping by the train station to buy a bottle of root beer as I walked home from work. Sometimes the electricity would be off at the station and the drinks would not be cold. I was hoping that was not the case today. My wish was granted. The drink box was ice cold and so was the bottle of root beer. I walked outside so I could enjoy the little breeze that stirred around the building. I settled into a chair, leaned back against the wall and began to let my mind wander as I sipped my root beer. I was startled out of my daydreaming by the blast of a train whistle.
I remember so clearly, leaning back in my chair that day as the train slowly approached and came to a stop. I knew that the train would only be there briefly for passengers to board. I wondered why the train had stopped because there were no passengers scurrying around, saying last goodbyes and arranging luggage. No one ever got off the train in our little town except locals returning home so I was quite surprised when a beautiful young lady stepped off the train. I brought my chair down and leaned forward to get a getter look. She wore a white blouse that buttoned down the front and her blue jeans were tight against her hips. She wasn’t married. At least she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
From the moment I saw her I knew I would talk to her and find out what brought her to our little town. I approached her with no clue of what I would say. Before I had a chance to gather my thoughts she said, “Do you know where I could get a cold root beer?” I fumbled in my pocket for another nickel and said, “I’ll be right back.” She thanked me for the root beer and offered to reimburse me but I declined. In her kind way she explained that she was on a long journey and had just stepped off the train to stretch her legs. I asked if I could walk with her and she cautiously agreed. Her words seemed reluctant but her eyes said, “Yes.” We walked in silence for a while and then it was as if I had known her all my life. I told her about my family and what it was like growing up in a small town. I even shared the feelings that washed over me when I saw her step down off the train. She blushed slightly but said nothing. My openness about my feelings probably made her a little uncomfortable but it was like she was a part of me and could sense what was going on inside of me regardless of whether I told her or not. I talked, she listened. I knew as we walked together along the train tracks that I would never forget that day: that I would carry a memory of her with me for the rest of my life.
The whistle blew signaling that the train would soon depart the station. I savored the last few moments we spent together and then she casually stepped back on the train and was gone. I strained to see if she would step back out of the doorway, wave, and acknowledge me in some small way. She didn’t. As the train pulled out of the station I hoped that by some miracle she had stepped off the train on the other side and would be standing there smiling at me. She wasn’t. Some people come into our lives and are soon gone. Others touch us in a way that we are never ever the same again. I cherish those moments spent with her.
As time passes and the sound of the train whistle grows dim, I still remember the feelings of that day. As I lean back in my chair against the clapboard wall of the train station, I close my eyes and wait for the sound of the whistle that will bring the memories of her flooding back. And along with those memories is a lingering hope that she might pass my way again. She hasn’t. Not at the train station anyway, but at other times and in other places.
Bringing me back to my senses the station clerk said, “You owe me a deposit for that pop bottle the young lady took.” I reached into my pocket, withdrew a penny and handed it to the clerk. It was the best penny I ever spent. For sometime thereafter, I carried a penny in my back pocket. When I thought of the young woman who stepped off that train and came into my life I would reach into my pocket, touch the penny, and instantly feel closer to her. I no longer carry the penny but I still have it. I no longer think I will dream of her stepping off that train again but I have the memory and that is enough. She looked straight ahead as she stepped back on the train. I still wish that she had looked back if only for a moment. Remember, the best memories are measured not in days, not in hours but in brief moments, moments that change our lives.
The day had been long and hot. I was looking forward to stopping by the train station to buy a bottle of root beer as I walked home from work. Sometimes the electricity would be off at the station and the drinks would not be cold. I was hoping that was not the case today. My wish was granted. The drink box was ice cold and so was the bottle of root beer. I walked outside so I could enjoy the little breeze that stirred around the building. I settled into a chair, leaned back against the wall and began to let my mind wander as I sipped my root beer. I was startled out of my daydreaming by the blast of a train whistle.
I remember so clearly, leaning back in my chair that day as the train slowly approached and came to a stop. I knew that the train would only be there briefly for passengers to board. I wondered why the train had stopped because there were no passengers scurrying around, saying last goodbyes and arranging luggage. No one ever got off the train in our little town except locals returning home so I was quite surprised when a beautiful young lady stepped off the train. I brought my chair down and leaned forward to get a getter look. She wore a white blouse that buttoned down the front and her blue jeans were tight against her hips. She wasn’t married. At least she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
From the moment I saw her I knew I would talk to her and find out what brought her to our little town. I approached her with no clue of what I would say. Before I had a chance to gather my thoughts she said, “Do you know where I could get a cold root beer?” I fumbled in my pocket for another nickel and said, “I’ll be right back.” She thanked me for the root beer and offered to reimburse me but I declined. In her kind way she explained that she was on a long journey and had just stepped off the train to stretch her legs. I asked if I could walk with her and she cautiously agreed. Her words seemed reluctant but her eyes said, “Yes.” We walked in silence for a while and then it was as if I had known her all my life. I told her about my family and what it was like growing up in a small town. I even shared the feelings that washed over me when I saw her step down off the train. She blushed slightly but said nothing. My openness about my feelings probably made her a little uncomfortable but it was like she was a part of me and could sense what was going on inside of me regardless of whether I told her or not. I talked, she listened. I knew as we walked together along the train tracks that I would never forget that day: that I would carry a memory of her with me for the rest of my life.
The whistle blew signaling that the train would soon depart the station. I savored the last few moments we spent together and then she casually stepped back on the train and was gone. I strained to see if she would step back out of the doorway, wave, and acknowledge me in some small way. She didn’t. As the train pulled out of the station I hoped that by some miracle she had stepped off the train on the other side and would be standing there smiling at me. She wasn’t. Some people come into our lives and are soon gone. Others touch us in a way that we are never ever the same again. I cherish those moments spent with her.
As time passes and the sound of the train whistle grows dim, I still remember the feelings of that day. As I lean back in my chair against the clapboard wall of the train station, I close my eyes and wait for the sound of the whistle that will bring the memories of her flooding back. And along with those memories is a lingering hope that she might pass my way again. She hasn’t. Not at the train station anyway, but at other times and in other places.
Bringing me back to my senses the station clerk said, “You owe me a deposit for that pop bottle the young lady took.” I reached into my pocket, withdrew a penny and handed it to the clerk. It was the best penny I ever spent. For sometime thereafter, I carried a penny in my back pocket. When I thought of the young woman who stepped off that train and came into my life I would reach into my pocket, touch the penny, and instantly feel closer to her. I no longer carry the penny but I still have it. I no longer think I will dream of her stepping off that train again but I have the memory and that is enough. She looked straight ahead as she stepped back on the train. I still wish that she had looked back if only for a moment. Remember, the best memories are measured not in days, not in hours but in brief moments, moments that change our lives.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Where Dad Thrived
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Dad had gone home and the ranch was left unattended through the winter. I tried to get up there each week to check on the buildings and give an appearance of activity taking place. It was Sunday afternoon and as I thought about the busy schedule of the upcoming week, I decided that I would slip up to the ranch, spend the night and come home in the morning.
I normally flew a small plane to the ranch but there was a light snow falling so I decided to drive. I was looking forward to the solitude of the drive assuming the roads didn't become snow-packed and slick. Once I left the interstate the little towns I passed appeared deserted. It was a peaceful drive. I arrived at the gate to the ranch just as it was getting dark. I had not bothered to change my shoes and the fresh snow wetted my socks as I stepped from the cab of the truck. That wasn't very smart, I thought. Oh well, I had my boots in the truck and I could change when I got to the house.
As I opened the gate that straddled the cattle guard at the entrance to the ranch I thought about dad and how much he loved this place. I wished he was here tonight. I would enjoy sitting by a warm fire and visiting with him and listening to the stories he had to tell about his adventures around the place. But he had gone south before the winter winds hit Wyoming. With snowdrifts four feet deep around the cabins I didn't blame him. The fact that dad wasn't here didn't stop the memories from flowing through me like clear water on a sunlit stream.
When dad first came to the ranch he said, "Mack, I'll take care of this place but I won't take any part in shooting the beavers that continue to dam up the culverts on the roads around the lake. I agreed that dad could deal peacefully with the beavers and any shooting that needed to be done, I would do. One day dad called and explained that he had spent five hours up to his waist in fifty degree water digging out a culvert plugged by a beaver. The next day dad called and told me that the beaver had plugged that same culvert again. He spent several hours in fifty degree water dragging out the limbs that chocked the culvert. The third day dad called and said, "Mack, I shot a beaver last night."
Skunks were also a serious problem for the ranch. They were nesting under one of the cabins and dad decided that he should trap them and remove the problem. The first skunk to end up in the trap created a new dilemma. How would dad get the skunk out of the trap without getting sprayed? Dad decided to shoot the skunk. He found out that shooting a skunk doesn't stop him from spraying. Not to be deterred, dad tied a twenty foot rope to the trap so the next skunk he caught, dad drug skunk, trap and all down to the lake and eased him into the water. I guess a skunk can't do two things at once: spray and drown.
The next group of creatures that came under the bead of dad's rifle was the raccoons. He would bate them with watermelon rinds and send them to the raccoon Promise Land with that rifle. Dad hadn't changed his tender feelings about the animals. He didn't enjoy taking their lives. But he loved the ranch and realized that sometimes difficult things have to be done to protect it. If a roof begins to leak and no one repairs it, nature will soon reclaim the entire cabin. Just as a nest of mice will destroy a sack of grain, beavers, skunks and raccoons will infest and wreak havoc on a ranch.
Dad taught me to respect life. He taught me that if I was going to take a life, I should be prepared to use that life for what it was created for. Growing up, dad caught me shooting blue jays and said that I would have the opportunity to pluck and eat the next blue jay I killed. I never shot another blue jay or any other animal that I didn't eat. At least that is how it was until I came to the ranch and grew weary of trying to persuade the pesky creatures of Wyoming to go be a nuisance somewhere else. Just like dad, I didn't enjoy taking the life of the raccoons, the beavers, and the skunks. But I had grown to love the ranch and the special times dad and I spent together there during the previous summer.
These memories of dad washed across my mind during the few moments it took to open the gate that straddled the cattle guard at the entrance of the ranch. I felt lonely for dad's company. I was happy to be here in a place that is close to his heart even if he wasn't here now. Stepping back across the cattle guard, I slipped and fell. Extending my arms to catch my fall, my right arm slipped through the rails of the cattle guard and my forward motion caused a dislocation at my shoulder socket. I became dizzy with pain as I struggled to my feet. My arm hung limp and didn't obey the commands from my brain. I knew I was in trouble. It was almost dark and the snow was now coming down hard. I was a long way from help and I knew once my damaged shoulder began to swell I would not be able to get my arm back into the shoulder socket.
Just moments earlier all I needed to be content was a wealth of good memories swirling around in my head. But all the memories in the world wouldn't help relocate my shoulder. Where was dad when I needed him? I stumbled back to the truck and slid inside the warm cab to consider my options. The nearest town where medical help would be available was at least an hour's drive away but it was night and snowing hard. I decided that I needed to get my arm back into the shoulder socket before I did anything else.
Although my arm was almost useless I could still grip with my hand. I stepped out of the truck, closed the door and lifted my damaged arm with my other hand so I could grasp hold of the door handle of the truck. If I could hold on tight enough and jerk my body forward maybe the arm would slip back into place. Taking a deep breath and gripping the door handle, I jerked my body forward in hopes of forcing the shoulder joint back together. I crumpled to my knees in pain. Kneeling in the snow with my head against the side of the truck, I prayed out loud for help. Help didn't come. I struggled to my feet, took hold of the door handle once more and made a harder lunge to force my arm and shoulder back together. This time I cried out in pain as I sagged to my knees and slid down on my side until I lay in the snow cradling my injured arm.
I could feel my clothes becoming wet from the snow but I wasn't cold. Lying in the snow, I pleaded for help. There was no traffic on the road and I knew that what help I received would have to come from my own efforts. Once more I stood, took hold of the door handle and took a deep breath. I turned sideways, raised my left foot in the air and stepped forward like I was going to throw a rock as far as I could. As I gripped the door handle I let the full weight of my body carry me forward and this time I felt my arm pop back into place. Instantly the pain became less intense. I climbed back into the truck, reached over with my left hand and slipped the truck into reverse. As I backed out of the driveway to go to the hospital I noticed the open gate. I didn't want to leave the ranch unsecured nor did I want to walk across that slippery cattle guard again. I drove through the gate and up to the ranch house. Once inside, I took two strong painkillers that I carried in my bag just for occasions such as this. I stripped a spread off one of the beds and wrapped it around my chest and shoulder as tight as I could with my good arm.
I pulled the couch in the family room over by the fireplace and made a hot fire to warm my spirit. Lying on the couch I thought of all my blessings; of life, of family, of close friends, of the good times dad and I had here at the ranch. I would worry about my arm tomorrow when the sun would be bright upon the newly fallen snow and a fresh look at the world around me would make my problems a minor inconvenience. I slipped into the world of my dreams.
I recorded the dream I had that night. I still hold it close to my heart. Some dreams you share and some you tuck away. This dream I tucked away. I tucked the written words away but the dream is as alive in me today as when it filled my sleep filled mind. That night, amid the thoughts of dad at the ranch, the pain in my shoulder and the crackling fire that danced in my eyes and warmed my spirit, I made another memory even if it was only a dream. My grandpa told me to chase my dreams. He probably meant a different kind of dream. My grandpa is dead now but the dream lives on. I am thankful for all the men in my life who have helped shape and lift me when I was reaching out but couldn't quite touch my dream.
Dad and I still talk often and share fond memories of when I visited him at the ranch. I still dream of that ranch . . . where dad thrived.
Dad had gone home and the ranch was left unattended through the winter. I tried to get up there each week to check on the buildings and give an appearance of activity taking place. It was Sunday afternoon and as I thought about the busy schedule of the upcoming week, I decided that I would slip up to the ranch, spend the night and come home in the morning.
I normally flew a small plane to the ranch but there was a light snow falling so I decided to drive. I was looking forward to the solitude of the drive assuming the roads didn't become snow-packed and slick. Once I left the interstate the little towns I passed appeared deserted. It was a peaceful drive. I arrived at the gate to the ranch just as it was getting dark. I had not bothered to change my shoes and the fresh snow wetted my socks as I stepped from the cab of the truck. That wasn't very smart, I thought. Oh well, I had my boots in the truck and I could change when I got to the house.
As I opened the gate that straddled the cattle guard at the entrance to the ranch I thought about dad and how much he loved this place. I wished he was here tonight. I would enjoy sitting by a warm fire and visiting with him and listening to the stories he had to tell about his adventures around the place. But he had gone south before the winter winds hit Wyoming. With snowdrifts four feet deep around the cabins I didn't blame him. The fact that dad wasn't here didn't stop the memories from flowing through me like clear water on a sunlit stream.
When dad first came to the ranch he said, "Mack, I'll take care of this place but I won't take any part in shooting the beavers that continue to dam up the culverts on the roads around the lake. I agreed that dad could deal peacefully with the beavers and any shooting that needed to be done, I would do. One day dad called and explained that he had spent five hours up to his waist in fifty degree water digging out a culvert plugged by a beaver. The next day dad called and told me that the beaver had plugged that same culvert again. He spent several hours in fifty degree water dragging out the limbs that chocked the culvert. The third day dad called and said, "Mack, I shot a beaver last night."
Skunks were also a serious problem for the ranch. They were nesting under one of the cabins and dad decided that he should trap them and remove the problem. The first skunk to end up in the trap created a new dilemma. How would dad get the skunk out of the trap without getting sprayed? Dad decided to shoot the skunk. He found out that shooting a skunk doesn't stop him from spraying. Not to be deterred, dad tied a twenty foot rope to the trap so the next skunk he caught, dad drug skunk, trap and all down to the lake and eased him into the water. I guess a skunk can't do two things at once: spray and drown.
The next group of creatures that came under the bead of dad's rifle was the raccoons. He would bate them with watermelon rinds and send them to the raccoon Promise Land with that rifle. Dad hadn't changed his tender feelings about the animals. He didn't enjoy taking their lives. But he loved the ranch and realized that sometimes difficult things have to be done to protect it. If a roof begins to leak and no one repairs it, nature will soon reclaim the entire cabin. Just as a nest of mice will destroy a sack of grain, beavers, skunks and raccoons will infest and wreak havoc on a ranch.
Dad taught me to respect life. He taught me that if I was going to take a life, I should be prepared to use that life for what it was created for. Growing up, dad caught me shooting blue jays and said that I would have the opportunity to pluck and eat the next blue jay I killed. I never shot another blue jay or any other animal that I didn't eat. At least that is how it was until I came to the ranch and grew weary of trying to persuade the pesky creatures of Wyoming to go be a nuisance somewhere else. Just like dad, I didn't enjoy taking the life of the raccoons, the beavers, and the skunks. But I had grown to love the ranch and the special times dad and I spent together there during the previous summer.
These memories of dad washed across my mind during the few moments it took to open the gate that straddled the cattle guard at the entrance of the ranch. I felt lonely for dad's company. I was happy to be here in a place that is close to his heart even if he wasn't here now. Stepping back across the cattle guard, I slipped and fell. Extending my arms to catch my fall, my right arm slipped through the rails of the cattle guard and my forward motion caused a dislocation at my shoulder socket. I became dizzy with pain as I struggled to my feet. My arm hung limp and didn't obey the commands from my brain. I knew I was in trouble. It was almost dark and the snow was now coming down hard. I was a long way from help and I knew once my damaged shoulder began to swell I would not be able to get my arm back into the shoulder socket.
Just moments earlier all I needed to be content was a wealth of good memories swirling around in my head. But all the memories in the world wouldn't help relocate my shoulder. Where was dad when I needed him? I stumbled back to the truck and slid inside the warm cab to consider my options. The nearest town where medical help would be available was at least an hour's drive away but it was night and snowing hard. I decided that I needed to get my arm back into the shoulder socket before I did anything else.
Although my arm was almost useless I could still grip with my hand. I stepped out of the truck, closed the door and lifted my damaged arm with my other hand so I could grasp hold of the door handle of the truck. If I could hold on tight enough and jerk my body forward maybe the arm would slip back into place. Taking a deep breath and gripping the door handle, I jerked my body forward in hopes of forcing the shoulder joint back together. I crumpled to my knees in pain. Kneeling in the snow with my head against the side of the truck, I prayed out loud for help. Help didn't come. I struggled to my feet, took hold of the door handle once more and made a harder lunge to force my arm and shoulder back together. This time I cried out in pain as I sagged to my knees and slid down on my side until I lay in the snow cradling my injured arm.
I could feel my clothes becoming wet from the snow but I wasn't cold. Lying in the snow, I pleaded for help. There was no traffic on the road and I knew that what help I received would have to come from my own efforts. Once more I stood, took hold of the door handle and took a deep breath. I turned sideways, raised my left foot in the air and stepped forward like I was going to throw a rock as far as I could. As I gripped the door handle I let the full weight of my body carry me forward and this time I felt my arm pop back into place. Instantly the pain became less intense. I climbed back into the truck, reached over with my left hand and slipped the truck into reverse. As I backed out of the driveway to go to the hospital I noticed the open gate. I didn't want to leave the ranch unsecured nor did I want to walk across that slippery cattle guard again. I drove through the gate and up to the ranch house. Once inside, I took two strong painkillers that I carried in my bag just for occasions such as this. I stripped a spread off one of the beds and wrapped it around my chest and shoulder as tight as I could with my good arm.
I pulled the couch in the family room over by the fireplace and made a hot fire to warm my spirit. Lying on the couch I thought of all my blessings; of life, of family, of close friends, of the good times dad and I had here at the ranch. I would worry about my arm tomorrow when the sun would be bright upon the newly fallen snow and a fresh look at the world around me would make my problems a minor inconvenience. I slipped into the world of my dreams.
I recorded the dream I had that night. I still hold it close to my heart. Some dreams you share and some you tuck away. This dream I tucked away. I tucked the written words away but the dream is as alive in me today as when it filled my sleep filled mind. That night, amid the thoughts of dad at the ranch, the pain in my shoulder and the crackling fire that danced in my eyes and warmed my spirit, I made another memory even if it was only a dream. My grandpa told me to chase my dreams. He probably meant a different kind of dream. My grandpa is dead now but the dream lives on. I am thankful for all the men in my life who have helped shape and lift me when I was reaching out but couldn't quite touch my dream.
Dad and I still talk often and share fond memories of when I visited him at the ranch. I still dream of that ranch . . . where dad thrived.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
The Cabin
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Forward: Last week I was invited to spend some time at my sister-in-law, Diane's cabin. As I turned the corner and the cabin came into view, it was as though I had been there before in a dream. My dream took place three years ago and I recorded it in what I call my other journal. I'm like a packrat; I bury things that I'm not quite ready to get rid of but have no plans of sharing with others. I wanted to remember the details of that dream so I flew out to Fremont Island and dug up the plastic container that housed those pages of my experiences and dreams.
My son-in-law, Wade, told me that chronically depressed people are people who live in the past and anxiety prone people are those who constantly worry and fret over the future. He didn't have a definition for people who are chronic dreamers. Whether by curse or by blessing, I am of that category. I tell my family that I have a special cream I call my dream cream that I rub on my face and hands each night before falling asleep.
Prologue: It was the winter of our lives. I say winter because of the grey in our hair. Well, mostly the grey in my hair. How we came to live in this high mountain cabin or where it is located is a mystery to me. But a dream doesn't cry out for details of the past. You know how dreams are . . .
The Dream: Our cabin is so remote that our mail is dropped in by plane once every two weeks. But that is okay. We have no utility bills to pay because we have no utilities. Our mail consists of letters from our children and an occasional catalogue informing us of all that we are missing in the latest fashions. Our provisions are meager but our garden supplemented by wild game keeps us a little larger around the middle than is needful.
We work hard but we work at what brings us pleasure. When the day is done we also rest hard. Our pastime is reading good books; taking long walks and sitting on the cabin porch watching the breeze disturb the aspen leaves of the trees that surround our little home.
After supper we sit on the porch and talk about what we did today although we did it together. We discuss the book we took turns reading out loud to one another. As we crawl between the sheets that sun-dried on the clothesline she draws her knee up over me and rests her arm on my chest. I fall asleep listening to her little puffs of restful breathing.
At breakfast we talk about going to town. Town is a two day horseback ride. We go four or five times a year and spend a week in a local motel as we gather supplies, call the children who catch us up on their busy lives and always remind us of how crazy we are. I suppose we are crazy. By the end of the week we are lonesome for home and the beauties of nature that can only be appreciated when you sit still long enough to watch an ant crawl across the porch or a robin build a nest one twig at a time.
The hurry has been taken out of this phase of our lives. We move in a simple, natural way just like the garden by our cabin that only responds to the laws of nature. Just try to force a seed to spout and you'll soon discover how little power you really have. We are powerless to turn back the clock of time or see clearly what the future holds. With no one to keep the roof repaired our little cabin in the mountains will one day be gone just as each of us will be gone. But today we still repair the roof and plant the garden. We have agreed that should I die first, she will not try to stay here alone. Should she die first, I know I will not stay here alone. It wouldn't be the same without her. The snow wouldn't be as white in winter. The trees wouldn't be as green in spring. And the nights would be too lonely without her arm across my chest and the sound of her peaceful breathing.
We are told that the pine beetles are infesting and killing the trees but there will still be trees when we are gone. We see more contrails from jet aircraft crossing the blue sky carrying busy travelers to their destinations but the wind always blows them away. Occasionally we hear the report of a distant rifle from a big game hunt. But it is a rare occasion in deed for us to have an unexpected dinner guest. If someone finds us, they are most likely lost. She feeds them, makes them comfortable for the night and after a hearty breakfast, we send them on their way. They are usually in a hurry to get back to their real lives. They will miss the robin as she builds her nest for her future family. They will miss the golden eagle that soars above the ridge that overlooks our cabin each morning. They may miss these things but they won't long for them. They will be content to lean back in a swivel chair and for a brief moment look up at a painting of a majestic scene framed and hanging on an office wall.
How fortunate they are to be where they want to be, doing what they want to do. How blessed I feel to be here where the stars are bright and the sky is blue; where she and I communicate more with a momentary glance than most say with a mouthful of words.
Forward: Last week I was invited to spend some time at my sister-in-law, Diane's cabin. As I turned the corner and the cabin came into view, it was as though I had been there before in a dream. My dream took place three years ago and I recorded it in what I call my other journal. I'm like a packrat; I bury things that I'm not quite ready to get rid of but have no plans of sharing with others. I wanted to remember the details of that dream so I flew out to Fremont Island and dug up the plastic container that housed those pages of my experiences and dreams.
My son-in-law, Wade, told me that chronically depressed people are people who live in the past and anxiety prone people are those who constantly worry and fret over the future. He didn't have a definition for people who are chronic dreamers. Whether by curse or by blessing, I am of that category. I tell my family that I have a special cream I call my dream cream that I rub on my face and hands each night before falling asleep.
Prologue: It was the winter of our lives. I say winter because of the grey in our hair. Well, mostly the grey in my hair. How we came to live in this high mountain cabin or where it is located is a mystery to me. But a dream doesn't cry out for details of the past. You know how dreams are . . .
The Dream: Our cabin is so remote that our mail is dropped in by plane once every two weeks. But that is okay. We have no utility bills to pay because we have no utilities. Our mail consists of letters from our children and an occasional catalogue informing us of all that we are missing in the latest fashions. Our provisions are meager but our garden supplemented by wild game keeps us a little larger around the middle than is needful.
We work hard but we work at what brings us pleasure. When the day is done we also rest hard. Our pastime is reading good books; taking long walks and sitting on the cabin porch watching the breeze disturb the aspen leaves of the trees that surround our little home.
After supper we sit on the porch and talk about what we did today although we did it together. We discuss the book we took turns reading out loud to one another. As we crawl between the sheets that sun-dried on the clothesline she draws her knee up over me and rests her arm on my chest. I fall asleep listening to her little puffs of restful breathing.
At breakfast we talk about going to town. Town is a two day horseback ride. We go four or five times a year and spend a week in a local motel as we gather supplies, call the children who catch us up on their busy lives and always remind us of how crazy we are. I suppose we are crazy. By the end of the week we are lonesome for home and the beauties of nature that can only be appreciated when you sit still long enough to watch an ant crawl across the porch or a robin build a nest one twig at a time.
The hurry has been taken out of this phase of our lives. We move in a simple, natural way just like the garden by our cabin that only responds to the laws of nature. Just try to force a seed to spout and you'll soon discover how little power you really have. We are powerless to turn back the clock of time or see clearly what the future holds. With no one to keep the roof repaired our little cabin in the mountains will one day be gone just as each of us will be gone. But today we still repair the roof and plant the garden. We have agreed that should I die first, she will not try to stay here alone. Should she die first, I know I will not stay here alone. It wouldn't be the same without her. The snow wouldn't be as white in winter. The trees wouldn't be as green in spring. And the nights would be too lonely without her arm across my chest and the sound of her peaceful breathing.
We are told that the pine beetles are infesting and killing the trees but there will still be trees when we are gone. We see more contrails from jet aircraft crossing the blue sky carrying busy travelers to their destinations but the wind always blows them away. Occasionally we hear the report of a distant rifle from a big game hunt. But it is a rare occasion in deed for us to have an unexpected dinner guest. If someone finds us, they are most likely lost. She feeds them, makes them comfortable for the night and after a hearty breakfast, we send them on their way. They are usually in a hurry to get back to their real lives. They will miss the robin as she builds her nest for her future family. They will miss the golden eagle that soars above the ridge that overlooks our cabin each morning. They may miss these things but they won't long for them. They will be content to lean back in a swivel chair and for a brief moment look up at a painting of a majestic scene framed and hanging on an office wall.
How fortunate they are to be where they want to be, doing what they want to do. How blessed I feel to be here where the stars are bright and the sky is blue; where she and I communicate more with a momentary glance than most say with a mouthful of words.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Too Weak to Fish
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Prologue to a Dream: On April 26th of this year I fell asleep reading a book about Mother Teresa called “The Simple Path.” A particular quote from the book caught my attention. At one time Mother Teresa was chastised for providing too much help to the poor. When she was reminded of the phrase, feed a man a fish and you have fed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you have fed him for a life time, she simply stated, “The people we feed are too weak to fish.” I fell asleep with her comment on my mind . . .
“I wish we had two fishing poles?” she complained. “I’m glad we have two hooks to put on our fishing line. It’s almost the same as having two poles,” I said. “Why can’t we have two poles?” she asked. “Because we have no money to buy another pole,” I answered. “I get tired of just sitting here watching you fish,” she said. “Here, you take the pole and fish for a while and I will just sit and watch you.” “Don’t you ever get tired of looking at me?” she asked. “Not yet,” I said. “What does that mean?” she asked. “It means, not yet.” “You’re going to drive me crazy with that kind of answer.” “I don’t want to drive you crazy but if you go crazy, I will still love you.”
“I wish we had a boat. If we had a boat we could paddle over to those reeds were the big fish hide,” she said. “I’m glad that old fisherman took pity on us and gave us this fishing pole. We have been able to catch enough fish for our needs each day. We are blessed,” I said. “Well, I don’t feel blessed,” came her reply. I just smiled. I knew she was just giving me a hard time. I knew her heart.
“We already have three fish, let’s go swimming,” she said. “It’s only spring and the water will be too cold; besides, we didn’t bring anything to swim in,” I said. “I don’t need anything if you don’t,” she teased. “We are not going swimming,” I said with clinched teeth to slam the door on the subject. “Why do you always have to get your way?” she whined. I didn’t answer her. But I wondered if she felt protected and safe with me or just bullied. I pulled the wire basket from the edge of the water that contained our catch of three fish. She would cook two fish for our dinner and we would share the third for tomorrow’s breakfast before we came back down to the river to fish again. I knew we couldn’t live on fish alone but fish was certainly better than nothing. Fish would have to do until we figured out something to go with it.
She was a good cook but I would have loved her even if she couldn’t cook. Thinking of her cooking, my mind went back to the time before our world turned upside down, money became worthless and the economy was in shambles. When I look at our life now I realize how simple it was before the change. Although it was simple, we were happy then and we are happy now.
After returning from the river we sat in front of our little home and she cleaned the fish while I straightened out the tangled fishing line and sharpened the two hooks against a smooth river stone. I thought of the nights we had gone to bed hungry before the old fisherman came by our home on his way to the river. She took a drink of water out to him and because it was getting late she invited him to have dinner with us. That’s how she was; it didn’t matter that all we had to eat was potatoes and rice. The old fisherman slept on our couch that night and before he left the next morning, he gave us one of his fishing poles. I protested the gift but he insisted, saying that he only carried two poles in case one broke. After he left I saw that he had tied two hooks about six feet apart to the fishing line. It was the next best thing to having two poles. She and I could now catch food at the river.
I rarely think of my life before I met her. And I didn’t want to think about life without her. She had been married before and her husband had died in a fiery accident. She seldom talked about him and when I asked questions, her answers were always short and the message she sent to me was I don’t want to talk about it. So we didn’t talk about him. The way she looked at me and touched me caused any shred of jealously about her former life to flee from my mind like a mouse being chased by a famished cat.
That’s how it was between us that day as we sat in front of our little home and cleaned fish, straightened out fishing lines and sharpened the two hooks for tomorrow. Just before it was time to go in for the evening a man came walking down the road. She reached over and touched my arm but I had already spotted him. He had a severe limp and was struggling to maintain his balance as he walked. She was sitting by my side but just a little back of me so I couldn’t see her expression but I knew what she was going to say before she said it, “Looks like that man could use some help. You suppose he likes fish?” I knew that there would be three fish cooked tonight and a guest would be spending the night on our couch with as much comfort as she could provide.
As the lame man grew close she made a small gasping sound. I turned to look at her but her expression caused me to return my attention to the man coming toward us. That was the first I noticed that he didn’t have any lips and his face and head were covered with scars and skin grafts. There were tiny sprigs of hair scattered here and there on his bald head like patches of weeds in an unkempt garden. He had no ears and one eye lid only partially closed when he blinked. My first thought was that this man needed far more help than just a fish to eat and a comfortable couch to spend a night on. But how could we help, we could barely feed ourselves?
“It’s so good to be home,” he said. Because he had no lips his words came out in a hissing sound but there was no question what he had said. She gasped again but didn’t say a word. He walked past us and started toward the front door and said once again, “It’s so good to be home.” I didn’t know what to say but I knew who he was. He was horribly burned. He was home. This had been their home before his accident. If he was alive then we weren’t legally married. I sat there in a stupor not knowing what to say or do. As he struggled to the door, a part of me wanted to jump up and help him but the other part felt frozen to my chair, not knowing what to do. While my mind was in turmoil my body went into motion and I ran to help him inside.
As he sat down on the edge of the bed I could tell that his feet were hurting so I asked if he would like for me to remove his shoes. He nodded, “Yes.” I knelt down before him and unlaced them. When I pulled off his shoes, the skin on his feet sloughed away also. The sight of his damaged feet caused me to throw up but I held it in my mouth and swallowed it back down. He told me not to worry; his body was rejecting the skin grafts on his feet. I carefully slid my arms under he legs and eased them down on the bed so he could rest.
All this time she stood behind me, watching every thing that took place. It was as though she was unable to speak, needing to assess her life, her future. That’s when it occurred to me that it wasn’t just my life that had changed. She would care for this man for as long as he lived, no matter what. I knew her. She couldn’t squash a bug on the floor but would carry it outside and let it go. She would care for her husband as long as he drew breath in the same tender way she had cared for me.
I couldn’t look at her. I knew if I looked at her I would break down and that wasn’t what she needed right now. I turned to leave and the first words she uttered to me since her husband had come back into her life were, “Will you be taking the fishing pole?” “No, it is as much yours as it is mine. You said this afternoon that you wanted your own pole. Be careful what you wish for.” “You should at least take one of the fishing hooks,” she said. “You keep them both; your husband is too weak to fish. Besides, I still have the rifle.” “But you don’t have any bullets,” she said. It didn’t matter. There was a time when she and I didn’t have a fishing pole and we were happy. There was a time when she invited a stranger to have a meager supper of potatoes and rice and spend the night. And we were happy.
She followed me across the room and as I opened the door to leave, she spoke in a whisper so as not to disturb her resting husband and said, “What do you wish?” Our eyes met as I turned to face her. It was the first time we had looked at each other since her husband had walked back into our lives. “You know the old saying,” I said. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” “You always say that. I hate that saying,” she said. I knew she wanted me to say that I wished he had died in the fire. I had never lied to her and I wouldn’t start now. I reached up and touched her cheek as I said, “What I wish is that we had swam in the river today when you only had eyes for me.” I turned, stepped through the doorway and didn’t look back. Walking down the crumbling asphalt road I avoided the cracks and repeated the phrase, “Step on a crack, break your back, step on a crack, break your back.” Dodging the cracks in the asphalt and saying those words helped me shut out the other feelings trying to peal me like an onion and expose my pain. I didn’t look back. I was afraid she wouldn’t be standing in the doorway with tear filled eyes watching me walk away.
Prologue to a Dream: On April 26th of this year I fell asleep reading a book about Mother Teresa called “The Simple Path.” A particular quote from the book caught my attention. At one time Mother Teresa was chastised for providing too much help to the poor. When she was reminded of the phrase, feed a man a fish and you have fed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you have fed him for a life time, she simply stated, “The people we feed are too weak to fish.” I fell asleep with her comment on my mind . . .
“I wish we had two fishing poles?” she complained. “I’m glad we have two hooks to put on our fishing line. It’s almost the same as having two poles,” I said. “Why can’t we have two poles?” she asked. “Because we have no money to buy another pole,” I answered. “I get tired of just sitting here watching you fish,” she said. “Here, you take the pole and fish for a while and I will just sit and watch you.” “Don’t you ever get tired of looking at me?” she asked. “Not yet,” I said. “What does that mean?” she asked. “It means, not yet.” “You’re going to drive me crazy with that kind of answer.” “I don’t want to drive you crazy but if you go crazy, I will still love you.”
“I wish we had a boat. If we had a boat we could paddle over to those reeds were the big fish hide,” she said. “I’m glad that old fisherman took pity on us and gave us this fishing pole. We have been able to catch enough fish for our needs each day. We are blessed,” I said. “Well, I don’t feel blessed,” came her reply. I just smiled. I knew she was just giving me a hard time. I knew her heart.
“We already have three fish, let’s go swimming,” she said. “It’s only spring and the water will be too cold; besides, we didn’t bring anything to swim in,” I said. “I don’t need anything if you don’t,” she teased. “We are not going swimming,” I said with clinched teeth to slam the door on the subject. “Why do you always have to get your way?” she whined. I didn’t answer her. But I wondered if she felt protected and safe with me or just bullied. I pulled the wire basket from the edge of the water that contained our catch of three fish. She would cook two fish for our dinner and we would share the third for tomorrow’s breakfast before we came back down to the river to fish again. I knew we couldn’t live on fish alone but fish was certainly better than nothing. Fish would have to do until we figured out something to go with it.
She was a good cook but I would have loved her even if she couldn’t cook. Thinking of her cooking, my mind went back to the time before our world turned upside down, money became worthless and the economy was in shambles. When I look at our life now I realize how simple it was before the change. Although it was simple, we were happy then and we are happy now.
After returning from the river we sat in front of our little home and she cleaned the fish while I straightened out the tangled fishing line and sharpened the two hooks against a smooth river stone. I thought of the nights we had gone to bed hungry before the old fisherman came by our home on his way to the river. She took a drink of water out to him and because it was getting late she invited him to have dinner with us. That’s how she was; it didn’t matter that all we had to eat was potatoes and rice. The old fisherman slept on our couch that night and before he left the next morning, he gave us one of his fishing poles. I protested the gift but he insisted, saying that he only carried two poles in case one broke. After he left I saw that he had tied two hooks about six feet apart to the fishing line. It was the next best thing to having two poles. She and I could now catch food at the river.
I rarely think of my life before I met her. And I didn’t want to think about life without her. She had been married before and her husband had died in a fiery accident. She seldom talked about him and when I asked questions, her answers were always short and the message she sent to me was I don’t want to talk about it. So we didn’t talk about him. The way she looked at me and touched me caused any shred of jealously about her former life to flee from my mind like a mouse being chased by a famished cat.
That’s how it was between us that day as we sat in front of our little home and cleaned fish, straightened out fishing lines and sharpened the two hooks for tomorrow. Just before it was time to go in for the evening a man came walking down the road. She reached over and touched my arm but I had already spotted him. He had a severe limp and was struggling to maintain his balance as he walked. She was sitting by my side but just a little back of me so I couldn’t see her expression but I knew what she was going to say before she said it, “Looks like that man could use some help. You suppose he likes fish?” I knew that there would be three fish cooked tonight and a guest would be spending the night on our couch with as much comfort as she could provide.
As the lame man grew close she made a small gasping sound. I turned to look at her but her expression caused me to return my attention to the man coming toward us. That was the first I noticed that he didn’t have any lips and his face and head were covered with scars and skin grafts. There were tiny sprigs of hair scattered here and there on his bald head like patches of weeds in an unkempt garden. He had no ears and one eye lid only partially closed when he blinked. My first thought was that this man needed far more help than just a fish to eat and a comfortable couch to spend a night on. But how could we help, we could barely feed ourselves?
“It’s so good to be home,” he said. Because he had no lips his words came out in a hissing sound but there was no question what he had said. She gasped again but didn’t say a word. He walked past us and started toward the front door and said once again, “It’s so good to be home.” I didn’t know what to say but I knew who he was. He was horribly burned. He was home. This had been their home before his accident. If he was alive then we weren’t legally married. I sat there in a stupor not knowing what to say or do. As he struggled to the door, a part of me wanted to jump up and help him but the other part felt frozen to my chair, not knowing what to do. While my mind was in turmoil my body went into motion and I ran to help him inside.
As he sat down on the edge of the bed I could tell that his feet were hurting so I asked if he would like for me to remove his shoes. He nodded, “Yes.” I knelt down before him and unlaced them. When I pulled off his shoes, the skin on his feet sloughed away also. The sight of his damaged feet caused me to throw up but I held it in my mouth and swallowed it back down. He told me not to worry; his body was rejecting the skin grafts on his feet. I carefully slid my arms under he legs and eased them down on the bed so he could rest.
All this time she stood behind me, watching every thing that took place. It was as though she was unable to speak, needing to assess her life, her future. That’s when it occurred to me that it wasn’t just my life that had changed. She would care for this man for as long as he lived, no matter what. I knew her. She couldn’t squash a bug on the floor but would carry it outside and let it go. She would care for her husband as long as he drew breath in the same tender way she had cared for me.
I couldn’t look at her. I knew if I looked at her I would break down and that wasn’t what she needed right now. I turned to leave and the first words she uttered to me since her husband had come back into her life were, “Will you be taking the fishing pole?” “No, it is as much yours as it is mine. You said this afternoon that you wanted your own pole. Be careful what you wish for.” “You should at least take one of the fishing hooks,” she said. “You keep them both; your husband is too weak to fish. Besides, I still have the rifle.” “But you don’t have any bullets,” she said. It didn’t matter. There was a time when she and I didn’t have a fishing pole and we were happy. There was a time when she invited a stranger to have a meager supper of potatoes and rice and spend the night. And we were happy.
She followed me across the room and as I opened the door to leave, she spoke in a whisper so as not to disturb her resting husband and said, “What do you wish?” Our eyes met as I turned to face her. It was the first time we had looked at each other since her husband had walked back into our lives. “You know the old saying,” I said. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” “You always say that. I hate that saying,” she said. I knew she wanted me to say that I wished he had died in the fire. I had never lied to her and I wouldn’t start now. I reached up and touched her cheek as I said, “What I wish is that we had swam in the river today when you only had eyes for me.” I turned, stepped through the doorway and didn’t look back. Walking down the crumbling asphalt road I avoided the cracks and repeated the phrase, “Step on a crack, break your back, step on a crack, break your back.” Dodging the cracks in the asphalt and saying those words helped me shut out the other feelings trying to peal me like an onion and expose my pain. I didn’t look back. I was afraid she wouldn’t be standing in the doorway with tear filled eyes watching me walk away.
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