There Is A Friend That …

What does a friend “look like” to me?  The answer is straightforward and uncomplicated.  I don’t want to have to scratch around in the background looking for my friends.  Life is complex enough without taking on complicated personalities who are like hothouse plants … or disappearing lizards.

In time, a true friend is not hard to identify.  A good friend has qualities that “go” anywhere and survive the circumstances — but not because s/he looks like what’s around her/him.  S/he will stand out from the surroundings, whatever they are.  You might say a true friend is like family, in the best sense of that word.

And while there is no perfect friend, here are a few qualities that are high on my list and which, over time, will show as the dominant traits of my friend — a friend toward whom I want to reflect these same qualities:

• Honesty — and truthfulness right along with it. There’s a difference.
• Loyalty.
• Courage.
• A Winning Attitude — not to perfection, because no one is truly always “up.”  But I don’t need a friend who’s a negative energy drain.  I’m not a garbage dump and won’t treat my friends like one.
• Friendliness — with a SMILE.
• AND the ability to LAUGH … to enjoy a funny story, especially on oneself.  If I have a friend who can laugh at herself/himself, I know I’m in good company!

“A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.”  Prov. 17:17

“A man that hath friends must show himself friendly: and there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother.”  Prov. 18:24

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

©  May, 2012, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights to my original work reserved.  Photo by Colin Houston (col.hou on Flickr).

Real Books

Ah’m not stupid, though Ah may talk funny to you.  But Ah’m not stupid.  Mattuh of fact, Ah been readin’—or read to – since ol Heck was a pup, as we say back home. Can’t remembuh anything special mah momma read to me when Ah was little, just remembuh the sound of her many voices (Ah know now she was playin’ all the charactuhs) sayin long stories to me, and Ah later remembuh her hands holdin those red-bound books while Ah was a-straddle her lap, listenin.  Mah pa read to me some, too, but he was usually too tired from work to read much without fallin sound to sleep. So mah momma read, mostly.  And she read to all of us, my brother and sisters, too.

Those red-bound books had some good stories, lots of ‘em about Bible people and how they lived in the olden times.  There was fightin and runnin and hidin and comin out of the bushes and attackin folks sometimes, like Ah guess you had to do if you were gonna survive.  Sometimes those people got saved by water rollin over their enemies and sometimes one guy got saved from his enemies by just disappearin inta thin air, so nobody could hurt him, until he got caught in the end and they nailed him up on a wooden cross.  Ah reckon times were tough back then and Ah know that musta been some God-awful kind of pain!

Anyways, Ah’ve been thinkin a lot about the books and stories Ah’ve read in mah life and Ah just find them plain interestin because they often say things that sound real, like good things and bad things that happen to people in real life whether you want them to or not.  Things like this short little snatch from a book of short stories Ah’m about to finish.  Ah like stories like this because they seem real:

Watching little Lundy go back to sleep, I wish I hadn’t told her about the Mound Builders to stop her crying, but I didn’t know she would see their eyes watching her in the dark. She was crying about a cat run down by a car – her cat, run down a year ago, only today poor Lundy figured it out.  Lundy is turned too much like her momma. Ellen never worries because it takes her too long to catch the point of a thing, and Ellen doesn’t have any problem sleeping. I think my folks were a little too keen, but Lundy is her momma’s girl, not jumpy like my folks.

My grandfather always laid keenness on his Shawnee blood, his half-breed mother, but then he was hep on blood. He even had an oath to stop bleeding, but I don’t remember the words. He was a fair to sharp woodsman, and we all tried to slip up on him at one time or another. It was Ray at the sugar mill finally caught him, but he was an old man by then, and his mind wasn’t exactly right. Ray just came creeping up behind and laid a hand on his shoulder, and the old bird didn’t even turn around; he just wagged his head and said, “That’s Ray’s hand. He’s the first fellow ever slipped up on me.” Ray could’ve done without that, because the old man never played with a full deck again, and we couldn’t keep clothes on him before he died.

B. Pancake, “The Honored Dead,” The Stories of Breece D’J Pancake, Back Bay Books, 1977.

Anyways, Ah like the beginnin of that story.  Ah ‘spose because Ah know or have known folks pretty much like he pictured little Lundy or his old grandpa who had this amazin power to always know when people were sneakin up on him.  Sometimes Ah think a few people have uncanny ability to know what’s happenin, or what somebody else is gonna do, even before they pull it off.  It might be nice to be that way, too.  Or it might not.  Ah ‘spose it could be scary, don’t you?  But Ah can remembuh kids Ah grew up with, a few of them, who were so slow you could tell them something or a joke an’ they wouldn’t even understand ’til the next time you saw them and then they’d start laughin like you jus told them a funny story.  Weird!

Anyways, when Ah got in high school Ah remembuh mah ma tellin me Ah ought not to read John Steinbeck’s books because Mr. Steinbeck was pretty naughty and used naughty words.  So Ah didn’t, even if mah daddy sometimes did talk naughty, not because Ah was good, but because Ah didn’t wanna disappoint mah mom, like he sometimes did.  It worked.  She was always pretty proud of me right up til the day she died.  And she loved to hear me read back to her when Ah became a man.  Ah’d read old poems and funny stuff to her and she loved it.  Right up til she died. Ah miss mah momma.

But anyways, Ah‘ve lately found Mr. Steinbeck’s books to be pretty funny – at least, mostly so, but East of Eden not so much.  One of mah favorites of his is Cannery Row and mah favorite charactuhs in that story are Mack and the boys from the Palace Flophouse – guys with names like Eddie and Gay and Jones and Hazel – some of ‘em kinda weird names when you think about it.  But they were all reg’lar guys even if some had weird names.  They all lived together and didn’t work much but were always tryin to find some way to help their friends if it didn’t cost too much or require too much work. Except when they went all-out to throw a party for their good friend Doc who ran the marine biology laboratory called Western Biological.

So anyways, here’s a l’il bit of Mr. Steinbeck’s story about Mack and the boys from Cannery Row, and Ah think it’s tellin, too, because it sounds just like some people Ah know, more or less, and these guys are tryin to make Lee Chong’s Model T Ford truck run so they can raise some money without havin to work too hard, just like those other people Ah know:

Probably any one of the boys from the Palace Flophouse could have made the truck run, for they were all competent practical mechanics, but Gay was an inspired mechanic. There is no term comparable to green thumbs to apply to such a mechanic, but there should be. For there are men who can look, listen, tap, make an adjustment, and a machine works. Indeed there are men near whom a car runs better. And such a one was Gay. His fingers on a timer or a carburetor adjustment screw were gentle and wise and sure.

* * *

One twist – one little twist and the engine caught and labored and faltered and caught again. Gay advanced the spark and reduced the gas. He switched over to the magneto and the Ford of Lee Chong chuckled and jiggled and clattered happily as though it knew it was working for a man who loved and understood it.

J. Steinbeck, Cannery Row, 57-59; The Viking Press, 1945.

But anyways, Mr. Steinbeck seems like he understood people very well and especially the ever-day people that make up the most of this world, the way Ah see it.  Ah mean, how often do you really see someone you’d described as an “inspired mechanic”?  And yet they’re out there, more’n we know about prob’ly.  Else how could some of the old clunkers we see on the road even today stay runnin if they weren’t attended to by an inspired mechanic the likes of Gay. Know what Ah mean?  Ah mean, they aren’t stupid!

Just like Ah’m not stupid, even though Ah talk like Ah talk — with words that may be funny-soundin’ to you but aren’t at all funny-soundin’ down where Ah come from.  Ah know folks, ‘specially northern and western folks, that think that guys like me are stupid because we talk “funny.”  But we don’t talk funny, least not where Ah come from, but it won’t do to tell ‘em, those other folks.  They’re the ones who talk funny, those western and northern folks, as far as Ah see it.  Ah mean, Ah’m not stupid, even if you think Ah sound like it.  Ah’ve been readin—or read to – since ol’ Heck was a pup.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis.

© Sep. 10, 2011, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.

Fifties Space

The fallen rain gathers itself like large shards of broken mirror on the flat street, reflecting silver-blue rays from the sun that hides behind a thin, high cloud of rising steam as it races down its late afternoon arc.  The street is mostly deserted except for a couple of young boys down the block who are standing, mouths open and gaping up, under the electrical lines near a pole’s crossbar, listening to the singing and sizzling of the wet wires, hoping to see a spark.  Further away, a tired, old, unseen hound bugles his presence, probably for no more reason than his irritation at the sound of water dripping on dry things that follows the sudden storm’s torrential downpour, a dripping sound that has not been heard in the drought months now ended but which triggers his internal instinct to sound an alarm – even if only a half-hearted one.

Windows in our neighborhood are thrown open with the rain’s end, and from those windows all up and down the block one can hear the comforting sounds of meal preparations being made – metal pots being set on stoves, stirred with hefty spoons whose shallow bowls are emptied with a rapid staccato of taps on the pots’ edges at the end of the stirrings.  Corning Ware serving dishes being set out; tables being set with china or ceramic plates, silverware, glasses; chairs being scooted into place; refrigerator doors being opened and closed; and the occasional whistling or humming that signals a happiness with the basics of life.  It’s suppertime in my neighborhood, and the buttery smell of baking cornbread wafts from somewhere down the street. Spirits elevated by the coming of the rain, a grinding chokehold on life has been broken.  There’s hope.  One rain often spawns another, and the promise of renewed life that springs from the thirst just ended does its subconscious work with happy results.

After family meals are over, my neighborhood transforms itself, as if in the most natural progression, back into the softer, gentler, easy-going personality that characterizes its approach to life in all but the hardest of times, times like the long, debilitating drought just ended.  The grime and dust have been washed away; the trees and shrubs have already seemed to lift their arms and chins in celebration.  While mothers attend to cleaning up the supper dishes, well-fed and exuberant children rush out of doors and down front steps to play in the street.  Kick the Can, Blind Man’s Bluff, Hide-and-Seek and other yard games break out spontaneously.  Dads mosey out onto their front porches with newspapers in hand, settle onto the porch swings, wave at each other across the way, then set about their relaxed quietness as a few light pipes or cigars for evening pleasure.  Wives soon join them and soft family conversations begin as a contrast to the rising din of the playing children.  A few lightning bugs begin to flash their evening signals.

One old-timer abandons front-porch solitude and the news — “Nuthin’ new there!” he mumbles to himself — as he drops the newspaper, ambles down the steps, crosses his yard and the street and with a familiar greeting mounts his neighbor’s steps to offer a warm, sturdy, work-hardened hand.

“Mighty good rain we got, huh?” says the old-timer.

“Yep!” says the friend. “I can’t recall for certain when we last had such a drought, but I know I was just a young sprout.  Pop was worried sick that we weren’t gonna make any crops that year and he’d have to go back to work in the mines. But just in the nick of time, along came a good soaking rain and we made enough harvest to eke by.”

“Ain’t that just the way of it?” chuckles the oldtimer.  “And I hear there’s more comin’.”

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

© March 2011, Michael Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.

Forty-two and Counting

The book ends thusly:

When he thought of her, it rather amazed him that he had let that girl with her violin go.  Now, of course, he saw that her self-effacing proposal was quite irrelevant.  All she had needed was the certainty of his love, and his reassurance that there was no hurry when a lifetime lay ahead of them.  Love and patience – if only he had had them both at once – would surely have seen them both through.  And then …. This is how the entire course of a life can be changed – by doing nothing. On Chesil Beach he could have called out to Florence, he could have gone after her. He did not know, or would not have cared to know, that as she ran away from him, certain in her distress that she was about to lose him, she had never loved him more, or more hopelessly, and that the sound of his voice would have been a deliverance, and she would have turned back. Instead, he stood in cold and righteous silence in the summer’s dusk, watching her hurry along the shore, the sound of her difficult progress lost to the breaking of small waves, until she was a blurred, receding point against the immense straight road of shingle gleaming in the pallid light.

Excerpt from On Chesil Beach, pgs. 201-203, by Ian McEwan (“Atonement,” “Saturday,” et al.) Nan A. Talese, New York, 2007.

McEwan’s thesis in the novel, which is by turns titillating, slow-paced, and surprising, is common enough – the ending of a marriage – yet his insight as to its preventive is another matter, perhaps too uncommon to gain much thoughtful attention in our move-on world.  He boiled it down to its essence as I reflected on my own marriage, a marriage which has, for all its twists and turns and sometimes-tortured dances, moved ahead and endured those difficult roads.  Along the way, we’ve learned to talk honestly with each other through the fight-or-flight times, wading through a slough of typical challenges and distractions to get here. It’s not easy, and the path ahead is likely not a golden road without hazards.  But it is paved with mutual love, trust, and gratitude in our relationship’s security.

No one wants for theories as to why marriages fail or succeed; such theories abound in the psychological, sociological, theological, and philosophical worlds. In my opinion, McEwan’s analysis above, presented from the advantaged viewpoint of one of his two primary characters, forty years removed from the subject marriage, is on target as it identifies a thoughtful communication that was let go without exercise at the needful time.  Or put another way, a thoughtful communication that was overpowered and overshadowed by a thoughtless communication.  Edward and Florence, newlyweds on their wedding day, struggled to express their love for each other, yet ended up in an argument over an unfortunate but relatively petty occurrence that was anything but petty in its consequences.  True to form among the young and prideful (are not we all prideful at some point or other?), the newlyweds could not see through the fog of emotions and identify, much less vocalize, their true feelings of love and care for each other.  They raged (in understated British style) and stormed at each other, then stormed away without reaching resolution.  A marriage destroyed by default; destroyed for lack of courage to say what really mattered – that they loved each other and despite what seemed a drastic momentary outcome, they were committed to go on with each other.

“All she had needed …” could have been stated “all he had needed …” with equal effect and truth.  Both Florence and Edward needed certainty of each other’s love and “reassurance that there was no hurry when a lifetime lay ahead of them.” Could either of them find the courage to offer those simple statements?  In the heat of marital battle, can you find that courage?

Pride carried the day, but lost the life together.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

© October 13, 2010, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.

Climbin’ to the Top

“In Seattle you haven’t had enough coffee until you can thread a sewing machine while it’s running.” ~ Jeff Bezos

Christmas 2009 was over and New Year 2010 blew in here like a Western Gull riding a Pacific storm while I mostly lay in a state of torpor.  Much of the freshly expired holiday period blurs in my mind, thank-you-so-much to a stomach virus-sinus infection combo that kept me on the move while simultaneously gasping for oxygen and hoping for a quick death to ease the headache and cramping  — not a pretty sight at the time, nor a pleasant thought now.  Cynicism would argue that misery and loathing dominated my winter celebrations.

Truth would quickly rebut, though, with smiles reflecting off the shiny stuff that still stands out in my mind, interludes and bookends in the form of marvelous memories to go along with the maladies.  I’m back at home in the Pacific Northwest and thankfully spent the holidays with my family. The people I love best.  Even with the stresses and strains that normally attend the adult experience of such holidays — meals to be planned and prepared, schedules to be coordinated, gifts to be thought about, shopped for, purchased, transported and wrapped, (and then paid for in January, … or beyond), the visits with or from extended family and friends, and for most, the continuing work schedule — the holidays were long enough to allow some good ones in the otherwise miserable scenario described above.

Little children — my grandkids — are in the forefront of holiday exhilaration.  They’re perennially on my “Bucket List.”  Lucas and Nadia are their names.  And one of my delightful memories from this last Christmastime features grandson Lucas, 5, at front and center.  He’s an athletic and fit little guy who harbors an abundance of pent-up energy — ALL THE TIME!  Even when he’s burning it at a high rate!  (Which is most of the time, I might add!)  Like his mom, I’m at a loss to fathom or explain how he can go so hard, so long, and still end the day with more energy than is fair to the sane adults who are the flummoxed onlookers.  I have long ago given up on my logical (but only cerebral, UNrealistic) conclusion that “he’ll be slow to get started in the morning, what with the level of his activities today.”  He hits the ground running every morning, hardly slows down during his consumption of copious amounts of breakfast foods — or whichever is the meal of the hour, –  and continues the burn right on through the day.  His afterburners kick on at about 4:30 p.m. when most of the adults are ducking for cover.  Believe me, he’s about as close as anyone I know in fulfilling the description foreseen by Jeff Bezos in the quote at the top of this writing — the part about threading a sewing machine while it’s running. 

When Lucas was in Seattle last summer, a bunch of us family adults spontaneously took him to REI’s flagship store in downtown Seattle, thinking he might like to try the climbing wall there.  It’s a large specimen, measuring 65 feet in height and presenting some pretty challenging faces, at least for newer climbers.  And for a 5-year-old, one would argue that it is indeed a daunting spectacle, rearing its head into the glass-ceilinged sky above.

Well, on that summer trip, the climbing roster was full and we learned that an appointment ahead of time is required.  So Lucas’ possible climb was put on the back burner “for another time.” Shortly thereafter, he disappeared from all known adults in the store and we were frantic, hearts thumping and stomachs in our mouths, with the thought that he’d been kidnapped.  Thankfully, (whew!) it turned out that he’d “only” walked off to explore the store on his own.  It’s a big place, sprawling over two full floors on a full city block, with lots of doors and nooks and crannies to hide a kid, so the adults’ fears of having lost him for good were not without merit.  After our initial panic episodes, and upon finding him safe but a little recalcitrant for having been reeled in against his will, all of us adults switched into “You’ve-had-it, young man!” mode and marched out of the store with him in tow — no further thoughts of letting him climb a wall.  We’d already climbed all the walls we wanted to, trying to find him!

Enough of the hair-graying flashback.  Fast forward to Christmas Eve, 2009.  I had gone back to REI on December 17,  when he arrived in Seattle for the Christmas holiday, and made an appointment for Lucas to climb the wall.  He went with me to do that and, as we neared the entry door, I had gladly received his promise that he’d stay right with me and we’d make the appointment first, then look around.  We did that in pretty good form, although I had a little distraction from an insistent young boy who “REALLY NEEDED” a new set of expensive climbing shoes.

“Maybe when you’re 14,” I said.

“But Popop, I need them tomorrow to climb!” he said.

“Nope,” sez I, several exchanges later. 

Christmas Eve broke chilly and bright in Seattle.  When I reached Jessica’s house to pick up the aspiring climber and his parents, Emily and Kip, Lucas was on full ready, motors revved and waiting for the drop of the starter’s flag.  Fully dressed with hair combed, face shiny and shoes on (an unusual condition for him) I could almost feel his nerves twitching with anticipation.  After appropriate goodbyes to all within earshot, we piled into the transport and made tracks the few miles to the REI store.  Lucas could hardly contain himself while the store attendant confirmed our reservation and talked to the climb master to firm up procedures.

Upon entering the area of the climbing wall, known as The Pinnacle, Lucas’ energy surged even more.  He slipped into shoes and his climbing harness, then listened with rapt attention (Huh? A 5-year-old?) to the climb master’s instructions even though she was careful to leave no stone unturned in setting forth the rules and her expectations.  I began snapping photos with my Nikon, probably showing almost as much anxious energy as Lucas, making sure I maximized the possibility of some good pics of the experience.

As we approached the wall after instructions were completed, Lucas was hitched to the belaying safety rope and asked to climb a short way up, then descend to make sure he could do so safely.  That accomplished to the climb master’s satisfaction, Lucas was then set free to make the climb.  No one needed to use a cattle prod on him — he was off in a shot and moved rapidly up the vertical rock face.  Between my presses of the camera’s shutter release, I halfway mused to myself that, once he looked down as he gained height, he might slow down or change his mind and want to come down.  Dream on, Popop!  He only seemed to gain speed.  Meanwhile, his dad was using some coaching words from the ground but, believe me, they were totally unnecessary.  Lucas was clearly full of confidence and had the stuff to back it up.  I thought he looked rather like a sticky-handed, sticky-footed tree frog as he continued to gain altitude.  And when he looked down at us, he paused only to grin really big, then turned and continued his climb.

There were a couple of muscular teenage boys looking on, grinning from ear to ear at Lucas’ confidence and speed.  A couple of times they turned and commented to each other in low tones, then looked over at me and raised their eyebrows as if to say, “Yeah, man!”  They seemed as proud of him as if he’d been their little brother.  His coordination and physical strength, proportionate to his size, were impressive.

I did not time Lucas’ first ascent that morning, but I know that he wasted little time in getting to the top.  He’s like that in all his physical efforts; there’s very little wasted motion — well, that is, if you don’t count as “wasted motion” the anticipatory bouncing up and down that precedes anything he’s allowed to do.   When he reached the summit, the climb master instructed him to move laterally several feet to release and re-attach a carabiner to a new location so that his safety rope would function properly during the descent.  That accomplished, he then began to rappel downward with a look of familiar comfort and reached the bottom all grins and high fives.

During his climb, his dad had quietly donned a pair of climbing shoes and was prepared to make an ascent on his own.  But Lucas knew that there were only two climbs on the ticket, and he wanted to make another.  His dad graciously acceded and Lucas moved around to another face of the rock to embark on ascent number two.

I know I sound like a proud grandpa, — that, I am! — but I’m excited by Lucas’ energy, enthusiasm and interest in outdoor activities and sports.  I hope it’s never a be-all, end-all for him, but I am equally hopeful that his sporting interest and natural affinity will stand him in good stead as he grows to maturity.  I trust that his participation will help him to focus his confidence on teamwork, discipline, concentration, and the reaching of maturing goals that are steps toward coping well in a bigger, much more daunting world ahead.  That’s all a reasonable “Popop” can hope for.

Go, Lucas!

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

Michael

© Jan. 2010 by Michael E. Stubblefield – all rights reserved

Carryin’ the Water

Today I drove them to the airport, helped unload and get all the luggage and gear into the ticketing area fifty feet away, then hurriedly kissed them goodbye as I dashed off to respond to the public announcement, “Will the owner of the green Ford Expedition please return to the vehicle immediately.”  It wasn’t a question.  It was a command.  I knew the security at this tiny airport was rigid, but I also knew the guy stood and watched me unload two large suitcases, a Pack-’N-Play, a stroller, a regulation car seat, and a mommy and her toddler.  Somehow, I had entertained the belief that at such a small facility with two other cars unloading in front and no one waiting to do so, the security guard would cut me some slack for five minutes, would give me a break out of a heart of compassion.  Boy, was I naive!  No time for compassion or family feelings, we’re here to stop terrorists!  God knows they must be swarming in through this airport.

Well, anyway, I gave quick kisses to Jessica and Nadia, then dashed to my truck and drove away.  “Bye, Dad.  Thanks for all the fun.  Love you!”  “Love you, too, sweetheart, you and that wonderful little granddaughter.  Take care!” Not sure I said that, I was in such a hurry to avoid having my truck towed, but I sure thought it.  On the way home I was, of course, “blue” — something the sky was not.  We’re having overcast skies every morning and most days, fairly atypical for this time of year.  But the effect lent itself well to some of my emotions as I drove.  We’d had five days of real fun together.  Now I’d get home, quickly change into work clothing, then head off for the office.  No time to sit and savor the fun, hilarity and challenges of this wonderful five-day visit.  Only after work would time allow me to enjoy the memories while they were fresh, and by then they’d already be overlaid with a thick crust of the day’s business, so that I’d have to dig deeper to find the nuggets.  But the nuggets, like pure gold, survived the business day’s intrusions in good form.

Recollection of the fun started with my cleaning all the fine sand off two plastic beach buckets with small plastic shovel, scoop, a plastic road-grader toy and an even smaller plastic car, the latter driven by a smiling little Howdy Doody-looking man who’s locked in a permanent, paralyzed wave of his plastic hand.  His face recently had been kissed by those sweet little lips as he was pulled out of a sand castle on the beach.  She just picked him up with her chubby little hands, held him close to her face while she studied him very seriously for several seconds, then pulled him to her lips and smacked him a good one all over his tiny face.  Then she looked up at me sitting there watching, and a big smile broke out on her face.  Such a happy face!  Where was my camera when I needed it?  Tucked safely in its bag to keep the fine sand out of its works!  Argh!

God bless those chubby cherub-hands and that brightly lit face.  She is such a loving child, happy … and a little headstrong at times.  But I’d be disappointed if she weren’t, probably thinking her a tad short in inspiration and intensity for life.  Believe me, she’s got it!

As I thought about her today, the intensity of her personality came back without struggle.  When we played on the beach with a new bucket and shovel for digging sand, she soon decided that shovel work was just too slow and unexciting.  Pulling herself from the sand and picking up her new bucket, she headed for the water, that pounding, roaring surf.  There was no hint of trepidation at the prospect of the water’s force, doubtless because she was totally unaware of it.  She just knew she had a bucket and wanted some water in it.  I trailed close by with my camera, watching those little legs pump down the beach and those chubby cheeks jiggling like Jello with every jarring step on the packed sand near the waterline.  She held her bucket thrust straight out in front by her stiff arm, held parallel to the ground.  Right into the surf she went, then stopped, filled her bucket and turned back toward shore immediately.  The weight lowered her arm, but she grasped the bucket firmly with both hands now, gripping its rim with determination.  Water sloshed out with each step, but up the beach she went at rather amazing speed, given her short little stride.  The look on her face told it all.  There was sand stuck to one cheek and the side of her head where she’d earlier lain down on the sand briefly to enjoy its comfortable warmth that was more than a good tradeoff for any concern about getting dirty.  There had been no thought of getting dirty.  No fragile little wallflower, this one.  Yet she’s tender, a small child with all the curiosity and wonder built inside, wanting to know about life and all it offers.

This same small child must have made twenty or more trips up and down the shoreline, hauling water each time, only to dump it out on her pile of sand and immediately make another beeline for another bucketful.  Jessica and I were amazed.  As we watched her and played with her, as I captured her play in my camera and talked with “Mama” and enjoyed the sun’s warmth, I thought of the piece I published here recently — the one about the young school kids.  I was concerned about what they’re being taught — the fear, the admonitions to mistrust, the tentativeness and imminent threat of that big world out there.  No doubt, all the concerns of careful and loving parents, anxious to preserve their children in safety, come to bear in that mix.  And yet I have to think they are simultaneously forgetting an equally important aspect of life — the ability to live in abiding security and enjoyment, the joie de vivre that we must all have been created to feel and know.  My thoughts on this day, as I rode back home from the airport alone, a little misty-eyed and yet proud as could be, turned to song again.  I thought about my precious little granddaughter’s vulnerability, how strong yet fragile she is.  Even so, I thought of those who protect her, just like I do when she’s with me, and just like I would anytime anything threatened her.  The song’s words surged strong in my mind:

“If You Were Mine” by Fernando Ortega from This Bright Hour CD

When my heart is troubled, and I am weighed down,

Then I like to think of how this lonesome world would be

If I could see your face, or hold you in my arms,

If you were mine,

If you were mine.

If you had a bad dream, I would jump inside it,

And I would fight for you with all the strength that I could find.

I would lead you home by your tiny hand,

If you were mine,

If you were mine.

I would sing of love on the blackest night.

I would sing of God and how His goodness fills our lives.

I would sing to you ‘til the morning light,

If you were mine,

If you were mine.

I would sing to you ‘til the morning light,

If you were mine,

If you were mine.

I’m glad I sometimes think in songs .  I’m thankful I have a wife, children and grandchildren to think songs about.  I’m joyful to have tiny hands to hold on big beaches.  I’m delighted those tiny hands feel the joy and strength of life surging through them.

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

Michael

© Sep. 2009 by Michael E. Stubblefield – all rights reserved

Foto Faves: Postcards from the Edge … of California

Channel Islands Harbor sunrise

Off Anacapa Island

And she’s thinking, …

Mist Falls on King's River, King's Canyon

Wildlife in Yokohl Valley

Gulf Fritillary or “Passion butterfly”

A maze – California Buckeye in fall

Walter chillin’ on his porch

Beach sausage at Carpinteria

Mist Falls on King’s River, King’s Canyon

Into the waves we go!

Brrr! Cold water!

Beach animals

Off Anacapa Island

Great day at the beach

Channel Islands Harbor sunrise

Ahhh! Just what I needed!

Perfect day for sailing

Fiddlehead

Unfurling fern

Gulf Fritillary or Passion butterfly (Agraulis vanillae), a striking, bright orange butterfly --family Nymphalidae, subfamily Heliconiinae.

Gulf Fritillary feeding on Lantana blossoms