THE KITE

Some times I’d like to be a kite—
and soar up in the sky.
I’d reach my arms way, way up—
and stretch my fingers high.
I’d whirl and twirl and spin about—
and tumble round and round;
and lift my shoulders one by one—
then nose-dive to the ground.
I’d dance and prance and swirl around—
and make-believe that I can fly.
But most of all I’d just like to glide—
and touch the blue, blue sky.
I’d pretend I had a long, long tail—
while sailing through the air;
then I’d catch my tail upon a star—
and dangle gently there.
What fun it’d be to be tossed about—
and watch the clouds float by,
while wondering about the moonbeams—
and the silvery, dusty sky.
I’d stand up on my tippie toes—
and float aimlessly in bliss;
among the billowy, marshmallow clouds—
in the blustery, windy mist.
I’d feel the gentle, blowy breeze—
whirl throughout my hair;
tousled, tangled, and knotted up—
while enjoying the rushing air.
What fun it’d be to be a kite—
to sway and laugh in mirth;
while being tossed to and fro—
before coming back to earth.

LESSONS LEARNED

“Gotta get them tree stumps out, and the rocks h’ve gotta go too. Plant’n season’s almost come and gone and we’ve still gotta harrow the hard ground.” “Gramps, can’t we just leave the old stumps and the rocks around them? They won’t be in the way. Besides, it’s too much work for just an old vegetable garden.” “No, Son, that’ll never do. There’s lessons to be learned in a garden. Plow’n fields much like livin’ life. You can spend your time skirting ‘round your troubles, Son, just like them tree stumps and rocks—you’ve just gotta get rid of things in the way. Go get the shovels—we’ll work on it together.” So Gramps and I spent the day getting out the stumps and stones. It was hard work lifting those rocks, and the roots of the old trees went clear to China. But somehow I just knew that Gramps was right—gotta get rid of things in the way.
“Gotta make them furrows straight, Son.” “But, Gramps, can’t we just hurry and get the job done? Like you said, ‘Plant’n season’s almost come and gone’—and we’re still work’n the fields.” “No, Son, that’ll never do. There’s lessons to be learned in a garden. Them rows h’ve gotta be straight so’s the water can run free. Son, you’ve gotta be straight too, so’s your life can be free. Now go get the plow—we’ll work on it together.” So Gramps and I spent the day making sure the furrows in the field were straight. It was hard work but somehow I just knew that Gramps was right—gotta live life straight and narrow in order to be free.
“Son, gotta plant them seeds and irrigate the fields today.” “But Gramps, I’m too tired from all this work. Can’t it wait ‘till tomorrow? “No, Son, gotta plant today. Gettin’ late in the season and there’s lessons to be learned in the garden. Plant’n seeds today will bring the harvest in the fall. Go get them seeds and we’ll plant ‘em together.” So Gramps and I spent the rest of the day planting seeds. It was hard work and my back hurt real bad but, by this time, I knew a lesson was coming. So I pulled the check from the ditch and watched the water flow evenly along the straight furrows. “Son, life’s so much like a garden. You’ll only reap what ya sow. If ya want somethin’ in the end, ya gotta plant somethin’ in the beginning.” I knew Gramps was right. There’s lessons to be learned in a garden!

WINTER'S GRACE

Among the pile of December’s tinsel is found a Currier and Ives card. The scene of an old farm house, with smoke billowing from the fireplace, is dusted with a blanket of snow. Old majestic elms frame the barn and frozen pond, and flocks of geese fly overhead. Long drippy icicles, hanging from the barn’s roof, reminds us that even Mother Nature likes to adorn herself with crystal earrings during Winter’s Grace. Everything looks and feels pristine. It is so lovely and reminds us in some small way of winters from yesteryear when life seemed so simple—Oh, Winter’s Grace—how lovely! But this is not yesteryear, it is this year. The homes across the road also have a blanket of snow and smoke also billows from their fireplaces. We are reminded that although Winter’s Grace is upon us that the warmth of cherished friends and wonderful neighbors brings peace and comfort to our little neck of the woods, our neighborhood. It may be cold outside but it is warm here in our own picture of Currier and Ives.

THE MESSAGE

In an old family scrapbook, yellowed with age, is a collection of faded Valentine cards. Each card reveals the secret, heart-felt message, “You are special,” “I Love You,” or even “Be Mine.” The words are simple but declare a sweet message of one person’s feelings toward the other.
Among this tattered collection is a heart-shaped card adorned with garlands of violets and pansies intertwined with bits of ribbon and lace. Two girls, donned with brimmed-hats and mufflers, center the card and each is holding a bouquet of flowers. The card’s inscription, written in well-practiced penmanship, reads simply, “To Liz, From Quincy.”
One can only envision the smitten suitor, clad in boyish knickers and cap, carefully selecting the perfect Valentine card for his soon-to-be sweetheart. The challenge is to deliver the Valentine message without appearing to be too bold. So Quincy cleverly attaches a string to the card before placing it on the front porch, knocks on the door, and then runs to hide behind the bush. Liz, desiring to know which beau is her secret admirer, stoops to retrieve the treasured Valentine only to find it slipping from her fingers as Quincy tugs at the string. The playful teasing ends as Liz reluctantly shuts the door but not before first glancing at the card’s inscription, which reads simply, “To Liz, From Quincy.” Much to Quincy’s delight and Liz’s pleasure, the Valentine message is delivered, “Be Mine.” Oh, yes, the message is perfectly clear, “I am thinking of you. You are special to me. Please be mine!”

THE AWAKENING

“Wake up sleepy head,” whispers Spring. “The awakening is near. It’s time to come forth.” The slumbering earth tosses about and with blinking eyes squints at the bright sun. She huskily whispers back, “Oh, dear, is it time already?’ The old girl, snoring lazily and still drowsy from a long winter’s nap, has awakened. She stretches and yawns and throws back the last blanket of snow only to reveal tender green shoots of life. Her season of slumber is over, and through the warmth of the sun comes the promise of the awakening, the new beginning—Spring. Daffodils, hyacinths, crocuses, and tulips have been stirring under the thawing ground and are now peeking through. Their curled leaves gracefully unfold and their delicate blossoms splatter a vibrant array of color on earth’s pallet. The once lifeless bulbs have aroused and have come forth. “Wake up sleepy head,” whispers Spring again—this time with a gentle nudge. The old girl, still a bit tired and wanting to drift off into the land of nod, awakens, yawns, and hesitantly whispers, “It’s spring. It’s spring. Awake all you sleepy heads. It’s time to come forth for it’s really spring!”

"C" MEANS CAT

What has happened to the educational system in the United States? Clearly, it has gone down the hatch. Just this morning as I was immersed in my daily constitutional, I noticed something that made me shake my head in disbelief. As I rounded the corner of the walking trail, I noticed a flock of birds eating from the "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" container clearly marked CAT. There are numerous containers along the trail strategically placed so that the momma cat and her kittens will be able to survive the wilds. (The "cat woman" must have noticed that there is a shortage of mice and grasshoppers in the vast open fields and, therefore, must put dry cat food out there for them!) As the birds were making short of the cat food, I wanted to shout out, "Can't you tell the difference between a "B" and a "C"? It doesn't say, "ba, ba, ba, ba-erd," it says, "ka ka ka, cat." I am sure the birds would have felt rather embarrassed had they realized their foolish mistake. Imagine a bird eating cat food. I wonder what the cats will eat when all the mice, grasshoppers, and dry cat food are gone.
Meow! Squawk, Squawk! Me-ooow!

THE LOOM

We each sit at a loom and become the weaver of our life. Daily, we work the spinning wheel and interlace our life's tapestry with all shades of rich colors, textures, and threads. The design is interwoven with people who, by touching our life, have mingled their threads with ours. Various colors add to the interest and beauty of the tapestry and, miraculously, a single golden thread is woven throughout. As we run our fingers across the tapestry, it feels as though life was spun together perfectly making for a lovely pattern. It is beautiful—a sight to behold.
But as one turns the tapestry over, many loose threads dangle—some have become tangled, twisted, and even knotted. Some threads have had to be cut off and others stitched up, and some have had to be replaced in order to become stronger and more resilient. Colors have dimmed and appear not to be as vibrant and beautiful as before. One can only conclude that many days have been filled with joy and satisfaction, and many days have not. Yet, daily we sit at the loom and diligently weave our masterpiece. Gratefully, at day’s end, we may see threads blended intricately together creating a beautifully woven tapestry—for a single golden thread of Deity was woven throughout.