Author: uponourcommonground

⁷ “But ask the animals, and they will teach you,
    or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you;
⁸ or speak to the earth, and it will teach you,
    or let the fish in the sea inform you.
⁹ Which of all these does not know
    that the hand of the Lord has done this?
¹⁰ In his hand is the life of every creature
    and the breath of all mankind.

Job 12:7-10

When Henry David Thoreau was on his deathbed, his family sent for a minister. In his final moments, as the story goes, Thoreau was asked if he had made his peace with God, to which he responded, “I didn’t know we had ever quarreled.” I too have no quarrel with God. In fact, we have always gotten along rather well.

I grew up with the expectation that Sundays required regular church attendance. It was just something you did—no questions asked. It was like a cup of coffee in the morning, bacon with your eggs, and jelly on your toast. A hangover after a night of drinking and carousing with friends didn’t get you a pass. I might have looked like death warmed over and the threat of getting sick at the communion rail was a real possibility, but I still went to church. I remember one Sunday being severely admonished for having failed to shave prior to church. A suit and tie and careful grooming were expected.

For many years I kept up the Sunday morning routine, but I always had this nagging question in my mind: Why? What was I getting out of church (organized religion) other than fulfilling some sort of hereditary expectation? What was a “pious” son supposed to do? I began some serious soul-searching a few years ago as I began walking into the woods on Sunday mornings more often than I walked through church doors. I wasn’t really surprised at this restructuring of my priorities—it had been a long time coming. The changes in my routine brought on by the coronavirus pandemic provided even more opportunity for self-reflection.

I’ve always been a bit of a spiritual loner—my faith is a personal matter and not bound up in the dogma of ecclesiastical expectations. I find no spiritual dogma in the woods; how I interpret my experience is between God and me. I move through the woods with a reverence and awe unlike any I have felt sitting in a church pew. I often pause during my walks, sit down on the earth with my back against a tree, sip on a coffee, and watch the sunrise: a spiritual experience unlike anything I’ve had in a church.

This past spring, I spent Easter Sunday in the woods instead of attending services. The coronavirus had put a stop to in-person worship at the church I attended, and I refused to attend services via Zoom. I find video connections deeply impersonal and an affront to my senses. It was also not lost on me that it was probably the first time in sixty years that I had not been in a pew on Easter Sunday. It really wasn’t that hard to do. Any feelings of guilt I had quickly dissipated when I walked into the woods. Fast forward and I still haven’t been back to church, Zoom or otherwise. But I have had some quality time in the woods.

When I am in the woods, I experience a burst of spirituality that escapes me in church, no matter how many times I have knelt at the railing or listened to a sermon. My sermon awaits me in the trees, amidst the flutter of leaves, the song of the birds, and the chatter of the squirrels. My communion is with nature and not with man. My congregation flies through the air, crawls on the ground, and rustles in the wind.

I won’t criticize or in any way diminish those who find their spiritual fulfillment under a roof—it’s just not part of my journey. There are those who will say I have turned my back on the faith of my fathers. Or, perhaps, I have turned to pantheism or even paganism? I say, “Why not?” Why not expand my perspective, stretch my psyche? If I had chosen not to go on this journey, I would have, through my own willful ignorance, closed my mind to a treasure chest full of spiritual gems. I will never stop kicking the stone down this personal path.

My Lord has always been outdoors, away from the neon. Knowing He awaits entices me to keep exploring. I will always be searching for what lies over the next hill, down a wooded ravine, or along a woodland stream, knowing it will touch my spirit. It might be the flower that blooms one day and is gone the next, or the maple sapling that finds its birth in a sunny clearing left by another tree’s death. It might be the spring peeper that sings its heart out in search of a mate; or the whirligig beetle skating on a woodland pond, a coyote’s tracks in the snow, wandering off into the forest, or the chit-chat of a chipmunk, heard but not seen. It is what I saw yesterday and what I might see tomorrow. It is the belief that, if I treat each new day as an opportunity to see and feel His presence in nature, I will not be disappointed. My resurrection awaits.

Religious conscience of mankind is not rigid, it is changing all the time, becoming purer and clearer. -Leo Tolstoy

Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.
– Lao-Tzu

To see a World in a grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
William Blake from Augeries of Innocence

Next to spending a morning in the woods, a walk in my garden often brings me as close to the divine as I suppose I will get in this life. Sitting under a roof, in a pew, paging through a prayer book doesn’t quite get me there. I can’t recall ever sitting in a pew and thinking that God was sitting beside me. It was more like talking up to some nebulous being who was far removed from my reality. Nature is where God becomes real to me.

There is a biblical admonitory (Matthew 18:20) that is frequently used to compel attendance at communal worship (i.e. bricks and mortar, Sunday morning, please pass the offering plate). I have consciously eschewed attendance at regular services, both Zoom and under a roof, since the Coronavirus virus pandemic struck. Instead, I have chosen to gather with those things that ambulate a little bit differently than I do. Some have four legs, some six, and others eight. Some have no legs at all. Some crawl, some walk, some jump, and others fly. Some don’t ambulate at all but sway in the wind and offer a shady spot for a rest. There is nothing that compares to breaking a little bread and having a glass of wine with a squirrel or a chickadee in the shade of a maple tree. Give me a sylvan cathedral any day.

A walk in my garden is as much a part of my daily ritual as reading the morning paper. To pause and smell the fragrance of a flower, to take note of a new bloom, to watch a hummingbird dart about, or to see a butterfly moving from flower to flower reminds me that there are higher laws. We would do well to be a butterfly for a time, floating freely and letting the summer breeze take us where it will. I often observe insects close up—they have so much to teach about living simply within our complex world. What appears to us as their randomness, or even chaos, is our own vain attempt to project human perceptions on the natural world. We would do well to step off our pedestals and direct our eyes to nature’s level—if our vanity would permit such an endeavor.

I have a regular path I take through my garden, as I am a creature of habit and it helps me notice the changes taking place within my little biome. I might pause for a moment to sit on my bench and listen to the chatter of the Carolina wrens as they flit through the branches of the cedar trees. Sometimes, I don’t think they’re serenading me as much as I’m being scolded for invading their world. I stop for a moment at my vegetable garden to see if any tomatoes are ready to pick and then I cut a few sprigs of basil and rosemary. I linger among my wildflowers to see if the Black-eyed Susans and hyssop are still blooming. The statues of St. Francis and the Buddha and my daughter’s fairy garden are all reasons for pause and reflection.

Now late summer, many of the plants in my garden are well past their glory days. The irises have come and gone, the blooms on the oak leaf hydrangeas have faded to brown, and the coneflowers are now a pale pink. I leave most of the spent coneflower blooms intact for our goldfinches. The Queen Ann’s Lace is now barren stalks, its delicate flowers faded to memory. I wonder how long it will be before the eastern red bat that roosts at night by my back door heads for its winter hibernacula?

Despite the changes, there are some things that seem like they would like to stay longer, but the march of time has a different idea. Soon, the last petals will fall from the flowers, the butterflies will disappear, and the red bat will head for its winter roost. Each morning now brings change to my garden—sometimes profound but often subtle. It can be the difference between seeing a raccoon feeding on my grapes and the once bright blooms of my daisies wilting away.

In nature, life can emerge and fade away in a day’s time. Often, I look at myself in the mirror and see the same face, but other times I detect a new wrinkle or notice a few more gray hairs. I now strain to see the youth in my reflection, knowing those days have slipped away just as the memory of this season’s blooms will slip into the past.

Sometimes, the seasons pass too swiftly while at other times they seem to drag by. The cold, dark days of February can go on forever and the “dog days” of August can seem to smother time. The pastel blossoms of spring and the vibrant colors of autumn seem to rush by in a blur. Still, I don’t wish that time would speed up or slow down. Rather, I count each day, whether in my garden or on a walk in the woods, as a chance to experience the beauty of change in the embrace of the divine.

Not too long from now, I will awaken to the season’s first frost. What was once green will turn brown and wilt under Jack Frost’s return. All will grow quiet above ground, save for the wind and snow, and life will retreat into its darkest recesses. A small seed, perhaps invisible to the naked eye, will wait to sprout when freed from winter’s grip. As each season gives birth to the next, I will be found in my sylvan cathedral, savoring the changes above and below my feet.

I love not man the less, but nature more.
– Lord Byron

• 

• 

Nature will bear the closest inspection. She invites us to lay our eye level with her smallest leaf, and take an insect view of its plain. -Henry David Thoreau

I have often found that insects either frighten or fascinate most of us—there seems to be little in between. I’m firmly on the side of fascination and will take every opportunity to observe some insect drama occurring in my backyard or in the woods. A couple of days ago, I watched as a cicada killer (a very large and scary-looking wasp) carried a paralyzed dog-day harvest fly to its brood chamber, where it would lay an egg on it and the larva would literally eat the cicada alive—the stuff of a horror movie. If I take the time to slow down for a moment, I can observe some of the most macabre and fascinating goings-on in the insect world, right in my backyard.

We are quite outnumbered. There are an estimated ten quintillion insects living on the earth (Source: Smithsonian Institution). That’s nineteen zeroes, in case you were wondering. Ants alone number an estimated one million billion (Source: ants.com). To put this number in perspective, I thought it would be a useful exercise to estimate the number of insects per acre of earth’s land mass. Taking the total number of insects and dividing it by the earth’s land mass of 126 billion acres, it would suggest that there are over 79.3 million insects per acre of land. My calculation does not take into account habitat suitability across the earth’s regions. At just over seven and a half billion, homo sapiens is somewhat insignificant in comparison—until you consider the environmental havoc we wreak upon the planet.

One of the things I particularly enjoy about insects are some of their colorful, common names. I was recently reminded of this when I discovered a giant water bug in our swimming pool. When looking up the description of this insect in my Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Insects and Spiders, I learned that, in addition to its Scientific name, Lethocerus americanus, it is also called the “Toe-biter”. One look at its sharp beak makes its name quite appropriate, as it can inflict a painful bite if handled carelessly.

Another of my favorites is “Snake Doctor”. I had heard the name before, but always envisioned a herpetologist or veterinarian, not the Green Darner dragonfly. The name originated in the early 1800s from the myth that the dragonfly ministered to injured snakes (Source: wordwizard.com). When I try to envision a dragonfly flying around with a medical kit, the name becomes a bit nonsensical but fun to say nevertheless. “Call the snake doctor! We have an injured snake here!”

But why stop at snake doctors and toe-biters? In these parts, we have lightning bugs. Some call them fireflies, but they’ve always been lightning bugs to me. Whenever I see their flash on a summer night, I think back to those days of youth, when we would catch as many as we could in a glass jar and have our own makeshift lantern. Finally, opening the lid, we would watch them fly away into the night.

Our insect world is further populated by click beetles and royal walnuts; May beetles and June bugs; pond skaters and firebrats; oil beetles and fiery searchers; Baltimores and Buckeyes, sharpshooters and bee assassins; coffin flies and wanderers; daddy-long-legs and grass nymphs; acrobat ants and question marks; froghoppers and doodlebugs; walking sticks and stilt bugs; mud daubers and cow killers; woolly bears and elephant bugs. And no summer would be the same without the no-see-ums, gnats, and mozzies.

Our world is full of strange and fascinating creatures, natural processes, and various phenomena that inspired our ancestors to use their imaginations to describe them. Our vernacular is chock-full of colorful and descriptive words and phrases used to describe the natural world. From the dog days of summer, catchin’ crawdads or stirring up a nest of piss ants, I enjoy the more descriptive vernacular to describe the natural world. Anyway, it’s a lot more fun to say, “snake doctor” or “toe-biter” than it is to say “Anax junius” or “Lethocerus americanus”. It all just rolls off my tongue a lot easier.

I took this photo of a Snake Doctor in northern Michigan a couple of years ago.

“The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. The second best time is now.”
—Chinese Proverb

“On the last day of the world I would want to plant a tree.”—M.S. Merwin

I once knew of a man who had no trees in his yard. I never spoke with him, but was told it was because he didn’t want to rake leaves. There are nine trees in my front yard and ten in the back. I have dogwoods, cedars, sugar maples, redbud, and locust among my family of trees. I look forward to the fall when they will put on their finery and celebrate with a last dance of color before winter. Cleaning up after the autumn dance is but a small price to pay.

There are few things as enjoyable to me as a walk in the woods during each of the seasons. They remind me of Henry DavidThoreau’s observation, recorded in his Journal, “Live in each season as it passes, breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.” The character of each tree changes with the seasons, a reminder of the ephemeral nature of our own existence. Who cannot look at the buds of new life in spring, the full foliage of summer, the swan song of autumn, and the barren branches of winter without being reminded of our own mortality?

The economic and environmental benefits of trees are well documented and supported by science (I believe in science). A nice summary of these benefits can be found at www.treesaregood.org, the website of the International Society of Arboriculture. In this essay, I have chosen to let science speak for itself and instead reflect upon a deeper meaning of trees.

“I said to the almond tree, ‘Friend, speak to me of God,’ and the almond tree blossomed.”—Nikos Kazantzakis

Trees will be here long after I am gone, and I don’t have to leave my library to be reminded. In her book, The Oldest Living Things in the World (University of Chicago Press, 2014), Rachel Sussman provides a poignant reminder that trees were here before us and will still be here long after. There’s the 2,150 year old Giant Sequoia, General Sherman, in Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks; Methuselah, the Bristlecone Pine in the White Mountains of California, estimated to be 5,068 years old; or Pando, the colony of Quaking Aspen in Utah estimated to be 80,000 years old. Certainly not as significant as these, our own Eastern Red Cedar lives between one hundred and three hundred years. That cedar growing in the woods may have been here before you were born and will likely outlive you—ponder the thought. If you’re lucky enough to walk in an old growth forest, you are among giants that were here hundreds of years before you and I were born.

Trees have been a part of my life since childhood: climbing the maple in the backyard of our house on Elm Street, swinging on the “grapevine” that hung from the oak tree on my Uncle’s farm; smelling the pines on a hillside in Brown County State Park and hearing the sound of the wind in their needles. The presence of trees has enriched my life—most of the time. I do recall falling out of a tree in my youth and breaking my arm after climbing a bit too high—note to my younger self—make sure you test the strength of a limb before you put your full weight on it.

When I think of all those memories and a landscape without trees, I think of the things that I would miss:

The muffled silence of a pine woods, the fallen needles forming a soft cushion that silences each footstep. I never tire of walking through a pine woods—it is my sylvan cathedral.

“Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.”―Hermann Hesse

A windy day and the rush of the wind through the pines—it has a distinctive sound, different from that of deciduous trees. It is the difference between a rattle and a rush of air, like the breath of God. His voice is even more pronounced in winter, after the leaves have fallen and the pines hold center stage.

Summer shade—who hasn’t sat under a tree on a hot summer day and sipped on a fresh glass of lemonade? The shade of a tree was made especially for those idle moments when you thumb your nose at time and forget the to-do list. Time spent under a tree is never wasted time.

The fall colors—I especially like the yellows and reds of the maple and sassafras.

What would a childhood be like if there were no trees to climb? I still look at a tree for its suitability for climbing. I don’t climb them much anymore, but I just can’t let the kid in me go.

A haven for the birds—each tree is a choir loft for a multitude of birds to sing their melodious songs. I especially enjoy the cardinals and wrens.

Walking through the woods in any season is like walking through the door of the most ornate cathedral. I get a lot more from being among the wood fibers than all the hammered stone in the world. You can have the Taj Mahal, I’ll take a grove of white pine anytime.

Watching the leaves flutter to the ground in the fall, taking their place in the soil that will provide for the next spring’s growth. I have always appreciated Thoreau’s observation about leaves from his essay, Autumnal Tints: “How many flutterings before they rest quietly in their graves! They that soared so loftily, how contentedly they return to dust again, and are laid low, resigned to lie and decay at the foot of the tree, and afford nourishment to new generations of their kind, as well as to flutter on high! They teach us how to die. One wonders if the time will ever come when men, with their boasted faith in immortality, will lie down as gracefully and as ripe…”

Watching the leaves blow along the ground during a late fall bluster. They tumble and roll without a care in the world.

Heralds of spring—as the buds form on their branches and the early blooms of the redbuds and dogwoods fill the late winter landscape with color I am reminded that the earth is alive and well.

“What is the purpose of the giant sequoia tree? The purpose of the giant sequoia tree is to provide shade to the tiny titmouse.”—Edward Abbey

Life just slows a bit when I am in their presence. I have never considered “tree-hugger” a pejorative term, nor the act of tree hugging something to be hidden in the closet. I can get up close and personal with a tree without violating any social distancing expectations.

The smell of decaying leaves in the fall. Each season has its own unique smells.

“I think that I shall never see a billboard lovely as a tree. Perhaps unless the billboards fall, I’ll never see a tree at all.”—Ogden Nash

Watching the leaves turn over to expose their bright underside in advance of a summer thunderstorm. Then watching the wind shake the leaves and branches as the storm unleashes its fury.

The feel of the bark of each tree—each unique as a fingerprint.

The sound of sleet hitting the leaves on the woodland floor.

The moans and creaks of hardwood trees in the wind.

The sunlight breaking through the canopy and shining its light randomly on the woodland floor, dancing like a kaleidoscope as the clouds fly by overhead.

Watching the drops fall on the leaves in a heavy rain—they shimmer and shake in a primordial dance.

No trees? Be assured that I will always enjoy the gifts that each tree provides, whether it’s in my backyard or in the woods. There’s a lesson in the trees for those who take the time to pause for a moment, open their eyes, and listen to them sing.

“To the Eyes of a Miser a Guinea is far more beautiful than the Sun, & a bag worn with the use of Money has more beautiful proportions than a Vine filled with Grapes. The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the Eyes of others only a Green thing which stands in the way. Some see Nature all Ridicule & Deformity…& some scarce see nature at all. But to the Eyes of the Man of Imagination, Nature is Imagination itself.” – William Blake

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

“Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains.”—Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Admittedly, I didn’t have a lot go on. He passed away twenty years before I was born and only a few brief stories were passed down, hardly enough to provide me with the full measure of the man. Recently, I was unpacking some boxes after our recent move and came across a few things that once belonged to my grandfather, Russell Stewart DeLap. He was a carpenter until his death in 1939, and I have his tool box, a few of his tools, and his Bible. As I held these things in my hands, I realized that his blood still runs thick in my veins and perhaps an attempt to know him better would be worth the effort.

Since he died relatively young (age 52 years, 11 months, and 2 days, according to his obituary) and Dad was only ten years old at the time, I didn’t get to hear many stories about his life. I recall hearing him described as a no-nonsense father and a stern disciplinarian. I never detected a hint of resentment when Dad recalled his father—it was more of a “That’s the way it was, back then.” During the Great Depression times were tough, plus I’m sure keeping a brood of eight children under control required a stern approach.

So, who was R.S. DeLap—was there more to him than a handful of recollections?

Starting with a few of the facts, I began to put some color on this canvas. He was born on November 20, 1886 in Norris City, Illinois, the eldest of nine children of Darius A. and Elizabeth (Zuck) DeLap. He spent most of his adult life in West Frankfort, where he worked at his trade and regularly attended Calvary Baptist Church. He married Sarah L. Nolen on September 23, 1909 and went on to have eight children (all but one survived to adulthood). He succumbed to an intestinal infection on October 23, 1939 at Barnes Hospital in St. Louis and lies buried next to Grandmother in the Ebenezer Cemetery at Norris City.

These facts were gleaned from his obituary and the few memories. But there really isn’t much color. A closer look at his bible and tools helped to paint a more vivid portrait of my grandfather.

A family bible can reveal a lot about a person and Grandpa’s was no exception. Let there be no mistake, his faith was an important part of his life. His handwritten notes and the highlighted passages reveal quite a bit. He was a man who worked hard to live a life in keeping with his faith, but they also reveal his struggles to be true to these convictions. I saw my own father struggle with these same demons and desires, and for that matter, so do I.

One particular note revealed the tug of war between living a life of faith and the challenges and temptations of everyday life. He wrote, “This is the way I long have sought and morned [sic] because I found it not a strait and narrow way.” He further wrote, “A narrow way with all my vices.” In the Gospel of Matthew the writer describes the way to salvation as being a straight and narrow path while the path to destruction has a wide gate and broad way (Matthew 7: 13-14). This made him very human to me. Regardless of one’s faith, we all struggle to stay on the “strait and narrow way”, only to stumble off the path. 

Another note posed three questions that weren’t that different from the ones I have often pondered myself. “Where did I come from?” “What am I doing here?” and “Where am I going?” These are age-old questions that I think many have pondered at some point. If not, it might be a worthwhile exercise.

Among his papers was a handwritten description of “A true Baptist Church”, which clearly speaks to a fundamentalist view of Christianity. This is an interpretation of scripture that I understand but don’t practice. We would have parted company early in this aspect of our faith. I have always believed that one’s faith is a personal matter, not something to be spoon-fed down a gullible throat. A portion of his obituary read, “Early in life, he manifested religious zeal and lived true to his convictions. He was a consistent member of the Calvary Baptist Church in West Frankfort and his pastor, Rev. Clark, left a revival he was conducting in Rockford in response to a message telling him of the death of one of his most valued members.”

There was the page torn from a hymnal with the song, “Shall We Gather at the River”:

Shall we gather at the river?
Where bright angel feet have trod?
…Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river…

This song makes me wonder if he might have been baptized in the Big Muddy River that flows north of West Frankfort, the Baptist’s believing in full submersion.

I think his faith was summed up in the short note tucked in his bible that says, simply, “Bought May 15, 1924. This Bible means a lot to me.” Was it his first bible, purchased at the age of thirty-seven? Had he lived a rough-and-tumble life and then found religion? Did he walk into the Big Muddy that year and give himself up to the Lord? That history has been lost, but what survives is evidence that he took his faith very seriously—the worn pages of his bible ample evidence.

Life…

Life gets in the way of religion, or it sure as hell complicates matters. As much as we want to follow along the narrow way, the temptations of today and tomorrow often block our path. 

One of my favorite songs is John Prine’s “Grandpa was a Carpenter” from his album, Sweet Revenge, released on Atlantic Records in 1973: He built houses, stores, and banks/chain-smoked Camel cigarettes…he was level on the level/shaved even every door…“ Grandpa didn’t smoke Camels, but evidence suggests that he did enjoy his Chesterfields, and I’m confident he shaved even every door.

There is something about holding the tools of his trade in my hands. They make him come alive in ways that marked-up scripture in a bible can’t—it’s his tools that put the flesh on his bones. These are the things of sweat and toil, the things that put bread on the table. It is not just the marks on the paper but the thoughts behind them. What was he thinking as he wrote out the simple mathematics of a day’s work in his ledger? In many ways, this part of his life is much easier for me to grasp.

I can hold his Stanley #608 Bedrock Planer, its wooden handles deeply etched with the oil and dirt of an honest man’s hands. I have the nub of a carpenter’s pencil honed down from each day’s worth of ciphering—its red color still faintly showing through the grit. I can imagine him buying it for pennies at Stollar and Herrin Lumber Company in West Frankfort. There is the tightly rolled Lufkin cloth tape, never stretched out but surely waiting for the next task, or the bag of chalk nubs that I’m sure marked many a board. There are auger bits and the handmade toolbox that held saws, hammers, and the like. A cross-cut saw that cut through many a rick of firewood. He was a working man. He did what had to be done. He raised a family and then left them too soon. The last entry in his ledger was from August, 1939 when he did work for “J. Leacher” for a dollar an hour. His entries end on the 26^th of that month. I surmise the illness that eventually took his life ended his carpenter’s trade on that August day. He died just two months later.

Who was Russell Stewart DeLap? I think two lines from his obituary sum up his life rather succinctly:

“Reverend Clark was minister of the congregation when the present large edifice was built and he talked of the actual work and helpful suggestions of Mr. DeLap during the construction, and pointed with pride to his handiwork and suggested improvements.”

“The large church was filled with people who felt the loss of a good neighbor, a true friend, a loyal and consistent church member and an upright citizen.“

He really was the man who would “Level on the level and shaved even every door”. He was a God-fearing, honest man who gave an hour worth of hard work for his dollar of pay.

Here is his life as best as I can piece together—gone now over eighty years, yet still living on in some simple tools, a few pictures, and a time-worn bible. His body lies below a stone in Ebenezer Cemetery, but a spirit reaches out to a grandson he never knew. I have tried my damnedest to make him come alive. I stare deeply into his face in the few pictures I have and see a bit of me in there. I so much want him to step out of those pictures or me into them.  I have so many unanswered questions. Have I conjured up fiction or nonfiction?  As time passes these lines blur even more, but his bible and tools keep me anchored to a real person, flesh and blood. His wasn’t a life written about in some novel or historical treatise. Short of an obituary in the local paper, he simply passed through this life, largely undetected, except by those who loved and befriended him. Isn’t that the way it goes for most of us?

Given the state of the world right now, I chose to open with a couple of quotes I believe are very relevant.

“These are the times that try men’s souls.” – Thomas Paine

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.” – Charles Dickens, from A Tale of Two Cities

What do Thomas Paine and Charles Dickens have to do with comfort food? Well, there wouldn’t be comfort food if there was no discomfort, right? Paine and Dickens spoke of different periods in human history that tried men’s souls and brought them to despair. Is this our season of darkness and the winter of despair?  Has the novel coronavirus driven us into the darkest days of our collective memories? Have we, in our lust for material objects, taken simple things for granted and failed to see the value in simply being?

It was while contemplating these questions that I thought of the simple things that bring me joy. I thought of my love of food—the simple act of preparing a special meal and sharing it with my family. More to the point, I thought about comfort food—those special dishes that give my soul, and stomach, a feeling of contentment.

For me, comfort food has always been as much about the preparation as it is about the taste. The smell and texture of each ingredient, the preparation and sharing it around the dinner table, are equally as important as the final dish. Can something as simple as food help assuage our anxiety—conjure up memories of mom’s kitchen and not only fill our bellies but warm our hearts and souls?

I have a number of preferred comfort foods but one of my favorites has always been ham salad. I love the taste, especially on a Ritz cracker or a slice of artisan bread. The thought of ham salad always brings back the memory of my mom making it in the kitchen of our house on Chestnut Street.

We called it “the counter”. It stretched a good eight feet at one end of the kitchen and stools sat on each side where my siblings and I shared many a meal with my parents. The counter was the center of our family’s activity while I was growing up. Not only were many meals shared there, but it was also “homework central” and the perfect spot for our childhood projects.

Many a wonderful meal was prepared at that counter, but I distinctly recall when Mom made ham salad. She had a hand grinder that had been in her family for at least a generation. It clamped firmly to the counter, which allowed a good turn of the crank. The wood grain of the handle was well worn from use. Turning that handle was like turning back the hands of time.

Mom’s ham salad recipe wasn’t a complicated affair. I never recall her pulling out a recipe—she did it all from memory. There was leftover ham, whole sweet pickles with juice, hard boiled eggs, celery, and onion. Mom would dice the ham and onion into pieces small enough to be fed into the grinder. The celery and pickles would be fed in whole. We would take turns cranking the handle, watching in awe as the ingredients disappeared, emerged from the chute, and fell into a bowl. Those ingredients would then be mixed thoroughly with mayonnaise and mustard—and there would be ham salad sandwiches for dinner that night.

I recently bought my own manual grinder and the ingredients to make ham salad. I relish the thought of turning the crank of my own grinder, watching the ingredients disappear and tumble into my mixing bowl. I will think of Mom in the kitchen on Chestnut Street and the pure joy I experienced watching her turn all those ingredients into ham salad. As I prepare the ingredients and fasten my grinder to the counter I will find comfort not only from the wonderful memories, but also from Dickens’s words about the “spring of hope”.

“if more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” – J.R.R. Tolkien

“…for a man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can afford to leave alone.” 

-Henry David Thoreau, Walden

It was a just a small sapling when we moved to Roselawn Avenue in the summer of ’08. The recent flood had forced us out of our home on Sunset Drive (I suppose it was a sunset in many ways, but it was also a sunrise just the same). 

The redbud had sprouted next to the fence separating the neighbor’s yard from ours, and I was convinced that, left to grow, it would somehow damage the man- made barrier. Thus began my attempts to eradicate it. I cut it off at the base, sprayed it with herbicide—I did everything but try to pull it out by the roots—I couldn’t get a firm grip. All my efforts failed and that stubborn little sapling held on.

I eventually gave up and let nature take its course. Other than an occasional pruning, I left it alone, the fence be damned. Left to its own devices, it has now grown almost twelve feet tall and provides ample shade for a native wildflower garden I planted around its base.

But…it would not bloom. 

It was always full of leaves, but spring would come and go with nary a blossom. What was wrong with my tree? Had I treated it so harshly in its youth that it had turned its back on me? Or maybe the growing conditions weren’t quite right?

Redbuds, to me, have always been one of the sure signs of spring. They are the first tree in these parts to bathe the woods in color. Their rosy pink blossoms add a vibrant splash against the lingering browns and grays of the winter woods. The dogwoods in their white finery will be out soon but the redbuds lead the way. 

I have largely ignored the redbud this time of year, not expecting to see anything but the green buds of the season’s leaves emerging. A few days ago, I was going about my outdoor chores and was finishing up mowing the backyard when I caught a glimpse of something that gave me a chill—my redbud was blooming—awakened from its inflorescent slumber! It was one of those sights that sends a tingle from your heart to your toes. 

I’m not generally superstitious—-I’ve never been too caught up in the whole Friday the 13^th thing, or the fears of walking under ladders or breaking mirrors. But, I do draw a clear distinction between things metaphysical and empirical. There are just some things that can’t be measured and placed into a neat and tidy little box or explained by a formula in some textbook. Something about the redbud touched me deep inside, beyond the pink blossoms and the emerging leaves. There was something mystical going on here.

The redbud also provided me with an important reminder, reflected in Thoreau’s words above. It took nine years for my redbud to bloom—after I decided to leave it alone—and I am richer for it. The more I try to shape events and their outcomes, the more likely I am to lose control. If I leave more things alone and let them play out they too may bloom at an unexpected hour—and perhaps even give my soul a little metaphysical chill.

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never Is, but always To be blest.
The soul, uneasy, and confin’d from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.”

Alexander Pope, An Essay on Man

We are in still in the midst of the coronavirus global pandemic that has forced schools, restaurants, and other social gathering places to close, grocery store shelves to empty, mass gatherings to be cancelled, and otherwise has caused a significant disruption to daily life—not to mention specifically the run on toilet paper, paper towels, and hand sanitizer. We are still under a “shelter in place” order here—Governor’s orders. Been doing quite a bit of gardening and domestic chores—what the hell is someone supposed to do?

Major League Baseball, March Madness, NBA, NHL, Kentucky Derby, the Masters, and the Summer Olympics have been postponed or cancelled. Our schools will be closed here at least till the end of the school year—the longest Spring Break in history. But this is not intended to be about how anyone should respond to the virus and its proclivity to spread rather rapidly—there’s plenty of good advice from scientists at the Centers for Disease Control and from state and local governments. Your reaction and response is yours to own. Rather, it is a reflection about hope and how spring comes every year, whether we like it or not.

Spring is not only about the reawakening of the natural world. For me, it’s also about the seeds sown in my boyhood. It’s not just about grape hyacinths, crocuses, daffodils, and the buds on the trees—Groundhog Day be damned. The beginning of baseball season was always the source of my eager optimism. Baseball was the official harbinger of spring—no turning back with spring training and opening day looming ahead. My team would be in the World Series come fall, by god!

Pitchers and catchers have always reported to Spring Training in mid-February for as long as I can remember—even when snow was yet on the ground. They reported to places like Sarasota, Bradenton, St. Petersburg, and Clearwater in Florida and Mesa, Tucson, Surprise, and Yuma in Arizona. They warmed up their arms at fields throughout the desert southwest and the tropics of Florida. They played in the Grapefruit and Cactus Leagues, which by their very names conjured up thoughts of warm days ahead.

Baseball has always been my awakening to spring and hope. It was the green grass, the smell of my leather baseball glove as I worked in the Neatsfoot Oil in anticipation of the coming season. It was the crack of the ball as it flew off the end of my Louisville Slugger; it was gathering that flyball in center field. It meant “pitch and catch” with my grandfather and pick-up games on the school field. That first scuff of green and brown appearing on my new, white baseball meant the season was underway.

The first series of Topps baseball cards would soon be on the shelf at Northside Drugstore, along with Street and Smith’s Baseball Annual, Who’s Who in Baseball, and Baseball Digest—each one like a fresh spring flower. Always a Cardinals fan, my friend Brian, a Tigers fan, and I would trade each other for all our team’s cards. I still have very few Tiger cards in my collection, and I am sure he would say the same about the Cardinals. What I wouldn’t give for a 1968 Topps Al Kaline…but I do have a Bob Gibson. I still have my cards—why would I give up such memories? Each card was bought with money from my lawn mowing jobs and a variety of other chores. My bicycle knew the path to Northside Drugstore whenever I had a dollar in my pocket. I could buy quite a few packs of cards for five cents each, with money left over to get a couple pieces of bubble gum.

I soaked up baseball books. I received the Baseball Encyclopedia for Christmas in 1969. It included the record of every Major League player to have ever been in the lineup. In its over one thousand pages, I discovered that Ken Johnson and I were both born on June sixteenth. Titles like Baseball Stars of 1968, Strange but True Baseball Stories, Great Baseball Stories, From Ghetto to Glory, The Incredible Mets, Baseball’s Zaniest Stars—among many others—still sit on my bookshelves.

Then, there were the Saturdays with Gramps. They actually began on Friday night, when my parents would drop me off at his house on Cherry Street to spend the night. We would sit together on the stoop and listen to the Cincinnati Reds on the radio, live with Joe Nuxhall and Marty Brenneman. When the game was over, we would retreat to popcorn on the stovetop and Cokes in the small glass bottles. We watched the Vietnam War unfold on the Evening News with Walter Cronkite. I watched the riots break out in Chicago during the 1968 Democratic Convention. I saw the trial of the Chicago Seven (Eight) unfold on the screen. What was a nine-year-old boy to think? Was it the end of time? Not for me. Instead, I worried about who would be on the “Game of the Week” on Saturday.

Spring was driving up to that vast expanse of concrete and asphalt, Riverfront Stadium, in Cincinnati. A tree or two stood forlorn in the middle of this paved desert. The Ohio River offered a reminder that nature yet wound its way through man’s world. I would walk through the metal turnstile and then I would see it: a hint of green down the aisle, beckoning me to my seat. Then, suddenly, the full expanse of the field would open up as I emerged from the tunnel. It was my personal awakening from the gray, lifeless days of winter to the green, verdant days of spring.

“Opening Day” will always represent spring’s awakening to me. In these challenging times, I need that feeling of rebirth. For now, hope springs eternal.  

Camera Day at Riverfront Stadium, Cincinnati, Ohio – August 26, 1973

Day five of shelter in place—my wife is working from home and school has been called until at least May 1st. I am unpacking boxes from our recent move and otherwise keeping busy. We are all healthy. The girls are getting on each other’s nerves. I am not getting on my own nerves yet.

“Obey the nature of things, and you will walk freely and undisturbed.” — Seng Ts’an (died AD 606)

Social distancing is tough on a guy who likes to shake hands and give hugs to friends and family. I met my new neighbor and we stood six feet apart—we both wanted to shake hands.

“If you are lonely when you are alone, you are in bad company.” — Jean-Paul Sartre (died AD 1980)

I practiced social distancing on a hike in Brown County State Park last week. As I was leaving, a gray squirrel ran across the road bound for the next tree. I thought—it didn’t give a damn about COVID-19.

I think I will practice social distancing this weekend, in the woods, or my front yard.

“All life is a foreign country.” — Jack Kerouac (died AD 1969)

Thunderstorm last night followed by a gentle rain this morning. I love the term, “petrichor”—a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.

“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.” — John Muir (died AD 1914)

It was not lost on me that we passed the vernal equinox last week—the first day of spring—a date on the calendar, an alignment of the planets. The plants and animals have already awakened to their own clocks!

The cardinals are busy singing their songs of spring. What a beautiful sound! My ancestors heard these same songs. They survived the flu epidemic of 1918. My Grandfather went to France in 1918 as part of the American Expeditionary Force, suffered from the flu, and came back alive. We too will survive. My youngest daughter is struggling with why she can’t play with her friends. The coronavirus is a hard lesson for a ten year-old.

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.” — Seneca (died AD 65)

I have a woodland outside my front door. The wildflowers—spring beauties, bloodroot, Virginia waterleaf and cut-Leaf toothwort—flowers I normally see out in the woods. Nature is never very far. I can’t wait to see what blooms next!

The wind has been blowing strong since last night. What will it blow in?

“To what shall I compare the world? It is like the wake vanishing behind a boat that has rowed away at dawn.” — Sami Manzei (circa AD 720)

I put up my bird feeder outside the front door—the first visitor was a fox squirrel.

I think we have a cottontail rabbit living under our back deck—or should I say rabbits!

My books have been unpacked and my library is fully shelved. The first book I pulled from the shelf was, Walden.

A man said to the universe: “Sir, I exist.” However, replied the universe, “The fact has not created in me a sense of obligation.” — Stephen Crane (died AD 1900)

My daughter and I moved the fairy garden to our new house today. It was fun finding a new place for it in our backyard.

I close, (almost), with Thoreau’s (died AD 1862) words from Walden—

“I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers. A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will. Solitude is not measured by the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows.”

As you hunker down, discover yourself. You might just like what you find…or not.

Die Welt ist meine Auster.
Lebe dein Leben so, wie es beabsichtigt ist.