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It will always be one of the greatest joys of my life how two families, coming from such different origins, became intertwined through the bonds of friendship. That friendship and the timeless bond that grew from it began some 44 years ago when I met Horace for the first time. Sadly, the world bid farewell to him today, taken from those of us who loved him before anyone was ready to part. This is my eulogy to my friend, H.G. Ballard, Jr., the “B”, or Junior as his family called him.

I was 15 when I first met Horace and I was pretty much full of myself back then. I had gone to work for my dad as soon as I got my work permit, by his orders. Horace managed the print shop and was pretty much the man who held the building together, kind of a jack of all trades, and in his case a master of them all. Dad took me downstairs to the print shop, not quite by my ear, and introduced me by explaining that I would be helping him out that summer. As Horace later recounted, his thought was,” Oh God, not a kid to have to raise.” In spite of his misgivings about “raising” me, we became fast friends. Soon, I was going home with him for lunch where his wife Sue would make grilled cheese sandwiches along with a bowl of tomato soup, their infant daughter sitting with us as we broke bread. He would often take me home on the back of his Yamaha dirt bike, letting me wear his helmet. There were the countless times he would stick my bike in the trunk of his car so I didn’t have to ride home in the dark.

I remember not giving one thought to the fact that Horace and I came from different socio-economic backgrounds. I simply remember that this was a man who, along with his wife, opened their arms to a bratty teenager who thought he owned the world. Their doorstep was my doorstep, their table my table. My mother and father treated Horace the same way. I silently learned that the things that bind us together are often bigger than we are, bigger than our egos. I cherish to this day a picture taken of Horace sitting at the piano in our living room in 1978 with his harmonica in hand. He looks so at home at the ivories. I still have the memory of my 83-year-old grandfather sitting in the chair listening to Horace’s solo, enjoying every moment.

There were the fun times, the pranks, making fun out of work, and the “oh, shit” moments. There was sliding my 69 Camaro on a winter day into the back of his old Chevy Impala; my ride didn’t fare so well. There were the summer softball games, cutting firewood; we played together, we worked together. There was just sitting in his living room, talking into the evening, sharing our faith, swapping stories, hopes, and dreams. There was the time he rescued me when I got in over my head putting gutters on my neighbor ‘s house. There was the canoe trip on Isle Royale in 1994, an epic wilderness trip where the bonds of our friendship were further strengthened. There was wrestling with his sons on the floor of his living room. He was the spiritual rock when I had questions about my faith. There was standing next to me 16 years ago when I married for the second time. There was being with him when he lost his father, mother, and two brothers. There was the long hike he took with me after I lost my mother, his words comforting and consoling. There were our Friday lunches and so much more.

So here are these two families, never connected until that day over 44 years ago and now intertwined through the bonds of work, friendship, joy, and sorrow. I will miss my dear friend for he was a teacher to an upstart kid, counsel in youth and young adulthood, a stalwart friend through a divorce and the loss of a mother, a spiritual guide, quite simply, a friend beyond measure. He was always there, a rock on the shore, an anchor in stormy seas. I can only hope I repaid the gifts he gave me for it is too late to measure it all up, to check the ledger. It is now left to memory, for as often happens, death puts the finishing touch on all earthly things. Here’s to you, my friend.

There is a stretch of highway in southern Indiana that, in my youth, carried me to a world of adventure and discovery.  Although only about 18 of its 122 miles lies in Bartholomew County, the adventures that came from my travels down this stretch of road were endless.  In my youth, State Road 58 used to begin its westward journey at the county fairgrounds south of Columbus.   My road to adventure then made its way through a vast sea of corn, soybeans, and pastureland that seemed boundless to a young boy.  Places like Ogilville, Mt. Healthy, and Waymansville lay along the way, small dots on the map but important waypoints on my way to adventure.  Waymansville, once a bustling German community, was home to many of my ancestors who now rest in the cemetery at St. Peter Lutheran Church.  Finally, winding through a small valley, the highway climbed Dug Hill and left me behind with my childhood adventures.

Many an escapade began at the county fair, which I often attended with my late grandfather. He was known to his friends as Alf, but to me he was “Grampa,” much more informal and easier for a boy to say than “grandfather.”  Whether climbing on the farm machinery, walking through the livestock barns, eating slushies and cotton candy, or seeing the wildlife and fish at the state DNR display, it was a new world for me to explore.  Any of these activities were of more interest than the midway with its rides, games, and hawkers.  Grampa, a retired farmer and former manager of the feed store at the Farm Bureau Co-Op in Columbus, was at home at the fair.  He was the backstage pass that allowed me to enter the world of agriculture and be among those who worked the land.  These experiences instilled in me a deep respect for the agrarian way of life that has remained steadfast through the years.

On down State Road 58, we would visit a small farm that lay just south of Waymansville below Dug Hill.  My Uncle Frank and Aunt Myrtle farmed 140 acres of ground there and made a very decent living from the soil.  This place was a young boy’s delight.  I would wade in the creek, catch crawdads, fish for bluegill in the pond, climb in the hayloft pretending the bales were the tallest mountain in the world, and drink lemonade on the porch staring out at an endless green sea of corn and soybeans.  There were Bill and Silver, the old Percheron workhorses that my uncle once used to work the soil and Daisy, the old Guernsey milk cow I would ride like a horse.  There were the Hereford calves I would secretly try to ride in the barn stall, an effort that always ended up in a good spill.  I recall one particular ride that landed me in a large pile of cow dung and then trying to explain to my uncle how that stain on my pants had come to pass.

My Aunt Myrtle was as much at home on the Allis-Chalmers tractor as Frank, the only difference was the large umbrella that provided her a bit of shade on a hot summer’s day.  I always thought that Uncle Frank chose the hottest day of the year to ask me to help put up hay.  The bales were larger and heavier than me and it often took four hands to throw them on the wagon.  I did my best lest I get Frank’s label of being “work-brittle”, not a badge you wore with honor.  Theirs was also a life of faith, with St. Peter Lutheran Church at the center of their lives. Myrtle was the church organist and a trip to Seymour usually meant that Frank needed a new suit to wear on Sunday.  Frank’s disdain for snakes was legendary which clearly had biblical roots.

Oh, those summers past.  Whether going to the fair, climbing in the hayloft, milking the cows, fishing in the pond, feeding the hogs, catching frogs, lighting sparklers on the 4^th of July, going on tractor rides, and so much more, each one was part of a young boy’s dream of a perfect summer day.  Those days may be long past but the memories that were forged remain an indelible part of me to this day.  My experiences at the fair and on the farm helped me develop a sense of adventure that I have held onto firmly throughout my life.  It was the belief that I would always be able to discover something new in the great outdoors that fueled my lifelong passion for nature, whether it was a new experience, a new plant, or a new creature.  Along the way, I learned some valuable lessons about faith, family, hard work, and our place in the natural world.

Each adventure would eventually come to an end and we would start back home down the state road with the windows of grampa’s 1973 Chevy Impala open to the cool air of the summer evening, the smell of the country a sweet perfume.  Often, I would fall asleep in the back seat, only to awaken as we pulled into the driveway.  I would shuffle off to bed, confident in the belief that I had for the day been an adventurer, a fearless explorer of that small farm south of Waymansville.  My eyelids, heavy with sleep, would close to the sounds of the summer night and I would drift off to sleep dreaming about my next adventure, confident it would be a good one.

Grampa at work with the Farm Bureau Co-Op

Columbus Evening Republican, Early 1960’s, Grampa on the Right

Grampa, WWI 1918

Grampa nearing Retirement

Uncle Frank and Aunt Myrtle

An Adventuresome Boy

The seeds of my BLT were planted in the dead of winter when the first garden catalogs arrived in my mailbox.  Winter never gets too far along before I begin thinking about spring.  I glanced through the pages of my catalogs and the explosion of color that is notably absent during the winter months jumped from the pages.  Tomatoes in a multitude of varieties and colors – with names like Red Lightning, Mr. Stripey, Little Mama, Green Zebra, Big Zac, Cherokee Purple, and Oh Happy Day in bright reds, yellows, and greens filled the pages.

I love tomatoes about any way you can fix them; raw, roasted, fried green, in a tart, stuffed or pickled.  But there is one way I enjoy a tomato that defines summer for me, and that is in a BLT.  Of all the things I plant in my garden, it is my tomatoes that define it.  The lettuce can go to seed, the zucchini can rot on the vine, and the beetles can chew up my kale, but my tomato plants are my children, my offspring.

My BLT actually began to take shape last fall.  I prepared the soil of my garden by adding the summer’s compost and then heaped on a good pile of late autumn leaves.  The rotting jack-o-lanterns from Halloween were thrown in for good measure.  Perhaps to my neighbor’s dismay, I liberally threw kitchen waste on top of the pile throughout the winter months; egg shells, coffee grounds, and vegetable waste added to the soup.

As the days grew longer and the first of May approached, I began to get the itch to hit the nursery and find out what varieties of tomatoes would be available this season.  I always choose carefully, never wanting a plant that has already fruited or contains too many flowers.  Preferring a plant about 8 to 10 inches tall, I want the energy it gives to bearing fruit to come from my garden soil; no artificial ingredients of any kind,  purely organic.

Although I always plant what I call a standard bearer such as Early Girl, Better Boy, or Beefsteak, I always choose an heirloom variety to spice up the kitchen a bit.  This year, I chose a Black Prince variety, native to Siberia.  I must admit that it was hard to imagine a tomato growing there but it has done just fine in my backyard.

As I do with each of my plants, I nurture each one quite carefully, giving it just the right amount of water and watch closely for pests.  My efforts soon bore fruit, and I plucked the first tomato from the vine just over a week ago.  Tempting as it might have been to carve up the first fruit into a few raw slices and consume them au naturel, I instead sliced them thin in anticipation of that first BLT.

The BLT, the consummate summer sandwich, has been a staple of my diet since childhood.  A sandwich of the vine and turf, perhaps the Midwest version of the surf and turf, pigs in a blanket, or whatever you want to call it.  Two slices of whole wheat bread toasted to perfection; Hellman’s mayonnaise spread liberally and evenly on each slice.  Then, carefully picked lettuce leaves from the garden laid on the bread, forming the second layer of this carefully planned sandwich.  Then, the fruit of the vine, tomato slices cut from a tomato about the size of a baseball.  This tomato is chosen carefully, free from blemishes and perfectly ripe, each slice about ¼ inch thick; the lettuce forming a perfect bed for an ample helping of this summer fruit.  Ah, and the bacon, thick sliced, and fried just short of crispy.  I hate to say how much I use lest my doctor suffer a stroke.  Carefully laying the last piece of bread on top, I have now created my culinary masterpiece, the fruit of summer.  I take that first bite and my mouth comes alive and I savor each one that follows, wishing at the end that my stomach was just a little bit larger and another BLT laid in wait.

The taste of this delightful sandwich conjures up memories of summers past; the whir of locusts, sparklers on the 4^th of July, corn on the cob, watermelon and cantaloupe fresh from the market, baseball games, fishing with a cane pole and bobber, going barefoot in the grass, all part of my truly Midwestern experience.  I still have my copy of Alice Low’s book, Summer, that I read as a child and it still resonates with me.  I particularly enjoy her closing sentence for it perfectly describes the end of a summer day for me,

“We stay awake and think of things…the happy things that summer brings!”

I still vividly remember the end of those glorious days of summer, lying in bed feeling quite tired but fulfilled, and wondering as I drifted off to sleep what adventure the next day would bring.

So as long as I am able, I will choose the seeds of my garden wisely and carefully plant them in the spring.  If I cultivate them properly, I will again be able to savor each bite of that first BLT and along with it, the memories of summers past.  Winter can drive me to melancholy but I know that the new birth of the next spring will come and with it summer’s fruit and the happy things that summer brings.

Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.  – Matsuo Basho

Homecoming, in the traditional sense, could be returning home after an extended absence to reunite with my family.  It sometimes reminds me of my high school days when our football team returned home early in the season.  A king and queen were crowned and they lorded over the student body, all of us full of testosterone and teenage bravado.  Those years are long past and high school homecoming is now just something I read about in the newspaper.  As I have grown older, I think of homecoming differently, it is many things now, each carved indelibly into my memory, no longer simply a Friday night football game or walking through my front door.

It was a little over a year ago when I arrived at Indian River, Michigan and stared into the rest of my life.  It was not a simple trip.  The world I had known had been upended in late June when I lost my job of 12 years; to say the least my life was in turmoil.  On the last day of June, I walked out the back door of our rented cottage on Burt Lake, staked claim to a blue Adirondack chair, and gazed out at the lake.  As I looked upon the calming waters, my mind drifted between my past, present, and future.   I read Thoreau’s Walden again, Li Po, Whitman, and Wang Wei, losing myself in their timeless words.   I let the cool water of the lake wash over my body; a baptism washing away over a decade of sins.  I thanked God I was there as I stared into my future.

Fast forward, and today I sit in the same blue Adirondack chair staring out at the same water.  I have recovered from the turmoil of a year ago and once again am leading a happy life; happier than I have been for a long, long, time.  I have reaffirmed my resurrection in the cool waters of Burt Lake and celebrate this place that gave me solace when I needed comfort, the opportunity to see when I needed vision and guidance when I needed direction.  Perhaps I will never return here for truly way does lead on to way, but this was truly a homecoming taking its place in the hall of my memories.

A homecoming is something sacred to me, it is etched into my being, and then something happens that brings me back home to a warm and welcoming place.  It is where I have been, what I have done, and the experiences of my life, great and small.  It is the memories I have collected along the way, it is the good things.  I have certainly experienced trials and tribulations but I look upon them as making my homecomings that much sweeter.  There are no do-overs for the things have that turned my life upside down, but I choose to let the good overwhelm them.

When I experience a homecoming I know it, because I feel it inside, the warm embrace of an old memory.  It speaks to me and says you were here once and you are welcome back again, and I feel an ineffable joy that I have returned.  It might be pulling an old book off the shelf, going for a hike in the woods, hearing an old song, the taste of comfort food, sharing old stories with family, seeing an old friend, planting my garden, the smell of a rhubarb pie in the oven, or visiting the graves of my ancestors.  The people, places, thoughts, and things in my life have always been there for me, a constant reminder that I am on a wonderful trip, full of memories, full of homecomings.

As they say, parting is such sweet sorrow and each homecoming must come to an end.  I don’t know what the future holds, but I will always treasure my yesterdays, each today, and the rest of my tomorrows, knowing that each one holds the memories that will always welcome me home.

There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground; there are a thousand ways to go home again. – Rumi

June 20, 2018

Dear Dad,

I will forever look back on my childhood and my life and realize how wonderful it has been and how lucky I am that I have a father who has cares so deeply about his children.  That love and care has extended beyond my childhood and continues to this day.  You are 90-years old now but I count each day you are with us as a blessing beyond measure.  Knowing that through these years, you have always been here as a sounding board, a mentor, and most importantly as my father is a blessing.  I have learned so much from the way you have carried yourself, each and every day.

A lot of the things I enjoy today, Dad, are the result of your encouragement.  The first backpacking trip to the White Mountains put the exclamation point on what has been a lifetime of enjoyment in the outdoors.  Those who know me would certainly agree; nature will always be an indelible part of me and balm for my soul. Your encouragement in scouting helped me achieve my Eagle rank, which to this day remains one of my proudest accomplishments.

Your commitment to your faith has provided me with a solid foundation.  Your own involvement set a perfect example for me as I continue to be involved in the life of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church.  Sunday’s will forever have a deep meaning in my life.  I have built my spiritual life upon your foundation.

My commitment to my family remains solid because of the lessons you taught.  Even though you were running a business, there was always time for us.  Our summer vacations with you and mom were epic and each brings back a wealth of great memories.  Whether on vacation or at the end of a hard day at school, just knowing that you were always there provided a level of comfort that made growing up easier.  Ken, Ann, Alice and I owe our tight bond to the lessons that you and mom taught.

You also taught me respect for all human beings.  Regardless of origin or status, all are treated with dignity and respect.  Your lessons stand in stark contrast to a world that seems more interested in tearing down than building up.  You ran your business as if people mattered; it wasn’t about profit and being first.  You helped a lot of people make a good living and support their families.  If one were to ask me of your legacy outside of family, I would simply say, he ran a business that cared about people.

I still remember a comment that was made during mom’s funeral.  A good friend said, with the deepest sincerity, that when he walked across the threshold of our house, he was always treated as family.  You and mom set that example and I, too, know no stranger.

I could go on and on about the memories and examples of why you are a great father.  I guess I could sum it up in one sentence;  I give thanks each day that I have been blessed to be your son.

I Love You, Dad.

My grandfather lived life simply; for him it just wasn’t a complicated affair. But don’t get me wrong, he was not a simple man, he was a common man. He grew up one of six children in a log cabin on a farm in southern Bartholomew County. He spoke German before he knew English. He hauled gravel with his brother by horse and wagon to help build the state road near his boyhood home. He slept under the same wagon while hauling produce into Columbus on roads that looked more like dirt paths. He was confirmed (in German) at St. Peter Lutheran Church in Waymansville, Indiana in 1909, enlisted in the Army in 1918, and shipped to France as part of the American Expeditionary Force in WWI. He returned home to the farm, married, worked a short spell for International Harvester in Indianapolis, and then returned to manage the feed store at the Farm Bureau Co-op in Columbus, before retiring in 1958. After my grandmother had passed away he tried Florida for a season but reported that his idea of relaxation wasn’t sitting on a park bench. He then settled into a very important role, Grandfather, at which he performed above and beyond the call of duty until his death in September 1978.

I entered his life in 1959, and we became fast friends. He lived in a small bungalow on Cherry Street that still holds the fond memories of Friday night sleepovers, CBS News with Walter Kronkite, pancake breakfasts, and the Major League Game of the Week with Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek. There were fishing trips, washing his 1973 Chevy Impala on the front lawn, planting tomatoes in his backyard garden, the hammock that invited me to lie on my back and stare at the clouds, popcorn and cokes (in the small bottles), bologna sandwiches, Jackson County watermelons, and listening to Joe Nuxhall and Marty Brennaman broadcast Red’s baseball on his Arvin transistor radio. The memories of our times together are so deeply carved into my soul that the weather of time will never be able to erase them.

Within this common life, there was an artist. The hands that held the Heilige Bibel, the reins of a horse, the handles of a plow, the Enfield rifle he carried to France, the wheel of a farm tractor, or the hand of a loved one, also created beautiful cane bottom chairs. I am lucky enough to have two of his chairs, each woven more than 50 years ago. Besides being a common man, for which he truly did deserve the fanfare, his fingers also possessed some magic. He may not have been Rembrandt, Picasso, or Copeland, but he was our artist.

The chairs, made of native woods, have intricate patterns woven into their seats, as taught now as the day they were woven. I remember how he would soak the cane strips in an old metal wash tub and then work the cane in his hands to make it pliable. He carved his own caning pegs from a block of wood, using them to hold the cane in place as he threaded each strip through the holes of the seat as deftly as a dressmaker sewing a fine dress. Knowing how taught to weave the cane was an art form in and of itself; too loose, and the seat would sag, too tight and the cane could warp the chair bottom.

Those hands, oh those hands, weathered from years of honest work, but still able to weave the intricate patterns in the seat of a simple chair. If he were alive today, I would hold those hands in mine and feel their history, the strength and passion he gave to his life, and ultimately he gave to me. His may have been a common life, but it was one beyond measure. They say that the eyes are the window to the soul, I say that the hands of the common man speak more truly.

So this man who lived simply, made art. I often ask myself if I have such talent. I don’t weave cane, although I wish I would have taken the time to let him teach me. I don’t paint or draw. I have no musical ability and I am not a sculptor. I do occasionally weave words together in the hope that they resonate with someone out there. My grandfather didn’t sell his art; he did it for the love of it and I share these words out of love. I often sit in his chairs and when I do, I feel his embrace, the hands, arms, and soul of a common man, and an artist.

Chuck Will was a stranger to me, our paths had never crossed, and I can honestly say that I was not aware he had a widow. Oddly enough, I know of another Chuck Will but he is not the subject of this writing. This is about Chuck’s widow and not about either Chuck.

I crossed paths with Chuck’s widow this past Memorial Day weekend while we were in the Red River Gorge in Eastern Kentucky. The Gorge, located within the Daniel Boone National Forest abounds with natural stone arches, unusual rock formations, and beautiful sandstone cliffs. It is a wonderful place for hiking and rock climbing, if you’re the daring type. It is also a nice place to just get away, to blow the dust of the world off of your shoulders, and find an inner peace.

Fighting our way through rush hour and holiday traffic in Louisville and Lexington would not be finding inner peace, but we finally made our way to the Bert T. Combs Mountain Parkway on the sunrise side of Lexington. As you drive east on the Parkway, you are reminded that you are entering a different world. Gone are the bluegrass horse farms of Lexington giving way to the mountains, hills and hollers of eastern Kentucky, the Appalachian variety of course. Passing by Clay City, Waltersville, and Stanton we left the parkway at Slade and headed south on Highway 11. The road curved alongside sandstone cliffs and rocky streams meandered along the roadside. For me it felt like I was in another country, much farther away than the mere three hours we were from home.

Passing through Zachariah and just past Zoe, we turned off 11 at the local VFW lodge. Descending a gravel road past a small cemetery, we entered a dense wood of oak and maple with mountain laurel in full bloom. Away from the hustle and bustle of our other world we had arrived at our destination, aptly named the Retreat, and little did I suspect, an encounter with Chuck Will’s widow.

With a little more daylight ahead of us, we opted for assistance with our evening meal and headed for Hill Top Pizza which advertised subs, salads, and hot wings. Let me just say, the pizza and dry-rubbed hot wings were palate pleasers. I didn’t try the salad but I did get to know the resident feline. She was helping herself to a bit of pizza when I left. Hill-top was a local joint and it helped us get into the rhythm of the local scene.

After a good “after the road” meal, we settled into the peace and tranquility of our Retreat. As the day began to turn and the sun dipped beyond the horizon, the sounds of night soon chased the day away for good. Soon the crickets were singing, the frogs were chorusing, and the occasional owl was hooting. I was enjoying a nice Kentucky moonlight stroll, when a sound broke through the night air that I had never heard before. In the still, lonely darkness, my ears strained to hear what my eyes could not see. It came from deep in the woods but the sound was as clear as if someone was whispering in my ear. Was it a ghost from the cemetery up the hill or was someone lost in the woods? I listened intently in the darkness, my ears more acutely aware of the sounds around me.

It kept calling and the voice became clearer. Chuck-wills-widow, chuck-wills-widow. It would stop for just a moment and then call again, chuck-wills-widow, chuck-wills-widow. My imagination got the better of me for a moment and I imagined I was hearing, I am Chuck Will’s Widow, I am Chuck Wills’ Widow. Was it Chuck’s widow calling to me from beyond the grave, begging to be released from some ungodly curse?

Before the chill of fear overcame me, I remembered reading about this call in one of my bird guides. I was being given the rare opportunity to hear the call of Chuck-will’s-widow, a member of the nightjar family of birds. This bird, a denizen of the night, is rarely seen during the day so the opportunity to listen to its distinctive nocturnal song was a special gift. As I continued to listen to the calls, my imagination ran wild in the darkness and I began to wonder if it really might be Chuck Will’s widow calling out to those who would listen. Perhaps her body is buried in the small cemetery up the hill, while her spirit wanders lost in these Kentucky woods. She may be looking for a home, a place where her spirit can find peace. Instead, could she be cursed to wander through these Kentucky woods calling, I am Chuck Will’s widow…I am Chuck Will’s Widow? It was these thoughts, and the night, that made my goosebumps get a little bigger. I decided it was time to go inside.

If I could step back in time and hand myself a letter as I left Columbus North High School in June of 1977, diploma in hand, I would share the following thoughts with my younger self…

Dear John,

My friend, we have traveled together for a long time, never letting each other get too far ahead. We have been fellow travelers through childhood, school, teenage angst, young adulthood, and now into middle age.   Whether being a husband, father, son, brother, or friend, we have stuck together through it all.  Sometimes it feels like we have been playing a game of tag all these years, for youth runs from old age hoping never to be caught and old age chases after youth always hoping to capture it.  I owe you a lasting debt of gratitude that you have never really let me grow up.  Left alone, I would have imprisoned myself in maturity, forever condemned to live a life of expectations; success measured by how many cars I have, how big my house is, my job title, where my kids go to college, and on and on. Keeping my inner child alive and well has given me a wonderful outlook as I have traveled through this life.

I have certainly received advice from many but it’s what I have done that matters most, not what anyone told me to do. Thoreau said (of those who would tell us how to live), “They have told me nothing, and probably cannot tell me anything to the purpose. Here is life, an experiment to a great extent untried by me; but it does not avail me that they have tried it.” It has been my footsteps, the realities of my life, and where it has taken me that matters most, not the words of the so-called experts for they are forever dispensing advice.  The world is chock full of those with the latest get rich schemes, advice on how we can be better motivated to make a buck, or what we should do in order to lead the perfect life.  If I had become addicted to all this advice, I would have spent more time indoors devouring the latest volume instead of being out exploring the wonders of our world.  It is the latter activity that has provided me more guidance than all the books in the self-help section.

I have reached the point in my life where I feel that spiritual fulfillment is more important than material gain.  As I began my career and got into the habit of wanting more and more, I too often found myself feeling more like a shell than a sentient being.  After I got off that roller coaster and focused more on the spiritual aspects of my life, I have received rewards well beyond those things bought with money.  My spiritual exploration has taken me from Judeo-Christian values to the rich traditions of the East, such as Buddhism and Taoism.  I have kept an open mind to the full breadth of all spiritual traditions, from wherever they originate, for each contributes in its on way to a better understanding of my inner being.  Rest assured that I won’t end my journey thinking I should have spent more time in the office.

The fearlessness of youth, that feeling of being immortal, abruptly gave way to the realities of age. It happened to me when I was 33 and underwent emergency surgery.  I had marched through my younger years, daring whatever it was out there to come and get me, and it certainly did. I recovered and since then have tried to focus on my health and sanity for these are the best gifts that I can give myself.

I have stayed very close to my family for they are the roots that have allowed me to grow up with a firm anchor in this life’s soil. From it I have nurtured myself and my own family. Death is the great unknown, but leaving this earth in the forest that is family is much better than the tree that withers and dies standing in the field alone.  I have never forgotten the humble seed from which I sprouted, always believing that in the end, the humble will be exalted.

My parents taught me that maintaining an open mind and being accepting and loving of those around me; whether family, friends, or strangers, was quite simply an expectation. Being a guide, a fellow wayfarer, and not a hindrance was my responsibility; humankind had enough struggles without the barriers I put in the way. My sojourn in this life has been much more enjoyable having embraced the human race, with all its warts and blemishes.  Let me be clear that I am not perfect and I work hard each day to resist division and embrace inclusiveness.  Being a true reflection of my parents is something I will always strive for.

There has always been a constant in my life, an anchor; something that keeps me grounded. For me it is nature and seeking out opportunities to immerse myself in it.  Whether gardening in my backyard or taking long hikes in the woods, I have sought out nature throughout my life for its nurturing gifts.  It has kept me moored to the present, given me great memories, new discoveries, healed the wounds of life, and forever fed my inner child.  If I were to lose this connection, it would be to lose my life.

One day not so long ago, I was presented with the opportunity to reinvent myself; and when it arrived, I took hold and am riding that horse until I either break it or get thrown off.  It woke me up from a Rip Van Winkle-esque existence and I was reminded that I truly possessed my future.  It doesn’t belong to anyone but me.  I relish this ride like no other and am excited to see where it takes me.

Seeking out moments of solitude has always been one of my life’s healthiest pursuits and being alone in the woods is among the most refreshing moments.  Being alone teaches me a lot about myself and, having spent enough time with me, I have actually discovered that I really do like me. It is in solitude that I have confronted the demons of my life, wrestled them to the ground, and left them behind to face life with renewed energy.  As Thoreau said, “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 have never found the companion as companionable as solitude.”

As I look back on my life I know that things haven’t turn out like I planned. I don’t fret about it though, for I never had it all mapped out. My childhood dreams didn’t turn out exactly as I imagined and there have been parts of my life that have come crashing down. But it’s been okay, for change and adaptation are among the beauties of life. I have had grand experiences like the birth of my four children, having a loving wife, the joy of family, pursuing my passion, discovering myself, and feeling the gentle touch of my spirit in each one of my life’s experiences. I have learned to roll with the happy times, the bumps, and the bruises for I have had them all; it is what I have done with them that is important not the events themselves.

So, my friend this is not really advice rather it is a reflection on a life so far lived.  I think you would agree that its been a great adventure so far.  As we continue our travels through this life, will we stand firm with each other and take what comes? Will we be the tree in the forest that constantly reaches for the sun and is a haven to life? Will we dream as if we were just born and our life lies before us?  Will we always pursue our dreams, our own path? Will we look at the world around us with a child’s fascination? I will close with these wonderful words from Walt Whitman’s, Song of the Open Road, for I somehow know we will always be side by side…

With Undying Love,

John

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Dear Katie and Sarah,

It is truly a source of constant joy and my eternal privilege to be your father. As you continue on your journey to adulthood, I want to offer you a bit of advice. That’s part of the joy of being a father; you have to at least hear what I have to say. You may ignore these words but here they are nonetheless. First, slow down and don’t wish your childhood away, adulthood will arrive soon enough. I know you sometimes think it is pretty tough being a child but the expectations that are placed upon you now will pale in comparison to those as you become an adult. But fear not, for even now you are learning a valuable lesson that will help you beyond measure for the rest of your life.

What is that lesson? As you grow older, you will be tempted to suppress those things you did as a child, allowing the pressures of being a grown-up to become all consuming. Don’t let this happen. You were born with and possess a sense of wonder at what you see around you. I’m not talking about the cacophony of electronic intrusions that desensitizes you to the wonders of the world rather I am talking about nature, the natural world around you.

As you grow older, your childhood will likely fade into the background but I urge you not to let it go. Keep your sense of wonder alive, nurture your inner child, that part of you that continues to look at the natural world in wonder and cannot stop discovering something new and exciting. It is that part of you that is fascinated with what you discover outdoors, not indoors on the couch. It is finding the extraordinary in the ordinary; it is dropping to the ground to observe an insect, it is watching a chickadee flitting through the branches of a tree, watching the bees, planting a flower…

Rachel Carson in her essay, A Sense of Wonder, wrote,

“A child’s world is fresh and new and beautiful, full of wonder and excitement. It is our misfortune that for most of us that clear-eyed vision, that true instinct for what is beautiful and awe-inspiring, is dimmed and even lost before we reach adulthood. If I had influence with the good fairy who is supposed to preside over the christening of all children, I should ask that her gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life, as an unfailing antidote against the boredom and disenchantment of later years, the sterile preoccupation with things that are artificial, the alienation from the sources of our strength.”

I am not the good fairy, but Carson’s words from 1956 are even truer today. Don’t ever lose your sense of wonder at our natural world. Take the time to explore. Ignore adult expectations and do childish things. Stoke the fires of your inner child. Laugh in the face of convention. Ignore adult advice and free yourself, you have one life, live it like a child, and make the adults jealous. I feel for those that are so serious about getting a living that they lose their inner child and fail to see the beauty of life that abounds around them. They drive their new cars from their new houses and wander aimlessly to a place called the office. On their way there, they pass by the sunrise and sunset in pursuit of what might be rather than seeing what is.

So here are a few of tidbits to help you keep your inner child healthy as you grow and keep your eyes focused on all your sunrises and sunsets. Add to them, for this is the glory of the adventure called life. –

Watch the sunrises and sunsets, always; climb a tree; watch a bumble bee; chase a butterfly and hold it in your hand; catch a frog; sing to a bird; watch a leaf flutter to the ground; catch a snowflake on your tongue; dance in the rain; go barefoot in the cool morning grass; observe an ant colony; lie on your back and watch the clouds float by; listen to the wind in the pine trees; smell a wildflower; rub your hand over the bark of a tree; sit in the woods and remain silent for a while; listen to the thunder; listen to a babbling brook; dig in the dirt with your bare hands; splash in a puddle; go for a walk in a snowstorm; make a snowman; wade in a creek; skip a stone; swing on a grapevine; observe a spider building its web; rescue an earthworm lying on the pavement after a rain; watch the tops of the trees sway in the wind; stare up at the stars and try to imagine where it all ends…

People may laugh at you and call you childish, but that’s the point. Leave them be with all their adult hang-ups and expectations and be who you are constantly. As Ralph Waldo Emerson so aptly wrote,

“Insist on yourself; never imitate. Your own gift you can present every moment with the cumulative force of a whole life’s cultivation; but of the adopted talent of another you have only an extemporaneous half possession. That which each can do best, none but his Maker can teach him.”

My dearest Katie and Sarah, always remain true to yourselves; resist conformity; and keep your inner child healthy. Each of these things will nurture you for a long, long time.

With All My Love,

Dad

I wrote this letter to my niece’s husband, who lives in Vienna, Austria, almost five years ago.  I believe these words are perhaps more meaningful today than they were even then.

From Columbus, Indiana on September 10, 2013…

Dear Martin,

I hope this letter finds you and Kristen well, that your summer has been enjoyable and productive, and your fall season will be its equal.  It struck me today that the art of letter writing appears to be lost so I have decided to take it upon myself to resurrect the art, or at least some reasonable facsimile.  For the sake of expediency, I have decided to put my pen aside and use the keyboard instead.  I am further setting aside the traditional means of letter writing by delivering this electronically rather than using envelope and postage stamp.  I do so under the guise that rather than burning fossil fuels to run to the post office, I am preserving our natural resources by taking the easy way out.  I have decided that you should be its recipient as it is a bit more difficult for you to tell me to my face that I am crazy or otherwise off my rocker, although I am looking forward to your next visit and the opportunity to have a beer together.

I was recently reading a collection of correspondence from Henry David Thoreau, the 19^th century American author, and a few sentences to his sister on October 27, 1837, struck me as apropos.  In it he wrote –

“…letter writing too often degenerates into a communing of facts, & not of truths; of other men’s deeds, & not our thoughts.  What are the convulsions of a planet compared with the emotions of the soul? Or the rising of a thousand suns, if that is not enlightened by a ray?”

So at the risk of being philosophical, which I often do, I have decided to share a few thoughts with you.  Not a communing of the facts as Thoreau pointed out, although mine may not be truths in the broadest sense, even though they may feel like it to me.  It is my hope that you will find a kernel of wisdom in the lines that follow and it will cause meaningful thoughts to rise up within you.  These words are not meant in any way to provoke, in its sharpest sense, but instead to prod our thoughts to the surface while leading us to be more introspective about life on the planet and among humanity.

Recently, I read the following quote from Holmes Rolston III, a Professor of Philosophy at Colorado State University –

“Destroying species is like tearing pages out of an unread book, written in a language humans hardly know how to read, about the place where they live.”

All of us, me included, have no concept of the number of species that are lost to extinction that we never knew even existed.  This should be equally as sad to us as to hear of a known species that no longer exists.  All too often these extinctions occur as a result of the impacts of humans on the habitat that we share together.  As we continue down this path of destruction and more species are lost, when will the day come that we wake up and realize that we are destroying our own habitat and we may be next on the list for extinction?  We do not live in a vacuum, able to go on our merry way, ignorant that our habits as individuals and as a species can have a negative or positive impact, be it right outside our back door or thousands of miles away.  Our sun may burn out in a few billion years but continuing down the wrong path may make this event irrelevant to the human species.  Just as one doesn’t live in the same house with another person and not share a common bond, we are all bonded together as inhabitants of this planet – plant and animal.  We should make every effort to keep the house clean, for there will be future owners.

Until next time, Martin, with love and regards,

John