Good News ~ Bad News


First the good news. My sister, Clara, has started a new blog. It is called My Meme Mania. Sound interesting? Check it out. There are those times, when we need an idea to use for the next post on our blogs. Memes are an answer. And Clara has the provided the place to find them.

Way to go Sis. I’m sure it will be a great success. We’ll be watching for your return to the EC world too.

In keeping with her new blog, she has also started a new meme, which she has titled, “I Did It – Monday.” Read details here. This one looks it should be a lot of fun. I hope to see that you’ve visited Clara, and I’m looking for to what you did.

The Bad News

Recently I’ve started exchanging EC drops with Jamie at Comatised. I spent Wednesday afternoon listening to songs trying to find one appropriate to post here this Memorial Day weekend. I was feeling sad and melancholy as I remembered the family members who had served and paid the ultimate price. Then I went back to returning EC drops, and that brought me to Jamie’s blog. The post title was, “No Words.” What could this be about? I started to read, “I woke up an hour ago to the awkward silence all through the house. I’d fallen asleep in tears sometime around 3am, to the sound of Pogo’s raspy breathing, remembering her last day.

Jamie is a young mother, and she was reporting the passing of her ten-year-old daughter, Pogo. I so wanted to post a comment, but knew that I could not. My sons, now in their 40s are healthy and happy. Her wonderful daughter is no longer with her. Her post title, “No Words” told how she felt, but it is also good advice to me. If I could, I would sit with her and help her weep, for it is now time to do that.

If you will, say a prayer for Jamie and her family. Thanks.

What a Wreck!

This memory is from nearly 60 years ago, and yet it is as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. Those days were hard for many folk. Our nation was recovering from a great war. This is the story of one struggling family, and of their only son.

His bicycle was ruined. Though it had been his pride, Charles didn’t care.



Charles was a wild and unruly child. He truly was untamed. I remember when he came to school — another boy with my first name. We never would be friends. My mother would not approve. His clothes were clean, but worn. His hair was shaggy and long. He was loud and rude. His school grades were not good.

Charles’ family had moved into a tar paper shack, past the cemetery, beside the railroad track on the outskirts of town. Charles, his dad and mom and younger sister lived there in that tiny, humble home.

His father could be seen most days shoveling coal at the railroad siding in town. His bulging arms and strong, broad back were made to unload the coal cars. He’d shovel their load into the sheds along the track. He’d start the day clean, but it wasn’t long before coal dust covered him, clothes and skin and hair. After work his dad would walk to the local tavern. Later, he’d stumble the two miles home to the tiny tar paper shack that sat beside the railroad track.

The family had few earthly goods. But Charles had a bicycle. It was not shiny, nor was it new. It was old, scratched and rusty, but he kept it oiled. He’d jump aboard and away he flew! Fast as the wind. Charles was free! He loved the breeze in his face and hair. With his bike he could ride anywhere.

In the morning, he rode that bike to school. When classes were over, it was back on the bike and ride — around the town and the countryside. Charles was the wind blowing wild and free.

He invented games with his bike. Jumping and racing and looking for adventure he’d go. One day in town he found a new thrill. He raced across the federal highway in front of a car. It was close, but “a miss is as good as a mile.” What a thrill. What a grin. What a rush. He did it again when other would see. They told him, “Don’t do that you’ll get hurt.” Did he listen? He did not!

That fall afternoon, there he was in the center of town with a crowd to watch. He raced his trusty bike in front of a semi-truck. That day, his timing failed. Charles was struck by the semi. I saw his blood stains on the highway.

His bicycle was ruined. Though it had been his pride, Charles didn’t care. Charles had died. He was buried later that week.

Charles rode upon his bike,
He told the world, “Go take a hike.”
Thought he’d race that big ole truck,
But Charles found he had no luck.
He never lived to be a man,
Never sweet love held his hand.
Now Charles sleeps beneath the sod,
I pray he put his faith in God.

Postscript:
Fall soon turned to winter. And in the spring the blood stains were gone from the road. One can only imagine the devastation to that struggling family. Soon after that incident, they moved away from our town and, like the blood stains on the highway, were never seen again.

Don’t Wok My Kitty

I saw the following video. To understand the rest of this post, you’ll want to watch it. Remember this is not serious. It is suppose to be funny. But is it?



I thought about this, which inspired the following lines:

Don’t Wok On My Kitty

Don’t wok on my kitty,
Please don’t wok on my cat.
I love my furry feline friend,
I’m here to tell you that.

I do not want her baked or broiled,
Nor cooked up in stir fry.
And if you wok my kitty,
You know I’ll surely cry.

You may have exotic tastes,
And go for things like that.
But don’t wok on my kitty,
Please don’t wok on my cat.

Where Does Love Go When It Dies?

Valentine’s Day is swiftly approaching. We like to the positive side of this fantastic pheomenon, but it isn’t always that. On a dreary winter day as I sat alone, I began to wonder about the end of love. Perhaps it was a change of heart. Or perhaps a heart stopped beating. Either way it begs the question.

Where does love go when it dies?

Where do the summer breezes go,
when ice and snow prevail?
Why do my spirits droop so low,
when days are short and pale?
These are some questions that I ask,
myself upon some winter days.
When northern winds blast through my coat,
and freeze me here in place.

Sometimes I think of spring time,
when all the world was green.
Warmth of sunshine filled the air,
and robins could be seen.
I found the joy of deep blue skies,
and of the gentle breeze.
And now it seems ’twas but a dream,
that only my heart sees.

Where do the summer breezes go,
when ice and snow prevail?
Why do my spirits droop so low,
when days are short and pale?
There are many things in this old world,
I cannot understand.
And where does love go when it dies?

Oh, the heat of summer stillness,
I long to feel again.
The sight of growing things,
and birds upon the wing.
And looking back I now can see,
it was so dear to me.
I feel so sad I want to cry,
for it’s just a memory.

Where do the summer breezes go,
when ice and snow prevail?
Why do my spirits droop so low,
when days are short and pale?
There are many things in this old world,
I cannot understand.
And where does love go when it dies?

Life on Bliss Road ~ A Tale of Two Houses

Do you like my new banner? I took that photo shortly after lunch on Wednesday (Feb 4). While standing at the end of our drive way, I tuned right (north), twisted the camera and took this shot:

Later, I used Paint Shop Pro to crop and resize the image. West-Michigan winter days that bring glorious sunshine and blue skies are going to be cold! And it was bitter cold. But the light was right. It was the perfect day for my photographic project. Except for the cold. Did I mention that it was bitter cold?

After taking the above shot, I turned and walked south along the road about an eighth of a mile (0.2 km) to the site of an abandoned house. It still stands (sort of) on the east side of the road. As you can see, it is falling apart. Every year, some more of it falls down. It’s very sad to see. Very sad to watch the process of deterioration.


According to a friend and neighborhood farmer, the fellow who used to live there had been known for the way he lived and the company he kept. Not the kind of guy you’d want your son to adopt as a role model.

Eventually his wife refused to live with him. (At least according to my friend.) She may have been a bit of a nag. The story is that he built a small house for her across the road from the farm house.


See how this one is falling into ruins as well. It is an unhappy story indeed. And if the story is true, these houses are in the winter of their existence. Perhaps one day spring will come and the old will be replaced with new homes. Dwellings for happy families. At least I hope it works out that way. Some day.

I took my pictures and started to return home. My right hand was freezing cold and was aching. I opened my coat and put my bare hand under an arm so that it could warm. I was glad to return to the warmth of our home.

Footnote: The farm land is still being used to produce food for our tables. Hats off to those who till the soil, plant the seed, harvest and deliver the crops.