The Old Man looked out at Brooks Pond. The Writing Porch had been his peaceful place for many years. The air was still, the heat oppressive. Tomorrow is the big birthday. Is it 250, just getting started, or 250 and the end is coming?

We celebrate who we are and what we have done. We telegraph our accomplishments far and wide.

‘Once I built a railroad, made it run. Made it race against time. Once I built a railroad, now it’s done, Brother can you spare a dime.’

The song of the forgotten who built this country only to stand in bread lines in the Great Depression. They were wondering and waiting for their country to see them.

Mylo likes his ears tickled. We like our ears tickled. We want to hear words that agree with our thoughts. Who will tell us what we want to hear? We are a bit transfixed on our Idols. The human that surpasses other humans. The human with the special ability. Reading the stories of God’s prophets, we wonder and wait for our prophets. Surely we must be as blessed as the people of the Book. It is easy to make the Bible say what you want it to say.

It is getting hotter around the world. Global Warming is not a hypothesis; it is a fact. We make light of what we do not understand.

Christ stood with those who had no friends. He spoke for those who had no voice. Jesus could be found with the people that the Pharisees walked to the other side of the street to avoid. He had dinner with the shunned of the world. Those not seen by polite society. The Forgotten were his friends.

All that glitters is not gold, but then again we like gold. A physical sign of prominence. Sometimes gold can hide our shame. Gold appliques on the Oval Office walls. Well-off folks give millions of dollars to see their name on University Buildings. Something that says they were there when they are not.

Is the patient on life support?

The Old Man watched as many gathered their money around them. They stared glassy-eyed at a golden statue. Many prayed at the beautiful feet of the Statue. Tears were shed and supplications offered. The diverse workforce of the country was busy working double shifts to keep body and soul together.

Annabell had a little replica of the Statue of Liberty she kept in her locker at work. She purchased it at a gift store in New York City many years ago. It reminded her of the blessings of living in America. Annabell’s family had been hunted in Haiti. The United States welcomed her, and she became a citizen over time.

We are in a heat dome. Not the kind of dome you want to be in. I never liked hot weather, and as an old guy, I like it less. Most things are harder in the heat. The 4th is with us. Firecrackers are on the shelves at Sam’s, and Salameats are flying off the shelves. Our Weber Kettle Grill has a new grate. We have plenty of Coke Zero to get us through. We are 250 this year. There are only a few generations between us and the beginning.

Liminal Photography has taken off like a duck out of water. Much to the success of Backrooms. Liminal spaces are all around us. More and more as the economy changes. At university, I noticed that throughout my career, liminal spaces were part of the architect’s plan. Lonely spaces with no evident usage or patrons. Life is full of liminal spaces. We find ourselves in halls that go on forever. Halls that branch off into other halls. Rooms that connect to other rooms, and so it goes. Stairs with massive foyers and dead space. Rooms that have been forgotten for generations.

We love a birthday party. There will be cake and ice cream. Flags and balloons. Boats will be on the water. People hooping and hollering and bronzing in the sun. The alcohol will flow as the burgers and brats turn. Some will think of the exclusive club they belong to. America for Americans. Christ has taken a liking to white folks. They give good donations and buy great Christmas gifts. They do not worry about money and make sure their pastor does not have to worry about it either. ‘Jesus threw the money changers out of the temple,’ the white Christians say. ‘Christ knows if you are one of the good guys by the color of your eyes,’ WCs say as they pop another top.

The poor of the land sit on their fire escape and watch the fireworks with their kids on their laps. They have tears in their eyes as they ponder why they have to work twice as hard to demonstrate they are worthy of the country they love and die for. Segregation called it separate but equal…so it goes, except for the equal.

It was on this day in the 1960s that I realized that summer vacation was slipping away. Not only was summer holiday moving forward rapidly, but so was the year. Although it was hot and muggy, Christmas Bells would soon be ringing. Climbing to the halfway mark of the year was slower than the descent to the conclusion. July was just four weeks away from August, when the back-to-school specials were advertised. It was time to get the new school supplies. I had a desk whose writing surface lifted to reveal a private compartment for your precious and necessary materials. Often the desks had dry inkwells hearkening to a time before. It was hot mid-August when we returned to the classroom. Summer had another month on the calendar. In the blink of an eye, we were making witches and ghosts for the bulletin board. Of course, the rest is simply a hay ride to a turkey dinner and a sleigh ride back home.

Grandma A’s front porch was the perfect spot to view the fireworks at the Starlight Drive-In. First, it was sparklers and illegal firecrackers. Then darkness began to fall. When the streetlights began to warm up, they turned blue at first. Grandma A and Aunt Guelda would say in unison, ‘They are bluing up.’ Yoop from Holland came over for a front-row seat at the Eldorado Fireworks. Yoop was from Holland, and Guelda called her Yoopie. Fireworks were a big event in Eldorado. Cars were parked on the edge of Route 45 for a half mile to catch a glimpse of Old Glory.

So we are just kids. 250 this year. I did not realize how young we were until I visited Europe. They have shoes older than us. We are a Grand Experiment. A Melting Pot. We are an idea.
Freedom of thought and speech. Out of many, we are one. A nation comprised of diversity. A country united on words rather than blood and soil.

It is hot. When we are hot, work or problems seem more difficult. The electricians replaced some smoke alarms today. They were hot working in the loft. The little guy balanced himself on the top of the ladder and even stood on one leg from time to time. I pictured myself doing such balance beam athletics 25 years ago when we bought the New House. It would not have happened.

Much of our walk back to Jerusalem is on what the old folks said when referring to a paved road when I was a lad: ‘the hard road.’ Often I heard the old wise ones reference the Hard Road. I wondered where the road with the peculiar name was located.

The Old Man has been on the Hard Road more than once. Life looks bleak on the Hard Road. Nothing seems to go right. About the time you think you are getting ahead, another boulder is rolled in front of you. Money is a big problem on the Hard Road. Your resources are meager, and your commitments are major. Shall I purchase gasoline or medicine or food? All necessities in rural America. Many of us do not have doctors or lawyers in our household. We watch the stock market with mild amusement as we have no holdings. We heard that God loves us but in the heat of June 30th, it is hard to fathom. Does God see we poor, homeless, marginalized, voiceless, pushing our grocery carts down the sidewalk?

‘The odds are good, but the goods are odd,’ the Alaska native said. ‘Inflation is killing the economy; affordability is not a Democratic word or problem. Working two or three jobs is not a viable option; child care is unaffordable. Is the Christ of Social Justice among us?

‘Listen to words of joy, peace, reconciliation,’ the Preacher said. ‘The halt and lame shall eat with princes,’ the Preacher said. ‘We are in the midst of a test of our veracity and tenacity,’ the Preacher continued. ‘We are persecuted but not forsaken, cast down but not destroyed,’ the Preacher admonished.

‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.’

June 29, 1928, Neva J said. ‘Born in Mt. Vernon, Illinois, she continued. ‘I never believed I would still be here 98 years later, Neva J laughed. ‘It must have been all of that swimming at Pounds Hollow or my love for Merlot,’ Neva J laughed. ‘Who is Donald Trump?’ Neva J asked with a quizzical look. ‘I remember him making a cameo appearance on Home Alone II,’ she said. ‘I was enjoying a leisurely swim when we decided to snorkel and see if we could find some treasure,’ Neva J laughed. ‘The Cuban Missile Crisis had just happened, and we all were breathing a sigh of relief when it was resolved peacefully,’ Neva J noted. ‘June 29, 1963, was a fun birthday; I was 35, Neva J danced about. ‘As we snorkeled, we saw Billy B, an old man on his writing porch with Mylo, Neva J noted. ‘When I blinked my eyes, I discovered I was riding a Carousel in the bottom of the lake. Time swirled by me as the Carousel turned first was President Kennedy, then President Trump, then a bright light,’ Neva J spoke with passion. ‘Was it a dream or a vision, a prophecy, a wonder of life?’ Neva J said with a tear in her eye.

The Bullfrog Quartet began to vocalize. They sang Happy Birthday to Neva J.

‘Many Quantum Physicists believe that time is happening all at once,’ Chet said. ‘It is a bit like a vinyl record,’ Chet continued. ‘Time is a construct to help humans understand their movement in the universe,’ Chet offered. ‘We think we have been somewhere before because we have,’ Chet laughed. ‘Repetition causes familiarity,’ Chet winked…

Friday begins Dog Days. In my neck of the woods, they have started early. Forty days of hot, lethargic weather. The title comes from Sirius the Dog Star. When I was a lad, it was a time of misery inside the house and outside. Rich people had air conditioners. We were not rich. We had fans that blew hot air. We could not escape the heat at night. Our hope was the advent of a summer storm. Wet bed sheets were no help in cooling off. Earl said to open the bedroom window a couple of inches and let the window fan in the kitchen circuate the hot air out of our hot house and bring in the cooler night breeze. There was no breeze. Fans were fun to talk into and listen to how your voice was altered. As I rode my bicycle, which looked like a motorcycle, to town, I got drenched. A bath a day was not enough.

We traveled across Europe and found that many places we stayed had no air conditioning. Nice had giant windows and shutters. We were hot in Nice. In England, we stayed at a hotel that had neither air conditioning nor wash cloths. An interesting combination.

We Eldorado folks used funeral home fans. Many ladies carried a funeral home fan with them. Funeral Home Fans seemed to generate as much heat as they dissipated. We got out of the hot house and sought a cool spot. A cool breeze is of great value on a hot Dog Day. The value of movies at the Orpheum Theatre had air-conditioned comfort, or swimming at Pound Hollow is incalculable. Air conditioning was rare, and business hotels and Dime Stores advertised that they had it for your enjoyment.

My friend Lisa had central air conditioning. It felt like you were in a refrigerator. I went over to her house and played Barbie and Ken, with me assuring everyone I was Ken.

Folks become angry when they are hot. Overheated words create strife. Words better left unsaid are said in Dog Days. Often political commentators say that the heat needs to be turned down on political rhetoric. The oil of Communication is calm until someone hurls a hateful epithet in our direction. We think an eye for an eye until we are all blind. As we stumble about looking for the door, we wonder how it all began. We want community, we want unity, we want peace, yet now we have war. Are we being slighted, snubbed, made lesser than?

Perhaps our political leaders should play a little Barbie and Ken in an air-conditioned place.

Pastor Meg spoke of things happening to us that do not fit the story we have constructed in our minds. We expect one result of our future plans, and another greets us. At times, we are moved from our sense of place. We thrash about for the cornerstone. Unexpected change causes many boats to crash on the rocky coast.

I have seen many colleagues plan assiduously for retirement and never reach it. Others said faithfully that when they retired, they were going to travel only to be stymied by poor health. I have been able to travel some and felt a victory when I arrived at my destination. Life has no owner’s manual and no guarantees. Hope is the star guiding the way.

I vividly recall MJ advising me that Building Services was a good job at Southern Illinois University @ Carbondale.
The entry-level position was Building Service Worker I, which is a janitor. MJ was a school teacher, and I asked her if that was all she thought I was qualified to do. She told me that BSWI was one of the higher-paying jobs on Campus. I took a civil service exam and scored 100. Soon, I secured an interview and was hired. I doubled my pay. There were several promotional levels in the organization. Over 32 years and two months and three weeks, I spent 25 years in management/administration. My narrow view of my future was expanded.

I did not imagine my mom and dad’s divorce until it happened. I was 5 years old. Mom and I went from having whatever we needed and often wanted to standing in line for Commodities in Eldorado. Commodities had powered milk. The powdered milk made me sick. I saved up my pennies until I had a dime and went a street over to purchase a glass of cold, whole milk. I could not believe my good fortune when I began school at Hillcrest, whereupon break we lined up for a glass of very cold milk and could have seconds if we hurried.

Hope is a comfort in change. The understanding that our worst days and our best are in God’s Plan. As I look down the tunnel of the past, I see my Guardian Angel with me.

It is a bit steamy on the Writing Porch. A picturesque evening. The birds sing their evening songs. We have become an older population. Old looks normal to me. When I was young, I thought, ‘Bless their hearts.’ Now, 50-year-olds seem like kids. As a lad, I thought that once I reached 40, I would have it all worked out. ‘No more school, no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks.’

We fall into our group. Those who have resources forget that not everyone does. The grocery is a fun safari for some and a haunted house for others. It requires a juggler to keep the balls of groceries, fuel, and medicine in the air without dropping a ball or two. High fuel prices are not a theoretical exercise for many.

‘I have noticed that Tommy L often eats lunch by himself in the lunchroom,’ Chet observed. ‘Kids do not make fun of him but avoid him,’ Chet continued. ‘Tommy L has some physical disability but a keen intellect and sharp wit,’ Chet explained. ‘Once I heard him recite the Declaration of Independence from memory,’ Chet smiled.

‘Please join me for lunch,’ Jane said to Tommy L. ‘Chet will be eating with us if that is alright,’ Jane said. ‘We are getting a Play together celebrating our nation’s 250th birthday, and we want you to be in it,’ Jane said with a big smile. ‘I am told that you have memorized the Declaration of Independence. Would you recite it as the crescendo of the performance?’ Jane asked with tears in her eyes.

‘I would be honored to recite the Declaration of Independence,’ Tommy L said with a big grin. ‘I did not think you guys liked me. I am a bit of an introvert and rarely push myself forward,’ Tommy L said. ‘Dad taught me the Declaration when he was at Harvard before he died,’ Tommy noted. ‘Dad told me to not judge others, to give everyone a chance,’ Tommy grinned again.

So the rain is falling. Brooks Pond is enjoying the replenishment. The Bullfrog Quartet is tuning up for tonight’s performance. There is a happy peace and sense of place. The week has come to an end. Many are happy. When I was working, Friday was as exciting as the weekend. The same can be said for my school days in Eldorado. A Friday evening in late June meant getting busy about summer vacation. This was close to the 4th of July, which included fireworks.

Eldorado had a slow pace. Firecrackers were a big deal. Watermelon, the delicacy of summer. My family loved watermelon. I liked it, but had to feign love. Tomatoes straight from the garden were special. Some folks washed them off with the hose and carried their salt shaker with them for a culinary delight.

Science Fiction Theatre was on TV on Friday night. The black-and-white snowy movies were wonderful until the vertical began to roll or the rabbit ears needed adjusting. Watching television in the 60s was a participatory sport. I was the remote control. I recall being in a hospital where the TV had a big remote control connected to the set by a heavy cable. I had never beheld such a device and reveled in changing the channels with it.

Neva J had cats. She loved her cats. Neva J fed stray cats that lived down the gravel road and lived in a decaying barn. She made them oats. They lapped them up. In later years, Neva J’s Cat Feeding Project took most of the morning and took place year-round. One time, a stray cat named Blacker gave Neva J the Claw, and she slapped her lightly and told her,’ Blacker, you know I am good to you.’

A June evening teaches that life is meant to be enjoyed. We are meant for a slower pace than we live. Our brains are made to think deep thoughts. Quiet moments are Polaroid Moments. In the culmination, it will be the snapshots that we remember.

About this time in June, as a lad, I asked, ‘Where did June go?’ Such are the halcyon days of summer. Days that stretch from early morning until bedtime. No muse, no fuss, no worries. The summer days march by without looking to the left or right. Prime Days have ended, and we have more stuff. Carbon Monoxide Detectors and shoes that fit a giant. A new grate for the Webber Grill. Kibble for Mylo. The government is operating with little thought. Until it rains on our parade, we pay no attention. Neva J was born 98 years ago on Monday.

We walk the same path yet seek differences between us. The rich and poor, the powerful and those who have no voice, travel together. Some of us imagine a crown while others seek a hat to protect them from the rain. I have often wondered what the smug Christian believes will be their response when they see the poorest of the poor standing next to them with the same agency as they have?

‘Well, bless your heart, I did not realize there were Christians in Haiti.’Isla said with a condescending air. ‘The President called your country a Shit Hole Country,’ Isla noted. ‘We Daughters of the American Revolution did not have any black folks in our group, you understand,’ Isla continued. ‘Actually, all of our friends were white except for our maid and gardener, salt of the earth people,’ Isla said with faux passion. ‘I see God must not feel like the President,’ Isla said softly.

We used to sing a song that said, ‘This world is not my home, I am just passing through, my treasures are laid up somewhere beyond the blue.’ Treasures surround us. We all live under the same blue sky. No one is coming to extricate us from our trouble. We are the helpers who are in the building! The phone call is coming from within the house.

The poor man became rich. He forgot his poor days. He rewrote his story. He had never been poor. He never sought food and clothing from others. Those files had been removed from his mental file room. The Poor Man says,’ Those who have no homes and live on the street live there by choice; they need to pull themselves up by their bootstraps like I did.’

‘Who is that poor fellow with the ‘Highwater Pants’ he seems to have little yet works every day,’ Cashier said at the Grocery. ‘He walks everywhere he goes while his friends drive new cars and excel,’ the Village Observer noted. ‘He is a good Christian and works countless hours on his church building, but he is certainly not rich like the Preacher preaches you will be if you are a Christian,’ the Postmaster said.

‘The murderer is in the house,’ the Frightened American said. ‘We thought he was in the ‘Shit Hole’ countries only to discover we have embraced the Masked Ax Murderers and thought they were our friends.’