I just finished listening to a debate in Canada as to whether America is experiencing a Golden Age. The debaters were from America. Simply put, the audience concludes that America is not in a Golden Age. As I listened, I reflected on the significant differences in political ideology between our brothers and sisters. There was a popular book some time ago titled Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. The title could explain the Grand Canyon of our differences.

I am old enough to remember Rev. Jerry Falwell when he was a preacher at a Lynchburg, Virginia, Baptist Church in the 1970s. Rev. Falwell preached the need for Christians to get involved in local and national government. He went on to say that Christians should run for local School Boards. Jerry Falwell began the Moral Majority. In those halcyon days, I was a bit conservative and considered his comments appropriate. Little did I know that the humble message of Jesus would be turned into a white nationalist movement. The song Jesus loves the little children, all the little children of the world, red, yellow, black, and white. All are precious in his sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world, would be turned into a message of hate and vitriol toward those unlike us. A message of America for True Americans, which I have never understood how to join the exclusive club.

It has been said that historically, voters watch what a President does for them. It is apparent in recent elections, voters seek to do more for the President and ignore how his policies are doing them damage as if he were the fundamentalist pastor and they were the congregation of which the price of admission is sacrifice.

We have lost something. Our conscience has been bruised. As I grew up, bullies were shunned. A political assassination happened in Minnesota, and a Senator made fun of it. This would have been unheard of just a few years ago. Rising to the top is not achieved by scraping the bottom of the ethics and morality barrel.

Great nations are not built on fear. Allies of great nations are not drawn to fear. Fear does not construct a Golden Age.

My friend tells me that she enjoys my blog. Made my day. I spend a significant amount of time blogging and have been doing so for many years. The work is not onerous but rather fun. I am often lost in the world of writing. Story drives my narrative and compels me to continue. Writing brings me peace. I often wonder if anyone is reading my meager efforts. When I find out that someone is, it is like Christmas. Story is our lives.

It is dry at the ranch after several weeks of rain. The temperature is in the 90s just in time for summer. At last, my yard is all cut at the same time. Yesterday, the 2025 New Year’s Baby happened upon the scene. He will soon be middle-aged. How fast a year passes. We number our days because we only get so many. Those that we receive are precious gifts.

‘The fourth of July is two weeks away,’ Chet said. ‘This year I am erecting a Christmas Tree with firecrackers for ornaments,’ Chet laughed. ‘You realize that after July 4th, the year slips away quickly,’ Chet explained. ‘July is an important month when you return to school in mid-August,’ Chet winked. ‘Sometimes the summer seems like one long weekend,’ Chet mused.

‘I think that it is time for an adventure,’ Jane said. ‘I would like to visit the old church that has been forgotten in the woods,’ Jane’s eyes shone. ‘My great-grandparents were members there and were deacons,’ Jane said. ‘Legend has it that a murder occurred at the Church in the Wildwood, and not long after the event, the doors were locked and the windows shuttered, Jane explained. ‘The organist was killed, and people who have visited the church grounds report that her ghost can be seen walking among the tombstones of former members and that they hear ethereal organ music, Jane said with a shudder. ‘Her name was Annabel Lee, and Edgar Allen Poe wrote a poem about her,’ Jane whispered.

‘It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know by the name of Annabel Lee.
But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee. With a love that the winged seraphs of Heaven coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, in this kingdom by the sea, a wind blew out of a cloud, chilling my beautiful Annabel Lee.’

Edgar Allen Poe

‘So was not the poem about a woman who lived near the sea and died due to a chilly wind,’ Neva J asked. ‘Or has the story of her death morphed into her being an organist at the Church in the Woods?’ Neva J asked.

‘The ghost that many have seen in the graveyard near the church has told the explorers that she is the Annabel Lee that Poe wrote his poem about,’ Jane explained. ‘The kingdom by the sea is not a literal place, it is fantasy, but Annabel Lee was the Organist at the Church, and it was during the end of Poe’s life,’ Jane answered. ‘Legend has it that during Annabel Lee’s last performance, a man dressed in black with black hair and a mustache sat in the back pew and wept,’ Jane said softly.

‘Life, what a mystery, Old Man said. ‘You talk and talk and no one listens, then you say an offhanded remark and it is written down for posterity,’ Old Man observed. ‘Many words are a weariness, but a few fitly spoken are like apples of gold in pictures of silver the Bible tells us,’ Old Man said. ‘Words of support and love are the most difficult to craft and take the longest on the polishing stone,’ Old Man mused. ‘Words of hope and future are powerful and crack like a firecracker,’ the Old Man laughed. ‘Words of sadness and remorse cut like a razor,’ Old Man remembered. ‘Summer tomorrow and swimming at Pounds Hollow with Chet and Jane and Neva June,’ Old Man thought. ‘No clock, no cares, no time for worries,’ Old Man danced at the thought.

‘We must close our country to the outsiders,’ the Leader said. ‘We must not allow our blood to be polluted, the Leader proclaimed. ‘Only I can fix it,’ the Leader promised with a wave of his hand.

‘Look, Mr. Leader, the tanks are rolling by and the soldiers are saluting,’ the Defense Secretary said. ‘This is the celebration you have been anticipating,’ the Defense Secretary announced. ‘Listen to the tanks squeaking by on the avenue while a few people clap,’ the Defense Secretary admonished.

‘Snore…snore…snore…’ the Leader responded.

‘Hot dogs and hamburgers and peanuts will be at the Cubs game tomorrow,’ Chet said with glee. ‘I hope to attend all of the home games this season,’ Chet noted. ‘This is the Cubs’ year,’ Chet proclaimed. ‘No one will stop the mighty Cubs in 1963,’ Chet laughed. ‘JFK is our President and we are going to put a man on the moon in this decade,’ Chet called out to the bleachers of fans. ‘Soon the war in Vietnam will be a thing of the past,’ Chet said. ‘Happy Days are here again,’ Chet danced on one foot and then the other.

‘Why are you deployed to Los Angeles?’ asked the child of the soldier. ‘My home is peaceful and Mama and I feel safe,’ the Child said. ‘Will you always be outside our schools and restaurants, bookstores and churches?’ the Child asked. ‘Is our country fighting itself?’ the Child asked the soldier.

‘Tomorrow we will eat watermelon with plenty of salt,’ Jane said with a grin. ‘I will sleep in and watch Captain Kangaroo and Bozo The Clown,’ Jane observed. ‘My bicycle is ready to ride,’ Jane said. ‘The 4th of July is in two weeks with corn on the cob and a picnic in Karel Park,’ Jane laughed heartily.

‘I will decide in two weeks if I am going to bomb Iran, no one knows what I am going to do,’ the Leader said. ‘All power is mine and I alone will give out my favors to those who please me,’ the Leader observed. ‘I decide what books to read and that DEI is meant for the white race, who has been discriminated against more than any,’ the President said. ‘Enjoy your summer, I am in charge of it,’ the President assured. ‘I know that women feel much safer with me at the helm of the ship,’ the President said.

‘Mr President, Mr. President, when will you allow the return of the under-a-dollar peanut paste to again be provided for malnourished children in foreign lands who are dying from hunger,’ the Reporter asked.

‘Snore…snore…snore,’ the President responded.

‘No more questions as the President has had a long day and is going swimming tomorrow at Pounds Hollow,’ Whitehouse Spokeswoman said.

It’s the last day in the 80s for a while. Summer begins tomorrow. I relished my time in the Woods. As I was taking numerous photos of my favorite rocks, a young couple was attempting to walk by. I stopped and motioned for them to come past me and get out of their way. When I said hello and asked how they were, they did not look up or speak. Later, I heard them speaking to another person and saying,’ He was just standing there.’ I wondered if it was my hat or cigar that frightened them.

As a child, I was taught to speak to those whom I met. It seems to be a lost art today. Is ‘Hello’ and ‘How are you’ really that frightening? I thought, ‘God Bless Them, they appeared to be much younger than my sons.’ Perhaps we are in our current condition due to a lack of simple courtesy? Or is the internet and media partly to blame? Has our constant diet of fear and loathing given us a belly ache?

It is the little things I have been told. Not the grand pronouncements as to love thy neighbor, but the small demonstrations that someone different than us or unknown to us is safe and worthy of saying Hello to.

Many years ago, I was amazed that Uncle Merle and Aunt Lauretta had bars on their windows. No doubt a good security device, but based on insecurity. We hurry home and look not to the left or the right to have a semblance of safety behind the door of our Fort as we lower the big, heavy board down to secure our entrance and raise the drawbridge so no one can enter. We man pots of boiling oil from the paraments for pouring on and scalding those who would lay their portable ladders against the walls of our castle. The Archers are ready with their bows, and the rock-catapults are pulled back for the destruction of the unseen hordes who are coming for us. ‘They are rapist and murderers,’ Leader tells us.

‘Do you have any trees that need trimming?’ Uncle Gene asked. ‘I have a truck and my own ladders,’ Uncle Gene continued while wearing his torn clothes and a wide smile. ‘I do not have much, but I am honest, and if you do not like the job, you do not have to pay me, Uncle Gene promised. ‘Some folks shun me for my jalopy truck and shoes with holes in them, but I work for my bread and I am proud of my labors,’ Uncle Gene noted.

‘I have several trees that need trimming, and you look like the man for the job,’ Ms. Myrtel said. ‘I am a retired school teacher, I taught sixth grade for 35 years,’ Ms. Myrtel said with a smile. ‘I like your positive presentation,’ Ms. Myrtel noted. ‘If you do as good as you say you can, I will refer you to the City Works Office, who are always needing good workers,’ Ms. Myrtel promised.

‘I am happy I knocked on your door several years ago, the breakfast was delicious, and now I am off to work for the City,’ Uncle Gene said with a smile and a wink.

‘I have a two-pound stone that is excellent for throwing,’ Stony said. ‘I have discovered that the two-pounder does a lot of damage quick,’ Stony observed. ‘At the last stoning, we so pummeled the accused’s head that you could not recognize her,’ Stony proclaimed. ‘She cried for mercy, and we shouted, Judgment,’ Stony smiled. ‘She said that she had harmed no one and just wanted to live her life as best she could,’ Stony said in a whisper. ‘Someone in the crowd cried out about God’s law and her breaking it,’ Stony whispered. ‘The poor woman said that God was standing beside her and writing in the sand,’ Stony said.

‘You are who God made you and you can not change that,’ Fear said. ‘We must accept who we are for better or worse,’ Fear observed. ‘You frighten me,’ Fear said. ‘I do not understand you,’ Fear observed. ‘What an abominable choice you have made against God’s law,’ Fear said as another stone flew through the air. ‘I am a drunkard and an adulterer, but I am not as bad as you,’ Fear cried.

‘No one asked me my choice for gender assignment nor guaranteed my place in society,’ Chance said. ‘I thought of suicide due to nature’s mistake,’ Chance continued. ‘I have been locked in a prison that I did not construct,’ Chance noted. ‘I wondered if others felt like me,’ Chance observed. ‘Religion, not faith, chose to make the decision for me,’ Chance whispered. ‘I seek peace, not stones,’ Chance explained. ‘I care not what others do, but I have to live in the earthen hut that I was born in,’ Chance said. ‘I pray daily and read the scriptures, I am a Christian, and I help those less fortunate than me,’ Chance said softly. ‘Now you are stoning me and you do not know me, we have never met…if you knew me, you might like me,’ Chance observed.

The Preacher wrote in the sand surrounding the woman…Chance. One line said the primary stone thrower, Stony, identified as a man but had been born a woman. The Stone throwers dispersed. The Preacher offered his hands to Chance, who lay on the ground, frightened. I accept you and love you…The Preacher said.

The older I get, the more I appreciate peace. As a youngster, I wondered what peace looked like. My elders often spoke of peace, and I wondered if I would recognize it when I saw it. Peace has many forms. It is a bit like fairy dust or gossamer wings. Amid a thunderstorm, peace shows up. It may be a brilliant rainbow behind the smoky black clouds. Peace happens kind of like Christmas. In the quiet of a winter morning or the unexpected unity of broken hearts.

Peace sits by the bedside of the lonely. Peace holds the hand of the forgotten. As the parents of a sick child worry, Peace brightens the room through the eyes of their baby. Peace is unobtrusive yet always close by. At times, Peace has its hand on our shoulder and we are comforted. Laughter is heard in a hospice room. Peace is recounting a humorous anecdote. Tears of joy are in every eye…Peace is doing its quiet work.

Peace gets photographed often. All the days of our lives, Peace is in the background of the photo. Never seen until you know what to look for, and then there is Peace.

Looking back on a life, the events that make up our memories capture Peace in the frame. ‘As a man thinks, so is he.’Peace lights up a darkened room and a sad countenance. Peace brings safety in the middle of war. The homeless smile and bid you good morning, good day. The poor share their pittance so that their sister or brother can eat. The little child sleeps as Peace rocks their cradle.

War, death, and destruction are not the natural order of things. Hurtful words are arrows to our hearts. Survival of the fittest is a myth. When we accept a lie as the truth, Peace can not be found. If we believe in an eye for an eye and karma, we seek an elusive Peace. Soon we are blind from the darkness of our souls. We cry out in pain from our festering wound. We want what we do not have and will not give…Peace…

I am sitting on the Writing Porch during a thunderstorm. Clouds like black smoke are passing by. Rain began as a trickle and now is a torrent. A peal of thunder shook my sanctuary. Already it is lessening. What seems frightening may only last a moment on your time clock but can feel like an eternity.

Rain falls in buckets these days. In days gone by, it pitter-pattered on the front lawn; now it falls like the Gatorade poured over the winning football coach’s head at the Super Bowl. As the doorman told me in Toronto, Canada, so many years ago, ‘You better change your slippers,’ when he observed my sandals as I attempted to exit the hotel on a stormy Toronto day. It has been said that a Boy Scout is always prepared.

Once the thunderstorm is over, you wonder what you were afraid of. The world looks peaceful and serene in the light of day. ‘Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when the desire comes, it is a tree of life.’ So it goes with life. We mark each week with anticipation. A holiday here and a birthday there. Storms have bad manners. Our revelry is interrupted callously. There is no ‘May I come in’ or ‘Are you alright’ as the English greet each other. There is the battering of the door and the shaking of the windows. The Wolf is huffing and puffing. We cower behind our two-by-four bullwark. We hope the battlements hold one more time.

The singing of birds fills the air. The sweet smell of honeysuckle. The bullfrog bellows a contented call. Life is good, he says with a broad smile. ‘Don’t worry about a storm here and there…I have seen many,’ Bullfrog says. ‘Once it stormed so much that my family had to move to higher ground,’ Bullfrog said. ‘It was in the days that the humans were fighting…although that would be most days,’ Bullfrog observed. ‘They wondered who was greater and who was less and who would win and who would lose,’ Bullfrog continued.

‘I showed my humans the rainbow over the pond after the storm,’ Helen Heron said. ‘They were amazed and took photos of it,’ HH continued. ‘They wished there were more rainbows,’ HH recalled. ‘I told them that they were quite common at the pond,’ HH noted. ‘No matter the storm you endure or the fear in your heart, God has sent us the Rainbow to promise us of his love and that weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning,’ HH whispered with tears in her eyes.

Dad carried me on his shoulders. I thought I was the center of his universe. He left when I was 5.

Aaron and Jonathon came to live with MJ and me. Sons…what an awesome responsibility. I hoped they were not like fine china and would not break easily. Aaron had a precocious grin. Jonathon jumped out of his crib…daily. Aaron watched everything that I did. He called me DiDa. Jonathon laughed often. Aaron could draw like an artist. He has an artist’s heart. Jonathon writes wonderfully. He thinks deeply.

I have never been worthy of such excellent sons. I keep trying. They are in my mind daily. They are locked in my heart.

We go to Alongis for some fine Italian cuisine. Jennifer is going, and I am excited that she is. How did I come to such blessings? Life is short, and hope is long. I hope for the future, long after I am gone. For the health and happiness of my sons, long after I am gone. I will be watching and thinking of all of the good times.

Dad is looking over the hill and smiling as I wish him Happy Father’s Day…

We attended the new Wes Anderson movie this morning. I would like to live in Wes Anderson’s world. Everything is a bit off-center, and that’s how I like it. I was thrilled to see a few more movies advertised that I want to see this summer. Going to the theatre is a big deal to this old man. I recall spending most Sundays as a boy in the Orpheum Theatre in Eldorado, Illinois. In those halcyon days, you could watch the movie over and over for the same 35 cents. I was Frankenstein, Dracula, the Wolf Man, and John Wayne. The world kept on turning as I munched on popcorn and spent the day in my church.

The Pandemic has altered going to the movies. So many new releases come to television very quickly. Ticket prices are high due to the demand in our area. More people create more revenue. Nevertheless, a darkened theatre and the magnificent screen create another world. A good movie can cause you to forget time and place. You are in the movie with the actors.

Movies stir the imagination. Movies are art, and they produce artists in the audience. Jennifer said that this morning was her first morning movie and her first Wes Anderson movie. She liked both. Movies are a large mirror held up to life. We see ourselves in the films and often work out issues that we have encountered.

The Orpheum was my home away from home. I was never turned away, and I always had a friend in film. We develop a sense of place at the movies. If the flick is about the future, we imagine what it will be like. If it is about the past, we see where we have been. If it is about current affairs, we realize that humans are much more alike than they are different. The Theatre invites us to embrace diversity and inclusion. We think new thoughts and see the world from a different vantage point. No matter what bias we have been exposed to, movies show us a considerate perspective of how others, different from us, live work, and struggle.

Movies are good for what ails us. They are better than castor oil. They are medicine for the soul…

This has been my kind of day. Rain and more rain. I love moseying around in the rain. Mosey is my word from Jennifer, which she says applies to her woods exploring, and it applies to mine as well. I enjoy winging it. I always have! So often in my early years, I couldn’t, but now I can, and it’s a treat. When it rains too hard, I rest in the shelter and think deep thoughts by Jack Handy. I take a thousand photos of the same scene, and they all look different to me.

Of course, we cannot always Wing It. Life brings a book of rules that is heavy and cumbersome. Some people carry the Book of Rules on their backs due to the extreme weight of the treatise. Now with this required burden, many of us seek additional burdens to bear. We are spiritual creatures, so men in their wisdom devise additional rules for the faith they oversee. Faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen, but they have taken care of the ‘not seen’ part. Rules from what you wear to how you speak and who your friends are are in the thick catalog. How you spend your money and how much you give to the faith community that you are a member of. Just thinking about God and his mysterious ways is discouraged if it is not in the tome. Folks watch from without the church and wonder why anyone would want to be a part of such suffering.

I remember when poor people were Democrats. If you carried a lunch pail to work, you voted for JFK. My family told me that Republicans were the political party for the rich. We were not rich. There were no virulent missives regarding the opposing political party. Good people were in both parties, and many of the beliefs of each membership overlapped. I was a Reagan fan. He inspired me. He seemed to do more with a wink and a nod than many could do with hard political labor. This was before the Book of Hate was completed. Now, if you are a child of God, you are Republican. Democrats are WOKE. No one seems to care much about what people refer to as WOKE, who have empathy for others and acceptance for all the little children of the world…Jesus taught that.

Winging It is fun. Follow your heart and not your head. Everyone has a place at the table. No one is forgotten, and everyone is heard.

‘I am going to the woods to hear the Preacher,’ Jane said. ‘Many are leaving their churches to hear his message,’ Jane continued. ‘All are welcome and no one is turned away,’ Jane smiled. ‘Wealthy folks and those who have nothing are renewed by his thoughts and simple message of love,’ Jane observed.

‘The Preacher joined me in an Old Fashioned at the Lodge,’ Chet winked. ‘What a good guy, he had some thoughts on government that sounded simple yet profound,’ Chet said. ‘The Preacher noted that government that makes you afraid is not good government,’ Chet observed. ‘He noted that God’s Table is open to everyone without exception,’ Chet commented.

‘Let us fish for a while and tell tall tales,’ Preacher said. ‘More are coming and we must not be rigid about a staring time as God’s message is timeless,’ Preacher noted with a sly smile. ‘Did you like that one? I just thought of the timeless part and thought I would share it with you,’ Preacher laughed. ‘Why would we hurry when God has given us eternity to ponder his creation and our place in it,’ the Preacher asked? ‘The shackles we wear we have forged over a long time, and their weight is heavy,’ Preacher observed. ‘Look at the birds of the air, they toil not, neither do they spin, yet they are arrayed in splendor,’ the Preacher said as he pointed to the birds.