Well, the 4th of July is over. Summer is in full flower. Kids know what August brings. School Days. The year is middle-aged. Next come the golden days.

Life felt smooth today. As the old guys said when I was a lad, ‘You live until you die.’ A good admonishment worthy of observing. We move through life asleep. As we avoid the real world, we seek happy pills. Others take a drink or more. Looking for happiness in a bottle or pill container is a depressing cycle leading to bad stomach and headaches.

A calm mind and a sense of place engender contentment. Honesty begins at home. We all are broken and cracked; that is how the light gets in, Leonard Cohen told us. We are light seekers. Darkness heightens the flickering light we see in others. As we stumble in the dark, we grab the wall and feel for the doorknob. When someone brings light to us, our lives are renewed. We feel the difference light makes when surrounded by menacing clouds. Many words are spoken, but words touched by God’s Spirit are special.

Think of the times that a friend or stranger said a few words to you and the clouds of depression and darkness rolled away. You felt there was no hope, no answers, no wisdom. Then God sent one of his broken humans with the light shining through, and you were rescued. At times we know the deeper answer to life’s persistent questions. Darkness enters our hearts, our minds become clouded, our sense of place has lost its compass. We watch for the light. Those who uplift with their words and smiles, deeds, and helping hands.

One candle in the darkness has a weak but comforting light. As the candle lights another candle and then more, soon the room has a warm and welcoming glow. When we do this while singing Silent Night at the conclusion of our Christmas Eve Service at church, I feel a deep understanding of the meaning of Christmas.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. led the Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s with nonviolent protest and won a great victory. How about today, we, broken, cracked vessels of humanity, join to let the light of peace, acceptance,aand inclusion shed a warm glow over a world hovering in fear and darkness.

Pastor Meg spoke today of the many times in the Bible that the nameless and unrecorded made the difference in major events. Often God confounds the rich and powerful with the wisdom of those in the audience of life. Those folks who are unseen and unheralded have the answer to life’s persistent questions.

We, quiet people, are aware of the plot. Our focus is not on recognition but results. Although Abraham Lincoln was President when he gave the Gettysburg Address, he was last to speak on November 19, 1863, at the dedication of the Soldiers’ National Cemetery. Edward Everett was the main featured speaker. He spoke for two hours. ‘Everett was considered the most renowned orator of the antebellum era.’ ‘The day’s organizers originally invited Lincoln to deliver only a few appropriate remarks.’

I often told Presidents and Chancellors of Southern Illinois University @ Carbondale that they were missing a golden opportunity to learn how to recruit and retain students by not consulting with their civil service staff. The Staff was closer to the students than professors or administration and understood the challenges of attending SIUC.

Jesus hung with the disenfranchised and forgotten. He was comfortable with the wine drinker and the poor. Many of his disciples were fishermen. Not owners of fish companies…people who cast their nets for fish. Most of the world is Little People. Not in stature but in notoriety. People who think deeply and feel profoundly. God’s children who watch and wait for the opportunity to step in with a quiet word or suggestion that will save the day for the powerful and elite. Status means nothing to the Little People.

Women are the salvation of most noble causes. I saw as a lad in the halcyon days of Mom and me going it alone that she was a resourceful genius. Neva J sought no praise from others but rather to help those in need. She took night classes in photography, and she made little seem abundant to my little mind.

Chancellor Jo Ann Argersinger was a marvel as Chancellor of SIUC. Everyone loved her and worked together like I had not witnessed in my 20 years at that time on Campus. Elite men decided to terminate her without cause, and the Campus has never been the same.

Pastor Meg is a breath of fresh air! Her messages are uplifting and inspiring. I liked her the moment I met her. I believe we will do great things with her leadership to guide our congregation.

Mylo and the Old Man sat on the Writing Porch waiting for the Boom. The evening shadows were falling. The Bull Frogs were running the scales. Earlier in the day, Mr. Beaver visited us while we cooked the salameats. He had a broad Mr. Beaver Smile on his lips and a look of hungry curiosity in his eyes. As Aaron and Jonathon worked on the salameats, the Old Man put on his phone application that identifies birds by their songs. He identified eight on this 250th birthday.

When Mr. Beaver is happy, and the eight birds are singing as well as the bullfrogs running the musical scales, you know there is hope for us. No one was looking over our shoulders nor demanding a report of the day. All is not lost…yet. We must treasure what we have. You never miss the water until the well runs dry. The sun is setting over the trees, giving them a fall-like look. The fine art of trees has changed tonight. The Old Man writes many evening blogs but has never seen this happen. The trees have taken on a multi-colored golden glow.

There is the distant sound of children laughing. Stomachs full of dad’s barbecue and soda pop. Something different is happening. There is a beautiful rainbow! The colors seem to say happy birthday…do not screw this up. You have been given a second chance. Love each other. Take care of each other. You are all in a stormy sea and owe each other a terrible loyalty. The Captain is watching.

‘Well, we have arrived at another 4th without firecrackers,’ Chet said. ‘Earl was going to procure some legal firecrackers from Missouri, but he did not get there in time,’ Chet continued. ‘I suppose we will have to visit the creepy man in the alley behind Western Auto to see if he has any illegal cherry bombs,’ Chet winked. I hear that he is a graduate of MIT and that he makes his own fireworks,’ Chet continued. ‘He also has Black Cat firecrackers,’ Chet grinned. ‘At times he has Chocola for sale, and at other times he has Peppermint Schnaps,’ Chet explained. ‘I bought some Charles Denby cigars from him last 4th, Chet laughed. ‘He is a knight of the open road,’ Chet offered. ‘He told me last 4th of July that he had a special Bottle Rocket that would fly me to the Moon if I wanted to try it,’ Chet winked.

‘Let’s cut to the chase,’ Billy B said to the man with the trench coat in July. ‘I hear you have a Bottle Rocket that really is a Rocket,’ Billy B continued. ‘What do you require for me to buy one from you?’ Billy B asked with a wink. ‘I have been saving my money since Christmas for the possibility of riding a Bottle Rocket to the Moon,’ Billy B danced on one foot and then the other. ‘Do not trifle with me, as I am a serious man,’ Billy B admonished. ‘I am plannin on wearing my Zane Grey cowboy hat on the ride,’ Billy B said.

‘I will give you the Moon Bottle Rocket if you will smoke a Charles Denby Cigar on the flight, as I work for the Charles Denby Cigar manufacturer, Trenchcoat Man said with a sly grin. ‘I have a photographer with me who works for Life Magazine who will do a photo spread of

your amazing journey,’ TM noted.

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.