Father’s Pride

2008



Often in the past years, I have thought of how I would tell my kids how wonderful they truly are. Oh it isn’t that they don’t have a clue as to how I feel about them. It is that I feel a need to really spell out what it is that truly makes me feel the way I do about being a father to three of the best individuals I know.

Oh, I know, it seemingly smacks of sentimentalism, but it’s OK. They can take it once in a while. After all who better to tell them how really great they are but the one that spawned them.

My father was a good man. He worked hard often being away from home for months, working on a job that provided sustenance for the family. He too would have liked to have been home to enjoy the five of us siblings growing up. I can remember his less than often comments of pride and pleasure at having all of us kids around for a holiday or just being home for a visit. Coming home was always such a pleasure even though it was sometimes difficult for some of the older members to leave jobs, school or career to do so.

My memories are a bit foggy on some points, but not the one of having family around for the holidays. Mom baked and planned meals well in advance of the event. With the help of my sister, she was able to provide fantastic spreads of good nourishing food for all of us.

There was a lot of singing, laughing, playing board games (both homemade and store bought) the wash pan full of popcorn with plenty of hot chocolate or other hot drink. All helped with the chores or food preparation leaving more time to spend together sharing thoughts and concerns.

We always had snow for Christmas which really didn’t complicate anything. It just made it more enjoyable to be together.

My father married at the age of thirty two. I cannot say that I would recommend waiting that long but there is a certain amount of maturity present at that age that would most likely not be there previously. He died at the age of ninety two living a long and contented life.

I never really thought about having children of my own. I didn’t plan on it and would have been quite content not having any – so I thought. I never knew what I would have missed. My wife would have liked to run an orphanage or at least have a house full of children. I on the other hand would have preferred living out my life as a non parent not even enjoying the prospects of parenthood with other parents. After all I was a school teacher and that was all the kids I thought I could deal with.

How wrong I was!

There were many of life’s adventures that I was missing. Parenting was one of them.

Our daughter arrived a little earlier than expected. It was amazing how quickly routines changed, preferences replaced and now affections split between two of God’s beautiful creatures.

How would I cope?

How could I cope?

I was almost a basket case, as they say, but I survived when my wonderful Wife’s Mother arrived a few days later to take over the household chores with baby, mother and new father. What a transition that was. How caring and nurturing to us all.

Just out of the delivery room, my wife asked, “When can we have another one?” I was stunned, but really it should not have surprised me one bit. She loved children, as my mother had loved all of our family. I could now see the handwriting on the wall.

We adjusted to daughter who filled our home with childish jabber as well as a second feminine presence. She filled us both with such contentment, pride and joy that we were sure life was complete. We doted, fawned and certainly spoiled this bundle of wiggles. She was our star! New twinges of satisfaction appeared on the horizon. These would have to be kept in check. Others could only tolerate our showing off so long. We thrilled between ourselves, content that we now had the most perfect baby the world had ever seen.

Son number one bounced into the family after a very long journey half way around the world having us wondering if he would be born in Singapore or would we make it home. We barely arrived at our rented home in Modesto, CA November nineteen, 1975. Trenton arrived for our inspection November thirty. The mother’s nesting instinct was truly in a volatile phase.

Again we adjusted to one more member of our family. Now we were four. What happened? We started with two and now we had doubled the population. Trenton was a very busy child, keeping us all on our toes. He continues to be one very busy individual.

I relaxed knowing that now we had one of each and we were a happy, content, fulfilled and a complete family. But alas that was not to be. One more appeared! Surprise! Certainly one not planned for. The pressure mounted. How would I deal with another child in the house?

When son number two arrived it was a certainty that here was another of God’s creatures that was going to set new standards for the Johnson family. His quiet presence was like a balm. When I thought there were no more limits to pride, I was again accosted with the plight of sharing fatherly enjoyment and yes, downright pride.

Every child coming from the same source is different. No two are exactly alike. This maxim had never really played itself out within my sphere of influence before with such portent. I was pleasantly stunned by the three so totally different personalities we now had produced. Added to this mix were the personalities of the parents. We now had five unique totally different characters to deal with and three of them to help wiggle into helpful society.

To say they blend into society is a misnomer. None of them actually blend; they are full bodied strong personalities with pronounced opinions, plans of action, mental capacity and quiet aggressive disciplinary techniques of their own. What more could a father ask? I am content to see each offspring dealing with life with a full capacity of love, knowledge and concern for their fellow sibling as well as having enough compassion for those around them. Oh they are not perfect even though I still think they are. There is always room for improvement as there is for all of us. As we grow, hopefully we improve.

To say there is pride in my stature would be putting is quite simply. I stand taller because of my children. My step is a little higher and I am sure my countenance is a little brighter when they arrive on the scene or even when discussing them with others. It is difficult, “to put a lid on it” when talking about an offspring.

As my three children have grown, matured and found homes of their own, I have grown and matured along with them. No longer do I call it pride but more satisfaction in a tremendously well done job. Yes, pride is still there, but just looking at my children and their successful careers has brought about a truly satisfied contentment in this one father. It would be with some difficulty that I would be able to pretend to know how I would have changed any aspect of fathering. How could any one of my children turned out with any more charisma, talent, good looks or inherent abilities? To know them would be to love them and when it comes to that, how could I have asked for anything more.

Reflecting on my childhood, I now have more compassion for my father. His quiet demeanor and often seeming disinterest that I classified as not caring, has been replaced with a much larger image. He now looms over the home place with a face of absolute pride in each and every one of his children, each also unique, filling a slot in society that could not be filled by anyone else in any other way. Proud, yes, but perhaps I am a little better at not letting pride get in the way of each selected child’s potential.

My father had to have been a very special man, willing to put family first and letting pride fill in the cracks left behind by empty rooms and silent echoes of a once busy life with children.

Bev’s Mistake

5.25.2009



I stood in the back door laughing until I could stand no longer. The scene was so preposterous, so out of character for my dear wife, that I couldn’t hold back the peals of hilarity.

Both of us had worked tirelessly to get our sprawling lawns and hundreds of feet of flowerbeds, for all intents and purpose, in perfect shape for the event. Our mantra is; Bev takes care of the weeding and planting and I do the lawns, shrubs, and bushes.

The greatest share of our lawns consists of carefully maintained turf grass. The kind of grass used in golf courses. It is a very close knit type of very fine Bermuda grass. This takes a special mower and great care to keep in shape. Actually with thirty years of experience I should have a good handle on it.

The watering (in Central California), the fertilizing, keeping the weeds and gophers out are all issues that keep us on task. In peak season we often must mow twice a week to really keep it at a beauty we care about. It gives us good exercise in the outdoors besides.

It is not uncommon for visitors to comment about the lawns. One frequent question is, “Is it real grass?”

At certain times of the day it looks truly like a very soft, lush, green velvet carpet. Of course it doesn’t always look like that. Winters we let the grass go dormant, which is good for me to take a break from maintenance and my good wife puts her energies to other projects as well.

The past weekend had been a huge project for us getting everything to perfection. Our former neighbor had passed away just six months before and we had promised the family they could have the memorial service here at our home.

We had even hand picked the dead leaves that seem to be released at night from the huge overhead magnolia tree and cluttered the carefully positioned white chairs. No blade of grass untrimmed, no branch hanging where it shouldn’t and all the flowers had been dead headed. We had put forth a huge effort to make everything just right for us and the family coming for the service. They were not disappointed.

It was a beautiful service in near perfect surroundings and we couldn’t have ordered better weather. We relished the beauty of Beverly’s carefully placed flowers and meticulously tended beds of accented flora. The beauty was stunning and hugely appreciated by those in attendance.

We collapsed the evening after the event, vowing not to do any more work in the yard for the time being. We would relax.

In our advancing years, we have tried to deal with the disabilities inherited with the aging territory. We gripe, complain, grumble and try to persuade each other that things are not as bad as they could be, but we get up and down a little more cautiously and with a little more care for creaking joints and diminished balance. We are in denial but mostly happy for each day that finishes without unusual incidents.

The next day the folding white chairs had been stacked, ready for the rental company to pick them up. The family had come and taken the last of the food serving items and we were ready to depart for a much needed outing of our own, a very mini get away.

We were truly tired when the afternoons tramp through the lavender farm was over. Bev ran through some prerecorded news broadcasts while I enjoyed one of my favorite pastimes, napping.

Bev finally announced that she intended to go back to the yard and finish a small area project she had started. I objected saying that it was too late in the evening to start some new project, besides she would have to change from her long lovely bright colored lounging dress to some old tattered work clothes. It just wouldn’t be worth it and would truly take her too long to get changed.

She was adamant she could change quickly and get out while there was still light to see her chosen project.

She did change quickly. Even I was surprised at how fast the change occurred. We stood in the in the back doorway chatting about general aches and pains. She regaled me with one of her current points of health issues. It seems that she has some trouble regaining perfect vision after watching television for a bit or working on her computer for a long time. She was standing sideways looking out at the back rolling greenery while she spoke.

As we talked, I noticed her favorite somewhat faded red tee shirt with the sparkling American flag on the front, looked a bit more shabby that usual. In fact the shoulder seams even looked more ragged than usual. It had been a favorite of mine too, but now it was truly on its last run. I even acknowledged, to myself, the fact it would soon be a member of my painting/cleaning rags armada.
Beverly turned toward me and the vision she presented was what set off the gales of laughter interspersed with howling swells, wheezing squeaks and tears of disbelief. What I saw was truly so out of character for my neatly dressed wife, even in work clothes.

Bewildered she stood where I pointed and let me photograph what I saw. There she stood with not only the flashing, sparkling American flag not showing but the large white name tag from the back of the shirt now squarely under her chin. She not only had the shirt on backwards but had it wrong side out.

She tried to explain what had happened but the more she explained the more hilarious it was.

It is said that laughter is a side benefit to good health. Indeed I should have enough good health for many months to come. I sat, I stood, I bent over and leaned on the door jamb, letting out the great rolling oceans of laughter that spontaneously erupted. Finally exhausted, I sat in the swing and just listened to the giggles that came from behind the bushes and flowers being weeded

We both had enjoyed the ageing episode. It would be put in our bank of happiness for future reference and enjoyment.

ATTACK!




Being a farmer at heart, I have always enjoyed the animals we have collected, adopted or just plain cared for through the years. It has been my duty to see to their well being as well as doctoring, and finally the last rites. My wife has always steadfastly maintained that she was/is a city girl and as such she could enjoy the live species from a distance. Since she has distinct allergies to anything with fur dander or a hint of animal dust, she has been given the latitude to do the caring from a discrete distance.

There are always exceptions in our lives, however.

Coming home the other night just past sunset, when day was truly beginning to fade, I found the house dark and unoccupied. Wandering around the house I discovered that my wife was still working out in the flowerbeds, tending the floribunda.

One thing my wife does enjoy outside the house, is planting flowers and weeding the flower beds. It is an endless job to keep the almost six hundred feet of beds in pristine condition. When she thinks she is done she needs to start over again. Only winter gives her a change.

As I progressed through the house and out the back door, I heard her call to me. It wasn’t a loud call but an urgent one.

“I need you.” She said.

But I could not tell from which direction she was calling.

“I’m over here.” She repeated. Which left me to determine where “over here” was.

”I’m here by the water tank.”

She had been working in the back yard and heard a great commotion by the chicken pen and had actually gone to investigate. That in itself was remarkable. In the thirty years of raising chickens, I think she has been in the chicken pen only twice. She wasn’t actually in the pen, but just outside the pen where the horse tank occupies a space accessible to both the three horses and seven geese.

The geese are big and sometimes intimidating, especially Cedric, the largest white goose. He seems to be the leader of the contingent of feathered occupants of our goose-dome.

Beverly had heard an unusual ruckus and had gone to investigate. A ruckus is not really unusual when it comes to geese. They are usually quite excitable and very noisy. This can be both annoying and calming. Annoying in that the noise can effectively keep you awake. at night if you are not used to it. However, we are usually aware when something is not right by the different voices of the geese. These different voices tell us of fright, family squabbles, social adjustments and individual contentment.

There is the usual gabbling of the geese which is just a normal talking. Squabbles break out frequently, setting off a storm of protests from whatever remaining geese not involved. It is a constant adjustment. However, one goose seems to be aloof and rarely, if ever, a party to any ubiquitous squabbling. Mae Mae is part of the herd but does enjoy human company as well.

What Bev found was Cheerio, a resident duck of the hen house, had flown the coop and was now in company of the seven very vocal geese. Evidently Cheerio invaded their cherished space and for all intents and purposes, being attacked for just being there.

Cheerio had found a modicum of protection by the horse tank, next to the chicken yard fence. As long as he kept himself small, the geese could only get to him one at a time, but still leaving his hind quarters to the vicious attacking serrated nipping bills of the much bigger geese.

Hearing the cacophony of sounds, Bev went to the rescue. Finding only a large stick, she was able to lean over the fence and horse tank to ward off any advances by attackers.

Remember, this is a city girl, not a farmer, and doubly afraid of the geese besides. As the geese advanced to harass the duck, Bev would use her big stick and upend the attacker, sending them over backward, scrambling for not only composure, but wondering what had happened.

Goose-haven was now a boiling caldron of unhappy geese, seething with excitement and even more determination to have their prey. They had never dealt with this determined city gal before, and I suppose they were left wondering, in turn, where she came from. Bev was just as determined as they were, but she carried a big stick. She never got on the other side of the fence, but fought her battle from behind a wire grid and protection of the horse tank.

She was wise to stay out of their way. Geese can leave nasty black and blue marks from wildly beating wings. Those elbows of their wings are strong and quite effectively used in battle. I know.

I arrived on the scene and immediately hopped the fence near the duck. This startled the duck and he flopped out of his protective area and back to exposing himself to attack again.

The geese know me and six of them respect me. The seventh one we will leave until another story.

As I waded into the fracas, throwing geese right and left, I kept wondering why the foul friend had decided to join the group, uninvited. I guess I will never know the answer to that question but at least I was there to rescue one errant duck that should have known better.

By this time Cheerio was aware of where he should be and kept trying to fly up and over the six foot chicken fence. It continued to be a failure. I followed that bird along three sides of the twenty foot enclosure, finally capturing him at a corner. Even as I did so, Cedric was right there still on the attack.

As I gathered the shaking duck and airlifted him to safety, I extended my reach to catch the outstretched neck of the closest attacking foul. He offered no resistance as I gathered him into my arms and soothed his ruffled feathers. Of course his close buddies came hissing their displeasure at my thus disposing their leader.

I held him for a short while, just to show him who was the ultimate boss.

Everything settled down quickly, while Bev explained to me that she actually had been there for over thirty minutes, upending first one goose and then another. She said that one goose in particular seemed to keep the others from coming near to where she did battle at the fence. The goose seemed to her, to drive the others away when they got close to Bev.

Geese are very territorial and protective of those that they deem are good to them. I have seen this many times. They are also very protective of each other, but somewhat like brothers and sisters. They can pick on each other and fight among themselves but strangers are not welcome.

Cheerio is none the less for were, except, perhaps for a handful of feathers left to blow around in the spring breezes. Perhaps he will sort out his friends and keep himself safer.

Bev, too, has learned a trick or two, using innovation and womanly wiles to keep away unwanted goosey advances. Isn’t life wonderful?

Albert O. Johnson
(My Father)

My father was born in Bowllus, Minnesota in the year of 1887. His mother gave birth to Albert on June 16 to be exact, in a log cabin in a less than civilized part of north central Minnesota.

His parents had settled there when they immigrated from Hulland, Sweden. Albert was the middle child of eight siblings. He early learned to fend for himself. Although the family was a very caring family, Albert still had to learn from the “school of hard knocks”.

With the encouragement of his caring mother, Albert soon learned to care for the animals and help with the chores. Binging in the fire wood was one that brought a lot of satisfaction and reward. He had helped his dad and older brother cut and split the wood. And as the mound of split wood grew he was warmed by the thought of how much he was going to enjoy the extra heat from the kitchen stove.

Most families didn’t have a heating stove, but used a stone or stick chimney with a fireplace. Unless you were careful the chimney could catch fire and one would loose the whole house contents and all. Fortunately for Albert, a relative had been instrumental in showing the family the just how to construct the chimney so that it would not catch fire.

Using clay found in the area, the inside of the chimney was lined and relined as necessary to keep any contact with the actual fire. To have a stove just for heating was a luxury they didn’t have. The kitchen served as the dressing room on those cold mornings.

The long homemade knit woolen undergarments he wore were not only a bit scratchy, but when they were washed each week they seemed to become more and more uncomfortable. It could have been the home made soap his mother used for washing those preferred garments. He gritted his teeth and toughed it out. He warmth was more vital than the discomfort, so the scratchy undergarments remained.

In the winter the snow piled high over the whole area. Housing almost disappeared under mounds of snow. Smoke curls could be seen rising out of seemingly deserted areas. This was the only indication that there was any life. Occasionally a figure could be seen following a path of sorts to or from some outbuilding. The frigid outhouse was the most popular visiting spot on the landscape. It was a necessity but visits were always very short and certainly put off until most necessary. The often drafty little buildings were not the elegant accommodations found in any modern homes of today.

There was no snow plow to clear the roads, nor were there any cars to travel those roads. During the winter when the ground was frozen the family used a sledge or sleigh to skim across the crusted snow. When fully frozen the snow easily held the horses and sleigh from sinking. At a minus twenty to sometimes forty five below zero, the cold was intense. This was Minnesota and what else could you expect. They had settled here because this was very familiar to the home country they had left behind in Sweden.

The outings to town were not frequent and every trip was something to be anticipated and dreamed about. No one wanted to put the horses through such an ordeal unless absolutely necessary.

The horses had to be “dressed” for the occasion too. Not only were they to give the appearance to being well cared for, they actually had to have blankets to keep them warm once they arrived at their destination. In summer these thin coverings had long fringes on them to keep the flies away, but in winter the coverings were of thick wool felt. These were carried along and put on the horse when they were stopped for a length of time. This conserved body heat and kept the perspiration from freezing on the hair of the horse. With the extra grain brought along and the extra warm blanket the horses faired quite well. The farmers looked after their animals, they had to. The horses were part of their survival and livelihood. A sick or ailing horse was of not much help to a struggling farmer.

The day of the adventure would arrive and dad was up early to take care of the few cattle they had and tend to details of things his mother required of him.

Sometimes the whole family would dress up and go to town. This was more than just a shopping trip, this was going to town and you always wore your best outfit for such. Even dad was supposed to wear what others thought, was appropriate attire for the occasion.

When his face was scrubbed clean, fingernails checked and the unruly cowlick plastered down, he was finally ready to leave. Of the eight children Albert was always ready first. His energy sometimes got him in trouble but not when going to town. He had grown up knowing that promptness and punctuality were of utmost necessity to his happy survival and endearment to the other family members.

In winter the sleigh was warmed with hot bricks from the oven wrapped in quilts and blankets. These were put into the vehicle at the latest possible moment. In fact many of them were carried by those going to occupy the seats. These bricks were placed under foot to keep the feet warm thus warming the whole body.

A large buffalo robe was provided to stave off the cold. This robe was made from the actual hide and hair of a buffalo. The hide had been tanned by Albert’s father and Albert’s mother had lined the hide with a spring green wool felt with a hand worked trim. Little Albert often would hunker down under the robe finding a very warm spot and let others brave the cold winds. Hoods, hats, gloves, overshoes, and extra coats were a necessity even with the buffalo robe the intense cold would seep in around any small opening.

Usually the shopping adventure resulted in the girls getting to buy some material for a new dress if needed or material for the boy’s cloths. Albert’s mom made all the clothes with the help of the five grown girls. Each was accomplished in making do, which meant that older dresses were made over into smaller dress for younger girls or into snow pants for the boys. Every thing was used and nothing thrown away. Even the suits that were beyond repair were cut into shapes that resembled bricks in size. These were crocheted together to make colorful comforters and throws for the home. Many survived for years until they were out of fashion or the household was just plain tired of them. They were then folded and placed in trunks for some future generation to discover.

Albert’s farm home was not a long distance from town, just a mile. When you think of a mile today it is a very quick little trip to the store for something forgotten. Then, however, it was a major accomplishment to savor and plan for perhaps weeks or even longer. Life revolved around family, not only of necessity but of reality as well.

On one occasion my dad recalled that often he had been picked on at school. It was survival of the fittest in those early days. Dad was not a large person, standing less than six feet when he grew to maturity. What he lacked in stature he made up in being quick on his feet. He never backed down from a fight but then always tried to avoid such encounters. He dad had always told him, “Never pick a fight, but if you fight, fight to win.” He must have won often enough because I never remember him telling of many fights. Then too, he was a quiet man and didn’t often recount many encounters of his early life.

One encounter I found out in later years was an unusual encounter with three rowdy school rascals that would not leave him alone. One day when returning home from school the three rascals waylaid him. He was not far from home and his mother could see him coming. She always watched for his return. She prided herself in his self possessed assurance/confidence. She could see that there were others that followed Albert, determined to throw him into the snow bank. Not only was the snow bank difficult to get out of but with the extra clothing swimming in the dry snow was challenging as well. It was a delightful misadventure to be so caught by one obstinate schoolmate but with three it was almost an impossibility to come out on the winning angle.

Dad was quick and soon had the first runner head first in the snow bank with two still close at his heals. It wasn’t long before number two was also into the soft snow swimming to get free. It didn’t a great deal of maneuvering for Dad to swing into action on the third and last troublesome youth and have him encased in snow.

What was not evident was the little lady standing in the door of her home urging Albert on. Her swinging arms mimicked those actions of her son as he ditched the unruly school chums into the snow. If he could only have heard her challenges to the boys that taunted her son.

Not only was my dad smaller but was much younger then those picking on him. As is often the case, those that pick on others do so because they feel superior or can get away with it. One must either call their bluff or bluster into the situation head on, putting a stop to it. As I recall the story, after this incident the boys no longer picked on him but actually respected the “little Swede”.

We all must face our challenges weather they be mental or physical. If we take the challenge to face these situations, we have a much better chance of changing the course of our lives and as a side bar better our lives as well. Sometimes confrontations are necessary, but always leave a way of escape. Resolving issues is important but keep your perspective well in mind.

ageing

Ageing




It has always been difficult for me to “think” old. I never thought there was anything I couldn’t do if I put my mind to it. However I have come up against one area in my life that has given me more than just a little pause for thought.

I would prefer to just pass over the issue or somehow skirt the problem. It just seems to lurk there in the outer recess of my waking moments and presents itself at the oddest occasions. Nothing debilitating or mind altering in consequences, but just a lingering turmoil that haunts my waking moments frequently.

As I drive I often like to listen to the car radio. I poke buttons that sends the selector hurrying across the radio-scape hunting for a suitable listening space. Those listening spaces are becoming very few and far between. Mostly I come up with south-of-the-border music, strident radio talk hosts careening around testy subjects that involve tremendous mental reserves or outright rage control and/or some brain rattling, inner ear violations that are beyond belief. I often find one or two stations that present me with some solace for the befuddled grinding and irritating noise processed as “music”.

It isn’t that I don’t appreciate their attempts at the process; it is the resulting concoction of weird noises, vibrations and head throbbing miseries produced in the name of logical reason, some call music. I am truly trying to understand the whole process but fall extremely short and of any goal I set for myself. There just is not justification for the nonsensical tirade of either lyrics or accompaniment. The two are mutually exclusive viewed from my narrow shelf.

Even in church music I find less and less that glorifies God. What I hear is what I have heard referred to as the “Seven Eleven” songs. The same seven words are used eleven times, repeating themselves over and over again in a sickening rhythm. We have made God into some monotonous being devoid of character and feelings other than being out there accompanied by sadly strumming guitars or blasting keyboards that bombard the listener with pulsating rhythms eliciting dark continents and gyrating heathen bodies. No, I find not a thing uplifting about today’s music either on a public broadcast listening level or on a more conservative Christian church enjoyment level.

Today’s church music, in my “old’ eyes, has evolved into some perdition of a non-partisan jargon of words and accompanying flimsy flimflam that isn’t appropriate to present before congregations let alone bring to our all powerful, omnipotent provider of goods.

It is considerate to incorporate our young people into the process of church presentations, however I feel we have overcompensated and have allowed them to dictate the tenor and script of our services in general.

What has happened to the wonderful themes of the hymnals that sit in the pew hymnal holders, unused? What we have done instead is flash sentimentalized words onto a screen at the front of the church forcing all to sing from some music memory, skipping over generations of rich heritage of truly great music. Rarely, if ever, do we sing a “new” song but have been relegated to fluff, generated of few words with even fewer ranges of tunes. Hardly ever does one hear parts being sung. There is no harmony with music today. Every one sings melody! When one is already irritated by the music, it is very difficult to see past the less-than-often use of substance and into the real essence of what is presented. What is preparing the soul and mind for the message to follow?

I have come to the point of almost tolerating the onslaught by just closing my audio receptors and as the young say “chilling out”, preferring to tune into something else. When it comes down to that, I must ask myself why do I even attend? My attitude stinks and certainly my body language must read of disinterest and discontent. I find it trying to make pleasant conversations or greet others with a “greeter’s smile”. No, I am still processing the whole scene, trying to decide if I need to change churches, (but where), stay home or start my own service. The jury is out on that one as well.

Each of us must/needs to bank on what we feel is compelling us forward into some future “light” or enlightenment. As for me, my attendance has fizzled into some sort of holding pattern, withering on the vine with a lack of involved motivation. How does one involve oneself with music that one despises so greatly? It grates my musical sensibility and jolts the rebellious nature into revolting.

What this all brings us back to is Ageing. Have my tender years finally caught up with me? Is it my lot to now accept what is presented and tolerate it? Is this the time to just fade away into insignificance? I guess time will tell. I don’t feel there is much hope for my change to acceptance only the fading away will be of any benefit to my soul. As for each of you, you will have to decide and come to your own conclusions.