Three Little Words 

By John W. Vander Velden

A box clumsily wrapped with wrinkled paper.  The bow had fallen off.  It seemed so out of place among the many brightly wrapped packages.  But on Christmas day when the gifts were opened it was found to contain a few pieces of red and green construction paper glued together in what might seem a haphazard thoughtless manner.  Written with glue and glitter, on this conglomerate of cut bits and pieces, were only three little words…I love you…

As time passed and the other gifts, the ones in perfectly wrapped fancy packages, had been lost, broken, or stored away in some forgotten corner of a closet or attic.  That piece of glued scraps of red and green…that piece of paper with those three little words was stored in a box with other treasures.  No, that box did not contain gold or precious gems.  It was not a box filled with stock certificates or bonds.  Yet it contained the things most valuable, the most priceless things in that home.  A baby’s first picture…a lock of golden hair…a small tooth…and some read and green paper with three little words!

Universe

Universe

By John W. Vander Velden

When writing, time force fitted among many demands, torn from spare moments…too few…too short.  Examining the space…the volume I exploit in that pursuit…I wonder.  For somewhere  between patiently listening to an over stressed wife, keeping a watchful eye on a teenage son and dealing with works demands…there lies this writer’s universe.  Evenings…escape to a cluttered space…my desktop in a small room, elevator music through headphones aid in the isolation.  Other times I use other places, finding seclusion in our almost finished basement, especially during warmer seasons.  Another computer waits for me there…a comfortable though older machine…in a place often cold, for choosing this machine requires a coat in winter.  But if the cat leaves me alone the area can be quite effective and at times my first choice.

Then there are all the other places…other times.  Times when room for my laptop, my only need.  When chauffeuring my son I receive odd glances as I work… bowling alley perhaps or other places his activities have taken me.  Times I find myself at a desk in an empty church…where ever…when ever…

It is not the location…or a specific location that seems to matter.  For when I need to write I use tools at hand…note paper and pen…or keyboard….it matters not.  Those times I leave this world, move into another.  A universe gifted to me.  Words on a screen or letters on paper all I see.  My mind races forward…plot… character… scene…but mostly emotion.  It is the story that controls. The story that comes out of the air it seems. The story alive and all around.  I am part of something much larger, and when I truly find myself there…swallowed by the words…my clumsy fingers fly far too slowly. I am unreachable in my universe…and I might seem alone…but am not!

But if you question…if you must know what is the most important “space” this writer employs?  Then I will simply remind that it all hinges upon a relatively inconsequential volume, best described as the part I cover with my stocking hat when the snow flies… ‘nough said!!!

(404 Words)

In the Afternoon's Light

In the Afternoon’s Light

By John W. Vander Velden

Carl stood in the late afternoon light.  His eyes scanned the open land that lay before him.  Not long ago he would feel walled in, surrounded by countless rows of tall corn.  All that remained, crumpled stalks and chaff, the harvest complete.  Shading his eyes he could see his neighbor’s farmstead, certain the friend that lived there felt much the same.  It seemed that at last he could breathe, that a great weight had been lifted from his weary shoulders.  Now Carl considered the year…not the time from January till…but a time from first tillage until this very moment.  Of early mornings risings.  Of work ending beneath stars.  Of unpredictable rains and days beneath sweltering sun.  Of battles with weeds and disease.  Of days lost to broken equipment…time unreplacable.  But that did not matter…not now.  Grain safely in the bin, the harvest completed…another year finished. 

Forty-four years and each different…forty-four plantings…forty-four harvests, how things had changed!  And yet in the afternoon’s light he saw the things that remained constant.  A farmer, the son of a farmer, the grandson of a farmer.  If someone would prick him…examine the blood that flowed…very closely…surely they would find soil.  For after all these years…all these generations there had to be dirt in his blood.  There could be no other reason a man would face all nature would cast his way year after year …to fight day in and day out from dawn to dusk…clawing onward to another harvest.  The completed task proving once again, Carl the victor.  A smile touched his lips.  “This has been a good year,” he said softly, “ ‘Spect next year will be too.” Whistling Carl turned, a grateful, content man in the afternoon’s light

(292 Words) 

Gratitude

Gratitude                

By John W. Vander Velden

Thursday is one of the big holidays, Thanksgiving.  For most it will mean too much food, watching football, and perhaps a day or two off.  There is nothing wrong with time spent with family and friends.  Nothing wrong with having a special meal.  Nothing wrong with watching the game.  And certainly nothing wrong with about having a deserved day off.  But hopefully that is not where the holiday ends. 

Our society seems most focused on all we have not achieved or accumulated.  The ads aim to entice us, to yearn for the brightest, newest.  Certainly the things that fill our lives are insufficient.  It is our nature to desire those things just beyond our reach. In many ways that desire drives us to work harder, and with hard work we may improve ourselves.  But we must take care that we do not become a society of malcontents, never satisfied, certain we have not received our fair share, or dwelling upon the past and what seemed better days.  Look around…take stock…realize all that makes up your life.  Surely we are surrounded by so much for which to be grateful.  Should we not take quiet moments to reflect…to be grateful for all the blessings of our lives, counting our blessings and among them…love and family…things that money can not purchase. 

One day a year is too seldom to consider the good things in our lives, but perhaps Thanksgiving allows a chance to build a grateful heart…and a grateful heart is open to the needs of others.  Too often the suffering masses of our planet find themselves ignored; rarely does their plight penetrate our busy lives.  Surely the homeless and hungry should not be forgotten or ignored.  As we open our hearts to others in their need, our perspective changes.  We come to better appreciate all we have and find a willingness to share with the less fortunate.  Is that not what Thanksgiving really means…to be grateful and to care.

So on that day of food and football, we should take time to quietly reflect...to be grateful… grateful for all the blessing of our lives. And for those of us of faith, let us take time to earnestly thank the Master of the Universe for all good things.

May you have a happy Thanksgiving and a heart filled with gratitude…

(393Words)

                      

 

In the Dark

In the Dark

By John W. Vander Velden

He walks quietly in the dark, moving about his living room during the small hours. He is not alone.  For a small bundle within his arms, a newborn, causes the sleeplessness…the pacing…the rocking…but no regrets.  A price gladly paid.  The hours his shift, as at last his beloved has gone to her rest.  Eyes centered upon the infant, even in the darkened room enough visible to bring a smile.  He understands fatigue a temporary problem, soon, perhaps too soon, these hours only a memory.  With practiced slow sways a child quiet yet not asleep the task not complete…not yet.  He considers the small wonder as he moves among the shadows, how lives forever changed.  New responsibilities…new perspectives…changed dreams…immeasurable joy.  Humming softly as swaying he settles into a chair…soft breathing…tiny heartbeat…fills his attention...at that moment there is nothing more.  What has this bundle done to cause such devotion?  Only a parent understands.  Love a commodity un-purchasable, a binding stronger than steel or blood, for the man in the dark, a cord unbreakable.  Blinking sleepy eyes and a stifled yawn, well rehearsed his actions, as strong arms tenderly hold the child most fragile.  Later, how much he is uncertain, the small one asleep, yet he refuses to surrender.  With foggy mind and content heart he remains…just a little while longer…in the dark.  

(232 Words)   

Lazy Day

Lazy Day               

By John W. Vander Velden

Have you ever woken to the feeling that, though the whole world demands attention, it was a lazy day?  After months of hurrying along, prodded by the things that vitally need immediate attention, that one day, a day to just stop…might be deserved.  More than deserved, perhaps necessary to maintain the sanity required to pick up the load and charge once more.  Is life so much more hectic than or memories of days gone by, or do we make it so?  Surrounded by thousands of bits of technology, time savers we are told; yet that savings account remains overdrawn.  Life tugs continuously.  A cell phones means we are never out of reach.  Text messages find us no matter where we are.  In so many ways our time is demanded, as we hurry along the twisted road of our lives.  We reach day’s end not certain we have gained any ground whatsoever.  Knowing that tomorrow, in the maze once again, we hurry around new obstacles often unseen until we crash headlong in our haste.  It is good to be optimistic, to believe that solutions lie just beyond the next bend.  Hard work necessary, achievements possible.  Certainly others need our time and effort.  We do not deny, and we give our best.  So days rush by January suddenly becomes May and September but a blink behind.  Looking back, if we have the time, certain the year count flawed the number impossible.  Worthy perhaps but no “gold watch” gifted as we continue scurrying onward wondering when task’s demands fulfilled.

Is it wrong, for those of us past life’s mid, that we should find a few minutes or hours to step back and regroup?  Others might call it just being lazy.  But to those that have “paid our dues” and continue, time outside the “cooker”…earned!  Now as we race onward, a gear or two slower than years past, time needed to catch our breath, to clear our heads, and to rest our bones.  Today might seem a lazy day…but in truth it is anything but!

(343 Words)

The Whistler

The Whistler                             5-28-2012

By John W. Vander Velden

Many years ago, in the time before personal music players or even transistor radios, there was a man.   Jacob carried his own music; he was a whistler, and often notes could be heard loud and clear.  Times mending fence or weeding his crops, for the man worked alone, creating music most beautiful.  Seldom did familiar songs, a hymn perhaps, come from those well trained lips for Jacob’s music flowed from some place deep within. Melodies formed at the moment, tunes reflecting the current mood.  Often the notes short, bouncy, lively came to my ears, while other times slow deep tones flowed on the breeze.  In the distance one would know whether Jacob might be happy or sad.  How things have changed!  Does no one yet make music of their own?  Have we become so tied to “canned” tunes we have lost the desire…the need?  Perhaps we doubt our capabilities, concerned our talent so far from perfect it has no value.  I miss the days when Jacob would fetch his cows… I miss the whistler.

(176 Words)

Square Pegs

Square Pegs                            

By John W. Vander Velden

In a world that seems only comfortable with conformity, accepting those fitting familiar   But what of those that “march to the beat of another drum”?  In a world filled with round holes how do “square pegs” fit?  The different…the unique…the odd…what place do they belong?  Often a pointed finger…cruel words identify, dealing pain and criticism, as forward “square pegs” march, accomplishing things others thought impossible.  For most achievements and successes are reached by those with vision beyond present limits, able to see more than just the round holes.   Owed much, yet seldom does gratitude come to those who catch society’s fearful eye.  Is there not room for all?  Are not many of the “square pegs” extraordinary?  For surely standing apart requires great courage…yet allowing fresh perception…not having the numberless…the common…to block their view.  Where do you fit?  For our world is not filled with just “round pegs” or “square pegs”.  No, there are “oval pegs”, “triangular pegs” and all manner of other shapes.  For each person is unique.  Perhaps it is the fear of ridicule that drives so many to just blend in.  To find a safe place, invisible.  They can not be blamed, the pressures great to conform.  Yet if we look honestly at ourselves we would realize there is a bit of “square peg” in each of us…and in truth are better for it.
patterns, those doing familiar things in familiar ways, only those that look like others…talk like others…think like others…seem to fit in.

(259 Words)

Territory

Territory         

By John W. Vander Velden

 

Some years ago a bird of brilliant yellow and purest black would spend hours at the window.  Fierce and fearless it attacked the glass with beak and claw.  As we watched this spectacle day after day it seemed this goldfinch fought to protect his territory.  It did not matter that the threat was no more than his own reflection, he was determined in his quest.  It would be easy to smile and consider the actions of that bird ridiculous, but examining myself I wonder.  As I forge ahead are there not times when I battle little more than my own reflection.  For often I see fear…fear of loss…fear of failure…as I strive to defend my territory, scratching invisible barriers that in truth do not exist, fighting ghosts real only within my imagination.  Am I so different than a small bird of yellow and black?

(147 Words)

At the Fire's Side

At the Fire’s Side                             

By John W. Vander Velden

Benjamin sat at the fireside, adding a bit of wood to the small fire that burned late into the night…behind his daughter’s home.  The fire alive it seemed as the yellow-orange tongues hungrily licked the new fuel.  A soft hiss could be heard among the pops and crackle.  Ben looked across the flames to the form of a young man lying.  A grandson he never knew, Mitchell, watching the man, a stranger to him, tending the fire.  How much Mitchell resembled Joshua, the boy’s uncle.  So many years had past.  A clear night…camping beneath the stars…just the two of them…Joshua then as Mitchell now…ten.  Benjamin could not help but stare.  The shape of Mitchell’s face…the set of his eyes.  Had time bent?  Ben swallowed as eyes met.  It seemed the past meshed with the present, yet neither spoke. With a stick the old man stirred the coals, for a moment both man and boy watched, as the brilliant flecks swirling upward disappeared into the night sky.  Ben focused on the stars above unaware of other things.  “There’s a lot of stars.”  Was it Mitchell’s voice or the memory of words heard then?  Shocked, he looked to see the boy facing heavenward.  Benjamin closed his eyes, then looking down to the fire, swallowed, sharing the same words of so long before, “Yes there are.”  The words seemed silly now… They seemed silly then.  It had been Margaret’s idea…this time alone…in the night…with the boy.  Wise perhaps, a just means to become acquainted.  But did she realize just how much Mitchell resembled her brother.  Benjamin shook his head.  That was long ago and far away.  What riff had separated?  It was more than distance.  Blame and guilt such powerful allies and time of little aid.  Margaret had turned her back, and he had not reached out.  She had not believed others, that her father was faultless that day, nor had he.  The day the world changed.  The day mother, wife, son and brother were torn from their lives.  Benjamin, with life incomplete, continued empty days…long months…endless years until a call.  A voice so familiar Ben had wept at its sound.  Come she had begged.  Now here in the dark…hopeful…a weak smile on trembling lips.  The past unchangeable but perhaps a future possible.  Looking at the boy, Ben wondered.  Would there be a place in Mitchell’s busy life for him?  Could something be built out of the ashes long ago cooled and blown away?  Was it not too late?  No, Benjamin had another chance…
 

(434 Words)

The Summer Wind

The Summer Wind

By John W. Vander Velden

Photo from Printshop 22

The hot air in motion…a summer wind.  From where it comes?  To where it goes?  Do we take the time to consider?  It is after all just a summer wind.  The breeze that rearranges our hair…that makes the heat almost bearable…nothing more.  Yet the sun bears upon me.  As I wipe my brow and adjust my cap…sweat stinging my eyes and causing my shirt to cling, I reflect.  Watching shadows pass across the open land while the wind chases the high puffy white clouds across the pale sky.  Reminded of my own journey, of life’s wind scurrying me along.  Few know or care where that journey began, only God knows the road ahead.  No, I am like the summer’s wind.  Some will notice my presence others will ignore.  But as I pass I must do what I can…to love…to laugh…and to care.  For just as the hot breath of summer moves on and does not return…so must I.

(165 Words)

Stars

Stars

by John W. Vander Velden

                                    Image taken from: science.nationalgeographic.com 

The long day closing the western sky hot filled with amber and yellow.  The world’s color fading slowly to shades of gray as the sky reluctantly gives up its light.  The summer evening yet hot only the slightest breeze caressing hair and cheeks, gently stirring leaves high above.  The nighthawk and whip-or-will’s call remind life goes on.  Heaven’s colors fade, only a pale remnant remain above the sun’s exit.  The sky’s blue grows darker…to violet…to indigo.  The first bright diamonds can be seen before the night’s blackness has swallowed the last color.  Soon the few brightest are joined by their uncountable companions.  Hours the blue-white gems march across the sky, following the same trails journeyed for eons.  Often unnoticed as if with lives of their own, each holding its own particular place among its kin, some brighter…some bluer…yet each vital.  Together painting the great canvas above.  The great clear sky immense beyond measure can make one feel small…insignificant.  Yet we…each of us…as every star has our place.  Going on our own travels day by day.  As the night sky would be incomplete without even the smallest…dimmest…the world needs each…the proud…the grand…the modest…and above all the humble.  So stand beneath the night sky.  Breathe deeply absorbing the beauty infinite and shine!

(215 Words)

More Than Clouds

More than Clouds

By John W. Vander Velden  

                     

Have you taken the time lately, on a lazy hot summer’s evening to look at the sky?  Often great masses of white float casually on the breeze.  Do you see…truly see…see more than clouds?  Oh, a childish pursuit, you say…. Reserved for the young or foolish dreamers, you say…. For the responsible, time wasted, you say….  Perhaps.  Maybe we are surrounded by walls blinding our vision.  Walls, of time clocks, bills, promises, future plans, that limit our view.  Our focus upon reality…is there more?  For the world hurls reality in our face…the news…TV…at work…at home…all around, numbed yet feeling strangely content.  Secure that we understand the facts and facts are all that matter…facts make us wise.  Foolish to see great sailing ships, castles, or grand ranges of white and gray mountains; ever changing as leisurely they drift past.  Life is too intense…too demanding.  We are grownups…met our obligations…made the sacrifices.  But have we surrendered the ability to see more than clouds?

(168 Words)

The Doorway

The Doorway 

by John W. Vander Velden

                          

We stand at the doorway uncertain what waits beyond.  Remembering too well, all that lies behind us, our pains, our failures.  The road traveled, each mile unique, a pathway with bumps and chuckholes.  For each, the journey has made us.  Are we not formed by the years…by the challenges…by the hardships…by our achievements?  Step by step we move forward, down one hallway, following another, around corners unexpected, often facing the greatest resistor…our own feeling of inadequacy.  Knowing ourselves too well, seeing all kept hidden from others, our weaknesses drives our fears.  For with each day doubt’s strength grows.  Certain we are bound by our past.  How can we lift ourselves above the mire…this time?  Yet optimism, as we face the future, a tool worthy of hope’s possibilities, for we once more stand in the doorway.  Though the future beyond…hidden…surely offers both risk and great triumph.  It is for us to choose.  Charge forward, chin high, eyes set, seeking what can, ignoring those that say nay…or to cower fearful, made impotent by the lies of smaller minds.  What do you choose…?  For we stand at the doorway!
 

(191 Words)

Hot Summer Afternoon

Hot Summer Afternoon

By John W. Vander Velden                 

Wiping his sweat covered brow with a faded red handkerchief, the damp rag, in truth, of little benefit.  The farmer has not lost track of the hours spent beneath the summer sun; hours raking hay, cured.  Squinting, Claude examines the sky, clouds building to his west…concerning.  The crop nearly ready, the next task at hand, now not the time to rest.  His damp shirt sticking to flesh goes unnoticed; other things fill the man’s mind.  Hurrying, Claude exchanges equipment.  Rake replaced by baler.  Time passes.  The wind hot as now…thump…thump…thump the machine labors, compressing the long ribbons of green into twine bound rectangles laid in rows.  Rank after rank made…rank after rank as dust and sweat, an unpleasant mix, cover the man. The machine shakes his tractor while the roaring engine sways beneath the load of each plunger stroke. Thump…thump…thump…Claude counts, thirteen strokes to a bale.  The pace will do.  Once more he rearranges sweat and sticky green with the saturated bandana.  Though moving at a walking pace, he wrestles the steering wheel.  Little room for error.  Claude must remain constantly aware.  His ears tune to the rhythm of engine and baler while eyes watch the hay flow as devoured.  Counting strokes, hearing the needles thrust…the clinkety-clink of the knotters.  The count begins again.  Claude measures the windrows that remain against his watch and darkening sky.  Perhaps the weather will hold, on that he has no confidence.  Time seems the enemy. Thump…thump…thump…whoof… clinkety-clink…sweat pours…the hours pass.  The last bale finished, it is only six-thirty and still “hotter than….” Claude refuses to think the word, as once more he mops his brow.  A swig…the water bottle now empty…a task complete…the day certainly not ended.  For those neat rows, the hundreds of green soldiers must be lifted, stacked and put away before the old man can go at last to his rest…satisfied.  Later with steady hands Claude races across the field.  The cleverness, of this machine, never ceases to amaze.  Yet it takes nearly three hours, as alone he works, as alone he completes the task others might think impossible.  Lightning flashes across the darkening sky, as with haste Claude rushes home.  Wind shifts, the temp falls, the first large warm drops pelt the farmer bouncing along as he races toward the barn.   Tractor and load brought inside as the rain, thunderously loud, pounds the metal roof overhead.  The musty damp scent fills his nostrils, as he fights the wind and forces the large doors closed.  Claude now leaning against that stubborn door, the first time considers the day.  With closed eyes and a smile, thanking God he has beaten the rain.  The old farmer draws a breath.  In the dimness he sees the fruits of the long hours…the sweat.  But in the end Claude understands it was just another hot summer afternoon.  

(486 Words)

Solitary Creature

Solitary Creature

By John W. Vander Velden

Moving fluid like…silent …sleek…beautiful.  Leaping effortless always upward to the highest points…visual advantage.  There content, soon comfortable, it remains.  To the unfamiliar, the motionless mass seems inconsequential, as it lies high upon the curio.   Asleep it seems, yet fully aware, watchful through lid’s slits with cunning eyes that can pierce the night and ears no sound escapes.  Hours pass scarcely it moves.  Though at times easily distracted, now showing patience Job would envy.  What can be said about this amazing creature of tooth and claw?  That it moves as comfortably in darkness’ cloak as day’s brightness?  Throughout its life, humoring those claiming the ownership never surrendered.  Perfectly willing to share its home with those that serve…providing demands met, yet of its own kind often less tolerant.   Happy to allow the human touch…when in the mood.  When pleased, emitting a rumble from deep within.   Other times, when attention demanded, a familiar call given…then its actions inspire immediate response.  So loved yet never truly devoted.  Emotionally warm one moment…cool the next.  Few creatures are so common, yet have nothing common about them.  None can fathom what those slit eyes see or hidden heart considers.   Such a solitary creature…the cat!

(203 Words)

Thunderstorm

Thunderstorm

By John W. Vander Velden                 

The dusty land many days beneath the intense summer sun, a hot wind had blown all week.  Small whirling demons of dust, visible, crossing the scorched land, beneath the cloudless sky, only two days before.  But today great clouds rise high above, approaching from the west.  Great masses of white and gray…tumbling and mixing they seem, as quickly they march, closer.  The east breeze, shifting to the north and then west suddenly gusting.  The weather will change.  Far off a rumble more felt than heard warns.  The wise take their cover.  Heavy clouds blot out the sun…It grows dark.  Wind intensifies as brilliant flash leads thunder’s sound.  Large drops pelt the thirsty earth, as countless solders coming from the sky driven on the fierce wind.  Striking with such force, splashing in the new puddles and bouncing off the hardened land only to fall once more.  Kaboom!  The world seems to tremble as flash and sound now simultaneous.  The moist air filled with the scent of the storm, envelopes all, as the pounding increases.  There is water everywhere.  Thick in the air, forming pools wherever land could grasp, and rivulets the thousands of places the land could not.  Kaboom!   Brilliant air shattered.  Wind and rain intensifies.  The sound of huge drops crashing into water and mud fills our ears.  Suddenly the driving rain ceases…Suddenly the burdened sky vanishes…The storm has past.  The bathed world seems fresh…renewed.  Moments later a great arch seen…colors crossing the sky and we know we have survived another thunderstorm…

(256 Words)

Morning

Morning                                      

The soft early morning slipping through the sheers of his bedroom did not wake him.  The soft and quiet way his beloved left his side, did not wake him.  Nor the sounds down the hall as she worked in the kitchen.  The aroma of fresh baking, muffins, blueberry, that slowly filled the air did not wake him.  It was the sounds of laughter…familiar laughter…that drew him from deep slumber.

Rolling onto his left shoulder smiling as he listened to gay voices, certain he had been allowed to lay too long.  A luxury rarely his, blinking as his mind yet foggy slowly grasped the new day’s beginnings.  The doorknob turned slowly, the latch clicked softly not two feet from his face.  Slowly the brown varnished wood began to move.  Joyous eyes and smile peaked through the crack…the door’s slight opening.  Bright and blue the eyes beneath the knob. His daughter quiet, though a giggle came from behind.  The door pulled shut firmly with a squeal.  Feet thumping down the hall and away.

Michael stifled a laugh as he remained, confident it would not be the last of Josie’s   It was not long.  The knob jiggled a bit…a little one way then the other.  “Let me do it.” Came the familiar sound, Josie’s voice, young yet assertive. 
shenanigans, and knowing little Billy would not be excluded.

“No…I can…” Yet the latch remained resistant.  Michael reached, opened the door slightly.  Two faces…small and smaller pressed side by side peering in.  Sharp eyes, naughty they seemed, one set bright blue the other deep brown.  “You awake daddy?”  Billy’s eyes dancing, his voice tentative.

Josie pushing the door aside shouted over her shoulder.  “Daddy’s awake.”  As the children quickly climbed onto the bed tickling their father.  It was morning!

(302 Words)

Country Road

Country Road                         

By John W. Vander Velden

The dirt led onward through wood and along open fields.  A pathway traveled by few, leading to places known only by locals.  A quiet road reminiscent of a times past, it is here I walk…alone, far from city with its lights and noise.  Far from the heavy traveled ways.  Far from the rush of men and women, bound headlong on journey’s demands and hasty time tables.  Those bound for other places near and distant.  Too busy for a lonely dust trail, too arrogant for an earthy connection, too modern for true realities of sky, tree and earth.  I am richer at their loss.  The quiet way made quieter by those refusing to hear its call, to feel its peace and the breath of soft breezes of air unstirred by exhaust.  I hear only the crunch, crunch, crunch of shoe step by step.  Time proceeds here as elsewhere, but here I have time…time to notice…time to think…time to find the very beginnings of understanding.  In this hectic world, how do we find ourselves?  Where do we look?  Here on an old country path…alone, surrounded by life’s realities, laid bare beneath sun and sky.  I can think of no better place… No better place to think than a country road…

(212 Words)

Misty Morning

Misty Morning          

I walk in the early mist.  The world seems very close, wrapped about me as I move.  The slump, slump, slump of heavy boots hamper my steps, the sound echoing.  I know the way, though sleep’s webs yet cloud my head.  I call out to the ladies in the dark and mist.  A soft low responds, not far, the cows know my voice.  I am expected.  They wait each morning.    On clear mornings in the darkness I can see some lying on the hillside others standing patiently awaiting a new day.  Days when star’s brilliance fill the dark sky, I am seen approaching, my ladies rise to meet. At my call, most begin their trek, stretching, shaking heads, at last walking slowly.  I know the leaders, the first that others follow.  I know the lagers, those requiring a gentle tap to inspire.  Now in thick dampness I move invisible, only my voice and steps forewarn my arriving.   A new day comes, my head now clear.  Yet surrounded by thick air, my task done most by familiar sounds, in a familiar place.  “Move along girls.”  The words strong and clear.  “Time to get up Bessie, lazy bones.”  I nudge the black mass yet asleep.  Startled she leaps to join her sisters.  I hear her quick steps as she vanishes in the mist.  I whistle to remind the lagers, I am near, that though darkness and fog surround the day underway.  Dampness covers my glasses.  It matters little, the world shrouded.  With my steps my mind considers.  Each day, long at labor, early beginnings, late closings, no life for the fainthearted, best it seems for the few, bold and strong, the patient and determined.  Am I brash to consider myself among those?  Perhaps.  But today I enjoy this walk in the mist.                                                             (302 Words)

 

Heroes

Heroes

                       

By John W. Vander Velden

In a world that so quickly determines many values, we find ourselves swept along.  The media proclaims the greats, the heroes. 

Simply nodding we imply agreement.  

After all what bravery do we show?  Surly we are insignificant when compared to the famous, the grand.  For quietly we do our jobs, raise our children, pay our taxes, as we muddle our ordinary lives, invisible. 

Though the world seems confident, who is to say what makes a hero?  

What is the measure?    

Too easily overlooked the daily challenges, the villains that seek to undo us.  For how often does fate attempt to unravel, to drag us and those we love downward?  How often without thought, relying upon strength unknown, have we faced giants straight on?  

So we continue moving forward each day, carrying burdens unnoticed by others, facing challenges often alone.  Standing firm in what is truth, a task not easy.  Quietly caring, transparent our actions seem. Fanfare unnecessary while we as ordinary people accomplish the thousands of slight things…a sum never counted.  

The results often amazing, scarcely acknowledged. For heroes stand all around us unnoticed…bravely facing each day’s unknown!

(191 Words)

Dreams

Dreams                                               

By John W. Vander Velden

Too often we feel limited unsure of ourselves locked into our present reality…fearing to see…fearing to try.  We doubt the possibilities that seem over the horizon…out of sight…certainly beyond reach.  To strive, foolish.  Why we would wish to venture, a journey surely doomed to failure.  Yet we all have dreams.  Many kept hidden away safe, we feel, from the laughter and criticism of others.  Our limitations, perceived or keenly emphasized, prevent even the smallest attempt.  Dreams are just that…dreams! The real world has no place for them or the mad that pursue.  But dreams are achievements not yet reached, the fuel that drives the future, give purpose for living.  Dreams…stretch us…lift us above the mire of mediocrity…propel us, step by step to new achievements.  Around us few understand, fear their only commodity.  The world views dreams, a luxury reserved for those of grander circumstance or the gifted few, view dreamers as those touched by insanity.  Yet without dreamers would we not yet dwell in caves.  Has not history shown that each step the race has progressed, a dream pursued, leading to new possibilities visualized.  Now is the time to believe…to create…to dream.  Dreams demand effort…expects faith…needs confidence.  Many small steps can move toward lofty goals.  Falling teaches…rejection strengthens…failure is no ending!!!    Have courage friends…and dream…purse with confidence and determination.  It is time…time to dream!!!

(241 Words)