Miracles

Miracles               11-22-2014

By John W. Vander Velden

We live in a technical age, and believe we can explain everything.  Advances in science show secrets that have until recently eluded us.  It comes therefor that the term miracle carries little weight.  A word that belongs to the unenlightened…a word that described what had once been unexplainable…but of things now understood.  Yet with each new discovery other questions arise.  And though we may feel that each question will one day shed its secrets, have we ignored the possibilities of the unexplainable.

Should we not take care to open our minds to concepts beyond present understanding?  For some feel if it cannot be explained it does not exist.  I find that view far too narrow.  For we are surrounded by things only recently discovered.  Did they not exist before? 

Have we allowed ourselves to be isolated from “the mud and blood” of life, certain that we understand what is real and what is not.  How fortunate I have been to have lived immersed in earthy realities of my life’s profession – not that each experience was pleasant.  But I have heard the first gasp of breath of a newborn calf.  Observed, as on spindly unsteady legs, it made its first attempts to stand.  I have watched rows of corn grow.  Hurried as summer storm clouds came marching across the sky.  My life has been bound to the sun and seasons– to planting and harvest – to births and deaths. 

You see no matter how hard we try to explain – everything – even the explanations reveal miracles at work.  Each of us are surrounded by wonders explainable and not.  My world is filled with miracles…and so is yours.  

(274 Words)

Christmas is for Children

Christmas is for Children                       10-17-2011

By John W. Vander Velden

 

Christmas is for children; we all know that.  The lights reflected in young eyes.  The anticipation that grows with each day.  Smiles all around and the best behavior we have seen all year.  Yes, Christmas is for children!  The fresh sounds of young voices singing old familiar carols.  Small hands decorating cookies.  Impatient faces looking longingly at the treasures beneath the tree.

Christmas is for children.  Must growing up take away the magic?  Perhaps we forget to see the wonder…the first snow…the tree with its lights… Perhaps we are unable…too busy…too mature.  Has reality pushed the Christmas we once knew aside?  It’s just the way it is.  Because Christmas is for children.

Nothing truer has ever been said!  Yes indeed, Christmas is for children.  All those free enough to accept it with hearts and arms wide open.  Have we forgotten…we are all somebody’s child.  Perhaps parents ourselves we do not view ourselves that way.  Years we strove to leave our childhood behind.  Though the years pass, one thing never changes…you…me…everyone…are children.  No matter what part of life we find ourselves…it is one thing we never out grow.

Christmas is for children…it is for you…for me.  For you are after all your parent’s child…but much more…you are God’s!

Merry Christmas!!!

(210 Words)

Only One More

Only One More               7-2-2013

By John W. Vander Velden

Shudder at the thought…that there could be a time when I would only be able to write one last piece.  Would I choose something meaningful to a family member…some words of wisdom to pass?  Would I find a desperate need to explain a past deed or beg forgiveness for some grievous action?  Would I pour myself into something masterful…that I would hope might endure.  I fear I would squander away the time and opportunity by the inability to make a decision.

Perhaps it must begin with what I hope my simple words could accomplish…why I write in the first place.  I am first and foremost a storyteller…It might be considered my crown or my curse.  Many stories roam around, within my cranium, yearning to find life upon the page.  What do these stories have in common…that is other than having the same source…well sorta’?  I feel each has some lesson buried inside…some obvious…others not so much.  But each of these stories are an extension of ME…whether I like or not. 

So what would I wish to say in my final written words?  Maybe it would be time to stop beating around the bush…go directly to what matters most.  So what matters most?  What truly needs to be said?  Decision time again…  I believe in the basic goodness of people…some might disagree.  The news shows so much of the other side, it would be easy to believe that all goodness had left on the “last train to the coast” (Don McLane, “Bye, Bye, American Pie”).  And I will not debate, that we are all so very far from perfect.  But I would wish I could convince others, that we are made by GOD and “GOD don’t make no junk”.  But how?

Maybe that’s what I’m doing.  Perhaps all the stories I have composed, and all the stories I will create, are patches on a quilt made up of their sum.  The happy stories the sad…the serious works and the lighthearted…the short essays and scarce bit of poetry…the short stories and the novels are all bits of the whole.  That together they make up the one thing I am to write.  Just as it takes many bricks to build a house, perhaps it takes all these stories…those written and those begging to see day’s light, to become the one thing that really matters.

(403 Words)

Road Trip

Road Trip

By John W. Vander Velden               6-4-2014

 

I guess people travel differently than we did when I was young, in the days before Interstate Highways, when the road taken went through every town large and small that stood in our way.  There was a time we lived in Florida and those years we made the pilgrimage back to Indiana each year.  Typically the journey took the better part of three days -- providing we stated early.  We always started early.  The filled 59 Chevy Biscayne, with six and later seven, made for long days.

But staring out the window at the ever changing landscape revealed a portion of what America was then.  Looking out across the farmland or what seemed the endless ups and downs of the Appalachians as we moved on the many two lane highways.  One particularly hot day, for cars were not air conditioned then, I remember the slow traffic and the endless row of stop lights as we made our way through the heart of Nashville.  The child, I was, wondered why the traffic signals were painted black.  That memory has left me avoiding that city even today.  Perhaps it is a silly notion for many adore the Music Capital.  But this country boy much prefers open spaces -- I guess I’m allowed my preferences -- I will allow you yours.

As a third grader, I had not full developed my understanding of U.S. geography.  The time spent traversing Georgia and Alabama seemed to stretch toward eternity but we crossed Tennessee and Kentucky in a matter of hours.  My favorite part was the grand horse farms of the Kentucky green hills.  The miles of white fence that raced beside us along the road.  The land so groomed as mile after mile, farm after farm filled my young eyes with wonder.

We didn’t have those electronic wonders that fill the lives of travelers today.  My nephews scarcely noticed the world beyond as they spent hours on attempting to complete some game or another.  It passed the time -- but I wonder.  No, the world is not the same.  In many ways it is better.  Better roads --- better autos -- better ventilation -- better seats – yeah -- better.  Vans have DVD players and video screens to entertain cross country travelers.  But what do they miss?  

But we are all on another “road trip”.  For each day we travel forward on the journey called our life.  And I wonder how the changes in society and technology and our use of all the electronic wonders at our finger tips change that trip as well.  I fear a disconnect caused by “social media” where we engage others on the screen and the person across our table goes unnoticed.  Do we no longer look out of life’s window as the world rushes onward while focused on gadgets, phones with greater intelligence, or the infinite wisdom of “Google”, and doing so purposely disconnect ourselves from those that stand at the roadside waving as we pass by.

We cannot expect the world to return to those times of my past.  Cars move with the windows sealed, the scents of city and country are pretty much left beyond the reach of our noses.  The Interstate highways allow rapid crossing of the distance but also hide so much of the landscape – the ordinary places – that we cross.  So the road trip is not what it once was.  Neither is our everyday “road trip”.  It becomes a challenge – one we can choose if we only will – to use all the tools we have available to not separate but to connect us to those closest – those that desperately need our touch – physical touch  -- those that need real contact – face to face contact.  For my friends, we are all on a “road trip”, on this journey together.    

(633 Words)

Counting

Counting                          11-25-2014

By John W. Vander Velden

There are many ways to view Thanksgiving.  For some it is a time when family and friends gather.  An occasion when they meet for perhaps the only time of the year.  Others consider the holiday a task.  Working to prepare home and meal for many mouths of those with grand appetites.  Then there are the football games.  Some use the time to delve into the sale flyers, as they make plans for Christmas shopping. 

There are many aspects to the fourth Thursday of November, a day, for most, set aside from work.  But perhaps it is a day that deserves a bit of time -- counting.  As children we counted all the time.  We counted the pennies in our bank.  On Halloween we counted the candy in our stash gathered from the neighborhood homes.  We counted checkers and counted cards.  But as we grew older we counted less.  The bank counts our money for us – those that managed to hold onto their pennies from all those years ago.  We take for granted that the deck of cards is complete, and so on. 

Yet there comes a need to assess or in the very least consider the vast number of things in our lives – to count our blessings.  And there is no better time than Thanksgiving.  Though we live in a world where the economy is fueled by purchases, a place where the media bombards us with the things we should have but do not – yet.  We forget, too easily, the bounty of our lives, overlooking the unmeasurable value found in our relationships – family, friends, coworkers and neighbors, and we take for granted ordinary things that make up our every day.

Counting helps, to take stock in the wonders of the world, the glorious sunrises, the summer evening song of the robin whose notes flow on the soft sweet breeze, the shining eyes of a laughing child, the smell of fresh baking, blueberry muffins, on a Sunday morning, the contentment of a task well done, leisurely walks with the one you love, watching the TV on quiet nights, or the innumerable other things that make up our lives.  When begin the count and we will realize the number far beyond our expectation.  Then we will understand how we are truly blessed – blessed by laughter – blessed by love – blessed by life – blessed by God.

Counting should not be reserved for one day, no matter how special that day might be.  We should count often, and while we count be grateful.  No, our lives are not perfect.  No, we will never own all the things we might want.  No, not every day of our lives will be joyful.  For there will be difficult days ahead, just as we have faced the difficult times in our past.  But though past pains might fill our mind and make the counting difficult, yet we should count – and remember – and give thanks for each day, for the joys and yes, for the hard times too.  For the hard times make us strong and give greater joy to all the rest.  

So today count – count the good things in your life.  Count family and home.  Count life and love. And give thanks for the uncountable blessings you have been given.  Open your heart to share with those less fortunate.  Giving is a blessing of its own.  Smile often, it is a gift that costs you nothing but brightens the world around you.  Take a moment to realize the bounty all around you has been given on loan – yours for a time and should be shared.  Thanksgiving is a special day – so make it special by counting.   

(608 Words)

Only One Grain of Sand

Only One Grain of Sand                

By John W. Vander Velden

 

So I ask the question.  If someone gathers a single grain of sand from the beach would it matter?  Would taking a single particle of sand change the beach’s value?  The simple answer would be that a single grain is insignificant.  But I contend that though billions upon billions of grains make up the beach the removal of even one makes the beach less, particularly to the Master of the Beach.

You see the Master of the Beach knows each grain of sand -- recognizes that every grain is unique.  The Master of the Beach knows when each grain came to be, where it was formed, and how it has at last arrived to the particular beach which is its home.  The Master of the Beach knows that each grain has a shape it shares with none other, slight variances of chemical composition, and shades of color.  The Master of the Beach has named each grain -- perhaps a name different than the name the grain of sand might call itself, because no person knows the grain of sand better…especially the grain itself.  The Master of the Beach knows all these things and sees a value invisible to others, how each grain supports others, how each grain matters.

There are those times when we wonder -- wonder how we fit into things.  We wonder about our worth and consider the world and all the people that fill it.  We think of ourselves as but a grain of sand on the beach.  How easily we feel insignificant.  Each day we find ourselves surrounded by others.  Each day we measure ourselves and find ourselves lacking.  We recognize those deemed powerful and important and know that list does not include us.  We wonder if any notice us.  If, when our time on earth is finished, we have made even the smallest of marks. 

But the Master of the Universe knows us. Knows who we are -- what we are -- where we came from -- and the journey that we have traveled.  The Master of the Universe has given each of us a name.  It is the name by which he knows us.  It might not be the name we call ourselves, but is our true name.  Our true purpose has always been part of His plan -- a plan we neither know nor understand.  For each of us is unique, a one of a kind individual like no other, filling a space that only we can fill.  And the Master of the Universe knows that the world would be less -- much less -- without any one of us.

(437 Words)

Transitions

Transitions

By John W. Vander Velden

 

In each person’s life there are those moments when we face changes.  For though we might desire constants, life moves onward in a continual state of flux, and we face new things daily.  But there are those moments in our lives when something dramatic comes to our “timeline”.  Looking backward we see these times clearly -- our graduation -- our marriage -- the birth of our first child -- the list grows with the year count.  Those occasions share more than memories, those times of our evolving life are more than “just” change.  For though we have approached each with different levels of preparedness, we have watched the events as they approached.  We have taken time, time to consider the change, what it means, and what we think will be the result.  Each of us has faced these things, these transitions of our lives.  Moving from High School perhaps to work or college.  The change of living alone to sharing our life with another.  The fear of having a brand new person under our constant care.  But these special type of changes, these transitions, do not exist only in our past.  As we move forward in our lives, changes come, some we choose, others are thrust upon us.  For the one thing that remains constant about life is its continuous change.  Each of us will face, perhaps many times, a moment when we must choose the direction that is best for us or those we love.  At times the change we choose is dramatic -- a transition -- from what we know, into something we think is better.   We see these things coming, and we face these changes with intense seriousness.  But no matter how much we prepare – no matter how much we have “ground our thoughts” to what we anticipate – yet it becomes a matter of faith and trust as we leap from the life we know toward the new life that awaits.

(324 Words)

 

The Road

The Road            2-20-2014

By John W. Vander Velden

For each must walk the road, a route as unique as the individual.  As we travel on that journey, we will encounter forks and crossroads.  Each intersection a choice for us alone, a choice made but once, for there is no returning.  Wisdom does not always play in our choosing, and regret too often rears its head.  The route we choose shapes the travels we make.  Corrections possible, but they do not eliminate foolish wandering.  None pick the perfect path – for no one can see all the pits and potholes, rocks and boulders, hills and valleys that demand our crossing.  Take care when the road seems easy – the smooth way rarely best.  Yet build your strength when the road seems straight and flat, for none reach their destination on that highway alone.  The time comes to all when that energy saved will be needed while the climb is hard or the path veers left and right.  And endurance needed, for all must travel across barren wastes that lie between us and journey’s end.  Times we share the way.  Times we must strive on it seems alone.  For life gives us companions, whose travels join our route.  Some come and walk with us for many years, others but a moment, but in the end our road is our journey and the shared steps may not reach identical ends.  

For each must walk the road, a route as unique as the individual.  But the fortunate relies upon another’s strength when muscles fail.  Hope comes from the unseen – but not the unknown, for they have felt the intangible that never abandons.  They cannot know the obstacles that lie before but have confidence in their destination.  They find joy in the journey – the mountain’s climb difficult but the view at its summit breathtaking.  They realize each day its own reward.  Each challenges strengthen.  Each choice a lesson learned to aid the wanderer. 

For each must walk the road and travel a route unique.  But God has placed you upon your path – and He will not forsake you on your travels – at last guiding you safely home.

  (352 Words)    

Drill Ye Tarriers Drill

Drill Ye Tarriers Drill

By John W. Vander Velden

 

When I was in Junior High – it is called middle school these days – we had music class.  Basically we sang for the hour.  One of the songs was “Drill Ye Tarriers Drill”.  Even then, the meaning of the ditty did not escape me, but it didn’t really hit home until years later.  My wife and I took a trip to Staved Rock State Park.  It’s in Illinois.  We are very much into historical “stuff”, covered bridges, mills, old barns, and the like.  So we found the Illinois and Michigan Canal.  Those that remember their U.S. history know about the canals dug throughout the Midwest, particularly Indiana, Ohio, and Illinois.  Of course the most famous, the Erie Canal is in New York State.

But it was seeing that canal in Illinois, seeing the aqueduct and lock, considering the ninety miles of trench dug…by hand…that made the words of that song we sang, years before, leap out of my past.  The thought of tons upon tons of soil moved by men and their shovels amazed me.

It was not only canals that demanded the toil and sweat of bent backs.  There is an old drainage tile that crosses my farm, eight foot of heavy clay soil cover it at its deepest.  A man worked all summer to put in that tile…by hand.  The railroads, ribbons of steel that cross the country, the first ties and rails were laid…by hand.  Mines, which supplied the resources our young country demanded, were dug…by hand.  The grand old barns with their tons of “hand” hewed beams were raised on the backs of men.  But the past’s toil was not reserved for males.  Women may have had different obligations but often those duties required hard, long hours, working around the home and in the fields.

We forget the labor demanded of past generations.  We forget when honest sweat was a symbol of honor.  We forget that this country was built on the backs of men and women.  So many striving to create something new.

Yes, the folk song is about those that carved railroad tunnels through solid rock.  They dug the tunnels that made the linking of our shores possible.  But that song reminds of the countless that accepted the challenges and with their perspiration changed the world.

 (379 Words) 

   

    

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Otis Green

Otis Green                      9-20-2014

By John W. Vander Velden

Otis Green was a hard man, so the stories tell.  They speak of a big man, tall and broad, with dark brooding eyes that seemed to stare right into a body’s soul.  He had a temper to match.  Those that dared to approach the Green farm met the big man with a scattergun in hand and threats upon his lips.  I heard tell of the time he beat his mule to death, when it failed to pull out a stubborn hickory stump.  Few dared face the farmer of Yangle Road, whether to approach the man on his farm or in town.  Otis had no friends.

Why Millie Connor married the man none knew.  Some say that Millie had been cast out by her family, had nowhere else to turn.  Others think that the young neighbor saw something in the big man no one else did.  Everyone hoped that the lovely young woman could bring a change to Otis’ disposition.  But Otis Green was just plain mean, and Millie and their baby did nothing to soften him.

Now Yangle Road remains little traveled.  Just a strip of dirt and gravel going from nowhere and leading to nothing in particular.  There is only one place that stands on Yangle Road, though most might pass it unknown.  For the grand barn fell most of seventy years ago, and the house remains scarcely a remnant of the structure Otis Green’s father built.  If you force yourself through the briars and brambles, past the gnarled twisted scrubs that have swallowed the old farmstead, you will find the building, the paint so faded that no trace of color remains on the weathered wood.

No one has lived in that house with its broken windows and faded taters that blow out those openings, not since that night Millie and her one year old left in the Chevrolet.  No one know what drove the woman to the point of leaving.  And no one knows where she went that dark October night all those years ago.  How Otis became locked in the root cellar, carved in the hillside behind the house, remains a mystery.  Oh, the gossip tells how in a fit of rage he beat his wife -- whooped her good.  That after, when Millie found the man in a penitent mood, she sent him to fetch potatoes for their supper.  That Otis Green went down into the cellar -- the dark hole carved in the dirt -- and she closed the heavy oak door, slid the bolt, locking it fast.  Stories tell of the rage filled shouts she heard as she walked away.  The sound of heavy blows against the planks as she loaded Albert and their things into the sedan, and the profane vile threats as Millie looked back one last time before she drove away.

But those are old stories told around campfires.  For no one knows the truth and Otis was in no condition to tell them when he was found.  Weeks had passed before some brave soul found what remained of the man.  Couldn’t be certain the corpse found among the onions and potatoes was Otis.  But each time someone closed and bolted that heavy wood door that sealed the farmer to his death, they would find it open the next morning.  One time Nathan Martin nailed it fast, only to find the door shredded and scattered the following day. 

Those that force themselves through the brush as they venture among the rotting remains of the Green Farm, find an eerie sight.  For among the tall weeds and brambles they see a worn path that connects the old house’s back door to the yawning pitchy black portal of the cellar.  And times footprints, large work boot’s traces, can be seen on that tread bare way.  Only the brave, the curious, or fools wander the place where others speak of knowing they are watched from eyes unseen, hidden in the dilapidated long abandoned house.  The ancient structure from which a flickering light spills out an upstairs window on the thirtieth night of each month.  The wise know to avoid Yangle Road, a place where only the disoriented or lost find themselves after dark.  For many times – a tall broad man searches the night – wandering that gravel covered way -- calling out into the darkness.   You see Otis Green was a hard man – perhaps he still is…

(732 Words)

The Season Between

The Season Between              9-30-2013

By John W. Vander Velden

 

For some, autumn is only the time wedged between the blistering summer and dark and snowy winter. But to overlook those special ninety plus days, of the years transition, the time when the breeze becomes a bit cooler and the days grow a little shorter, is to ignore a magnificent portion of the year. For the season provides unique experience​s that come at no other time. It is impossible not to notice fall’s colors, the tree's grand pallet of reds and golds.  Yet how easily we disregard the thousands of unique things of the season. The mists that settle in the hollows and glows pink with the day's first light. The apples of red and yellow that decorate the rows of trees on gently rolling hills.  The bright orange pumpkins placed that embellish many a lawn and porch.  Have we forgotten the Friday night lights, that shine on high school gladiators, as fans, bundled against the cold, cheer?  Or the musty scent of fallen leaves that fill our nostril?  Can we take no notice of frosts tiny flakes that paint our lawns on crisp mornings?  Wonders abound each and every day.

Though autumn is a time of change, each season has its purpose, for fall brings maturity, the completion of spring’s beginnings and summer’s growth, while preparing the world, for winter’s rest.    Fall is so much more than the season between.   

(231 Words)

 

Colors

 Colors                             8-26-2014

By John W. Vander Velden

Have you ever wondered, if you could be defined by a color, what color you would be?  I would have to agree that it is a strange concept to cross my mind on this stormy afternoon.  But colors are tied to many things…emotions for one.  Gold seems to indicate great value.  Red can mean anger or devotion among other things.  Yellow is often associated with happiness.  Purple has been linked to royalty or grandness.  And we all know what label poor blue finds itself bound to.  There is green, fresh and new.  White purity and pink shows youth and desire.  Colors surround us, the world is filled with colors.  Which color are you?

But look closer, the yard maybe green but it is not one green.  The grass is not like someone opened a can of paint and just covered it all with one shade.  Thousands of different hues blend together to form the green of our yards.  Each with different textures, shapes, shades, make up the simple thing we call grass.  This fact is not reserved for the blades we mow, but surround us.  The bark of trees, the flowers in bed and roadside.  Mixes of primary colors in infinite ratios forming everything from the heavens above to the soil at our feet.

Are we so different?  Surely a color might describe our mood at a particular moment but a single shade could never define us…completely.  Each of us are made up of countless facets, thousands and thousands of unique bits of who we are.  These facets change as we change, perhaps daily.  Change as we face new challenges, new opportunities, new experiences.  Even now I am growing, no, not taller and hopefully not broader, but growing mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.  If I were a color you could not name it, and the color would always be changing, moving through uncountable blends of red, yellow and blue.  At times bright…other times subdued even dark perhaps, but alive…the colors would live as I live.

I am so many colors…and so are you!

(349 Words)

 

Just A Ripple

Just a Ripple               9-26-2014 

By John W. Vander Velden

There are times when I consider the where I belong.  Oh, I know geographically the real estate, the bit of earth that I find myself – the place I consider home.  It is good to have that knowledge of something solid, something true.  But that constant is not what I mean. 

Perhaps I should approach it in another way.  On some early morning, stand at the edge of a pond, large or small.  Look carefully over the water when it is smoother than glass.  Then select a small pebble -- the smaller the better.  Now stretching your arm forward, allow that stone to fall into the water.  Watch as it breaks the surface.  Allow your eyes to follow the rings moving outward.  I would contend that you have changed that pond.  You have changed the pond with those ripples that race outward and though may go unnoticed reach the far side. That change will soon disappear.  But you have changed the pond in ways permanent – ways you do not see – ways you can not know.  For that bit of rock settles upon the bottom, a new feature.  Animals, perhaps microscopic, must move by a different path because that stone now lies, a barrier, in their route.  Other plants and creatures may with time use it as a foundation for new growth.  Who can know all the changes that just one small pebble causes – changes greater than just a ripple?

There was a day – to me it seems very long ago – when I was just a pebble dropped into this pond.  And my birth may have been just a ripple.  To some those ringlets were large as ocean waves, but to most of those that shared the world with me, the new arrival, the wavelets went unnoticed.  But just as that pebble changed the pond, my entrance changed the world.  However there is an important difference.  You see the pebble has no control -- none what so ever.  I on the other hand have abilities, gifts – can make choices.  Through those choices, I affect those around me.  How I use the gifts I have been given, changes this pond we share. 

So I look about the world I share with you and so many others.  A world I share with those I know.  A world I share with so many I have yet to meet.  A world I share with those I will never have the opportunity to see, some near others much distant.  I wonder where I belong, and more, what can I do so that God makes me more -- than just a ripple.

(434 Words)

Just Another One

Just Another One                             

By John W. Vander Velden

On a bright summer late afternoon, Craig drove a bit too fast on the country road.  The slanting sun piercing the row of tall hardwoods with shafts of brightness across his route, the flash, flash, flash of brilliance came through the driver’s window annoyed the man determined.  He had miles to go.  Yet there was no real need for his haste.  No one in particular expected him.  None stood checking their watch waiting for the man that drove so feverishly.  But he drove on as if the world would end if he did not reach the place he chose at the time he had set.

A soft brown doe stood, not ten yards from the roadside with her two, yet spotted fawns, watching as the man in the BMW passed by obvious.  The great white clouds, sailing ships of the sky looked down as Craig roared onward.  The man drove past ancient barns, rolling fields dotted with great green bales of hay, a grand cock Ring Neck Pheasant peaking from the road’s edge, a child sitting on her front steps licking an ice cream cone as she raced its melting, and the old white pickup truck with a man stretched beneath the open hood along the very road he sped, and Craig did not notice.

At journey’s end, the man felt content that he had met his deadline.  Craig climbed out of the car parked along a street of a small town whose name escaped him.  He moved quickly among gawkers and shoppers annoyed that they slowed his pace.  Glancing at the shop fronts, catching but a glimpse of wares displayed, the man shook his head as he wondered what it was that brought the throngs to this “burg”.   Later in a small café, Craig frowned as he sat waiting for a common meal ordered in what he felt a common place as he was served by cheerful, courteous, common people.

When he entered his leather upholstered white automobile Craig frowned.  He must write his review…just another one… It was his job…but ….   (345 Words)

Just a Parcel

Just a Parcel                              9-16-2014

By John W. Vander Velden

 

 

When we think of all that we have, those things that make us, we consider the objects acquired and sometimes the items lost, but too seldom we contemplate the most important thing we have been given…our life.  For each of us has received that gift…just a parcel of time. 

Should we dwell upon the years behind or worry that the number of years ahead grow shorter.  Too often those thoughts creep into our consciousness, but I say allow regrets to remain in the past, for all have memories of the things we wish we had done differently.  And to stare into futures mists, concerned with difficulties yet unborn, does us no good.  Enough problems come, there is no need to fear imagined situations.  For to wallow in the past or fear the future steals from the now! 

We remain here among our neighbors, friends and especially family for a time, and the number of years we have been allotted, we do not know.  But He who gives good gifts, has presented us with this parcel…just a parcel of time.  Whether the bulk of that parcel lies before us or behind, whether that parcel is days or decades, it is a gift of great worth.  For each moment contains possibilities…grand possibilities that present themselves…or grand possibilities that need to be sought.  Though we have allowed many to slip between our fingers like sand, countless others await.  So draw a breath, thank the GOD that made you, for this day, smile, and take hold of this bit of your life and seek the challenge to do something.  And though it might seem that “something” is meaningless, be assured it is not!  For the lowly brick seems of little value, yet when stacked, brick by brick, grand edifices stand…depending upon each stone.    

For our lives is so much more than a measure of time, and yet time is one of the greatest gifts we have been given.  Time is an element we share with those around us, should we not reach out to do and to care, to use the thousands of moments of that gift in the millions of possibilities that remain before us.  As I stand awestruck facing the dawning sky, I thank GOD for this day…just a parcel of my life he has given, and pray that I use that gift well.

(399 Words)

Do You Remember?

Do You Remember?

By John W. Vander Velden             

Do you remember the first moment you knew?  The first moment you heard or saw.  The first moment your heart believed what your ears or eyes revealed.  How did you feel then?  Was it shock, fear, anger or did your heart break at the loss of the brave and innocent.  How did you feel…then?

How do you feel now?  Remembering the attack upon US soil…the attack on our way of life…the attack that killed so many…drew ordinary people into another’s war.  How do you feel?  Each time you travel… waiting in what seems endless lines…asked to remove you shoes…seeing armed men.  Do you feel anger at those that brought fear into your every day…those that allow hate to drive their actions…those that do not value their own lives?  How can they value others?  How do you feel?

The world changed that day…the day that hate found places to strike.  Do we return hate for hate?  Do we allow the world to spiral down the path other have chosen.  Do we grovel in fear?  Hide as we wait for some other atrocity to strike the defenseless.  What do we do?  Our actions show more than our words.  

In a confusing world of blurred lines, we search for simple solutions to complex questions.  We wonder what made our country the target.  Why others shake angry fists our way.  Each day the rhetoric grows…each day blame cast…each day tensions fester...and we wonder.

The towers fell and a new building stands defiant.  We have not surrendered…but at what price.  The violence comes closer.  Metal detectors and guards stand in our courthouse.  Schools are locked down.  And though these may seem unrelated to that September day, can we say they are fueled by different problems…different mentality.  Was the actions of Sandy Hook, Columbine, and Oklahoma City not driven by hate and aimed against the innocents?  Were they not some grand way to gain attention for some confused or mad soul as they lash out in places long considered safe.  What do you think? 

 So we live our lives, think about tomorrow, hope that somehow…someone…returns sanity to a troubled world.  And wonder, just wonder what the new normal might be.  But today, on this September day, I ask…Do you remember?

(386 Words)

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, Michigan...Oh Yeah! Part 4

Yes, Michigan?...Oh Yeah

Part 4

By John W. Vander Velden

Sunny days with cool temps, blue skies over broad expanses of water lapping on rock strewn beaches, these things might describe our time to the north.  But it seems all good things must come to their conclusion…

 

We looked one final time at the sign along the road, in front of our hotel, “Guests check in…Friends check out”.  It is a fitting slogan for our time in St. Ignace.  We had not stayed on the north side of the straits on past visits to the region -- I expect we will next time we choose to venture this part of Michigan’s wonderland.

On the northern tip of the
lower peninsula, stands this castle-like
lighthouse.

But our adventure had not ended -- merely moved south.  The morning held great promise as we crossed the Mackinac Bridge that Friday.  Entering Mackinac City we, soon found ourselves in a parking lot of another thing on this year’s bucket list -- The Old Mackinac Lighthouse.  It had been sixteen years since the last time I had walked those grounds with Nick.  The photographs I had taken in 98 left much to be desired, and armed with new equipment and good light I hoped to photograph the unique light again.

How things had changed!  The whole area has been redone.  Before the keepers quarters only housed a small gift shop, and now they allow visitors to climb the tower.  The light station is a proper museum with the keeper’s quarters restored, the outbuildings housing their own displays, and curators dressed in costumes of the lighthouse’s era, answering all questions.

Looking down on the fog horn building and
Lake Huron.

The light had been decommissioned in 1957, so it no longer sheds its beam across the straits.  With the light removed, we were permitted to climb into the lamp room -- that glass walled portion at the towers peak.  Though I enjoy standing upon the catwalks of other lighthouses, this held a different thrill.  But the lighthouse park was but half of our historical adventure, for a short walk led to Historical Fort Michilimackinac, a rebuilt replica of the 18^th century fort and settlement.  We found the history fascinating and spend several hours moving through the buildings.

 



You can almost hear the voices
of years past.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The old fort originally built by the French and modified by the British.
The site now reflects the early British era before the fort
moved to the Mackinac Island.

 

 

For those willing to spend the time,
there is much to see at
Fort Michilimackinac

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I love the old style multi face
outdoor clocks.

The afternoon found us strolling the downtown of Mackinac City.  The town has changed to please the tourist.  That is more shops -- many more shops --  than we found on our past visits.  We did not walk the streets alone as we shared the sidewalks with throngs of folks that have all come from other places.  We stepped inside many interesting shops including the Mackinac Kite Store.   Last time, when Nick was small, we bought a kite there, so a return visit seemed necessary.  The store had grown over the years and handled many things it did not years ago -- games and such.  But they yet had the large colorful kites hanging overhead -- a fun place.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We were told since the structure had been
lived in all those years, the county found it in good shape.

 

We left the town in the late afternoon with one more stop on our agenda.  Would you like to guess what it might be?  Why McGulpin Point Lighthouse, just west of Mackinac City.  The light station has only recently become open to the public.  For nearly a hundred years the lighthouse has been privately owned.  It had been in the same family during that time and used as a home.  The present public fascination with lighthouses has fueled the county, and they have done wonders returning the light station into a place that merits a visit.

McGulpin Point made the twelfth lighthouse we visited on this trip -- sounds a bit crazy, but we enjoy them.  How they were built and of course they stand on beautiful locations.  We were able to climb seven of the towers on this trip, each with unique breathtaking views of the lake.  I managed to get some pretty good photos -- that can’t be bad.  We had not come only to see

Another set of stairs.  Who knows how many steps I
tread up and down that week.

lighthouses -- we saw so much more, but we did see some amazing lighthouses.   

We spent our final night in Gaylord, Michigan, about an hour south of Mackinac City.  The traffic in that town seemed greater than we would have expected for the location.   We were told that the bumper to bumper typical for a summer day.  I am not certain what causes the roads to overflow in that town.  As for us, it was our jumping off place for the homeward trek.

We took the trail down to the shore of
Lake Michigan to see McGulpin Rock.
A boulder of some fame that has been used for years
to measure the height of the lake's water.

Saturday morning we headed south, going a different route, moving west to Ludington.  Many times we have traveled US 31 up the eastern shore of Lake Michigan, so once we headed south of Ludington the road was familiar.  Being strangely ahead of schedule -- that just doesn’t happen -- we thought a stop in South Haven might be fun.  But arriving in the middle of some kind of festival -- tents traffic and scant parking -- sent us scurrying for a quieter local.  Saugatuck was not that place!  If we thought South Haven insane, Saugatuck had the keys to the asylum.  After getting turned around three times, we escaped planning a return on a weekday -- soon.

Well friends, we made it home.  I guess you knew that -- or how would I be posting this stuff.  1835 miles and more than 1300 photos give you an idea of the pace.  I expect it will take month to go through all those pictures – but the memories – well, they will last a lifetime.

Thanks for joining us on this journey.  Who knows where we go next – I’m certain I don’t…

(908 Words)