The Better Half

The Better Half

By John W. Vander Velden

 

As the years pass, we begin to notice how complex simple things really are, and the simplicity of those things we feel are the most intricate.  Those among us that have, by luck or fate or divine assistance, found the one person which completes us, in ways we could never imagine, might understand.   But even the most fortunate rarely take the time to consider, how another person, a thread, a cord, could become so intertwined within the tapestry of their lives.  It is not something that occurs in an instant but rather throughout a lifetime.  Some abandon the quest before the bond truly builds, fleeing at the first or second moment of tears.  Some never open themselves to allow the mingling of spirits and souls – the growth of one-ness.  They share a space but never lives.  Some drift away, like chaff on the autumn wind, losing the attachment slowly, so slowly that for years the movement goes unnoticed, until at last a gulf separates two that had once been united.  Yet each long for that special thing -- that special someone.   The person that strengthens our weakness – gives courage when we face our fears.  The one that helps us laugh when we stumble.  The sole mate that wipes away the tears hid from all others.  

It is a great deal to ask.  It is more than we deserve.  But those of us who have found the one and only, understand that life, for us, is not possible without them.  God bless the better half!  

(254 Words)

Sagging Shoulders

Sagging Shoulders            

By John W. Vander Velden

 

With sagging shoulders that had so willingly borne loads, the structure stands long abandoned.  Once the tumbled down barn was the pride of those that had moved within the walls that now deteriorate.  How heavy, the great beams, hewed by hand, fitted together by skill, and hefted skyward by shear will of many men, the framework designed to stand for all time.  The number uncountable of the nails that fastened its skin of broad planks to that skeleton.  Joy filled the faces of those that first set eyes upon the structure that would be the center of their lives.  When only the aroma of new lumber  filled its grand space.  But that was long ago.  The days when a man carried a lantern into its heart before the dawns first light are long forgotten.  Summers when farmer, with great hooks, team and rope, filled the mow, a history remembered only by bent old men.  How many times had men with ladder and brush dressed the barn in garments of red trimmed in white?  Now the weathered wood show only traces of faded blotches too stubborn to vanish.  Wood shakes that had covered the mammoth roof, shielding man and beast from driving rains, lay scattered and broken upon the mow floor among forgotten rotting hay.  Only the foolish venture within the shadows and among the shafts of light flowing through broken panes.  Summer’s storms and winter’s fury did not devastate the once proud monument.  Changes called progress eliminated the grand building’s usefulness.  Over time what had once been the pulsing heart of the farm’s life became ignored -- just an old building.  No, it was not the heavy burdens willingly carried that caused its shoulders to sag -- but people that no longer needed or cared.

Part of this nation’s history stands crumbling along that country road, a symbol of what was and is no more – all that remain are the sagging shoulders of the abandoned barn.

(327 Words)  

Love is More Than Four Letters

Love is More Than Four Letters

By John W. Vander Velden

On a cold Sunday afternoon, I watched as a man, well into his eighties, had the arm of a bent old woman looped through his own.  They moved with care across the parking lot of a restaurant -- together.  Those that took the time to observe, understood a lifetime shared.  You see, love is more than four letters.  It is more than words spoken.  Not that words have no meaning.  Not that words need not be shared.  But real love is revealed by simple acts -- continuously.

There are those that foolishly feel that it takes gifts, large and small, to prove affection.  Some feel cheated when they are not the recipient of some grand thing.  And though the sharing of gifts can bring joy, love is more than diamonds.  The patient listening to a day’s challenges.  A supporting word, when confidence has failed.  Knowing that no matter what, you will never abandon.  These are the gifts that carry the highest value.

Some feel that passion is love's only measure.  That physical desire controls every need of those connected.  That with passions waning, the human bond fades.  Surely intimacy is vital to any that seek connection.  The private sharing -- the quiet times -- the together-aloneness -- needed.  Love is more than any physical act.  It is the knowing -- the believing -- and understanding of another.  Those thing only grow with years.  Sharing time and space -- laughter and tears -- achievements and disasters -- with time, can bind two people tighter. Two living individuals, yet teamed to battle life’s wars together.  Each bringing strengths and weaknesses – complimenting – reinforcing – as they face futures unknown.  Those are the signs of true intimacy – and life is their passion.

That old couple understood.  They knew that love is more than four letters…

 (300 Words)

Sixty-two

Sixty-two

By John W. Vander Velden

A day came, and I understood that I had completed sixty-two years.  Birthdays are important milestones.  We use them to measure lives.  These years, the significance, of the date, is different than in my youth.  How I anticipated my eleventh birthday -- or the day I turned thirteen -- a teenager.  I faced eighteen with trepidation, knowing I had but five days to register with the draft.  The turning twenty-one meant I had reached manhood.  And my thirtieth left me wondering what I had accomplished.  Every three hundred sixty-five days and change has brought my birthday around again.  Each year the cake must bear up under an increased burning load, as a happy chorus fills the air. 

One should check their driver’s license on their birthday.  Too easily forgotten the renewal of the card.  But there are other things we should take the time to examine, and birthdays might be the best time.  Reflection comes easily when we look at the flaming cake and the few moments that follow our breathy attempt to extinguish.  How can a year have passed?  Have I reached any of the goals I set last year?  How can I be sixty-two?

To me it seems that life passes in a rush.  Days sweep away into weeks -- months melt away and suddenly there I find myself standing over the flames once again.   Surly the time has brought less achievements than I had hoped…. Too critical, I find myself when I measure my own life against others.  Yet I am a content man.  When push comes to shove is there more needed? 

Birthdays are also a time to look toward the future.  To set goals -- even if they seem unreachable.  It gives me purpose, and purpose is something everyone must have.  Tomorrow and the days that follow, well, they are the days in my sixty-third year.  And each day is as important as I make it.  I should do my best to make each very important.  For I find myself upon a journey, on a road I share, for a time, with the most special people.  But it is my journey and like the song says, “May you have many more…”  And so with as much courage as I am able to muster, I move forward -- one special day at a time!

(388 Words)

Indigo

Indigo                 

By John W. Vander Velden

How life changed.  Richard had lost his job.  Downsized, laid off, the words mattered little, the results the same.  His career had ended.  Years of dedication and hard work had, it seemed, modest worth.  Richard found sleep impossible and so he began walking, something that always had cleared his mind. As his mind raced, Richard found himself slowly traveling along a county road, in the wee hours.  Pausing, he looked eastward even as bright pins of light sparkled overhead.  The blackness had begun its surrender.  Night was ending.  On the horizon indigo grew, a small slice between the night’s blackness and the morning’s beginning.  Only a moment…the briefest of time…a shear point.  A time no longer night yet not day.  It was in the indigo Richard now found himself.  One job finished yet surely possibilities remained.  The night’s ending…the glorious star’s fading did not mean all had ceased.  No, the indigo reminded, there was always this place between…between endings and new beginnings.  With indigo Richard had found hope.  

(170 Words)