The Summer Wind

 

Showing posts with label Summer. Show all posts

FRIDAY, AUGUST 10, 2018

The Summer Wind 

By John W. Vander Velden

 

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 over 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.  

(166 Words) Posted 9/7/2012

Summer Wind/More Than Clouds

The Summer Wind 

By John W. Vander Velden

 

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 over 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.  

(166 Words) Posted 9/7/2012

 

 

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) Posted 8/24/2012

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of Quiet Walks

Of Quiet Walks                       

By John W. Vander Velden

The sun pierced the dense canopy of hardwood leaves, like bright diamonds high overhead, sending shafts of brilliance through the forest’s twilight. They walked silently, hand in hand, for the moment required no words, and no words could express the moment.  Too seldom they came to this place.  Too seldom they separated themselves from the hurried world.  Each time they walked these places, both made a silent vow, deep within their individual hearts, to return soon.  But the magic of this sacred world fades with miles, with days, with work, and worry--with life.  It will be years before they would tear themselves away from all life’s demands and return for the peace found in no other place.

Cooler beneath the trees, than sun soaked open places.  Quiet as they strode the hillside among the great columns of ancient hardwoods.  They moved cautiously, silently, alone, far from busy traveled trails, beyond the reach of other’s voices.  Even the songs of birds high above, a rare interruption to their ears, as they strode here in the quiet primal forest, and breathed the musty scent of last year’s leaves at their feet.

They shared more than the common love of this special realm.  They shared a life.  Years built with each other, home and family.  A slow evolving of one plus one becoming greater than two, as time’s binding one to the other.  Many years of shared living, building a combined past.  The melding of two people bonded in ways neither expected. Of finishing each other’s sentences.  Of sharing common thoughts. Of children now grown. Of together finding courage, to face an unknown future.  Of long quiet walks--together.

These things fill their minds as they wander the cathedral made by God himself.  They do not understand the whole of it--for the whole of it too complex for mere mortal minds. They understand that they are part of something larger, but do not see exactly how they fit.  For them it is enough to accept.  Accept the moment, accept the life they shared, accept each other--as imperfect as they are.  Comforted knowing that they have found acceptance, in each other--in their God.

Clarity comes here in the virgin wood, as they wander within the shadows of ancient trees.  The daily hectic world is pushed aside.  Bills and bosses do not exist--here.  They share these moments with only themselves and the God that they know is everywhere.  They will add this day to their fondest memories of quiet walks. 

(418 Words)     10-1-2016

7-1-2023

Summer, Sand, and Flowing Water

Summer, Sand, and Flowing Water

By John W. Vander Velden

 

On summer’s hottest day, as sweat covered I trudge under ordinary obligations, I consider the season.    Some find summer unpleasant, but like each time of year it has its moments.  For there are those days when the air feels thick the moment I step out on a morning that is more than warm and a haze hangs in the air, proof of the intense humidity.  But summer is summer should we expect less.

On those intense days I remember the summers of my youth.  And when I think of hot days of the past, my years in central Florida stand out.  Sweltering heat and humidity the watch words of that country.  Often our escape to the cool creek enough to make the time pass as we splashed in the shallow water.  We learned quickly about rattlesnakes and cotton mouths, where they could be likely found and avoided those places.  The sandy space, that, with a bit of my older brother’s engineering became our island, was the center of our games and imagination’s adventures.

Even so we had to cross a marsh to get there, and dangerous things lived in the marsh.  A few scrounged cement blocks and some long boards strategically placed along a woven wire fence formed a makeshift bridge separating us from the ooze and the slithering critters.  Eyes open, always.  Pay attention to everything around you.  We often saw the gaping snow white mouth of the moccasin but never nearby.  Strange it was not the snakes that drove us away from that small piece of paradise.  In our play, we thumped a bee tree.  And as “Poo Bear” will tell you, “you can never tell about bees”.  Whether it was anger or a desire to protect their hoard, I could not say, but they drove us out, most impolitely.

It was weeks before we gathered enough courage to venture back.  Though we discovered our folly the island had lost its appeal, and we found other places, safer places, easier to reach places, at that.  But it is that small bit of an island a sandy place that I remember best.  And when I long to escape the hottest days of summer, sometimes my heart returns there.

(369 Words)  7-27-2017

Thinkin' About August

Thinkin’ About August

 

By John W. Vander Velden

 

August is one of those months that seem to pass unnoticed.  That is if you don’t have kids going back to school…or college…or are a student yourself...or are a teacher for that matter.  Then August is one of those REALLY important months.  But growing up we didn’t start classes until September…in college mid-September. 

But August is no less important that the other eleven months.  It holds its unique place in the calendar with summer’s closing.  Some of the hottest days of the year usually fall in August.  Dog days they are called.  But the days are growing shorter and the mornings carry a bit more mist than June and July.  The spider’s webs sparkle with dew on clear mornings.  The corn has reached its full height, dark green with swelling ears.  Signs that the year reaches toward autumn.  August tell us yes, fall is on the way…but not here yet, summer is very much alive.  

August for most is a bit more laid back, a month with no national holidays, a time that may contain leisurely end of summer vacation escapes, a time to slow down. For me the month is a time to evaluate the possible success of the year’s crop.  Time spent stripping ears and peering into rows of tall soybean plants…wondering if the harvest will be good.  It is a time to mentally prepare for the next big season…and the completion of another crop year.  It is a time for getting the equipment rearranged and ready.  I spend time mowing fencerows and farm lots, worrying about new flush of weeds invisible only days before.  There are always things to do and usually more than time allows.  But busy is better than the alternative, not that I wouldn’t enjoy leisure. But I see leisure as choosing to be less busy, which is a far cry from not having things to do. 

August remind me of change.  The changing seasons.  The changing year.  But most of all I am reminded of the changes in life.  A great many have occurred in August’s past.  I try not to dwell on the dark changes that have come in summer’s years ago, doing my best to focus on the positive.  Not always easy but worth the effort. Changes are as much a part of life as anything.  And though I, personally, resist change, I must acknowledge that change is a good thing…mostly.  Perhaps I should tell myself that that truth more often.  It could make me more flexible.  There’s a time to be an Oak and a time to be a Willow…if you get my meaning. 

So I hope you enjoy these last days of August.  Take each as it is.  Make the most out of each and every one of them.  Change is a commin’.  The summer will not go on till December.  But it’s August and there’s plenty of summer left…providing you grasp each moment.  For each day is unique…even in late August… 

(501 Words)  8-25-2016

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)