They are still gone

Last Friday, well before first light on the day that would finish with my being attacked by an owl, I got up and dressed.

I made coffee, poured it into our big green Stanley thermos, woke up Erica to ride shotgun, and headed out for Elmwood Cemetery.

We'd long talked about being there when the sun came up, to walk and have our coffee and take pictures in the beauty and serenity of that place.

Now I wish I could do the same every day.

For peace, you cannot beat a cemetery. I am not trying to be funny. Well, maybe just a little.

But seriously. The quiet and the matutinal serenity and the beauty of an old, well-kept, park-like cemetery at daybreak, is worth the effort.

You should try it sometime.

Deceptively delicate flowering vines collect in riotous profusion on century-old wrought iron fences.

The angel guarding the graves of the young Sims sisters writes in her book as she has for nearly a hundred-fifty years of mornings.

Climbing something-or-other creeps and curls, holding out arms and hands so tender and so small.

They're clingy and tenacious, just as we tend to be when it comes to our life.

Like, no doubt, every soul whose remains lie beneath this soil, clung to life as long as ever they could.

Just as the thousands of Americans destroyed twelve years ago today desperately wanted to live, never more so than in those last moments when they knew that because of evil men, life on this sweet earth was no longer an option.

No more boundless new-day possibilities for them. You and I have had twelve years of mornings that they were cruelly denied.

They are still gone. And yet the sun rises and the angel, facing east from which direction will come redemption, writes.

Iron gates, prettified so as to soften the hard message of death, stood ajar that day as they sometimes do.

And the angel patiently wrote. I believe she writes God's message of truth and judgment. Like Him, she never wavers. There is no doubt of the outcome.

Tender tendrils creep and cling moistly in the new-day dew. They are all still gone.

The impossibly tiny shoots reach, pointing toward the sun as it begins to burn and bedazzle in the east.

Stones placed in the ground to mark lives that ended dozens of years before the dead of nine eleven were even born, collect lichen and point toward heaven.

The light greets the stone as it does each newborn day. They are still gone.

Our flag stood still against the morning sky. Old Glory stands proud in spite of a traitorous president who is on the side of our enemies. They're still gone and he's still here, but there will be a payday.

Rest assured.

As sure as there are funerals every day of the world, there will be an end to Mr. Obama's world of corruption.

And after that, God's judgment on what wicked men have done and on what we have done about it.

He is longsuffering, like the iron stanchions so patient and so strong.

They are still gone but the work of evil godless men will not endure forever.

The rising sun will make cathedrals of God's creation until the day He returns.

Liberty And My Country, the inscription on the marble banner reads. The stone marks the grave of a young man who gave his life for what he believed.

Sunbeams illuminate the work of stonecutters and spiders. Patience.

Patience is bitter, but its reward is sweet. ~Jean-Jaques Rousseau

In cemeteries, the work of hands long folded speaks with a voice long silent to the willing still-beating heart.

Speaks of patience and virtue as autumn gathers over the world and over our beloved country.

For anything worth having one must pay the price; and the price is always work, patience, love, self-sacrifice -- no paper currency, no promises to pay, but the gold of real service. ~John Burroughs

Everything here symbolizes in one way or another, lives laid aside. They are still gone, but they live in eternity.

I've never seen a stone that reads "Here tells the truth." It's always "Here Lies ..."

Apologies. I couldn't resist, mate. Pirate.

When I read the word sacred in a cemetery, I first see the word scared. But I am not scared of death. Only of owls.

Lives short and long -- or what passes for long in this life -- were carved out, then vanished. Only the stones and the sacred memories remain. They are still gone.

And still the slow burn in the east. A faithful light-washed dawn every single day God gives.

The beams tumble from the sky, scattering night's shadows.

They are still gone but the sun is patient, obeying only God its creator.

Then shall thy light break forth as the morning, and thine health shall spring forth speedily: and thy righteousness shall go before thee; the glory of the Lord shall be thy rereward. ~Isaiah 58:8

This little fellow lies beneath a tree, next to a marble cross. As many times as I've been to Elmwood, I never noticed him until last Friday.

His life was but a wink and he is forever gone, but I thought about him.

One of my favorite motifs on grave monuments is the closed book. A metaphor to be sure, but as I framed the shot I thought of how much those who are still gone, would love to lie under a tree today and read a book.

To enjoy a day of peace, with no threat of terror.

The little vines twine, tethering themselves to something much stronger than they. And so should we.

Late crape myrtles bloom as if there is no tomorrow, secure in their innocence, a cross in view.

Joy is everywhere in abundance, and color, and life, and light, and hope. Savor it today in sacred memory of those victims of nine eleven. They who are still gone.

Shine light ever on the cross of Jesus and those enemies of freedom, those who serve the enemy, will scatter like the bloodsucking, bloodthirsty vampires that they are.

Even in gloom, light is still light. It helps everything it touches.

Even silent forgotten stone petals feel it.

In cemeteries, sometimes things get misplaced. Broken pieces are everywhere to be found. There will most likely not be mending in this life.

Take a tip from the stone angels: Patience. Deo Vindice. God our vindicator.

And never, ever forget.

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A Death blow is a life blow to Some

Who till they died, did not alive become --

Who had they lived, had died but when

They died, Vitality begun.

Emily Dickinson

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Happy Wednesday

May God Bless America and confound her enemies both foreign and domestic.

Especially domestic.

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Whoooo knew

My daughter Erica has been enamored of owls for a couple of years.

When owls -- as in stuffed animals, decorating items, jewelry, and art -- became a hot item in the marketplace, she realized she'd loved them all along.

Apparently hundreds of thousands of others reached the same conclusion at the same time, because still, everywhere you look, the owl as a motif is available in every conceivable iteration.

Now, Erica had always been (and still is) a butterfly girl. She's got a butterfly clock and a butterfly lamp and a butterfly necklace and a butterfly barrette and, I believe, even a pair of butterfly flip-flops.

But she added owls to her repertoire and naturally when we'd see them at gift-buying time, where once we'd have been on the lookout for butterflies, we'd choose an owl something or other.

Her squeals of delight upon opening said gift told us we we'd hit the nail square on the head.

Happy happy happy.

Consequently she owns an owl mug, a set of orange cast-iron owl coasters, a brass owl hook, and a stuffed owl.

She wears owl necklaces. Owl jewelry figures large in her Etsy shop.

Maybe you're wondering at this point how much more boring this post can get, but I promise you, excitement is just around the bend.

Stay with me. But watch your head.

As we frequently do, Erica and I were taking a late-night walk in our neighborhood last Friday. It was about ten o'clock when we set out down the street.

Our neighborhood is extremely quiet. It is a large, older subdivision with thousands of mature trees. Still, nary a leaf rustles after ten. Car traffic is virtually nil.

One thing we do frequently hear is an owl that lives in the vicinity. He calls repeatedly (establishing territorial boundaries, I'm told) in that haunting spooky way they have.

Very autumnal, even when heard in summer.

But we've never laid eyes on him; we've only listened to him.

At any rate, nighttime is a wonderful time to walk. No hot sun and nobody to notice that you're not wearing makeup and you've just scraped your hair back willy-nilly and, due to the excessive humidity, you are glistening with perspiration.

We'd walked at least a mile last Friday night and were in fact on our way back, not far from the comforts of home, when it happened.

What happened? I can hear you thinking, or maybe even saying aloud to your computer screen.

Well, I will tell you. What happened is, suddenly and without warning, something hit me on the back of the head.

Hit me so hard, it knocked my hair clip loose and sent great masses of my hair flying forward where it then hung over my forehead.

I wear my hair a little longer than jaw length and I have lots of hair, and for it to become dislodged to where what was hanging down in back was now hanging down over my face, is a big deal.

"Erica!" I said. "Something just hit me on the back of the head!" I was more mystified than scared.

"Oh it was probably a cicada," she said.

?????

"Erica." I said. "This was not a cicada. It was something big and it hit me on the back of the head and nearly knocked my hair clip out!"

"Mom, cicadas feel bigger than they are when they hit you. One hit me the other day and I couldn't believe how big it felt," my oh-so-wise daughter counseled, addressing me the way one does when attempting to reassure an addlepated delusional.

But hey -- these hard-hitting cicadas she is referring to? They weigh all of a half-ounce when soaking wet and full of bananas. I don't care how "big" they feel to her; I knew that was NOT what hit me on the back of the head and disarranged my hair.

And then it hit me again. Harder this time but same place. Same result.

I clutched my hair clip in my hand. My hair was hanging in every direction -- over my face, in my mouth (because I gasped), in my eyes.

But this time Erica had seen what hit me.

And it wasn't a cicada. Not even one that had eaten his Wheaties. Nor was it an overzealous butterfly.

It was an owl.

A big one. Not like the cute little furry fellows with huge round eyes that stare sweetly at you out of stuffed animal faces or from awww-inspiring pictures on Pinterest.

This was an owl between twenty and thirty inches tall, with a wingspan of about four feet. A bird of prey. Like, with massive talons that could have put a gash in my scalp.

So you're walking for your health, armed with a million-volt stun gun lest a ne'er-do-well leap out from behind a tree, and you're dive-bombed by a raptor from up in a tree.

That's what you call owl-ronic.

Erica witnessed my attacker flying swiftly away after it beaned me the second time.

I, having a face full of hair and my head having been pushed forcefully down, never saw my assailant.

But I can tell you what I did see: Terror. As in, I do not remember ever being as scared as I was right after that owl hit me the second time and I saw not it, but the look on the face of the one who'd seen it.

She grabbed my arm and began pulling me fast down the street. We broke into a trot.

When I walk I carry a ZAPLight -- a powerful flashlight featuring the aforementioned built-in stun gun. Just in case.

As I cantered, gasping, toward the corner where we'd make the turn for home, Erica dragging me urgently, I shone my light behind me.

No owl approached.

But as we rounded the bend onto the street that intersects with our street, Erica looked back and saw the varmint gunning for me a third time.

It all happened very fast. The owl swooped and then, inexplicably, it changed direction and flew up into a tall pine where it perched on a branch.

I shone my light up there but in my adrenaline-fueled terror-spiked tizzy, saw nothing but pine needles.

Erica drew a bead on him, though: the owl waited, swiveling its big head to look down its beak at us.

We hotfooted it for the domicile.

"I think we're home free, Mom," Erica gasped every few minutes.

About the time my Reeboks hit our driveway, no owl in hot pursuit, I made a solemn vow and I pronounced it out loud:

I will never ever again as long as I live walk in our neighborhood after dark.

This is from someone who has walked in our neighborhood after dark hundreds of times. And usually alone.

No more.

As the giant advises Agent Cooper in Twin Peaks: The owls are not what they seem.

They seem harmless and lovable but they are devils, I tell you.

If you don't believe me, Google "owl attacks on humans." Oh and don't take a small dog out at night either.

Who knew.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday ~ Happy Week

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So here's what you do

Each year on Memorial Day, kicking off summer, we celebrate Erica's birthday.

She was actually born on the Friday before Memorial Day in 1986.

Every year on Labor Day, kicking off fall, we celebrate Stephanie's birthday.

Her actual birthday is about a week later. My first baby turns thirty-three this year.

Several weeks ago we inquired what Steph wanted for her birthday and she provided a list complete with helpful links.

On that list was a set of stackable rings.

We liked that idea but we weren't enthusiastic about the set she'd picked out, so we decided to pool our racehorses and get her a different set.

A nicer one than the set she'd requested.

And after dithering over which set to buy, we decided we wanted Stephanie to have a grouping of stackable rings that included the birthstones of her babies.

That would be blue topaz (Melanie), diamond (Allissa), and amethyst (Andrew).

Of course we couldn't afford a real diamond so we substituted white topaz.

And with Joel's help it all worked out very nicely. Stephanie now has a set of five stackable rings in varying colors (including blue topaz and amethyst) and stone sizes, plus an extra ring (the white topaz).

She can wear her children's birthstones together or mix and match all of the rings. Her fingers are very long so the style works well.

Stephanie seemed so happy with her gift and after she'd opened everything up, it was time for cake.

I usually ask Audrey to be in charge of the cake course and this year was no different.

Generally we go to Sam's Club and buy the gooiest buttercream-frosted layer cake we can find, and have the honoree's name scrawled on top in icing.

After our big Labor Day lunch it is our habit to brew copious amounts of hot, strong, fresh coffee, then serve up slabs of that cake and tuck in.

But this year, in the interest of eating lighter and healthier, I suggested a break from tradition.

Namely I told Audrey I thought we should serve store-bought pound cake with fresh berries and Reddi wip.

I love Reddi wip. Yes, I am too lazy to whip cream. Don't judge.

So on Saturday we went to Sam's Club where Audrey picked out a set of stackable pound cakes -- three, to be exact.

And she also got plump raspberries and radiantly purple blueberries.

After securing a can of Reddi wip, we were all set. Stacking cake, berries, and Reddi wip should be at least as enjoyable as stacking birthstone rings, we reasoned. 

Only, I wish you could have seen white topaz's face when she realized there was no five-pound layer cake slathered in buttercream with her mother's name written in sugar on top.

Incredulous does not begin to describe it.

"That's the cake?" Allissa blurted when Audrey placed the squares of plain pound cake on the table beside the bowl of no-sugar-added berries.

My granddaughter recovered sufficiently to make peace with the absence of buttercream. Still, she refused the berry part, asking for simply "cake with cream" and plenty of it.

So here's what you do:

Ask your loved one what they want for their birthday, then go online and buy it, or an improved version of same. No footwork involved.

Then go to Sam's Club and buy pound cakes and berries. Get yourself a can of Reddi wip. Or two.

Wrap up that present, plate that cake, wash those berries, and make a pot of coffee. Voila! You're there.

Commence to celebrate.

That is all for now.

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Happy Wednesday

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We got this party started

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Happy September ~ Happy Labor Day ~ Happy Week

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