To view my other blog “One A Day, Your Spiritual Vitamins”
CLICK ON THE FOLLOWING URL http://oneadayyourspiritualvitamins.blogspot.com/
RUST ON MY SOUL (A Novel) (Published by Bridge Press in 1985 & Distributed Internationally)
CLICK ON THE FOLLOWING URL http://oneadayyourspiritualvitamins.blogspot.com/
RUST ON MY SOUL (A Novel) (Published by Bridge Press in 1985 & Distributed Internationally)
***********************************************************************
INTRODUCTION (Repeated for those new to the series)
In an old loose leaf notebook, Thomas Kettering wrote when there was a cry from his heart. He wrote when his inner longing spilled over into the reality of his days. He did not write every day, only when he felt he must. How often he wrote or when is not important. The journey is what counts, for it is a diary about all of us, to all of us. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” and even a stumble is a step.
Evening
My memories have come slowly, waking all out of sequence from their sleep of years. Can their importance be gauged by how fast they wake? I remember how I always loved to climb, how any thing up was like a magnet, always pulling me skyward.
We had three special trees that magnificently branched up and out – the transfer trees. We had an old rope tied high and far out at the end of a limb. We’d grab that rope and swing out, briefly experiencing a weightless ecstasy. Growing up was a million years away.
We Ketterings have peopled this area for so long some argue we must be bound to have some Indian blood in us. We’ve gazed out in earlier years at a sky whose only blemish was drifting smoke from the clearing of the fields. We’ve watched long grey pavement laid down, holes ripped in the earth for malls spread across what once was farmland, and seen unwritten agreements that promised to leave areas unspoiled ignored. But we’ve left beauty, too. Beyond our city limits streams still play fast waltzes over their rocky bottoms, echoing against the soft pines, splashing against the hard red earth.
I know our town and its history. Like so many it rose from triumph and ashes, victory and despair. Like a living thing it fought death. Large parcels went up in smoke during the Civil War. Indian forays diminished its minimal population. An old mill flourished and died. Manufacturers came and went. We lost more than our share at Flanders Field and white crosses, marking the graves of veterans of several wars dot our cemetery. But we endured, as I must endure.
I’m so glad I was born and raised here, and did not permanently move away. Now, if I can just be glad I was born.
Evening.
Planned togetherness is what we have, but not community. A new couple moved in six weeks ago and the closest I’ve come to being a neighbor was to let him pass before I backed out the other morning.
Evening
We put on a show! I mean we turn the music up loud, hop into hock like it was the law of the land, rejoice on Saturday night, recuperate on Sunday and join the get-and grab-it brigade on Monday. Charge us with anything less than respectability and watch the fur fly. God knows, it’s a rat race where the winner loses.
Evening
I read an ad in the home section of the paper today that was the ultimate in snob appear. “C’est Magnifique! Une Maison Ranch tres’ original 8 rooms, 2 ½ baths, 2’Cadillac garage.” Its living room was referred to as The Family Forum and the master bedroom as the Sleeping Chamber. And, of course, one doesn’t buy a house and a lot anymore. One purchases an estate.
One of my associates bought a Cadillac last week. It was a toss up that a BW almost won. Though he lives a five-minute walk from the office he parks ten minutes away so an undetermined number of people can know he drives a new Cadillac. He’s never said so, but what other reason could explain such idiocy? I ought to know. When I got mine, I dropped it, for the first few weeks, into every conversation I could.
I wonder…is it time to buy a Lexus…or a BMW…or…one has to keep one’s ear to the ground to know which car carries the greatest attention. It changes.
We’re all caught up in a materialistic binge, overcrowding our lives with more and more as we learn how to live less and less. But how you gonna keep us down on the farm after we’ve seen the ads?
TO BE CONTINUED
INTRODUCTION (Repeated for those new to the series)
In an old loose leaf notebook, Thomas Kettering wrote when there was a cry from his heart. He wrote when his inner longing spilled over into the reality of his days. He did not write every day, only when he felt he must. How often he wrote or when is not important. The journey is what counts, for it is a diary about all of us, to all of us. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” and even a stumble is a step.
Evening
My memories have come slowly, waking all out of sequence from their sleep of years. Can their importance be gauged by how fast they wake? I remember how I always loved to climb, how any thing up was like a magnet, always pulling me skyward.
We had three special trees that magnificently branched up and out – the transfer trees. We had an old rope tied high and far out at the end of a limb. We’d grab that rope and swing out, briefly experiencing a weightless ecstasy. Growing up was a million years away.
We Ketterings have peopled this area for so long some argue we must be bound to have some Indian blood in us. We’ve gazed out in earlier years at a sky whose only blemish was drifting smoke from the clearing of the fields. We’ve watched long grey pavement laid down, holes ripped in the earth for malls spread across what once was farmland, and seen unwritten agreements that promised to leave areas unspoiled ignored. But we’ve left beauty, too. Beyond our city limits streams still play fast waltzes over their rocky bottoms, echoing against the soft pines, splashing against the hard red earth.
I know our town and its history. Like so many it rose from triumph and ashes, victory and despair. Like a living thing it fought death. Large parcels went up in smoke during the Civil War. Indian forays diminished its minimal population. An old mill flourished and died. Manufacturers came and went. We lost more than our share at Flanders Field and white crosses, marking the graves of veterans of several wars dot our cemetery. But we endured, as I must endure.
I’m so glad I was born and raised here, and did not permanently move away. Now, if I can just be glad I was born.
Evening.
Planned togetherness is what we have, but not community. A new couple moved in six weeks ago and the closest I’ve come to being a neighbor was to let him pass before I backed out the other morning.
Evening
We put on a show! I mean we turn the music up loud, hop into hock like it was the law of the land, rejoice on Saturday night, recuperate on Sunday and join the get-and grab-it brigade on Monday. Charge us with anything less than respectability and watch the fur fly. God knows, it’s a rat race where the winner loses.
Evening
I read an ad in the home section of the paper today that was the ultimate in snob appear. “C’est Magnifique! Une Maison Ranch tres’ original 8 rooms, 2 ½ baths, 2’Cadillac garage.” Its living room was referred to as The Family Forum and the master bedroom as the Sleeping Chamber. And, of course, one doesn’t buy a house and a lot anymore. One purchases an estate.
One of my associates bought a Cadillac last week. It was a toss up that a BW almost won. Though he lives a five-minute walk from the office he parks ten minutes away so an undetermined number of people can know he drives a new Cadillac. He’s never said so, but what other reason could explain such idiocy? I ought to know. When I got mine, I dropped it, for the first few weeks, into every conversation I could.
I wonder…is it time to buy a Lexus…or a BMW…or…one has to keep one’s ear to the ground to know which car carries the greatest attention. It changes.
We’re all caught up in a materialistic binge, overcrowding our lives with more and more as we learn how to live less and less. But how you gonna keep us down on the farm after we’ve seen the ads?
TO BE CONTINUED
********************************************************************
(Complete book available on amazon.com) (great prices)
Neil is also the author of THE SPIRITUAL ABRAHAM LINCOLN (His last book)
Neil Wyrick newest book
“LETTERS TO 21st CENTURY AMERICA FROM CHARLES WESLEY, Hymn Writer Supreme
is available.
(Complete book available on amazon.com) (great prices)
Neil is also the author of THE SPIRITUAL ABRAHAM LINCOLN (His last book)
Neil Wyrick newest book
“LETTERS TO 21st CENTURY AMERICA FROM CHARLES WESLEY, Hymn Writer Supreme
is available.
OR CLICK ON THE ENVELOPE BELOW. IT WILL THEN ALLOW YOU TO SEND THIS DAYS BLOG
DO YOU HAVE A BLOG OR FACEBOOK? IF YOU ENJOY THESE WRITINGS COULD YOU
CALL ATTENTION TO THIS BLOG? IF YOU DO, THANKS IN ADVANCE
CLICK ON THE TOP RIGHT SIDE OF THIS SCREEN WHERE IT READS “CLICK HERE TO WATCH NEIL AS WESLEY, LUTHER, FRANKLIN & LINCOLN”…His presentations have been called equal to Hal Holbrook and were presented all over the world.
DO YOU HAVE A BLOG OR FACEBOOK? IF YOU ENJOY THESE WRITINGS COULD YOU
CALL ATTENTION TO THIS BLOG? IF YOU DO, THANKS IN ADVANCE
CLICK ON THE TOP RIGHT SIDE OF THIS SCREEN WHERE IT READS “CLICK HERE TO WATCH NEIL AS WESLEY, LUTHER, FRANKLIN & LINCOLN”…His presentations have been called equal to Hal Holbrook and were presented all over the world.
No comments:
Post a Comment