We had a yard sale at my childhood home in preparation for the eventual sale of the property. I felt gloomy; this is the place I have come home to for over 50 years. I came here for comfort as a child when I had been kidded at school. I came here later when I lost a wrestling match in high school. I came home every summer to share my birthday with my family. I came on Christmas to share a very special time of the year with "family." I came here to share Sunday afternoons with cousins and midday lunches in the summer when there was so much food a nap was required after lunch.
I came here to rejoice when my son was born, and I came here to cry when I was divorced. During the day I saw some of the people of my youth and relived old memories. A cousin stopped by and shared memories of my Father who passed away over 20 years ago; a member of the youth group that my parents led for many years stopped by and talked about old times at church and the effect my parents had on her.
An older gentleman who had done odd jobs for my Mother in later years pulled me aside to tell me how much my Mother had meant to him. But I was almost brought to tears when two men whom I had seen only once or twice in the past 30 years walked up to the back door. As I was growing up, one gave me the first real job I had off the farm, a job that actually paid a weekly check. The other was an old fishing partner.
I remember the sound of the horn on his little Renault. That horn was the signal for me to run into the shop to get my fishing gear for an afternoon on the lake. He eventually became a fisher of men at a church in North Carolina, and we lost contact for a few years. Today, as I look back on these people, I realize it is not the place I called home that drew me; it was not the house and farm of my youth, but the people.
We are indeed connected by a spirit, a spirit that I can't explain but that connects us just the same. As I think of family and the friends of my youth, the one word that comes to mind is "love." One visitor began to cry as she picked up a piece of pottery and said, "I want this to remember your Mom by." Another brought ham biscuits her Mother had made, for the giving of food is a way of showing love. I can't explain this love nor can I control it or turn it on or off. I only know of its presence. I can tell you how it feels. It is warmth and a comfort; it is the feeling of home.
There are those who take the Bible literally and say heaven is a place where the streets are paved with gold, with mansions lining the streets. There are others who say that heaven is not a place but a state of mind where one knows only peace. Others will say heaven is where we will have everything we ever wanted, and still others believe we will only want what we have. But today I realized there is only one way I can describe heaven. It is a place where the only thought or power will be love. Where "God is love" will be manifest in our hearts.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Zero Greenhouse Emissions - A Review
I consider myself environmentally conscious, a supporter of the earth and an informed member of the public. Daily I tweet about matters relating to the environment and climate change and daily I read articles about both, yet by the time I finished Bob Williamson’s book Zero Greenhouse Emissions, The Day the Lights Went Out I felt I had been somewhat of a hypocrite.
Bob’s book is a fictional account of the result of CO2 emissions on our environment and the draconian steps that will be required if we do not immediately reverse the effects of our human activities. What I liked most about the book is its personal look, from a tour of the kitchen and not only what we did, but what will have to, give up.
Zero Greenhouse Emissions lays out in cold hard science what we as humans are doing to the environment in a way a layperson like myself can understand. Although written by an Aussie and using measurements unfamiliar to the American audience, the steps which we can take to audit our own energy use can easily be converted to the English system. Even without actual calculation it is immediately apparent what and where we can change.
The book also covers areas which are not always included in our conversations about global climate change, water shortage and recycling to name two and how we need to make a shift in our paradigm of handling these crisis’. It would be easy for the book to relay a message of doom for many of the warnings are becoming reality, but it is also a book of hope, hope in humanity as a whole.
The book was interesting and I read it in two sittings, well written from the first person’s view it captured my attention and held it throughout. Now I am looking forward to studying it in greater detail and incorporating the suggested changes into my life style.
Winner of numerous awards both in Australia and internationally, including Global Environment Award for Plactics for 2006 presented in Atlanta Georgia, Bob Williamson is the founder of Greenhouse Neutral Foundation, a nonprofit established by his family to educate and precipitate environmental awareness.
I was not paid for writing this review and the copy of the book was one which I purchased. I am a member of the Greenhouse Neutral Honor role, a purely informational list of concerned writers whose attention is focused on the environment.
Bob’s book is a fictional account of the result of CO2 emissions on our environment and the draconian steps that will be required if we do not immediately reverse the effects of our human activities. What I liked most about the book is its personal look, from a tour of the kitchen and not only what we did, but what will have to, give up.
Zero Greenhouse Emissions lays out in cold hard science what we as humans are doing to the environment in a way a layperson like myself can understand. Although written by an Aussie and using measurements unfamiliar to the American audience, the steps which we can take to audit our own energy use can easily be converted to the English system. Even without actual calculation it is immediately apparent what and where we can change.
The book also covers areas which are not always included in our conversations about global climate change, water shortage and recycling to name two and how we need to make a shift in our paradigm of handling these crisis’. It would be easy for the book to relay a message of doom for many of the warnings are becoming reality, but it is also a book of hope, hope in humanity as a whole.
The book was interesting and I read it in two sittings, well written from the first person’s view it captured my attention and held it throughout. Now I am looking forward to studying it in greater detail and incorporating the suggested changes into my life style.
Winner of numerous awards both in Australia and internationally, including Global Environment Award for Plactics for 2006 presented in Atlanta Georgia, Bob Williamson is the founder of Greenhouse Neutral Foundation, a nonprofit established by his family to educate and precipitate environmental awareness.
I was not paid for writing this review and the copy of the book was one which I purchased. I am a member of the Greenhouse Neutral Honor role, a purely informational list of concerned writers whose attention is focused on the environment.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
I found my hero in an unlikely place.
I listened to the presentation on the radio. The commentator was having trouble accepting returning soldiers from Iraq as heroes. Having grown up during the Vietnam conflict, I knew the difference between the soldier and the conflict. I had watched the news at night as returning veterans, many wounded, were spit on. I experienced first-hand the suicide of a family friend who was not able to adapt to life back home. I wanted to respond and "set the man straight."
But my mind went out on a tangent and I began to wonder, who are my heroes?
Certainly as a child I had many heroes, Abraham Lincoln, Daniel Boone, the soldiers of War World II. I had spent hours upon hours pretending to be these men. Later when I began to read more I embraced the characters in books, some imaginary, some not, as my heroes. In one case a writer, Nathaniel Hawthorne, became a role model.
When I was a teenager, a close friend became a hero. He faced a terminal illness with courage and laughter. I wondered how I would react under similar circumstances.
But who are my heroes now?
I had trouble finding an answer. I can't say I look to any current politicians as heroes. I have instead developed a mild distrust of anything political. Very few sports celebrities come to mind although I do often hear of some being involved in a worthy causes.
Then I remembered something that happened very close to home. Something that occurred in a family I am acquainted with.
The phone call came one Monday morning, "I just had to talk to someone. I just received a call from Vic and his son has been in a bad accident. They are going to amputate both of his feet."
I was in shock, so much so I had to call back after a few minutes to get the details.
"They were scuba diving in Florida. Jordan's feet got into the propeller and they are so mangled it looks like amputation is the only answer."
Over the next few days I stayed in touch with news from the family through mutual friends. It was a miracle that both parents were doctors and knew what to do. It was a miracle they were able to airlift Jordan to a hospital in Miami that has a specialty in this kind of injury. It was a miracle he made it to the hospital after loosing so much blood.
But the true miracle occurred weeks later when I heard Jordan was coming home. As I wondered about his state of mind I heard about his request during the stay in the hospital. He had noticed the many children who could not afford the treatment he was receiving and requested that a foundation be set up for the solicitation of funds to help those in the hospital who could not help themselves financially.
Shortly after he arrived I attended a football game at his high school. All around him were his high school friends, laughing and giving him support. These same friends were selling bracelets in the stands to raise money for his foundation. Miami Hurricane Coach Larry Coker came by the hospital and his autograph said, "Press on, J.T." The slogan is imprinted on the blue bracelets.
Jordan said he was in his hospital room with his aunt when the phone rang and she said somebody named Greg was on the line.
He said, "I only knew one Greg." He said the voice on the line introduces himself as Greg Norman — the golfing great. Jordan says, "I did not expect the Greg to be Greg Norman. I had to ask him again who he was."
He said Norman encouraged him to "stay positive and keep a good attitude."
My heroes are those people like Jordan, people who face life on life's terms with faith, people who are not thinking only of themselves even when facing life's biggest challenges.
But my mind went out on a tangent and I began to wonder, who are my heroes?
Certainly as a child I had many heroes, Abraham Lincoln, Daniel Boone, the soldiers of War World II. I had spent hours upon hours pretending to be these men. Later when I began to read more I embraced the characters in books, some imaginary, some not, as my heroes. In one case a writer, Nathaniel Hawthorne, became a role model.
When I was a teenager, a close friend became a hero. He faced a terminal illness with courage and laughter. I wondered how I would react under similar circumstances.
But who are my heroes now?
I had trouble finding an answer. I can't say I look to any current politicians as heroes. I have instead developed a mild distrust of anything political. Very few sports celebrities come to mind although I do often hear of some being involved in a worthy causes.
Then I remembered something that happened very close to home. Something that occurred in a family I am acquainted with.
The phone call came one Monday morning, "I just had to talk to someone. I just received a call from Vic and his son has been in a bad accident. They are going to amputate both of his feet."
I was in shock, so much so I had to call back after a few minutes to get the details.
"They were scuba diving in Florida. Jordan's feet got into the propeller and they are so mangled it looks like amputation is the only answer."
Over the next few days I stayed in touch with news from the family through mutual friends. It was a miracle that both parents were doctors and knew what to do. It was a miracle they were able to airlift Jordan to a hospital in Miami that has a specialty in this kind of injury. It was a miracle he made it to the hospital after loosing so much blood.
But the true miracle occurred weeks later when I heard Jordan was coming home. As I wondered about his state of mind I heard about his request during the stay in the hospital. He had noticed the many children who could not afford the treatment he was receiving and requested that a foundation be set up for the solicitation of funds to help those in the hospital who could not help themselves financially.
Shortly after he arrived I attended a football game at his high school. All around him were his high school friends, laughing and giving him support. These same friends were selling bracelets in the stands to raise money for his foundation. Miami Hurricane Coach Larry Coker came by the hospital and his autograph said, "Press on, J.T." The slogan is imprinted on the blue bracelets.
Jordan said he was in his hospital room with his aunt when the phone rang and she said somebody named Greg was on the line.
He said, "I only knew one Greg." He said the voice on the line introduces himself as Greg Norman — the golfing great. Jordan says, "I did not expect the Greg to be Greg Norman. I had to ask him again who he was."
He said Norman encouraged him to "stay positive and keep a good attitude."
My heroes are those people like Jordan, people who face life on life's terms with faith, people who are not thinking only of themselves even when facing life's biggest challenges.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Before I check out your "game" tell me your politics.
The older I become the more I relish those times when I am able to "be in the moment." Those times when work, children, and conflicts of the world are pushed aside. I find these moments in prayer and meditation. Many times I find conversation with friends has rooted me in the moment. Sometimes it is the experience of a beautiful sunset. Often I find it during exercise.
I love a long bike ride. I am blessed to live a few short minutes from Chickamauga Military Park where there are several miles of road suitable for riding. If a more strenuous ride is in order there are three mountains offering as much challenge as you desire.
During the winter months I spend time in the local YMCA, where a game of racquetball is easily found. Friday afternoon, a friend and I met there for a "friendly" game, friendly meaning he would just as soon pound me into the court as not.
We met in the locker room and caught up with the news on friends and family as we changed into our workout clothes. When we walked upstairs into the court area a man, seated in front of our court smiled and spoke, "Good Morning."
"Good morning."
"Would you like to play cut throat?" ( a game in which one person plays th eother two)
I caught myself sizing up my opponent. Normally I would have taken in his age, physical condition, and equipment, trying to decide whether he was going to be someone I wanted to play before I answered. This time it was different. I noticed he was of dark complexion with wavy hair with a slight accent and before I knew it I was wondering whether he was from the Middle East.
I have never considered myself prejudice and I don't think I was being entirely so now. But, I had to admit, three or four years ago I would never have wondered whether he was Muslim, or Christian, or atheist. I would only have wondered what kind of game he had. I thought about my reaction and realized that we are bombarded with news of Arab and Jew and Christian conflict. Politics is permeated with agendas based on belief. The evening news is substantially dominated with stories of Middle East conflict and terrorism.
With no premeditation on my part I had become one of those who first judges based on religious belief, even when a simple game of racquetball is in order.
I love a long bike ride. I am blessed to live a few short minutes from Chickamauga Military Park where there are several miles of road suitable for riding. If a more strenuous ride is in order there are three mountains offering as much challenge as you desire.
During the winter months I spend time in the local YMCA, where a game of racquetball is easily found. Friday afternoon, a friend and I met there for a "friendly" game, friendly meaning he would just as soon pound me into the court as not.
We met in the locker room and caught up with the news on friends and family as we changed into our workout clothes. When we walked upstairs into the court area a man, seated in front of our court smiled and spoke, "Good Morning."
"Good morning."
"Would you like to play cut throat?" ( a game in which one person plays th eother two)
I caught myself sizing up my opponent. Normally I would have taken in his age, physical condition, and equipment, trying to decide whether he was going to be someone I wanted to play before I answered. This time it was different. I noticed he was of dark complexion with wavy hair with a slight accent and before I knew it I was wondering whether he was from the Middle East.
I have never considered myself prejudice and I don't think I was being entirely so now. But, I had to admit, three or four years ago I would never have wondered whether he was Muslim, or Christian, or atheist. I would only have wondered what kind of game he had. I thought about my reaction and realized that we are bombarded with news of Arab and Jew and Christian conflict. Politics is permeated with agendas based on belief. The evening news is substantially dominated with stories of Middle East conflict and terrorism.
With no premeditation on my part I had become one of those who first judges based on religious belief, even when a simple game of racquetball is in order.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Radical Change - Radical Actions
Once, in the 1.5 mile drive from the main highway there were 5 houses, now there are 20 subdivisions. Once as a boy I roamed these hills quail hunting now there are none to be seen, once I fished in the lake adjacent to the property, now it is virtually impossible to find a point of entry all the land is divided and has multimillion dollar homes, some with one resident per 2 or 3 thousand square feet.
I thought of the legacy I am passing to my son, one with barriers to nature and then I realized….. At some point in time, unless we change our habits and lifestyle there will be no nature to be enjoyed. We are already polluting, consuming, destroying at an unrecoverable rate. On a global level, the glaciers are melting, our natural resources are being consumed at an alarming rate and yet there is less concern than who will win the super bowl.
I find it hard to remove the environment from my mind these days and find that for the most part, few who I talk to seem to care. Maybe it is because we have concentrated too much attention on global problems that seem insurmountable and not enough on what is going on in our own backyard. How much fertilizer do you spread on that green lawn that requires mowing once every week or two? How often do we shop for food items that are grown non-organically and require petro to be delivered rather than locally grown or even home grown organic vegetables? Could it be that purchasing items in bulk rather than individual packages would be less costly in the long run? How many times do you run home to change clothes before those errands we need done before the day is done and for that matter, why is mass transit not a first choice rather than an afterthought.
Environmentalism starts at home, and then hope spreads. Radical change requires radical action, the kind that begins at home.
I thought of the legacy I am passing to my son, one with barriers to nature and then I realized….. At some point in time, unless we change our habits and lifestyle there will be no nature to be enjoyed. We are already polluting, consuming, destroying at an unrecoverable rate. On a global level, the glaciers are melting, our natural resources are being consumed at an alarming rate and yet there is less concern than who will win the super bowl.
I find it hard to remove the environment from my mind these days and find that for the most part, few who I talk to seem to care. Maybe it is because we have concentrated too much attention on global problems that seem insurmountable and not enough on what is going on in our own backyard. How much fertilizer do you spread on that green lawn that requires mowing once every week or two? How often do we shop for food items that are grown non-organically and require petro to be delivered rather than locally grown or even home grown organic vegetables? Could it be that purchasing items in bulk rather than individual packages would be less costly in the long run? How many times do you run home to change clothes before those errands we need done before the day is done and for that matter, why is mass transit not a first choice rather than an afterthought.
Environmentalism starts at home, and then hope spreads. Radical change requires radical action, the kind that begins at home.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Somewhere Past the Darkness
Somewhere past the darkness
Where fear is put to bed
Somewhere past transitory desire and famished need
There is a candle, a bright shining light of love
One candle chases the shadows, but two can light a room.
Come with me my love, lay with me throughout the night
Acquaint me with your hopes and dreams, fears and doubts
I do not wish for you to need me
Ask me to stay instead… because you want me
Open your heart and bleed upon me
Wash me in your thought
cc mike gray 2010
Where fear is put to bed
Somewhere past transitory desire and famished need
There is a candle, a bright shining light of love
One candle chases the shadows, but two can light a room.
Come with me my love, lay with me throughout the night
Acquaint me with your hopes and dreams, fears and doubts
I do not wish for you to need me
Ask me to stay instead… because you want me
Open your heart and bleed upon me
Wash me in your thought
cc mike gray 2010
Monday, December 21, 2009
A Christmas Story
I first saw the girl on a train coming into Chattanooga station. She was young and pretty enough but I think it was the smile that caught my attention. I made a good impression, being back from WWII and still in my uniform with four combat ribbons and a purple heart, enough so that she showed that smile when I walked down the aisle of the train. Chattanooga was just a stop over; I was headed out west to seek a fortune in California. I had seen the grape arbors in France and had it in my mind I was going to build a vineyard. But that smile stopped me and the next thing I knew it was eight weeks later and I had to do something. That's why I went home for Christmas alone, despite her asking me to stay, I needed some time to think.
If anyone could help me sort all this out it would be Dad, he and Mom had been married for 58 years this past summer and I still saw him give her a kiss when he left the house every morning. So home I went, home where I knew I was welcome and I got there on Christmas Eve, just in time for decorating the tree.
Dad and I went to the back of the farm and cut a cedar. He found one with some of those blue berries growing on one side. I don't know what kind they are but he always found one, said Mom liked so much he couldn't bare bringing home a tree without them. I reckin he would have painted some on otherwise. We shaped the tree down on the back porch and made a platform out of an old washtub filled with gravels. I tripped helping carry the tub in and spilled them gravels all over the steps, he laughed and smoked on his pipe while I was picking them up.
"So why you been staying up in Chattanooga since you got back, your Mom she's been worrying about you."
"I had some things I had to take care of before I come home."
Dad knew that wasn't the whole story but he never was one to pry none. He figgered it would all come out eventually. I got the gravels back into the tub and we carried it into the living room them pushed the trunk of the tree down in them so it was secure. I had offered to buy them a stand for the tree one year, but he said, "That's the way your Mom likes it and I reckin that's the way its gotta be."
After dinner Mom and I trimmed the tree with popcorn strung up on thread and candle. Dad sat in a kitchen chair he pulled into the room and played Christmas carols on his guitar. When we finished Mom lit the candles then joined Dad with her dulcimer. I don't know if there is anything makes me want to be home more than Christmas Eve with mountain music. It went over and over in my head on the battle field in France the year before. There was a lull in the bombardment and I could hear that music as sweet as if I was there. I had closed my eyes and imagined Mom and Dad sitting there singing to me. It was a reason I made it through that hard time and it was a hard time.
The next morning I woke up when I heard the both of them down in the kitchen getting the coffee started so I got up and pulled on some warm clothes. I could go help Dad feed the cattle before breakfast. Felt good to put on something besides a uniform for a change and that flannel shirt felt so soft, like Mom had washed it the day before.
"Morning," I said as I walked into the room. Dad was standing there beside Mom, both of them looking like they had been caught at something. Then I realized he had his arm around her waist and knew I had walked in on him giving her a hug.
"Good morning son," Mom said as she handed me a cup of coffee.
I held the cup with both hands letting the hot steam carry the scent of the coffee into my face.
"Thought I might help you feed this morning Dad," I looked at him as I took my first sip.
"The help would be well thought of son."
Then he reached over and kissed Mom on the cheek and said, "Maybe we can talk someone into a pancake breakfast when we get back."
It had been a cold Christmas and the snow lingered around from the week before. Grandpa used to say it was waiting on its brother. We finished feeding the stock then Dad picked up and axe. "We've got to break the ice on the pond before we quit, the cows can't get in to drink."
As we walked down to the pond I gathered up my nerve and asked Dad, "Do you still love Mom."
He looked at me like I was crazy. "Sure, more than I did when I met her," Then waited like he was expecting me to say something else.
We walked on in silence for a while before Dad broke it, "Something you want to tell me son?"
It all came spilling out, the vineyards in France and how I had heard California had the right climate to grow grapes, how scared I had been the whole time I was in Europe. How there were things I had done I would never talk about. We reached the pond and I took first turn at chopping the ice. It was a precarious job. You had to stand right next to the water to hit the ice and yet you had to be careful not to slide in when it broke so I quit talking while we were finishing cutting five big holes. If you didn't make them big enough they would freeze right back up and a cow wouldn't break the ice to get at water. A horse would paw at it until it had broken but a cow would just stand there starring at it, no matter how thirsty it got.
We were walking back up to the barn when I told Dad about the girl in Chattanooga. He put the axes up and sat down on a bale of hay before he said anything back, "So this girl, do you love her?"
"Oh she's pretty Dad, she's got walnut colored hair and big old blue eyes and when she smiles the whole room lights up."
"Yea, but do you love her?"
"Well I guess so, we never fight and she is sweet as she can be."
"Yea son but do you love her?"
He kept asking that question until I had to answer it. But I didn't know how so I asked him, "How do you know if you are in love?"
He lit his pipe and took two or three puff's on it before he answered, "Love marks a man son, it shakes him down in his boots. It's different for a woman, she knows what it is. But a man, most of the time it takes by surprise. He don't know the difference in just having a crush and real love."
"How do you know."
"Why if you you've ever been there you can see it on a man, it's written on his face."
"Am I in love?"
He laughed, "Why son that's something you have to decide for yourself, if I told you might not believe me and you would always wonder if I was wrong."
"But how do you know if it will last? How did you know yours and Mom's would last."
"Well now that's a different kind of love son, that's the kind you decide on. It not that stuff that hits you like a sledge hammer and makes your knees buckle it's the kind that grows on you because every day when you get up you start it out with a kiss and the words in your head. Then when you lay down at night you fix anything that you've done wrong before you go to sleep. Cause you know when you get up in the morning you are going to love her all over again. You know it because you decide it."
We got up and walked back down toward the house, kicking the snow off our boots on the outside and then taking them off beside the back door, setting them just inside where they would stay warm. Dad walked over to Mom and pulled her to him sideways, giving her a kiss on the cheek when he did. "I think I want to skip them pancakes this morning and go right on to Christmas dinner," he said. "The boy and I had a talk while we were out and he needs to go back to Chattanooga on the afternoon train. He's got some business he needs to attend too."
CC 2009 Michael Gray
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