An Author's Tale: One Day at a Time

Aunt Renna Beth died last night. She was the last living child of Renna and Dick Bellah.

Was fitting for her to go after the others. For though neither male nor oldest, she was the leader of her siblings.

Certainly, she was toughest, a word Dad used to describe his older sister’s athletic exploits in high school. “Your Aunt Renna Beth was one tough girl,” he would say in a tone that told me he never challenged her authority.

No one did.

Because Aunt Renna Beth meant business, her words when she issued a command to (pick one) her children, nieces, or nephews. “You’re going to take a nap this afternoon and I mean business,” she would say.

At my house afternoon naps were a suggestion. At Aunt Renna Beth’s, they were law. “You kids be still in there; I don’t want to hear a peep, and I mean business.”

We never challenged her.

Well, my brother Craig did once, at youth choir rehearsal, which she conducted weekly at the Methodist Church. Don’t remember what he said or did, but she sent him home—from church—because she meant business.

Renna Beth was a lifelong piano teacher. She taught my cousins. Some (Sheryl and Mary Kate) became quite good. And she taught my kids. And all her students practiced often and hard because, well, you know why.

My aunt mellowed some as she grew older, maybe because life was so hard for her. Uncle Barney died way too young, as did her oldest son, my cousin Rob. And Renna Beth stood at the graves of all four of her siblings.

But she was not morose. She believed she would see them again in a better place.

Neither was she passive. At 90, Aunt Renna Beth still drove. She got out and visited people. She made sure her kids and grandkids were OK. She urged all of us to take care of family.

In short, right up to the end—she meant business.

*****
See obituary.

They called them “Mike-Hikes.”

As a program director and, then, Director of Hidden Falls Ranch (on and off from 1967-1980), I used to enjoy leading the whole camp—as many as 100 campers and staff—on forays into the Palo Duro.

I tried to make our journeys adventurous—meaning seldom (some said “never”) traveled trails, and challenging—meaning one would sometimes have to use hands as well as feet, often to lift smaller campers over large boulders.

Mike-Hikes. I didn’t invent the name, but I liked it. Gave me something to be remembered by–although not always remembered fondly.

Actually, even though I took a lot of ribbing for them, I think the staff actually liked Mike-Hikes. Gave them something new and unexpected to look forward to each week, which one needs after back to back to back camp routine.

I missed not doing my Mike-Hikes in the ‘80s and ‘90s. Don’t know why I stopped. Guess I lacked both opportunity and following.

But I revived them in 2005, not in the Palo Duro, and not with teen followers. Now, I coax 50 and 60-year-old friends to climb peaks with me in the Rockies.

So I’m especially pumped about leading a hike with college-students this weekend at Hidden Falls. Will it be a Mike-Hike?

Probably not. But you can ask them.

Will return to Hidden Falls Ranch next weekend.

Not as the teenage wrangler who helped round up a couple of dozen horses most summer mornings during the mid to late 1960s.

Nor as the 31-year-old Camp Director who presided over a gifted and dedicated staff in 1980.

I’ll return as a 60-something-year old professor in charge of a group of community college students.

Hidden Falls won’t have changed much. Still sits atop this majestic canyon, which will be decked out in its characteristically multi-colored, spring coat.

And my charges—in one way—and even though some are older students—they won’t be that different from the teens of the ‘60s. They’ll have that same energy bred of soon-to-be-realized dreams.

And I—I, of course, will still be me—in love with this beautiful place, changed and changing because of its incredible Maker, and, once again, renewed by the hopefulness of dreams.

Train whistles. I suppose to most people they’re a warning. To me, they’re a calling.

That is, ever since I was a boy, the sound of a train whistle has beckoned me. But it’s stronger than that. Think of Odysseus who had his men tie him to the ship’s mast so he wouldn’t follow the seductive song of the Sirens.

Those low, mournful blasts of train whistles have been like that for me, especially when heard alone and in the early morning hours. Don’t know what makes me want to follow.  Maybe there’s something (pick one) beautiful, adventurous or magical that lies both along and at the end of those tracks.

Which is why last Sunday morning a train whistle set me thinking. What if Charlotte and I saw the U. S. this summer from the top deck of an Amtrak Superliner?

A few hours online, and I began to sketch an itinerary.

We’ll begin by driving to Albuquerque to meet the Southwest Chief on its way from Chicago to Los Angeles. Will board at 4:45 p.m. and arrive in LA at 8:15 a.m. Then, we catch the northbound Starlight Coast, which leaves at 3:30 p.m. and arrives almost 30 hours later in Seattle.

I’m thinking we’ll take a three or four day break there, rent a car and discover some of the Pacific Northwest.

Then, back to the Emerald City to catch the Empire Builder to Chicago, about a two-day trip. From Chicago, we end where we started by boarding the Southwest Chief, which will get us to Albuquerque in a little over 24 hours.

All told, we’ll travel 5,742 miles in just short of five days (plus another four off the train).

Will keep you up.

Been looking for a new pump to power my waterfall.

You see, about 10 years ago, I decided that, since I couldn’t live in Colorado, I’d bring Colorado to live here—in the backyard.

So I got three rather large rocks (each weighed over a ton) and positioned them over a pond to get just the right amount of splash (it’s important to get water on rock and water on water).

Char and I had a little disagreement over the size of the pump. She liked the soft gurgle of a high mountain brook. And I—I enjoyed the roar of a swollen creek plunging over a 600 foot cliff, like at North Clear Creek Falls near Lake City.

So we compromised and got both. The smaller pump ran 24/7, but, with the flip of a switch, North Clear Creek came to Mable Drive.

The compromise didn’t always work. When we had new friends over, I wanted to introduce them to the roar. Char said folks don’t like to have to shout to be heard. Seriously?

Anyway, 10 years ago I got the sound I wanted with a 4100 GPH pump—that’s 4,100 gallons per hour cascading down my five-foot falls. When that pump wore out, the best I was able to do locally was a 3,000 GPH unit.

So I’m looking online today, and guess what? A California Company makes a 5500 GPH pump that still needs only 110 volts of electricity. This baby weighs 17 pounds and can pump to a height of 33 feet. Hey, that’s a three-story waterfall.

And UPS can get it here in four days.

My wife leaves tomorrow to visit a daughter and grandkids in North Carolina.

Just sayin’.

Don Cox was my friend.

Was. I hate that word.

You see, Don died this week—accidentally, unexpectedly, way too soon for all who knew him.

Some people have something about them that makes you feel like old friends the first time you meet. Don had that something.

Having lived most of his life working in range management in far West Texas, he and Dee moved to Canyon a few years ago to retire near kids and grandkids. I saw him most every week at Sunday school, but only a half dozen times in a more relaxed, informal setting where we could visit at length.

I regret that. I regret that my good friend could have been a close friend if only . . . .

Was. I hate that word.

*****
Dedicated to Donald Quinten Cox, February 6, 1951-March 8, 2012

Char and I drove to Clovis, NM this weekend to get our yearly half-cord of firewood.

I burn real wood in my fireplace. No gas logs for me, certainly none of those paper-wrapped “fire-logs.” Sorry, Duraflame, but I say zero heat and zero atmosphere.

In our teens, my brother Craig and I owned a firewood lot. Sold oak and piñon for $40 a cord. Yep, inflation hit the wood business.

I have friends who say they’ve tried real logs, but just can’t get them to burn. Not to worry. Here are Mike’s three tips to successful fires:

1. Use well-seasoned wood. That’s why, despite the 90-mile drive, we go to David’s. Enough said.
2. Leave several inches of ash in the fireplace. Provides a good bed for those hot coals.
3. Use enough wood. 1 log—don’t even think about it; 3 logs—won’t burn;  4 logs—might burn; 5 logs—will burn (I  put three lengthwise on the bottom and cross with two on top).

So get the real stuff this year and enjoy one of the best pleasures of colder weather.

“Some say people who have extramarital affairs are looking for one. I say it’s more like what happened to me on that bridge. One has an affair not because he is—but because he isn’t—looking.”

So begins my memoir, Bicycling through the Midlife Crisis, now available as an ebook on Amazon’s Kindle and the Barnes and Noble Nook.

It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever written. 

For I’ve tried to be brutally honest about the unfaithfulness that ended my career over 20 years ago, a failure that—if it hadn’t been for the stubborn love of a wife I don’t deserve—would have ended my marriage, too. 

Why tell this embarrassing story? Because writing it down has brought insight, healing and renewal to both Charlotte and me. 

And because I’m pretty sure reading it will do the same for others. 

So I hope you’ll read my story. And I hope you’ll pass it along to others, too.  

******
Order on the Amazon Kindle or Barnes and Noble’s Nook or read a few chapters free on my website.

The preacher’s sermon was on forgiveness. You know, the passage that says we have to forgive others: No matter what (read it for yourself—Matthew 18).

Over the years, I think I’ve done pretty well with the command—those of us who have received much forgiveness tend to give it—except when it came to C.

Oh, I’ve said the words. “God, I forgive C” or “I want to forgive C.” But the phrase sounded hollow and insincere. Because it was.

And I couldn’t figure out why—why couldn’t I let go of the resentment?

Until Sunday, when I finally realized what I needed to forgive C for. At various times I thought he had lied about me, or judged me, or turned people against me.

But with each of these charges, I knew the evidence was inconclusive. Maybe I saw what I wanted to see.

Because I was hurt.

And didn’t realize why. Until Sunday.

When the chips were down, when I needed him most, my friend didn’t stand up for me, didn’t protect me, didn’t support me, wasn’t my defender, my advocate, my cheerleader.

And somehow on Sunday I saw all that, and seeing it helped me let go of the resentment.

Maybe because I realized how hard it would have been for him to do that, to take my side when few others did.

And maybe because I know I’ve been guilty of the same; I’ve sometimes failed to be an advocate for my friends.

Which is what Matthew 18 is about, refusing to forgive others for the same sins we commit. Ouch.

I need a personal assistant. Scratch that. I need several personal assistants.

Just read an article on solitude and leadership by William Deresiewicz. In a speech to the cadets at West Point, this Yale professor bemoans the fact that modern leaders are so busy they have little time for necessary things, things that build great leaders.

Like deep conversation with a few friends or reading good books (especially the older classics). Deresiewicz says we’re too busy with superficial chats (Twitter and Facebook) and a load of extracurricular activities (clubs or activities one must join to advance in a bureaucratic society).

Back to my problem. It’s not Facebook or elective activities that are making me need more me’s. My struggle isn’t with things one can eliminate or delegate.

How do you delegate deep reading? Or a consistent prayer life? Or important relationships with people you care about? Or causes you’ve given your life to?

People my age tend to dream of an uncluttered retirement, one where you can spend one afternoon after another on the golf course or fishing a favorite stream.

But that’s not what I want. Not yet anyway. I love what I’m doing. I’m just frustrated that I can’t do it all, in a timely manner that is.

Which may be the problem. What do I consider “timely”? Maybe my problem isn’t trying to attempt too much stuff, but trying to fit the stuff into too few days.

Hmm. Sounds like I need to work on expectations and scheduling.