Memorial Day Memory

 

 

            With every new memorial day that comes over the years, I remember one that brings to my mind a young man who lost his life in the Vietnam war. I would have been about eight when he fell. I never knew him, and don’t now remember his name. But I have not forgotten him.

            This is how I feel I know him though.

            It was a beautiful day in Seattle almost twenty years ago. It was a memorial day and I was visiting a friend. This day was made for walking, so we jumped into the car and drove about looking for a park in which to take a stroll. In the search, we happened to drive by a huge cemetery. Getting the affirmative from my friend that it would be fitting  to walk about the grounds and find the graves of the fallen; to say a short prayer for their sacrifice and ask God to have mercy on their souls, we parked, got out, and began our search.

            We came upon many, a few from WWI, many from WWII, and quite a number from the Vietnam War. Not being from the military, neither of us could figure out what much of the nomenclature on the gravestones meant. PVT, 1^st Class we assumed was Private first class. There were some with SGT, which we figured meant Sergeant and some with Capt.. Some had the emblems or insignia for the services, like the Marines, but there were many military abbreviations we couldn’t decipher. These titles obviously meant a lot to the soldiers, also to their loved ones, otherwise  their loved ones would not have  put them on the fallen soldiers memorials. It seemed a little wanting on our part not to be able to honor these soldiers more on account of our not understanding their histories.

            I was determined to partially remedy my ignorance. And so I did. My companion and I were standing over the grave of a Vietnam soldier interpreting as well as we could his military standings. It seemed that he belonged to a tank battalion. Frustrated, I looked up and saw a small crowd of people looking with some confusion for a gravesite. They were quite a ways off but my discomfiture of not being able to decipher these military abbreviations prompted me to go ask them if they might know.

            I left my companion and made the long walk to this little crowd and asked them if they might come and interpret for us. They graciously obliged and traversed the grounds back to my friend. They were elderly and had a man somewhat older than I with them.

            When they arrived, I pointed at the gravestone and began to explain my difficulty when I noticed that they were completely silent and in tears. For lo and behold these were the parents of the fallen soldier whose grave we bent over; accompanied by the soldiers older brother.

            They had been looking for his grave for quite some time, couldn’t find it and were in fact leaving the cemetery when I had gone and fetched them.

            They told us their story. Their son was indeed part of a tank unit. I do not now remember his rank. He was killed when on a rescue mission for some soldiers who had been pinned down behind enemy lines. As his Dad told it, his son led a number of tanks into a fiery hell, with the enemy throwing every kind of ordnance at them that they could muster. In that hell he lost his life.  It was clear that the heroic action of their son brought some solace to them, but the pain of the loss was still keenly felt. His mother told us little details of his life and now how her son’s suit still hangs in the closet where he left it on his last leave. He left it hanging there with the words, “I probably won’t need it anymore.”

            I could see that this fallen soldier’s brother had never gotten over the loss of his childhood companion. He told us many stories of he and his brother’s young adventures. A catch in his voice and a repressed sob showed his heart was still broken.

            It was a painful but wonderful story, one that we both gained much benefit from and they agreed that no other then Divine Providence could have brought us together over their sons grave.

            I pray for this young man’s soul even today. Many of you have fathers, sons, or brothers who have fallen and don’t need a story like this to enliven in your minds what we should be so thankful for, but some of us do, and these parents did that for me and my companion.   

            I still don’t know all the nomenclature the soldiers are regaled with. Maybe that’s the way it should be. They are an exceptional group and a little mystique is warranted.

                                    And the Fallen, May They Rest in Peace

 

Have a great day,

David Cools

Fire and Steel

Fire and Steel

 

            I fired up the forge in the blacksmith shop the other day. I was trying to fashion a turnbuckle and swivel contraption such that I could tether two goats to the same stake without them being able to tangle their ropes.    

            I have an assortment of old steel that I gathered from old farmsteads. Most of this steel were parts of old farm equipment some time ago, vintage, late eighteen hundreds to the nineteen fifties. In fashioning hinges, latches, hangers and suchlike from this old steel, I can at times retain some of the original design of the steel and carry it  into the new design I am constructing, thereby incorporating some of the old beauty into the new functionality.

            There is a challenge to this though, as I don’t always know what other alloy metals have been added to the iron that make up the ingredients of the particular piece of steel I choose. Metallurgists allay many different metals into iron to give it different desired characteristics. Adding carbon, silicon, manganese and a host of others at different proportions can change the ductility, hardness and wearability considerably.

            The consequence is that when I heat up my selected steel, I never quite know how it will act. It may act quite differently than any other.

            But I heat it, and hammer it. Cool it, and harden it. I heat, mold, and quench it. Then I hold it up for inspection. I then crank the blower again. I get a hot fire, heat the steel up again, to white orangeish hot, carry it to the anvil, pound some more; forge, forge, forge, and then back to the fire.

            And that’s what I did with this piece of steel in making my goat tethering invention. In this case though there was a little difference that gave me pause. When heated to forging temperature, there appeared a bluish color to the flame that told me there was an unusual metal in this alloy. I had to be  prepared for surprises. Well, it forged fine so I continued and in fact was very happy with the shape I coaxed it into.

            Pleased with myself, I placed it into my peg leg vise. I needed to give it one last little tweak of a twist and I would be a happy craftsman indeed. So I twisted, but with the very unhappy consequence of it shattering in my hand. By heating and pounding this particular piece of steel in this manner, and quenching it to harden it, it indeed hardened, but it also changed the crystalline structure so radically that the steel  became brittle.

            Disappointed, I gazed into the hot bed of coals in the forge and mused a bit. That little blue flame was telling me what kind of metal I had taken up. And it hadn’t been up to the job. It wasn’t of the right kind of metal.

            As I poked around in the coals this thought came to mind;

            As silver is tried by fire, and gold in the furnace: so the Lord trieth the hearts. Proverbs 17:3

             Pondering these words I went out and got me another piece of iron. Into the fire it went and I  forged it to my liking. It stayed true. No impurities sabotaged the work it was to do. My little invention worked fine. The goats enjoy a tangle free life.

            As for us, we walk in the furnace of life and am tried by fire. Will it make us brittle and worthless or purify us into precious metal? We don’t know yet. The Craftsman isn’t done. But into the fire and out again, we are forged into what He wants.

            Sure hope I don’t shatter. I have to leave it at that though, I must hie into the house for the dinner that calls, as the perfect roast just emerged from the hot oven.

Have a great day!

David Cools

Touching the Infinite

Touching the Infinite

 

            As I stood outside watering one of my trees the other night, a beautiful sun-cloud combination coalesced in the sky. It was one of those events where the sun shines partially through the clouds, and its rays streak from the heavens to the earth. The beautiful blue gray yellow hues all blended together in a delightful panoply of color. So vast was the array and arresting in its beauty that I couldn’t quite take it all in. It’s as if the sight was just to big to hold in ones soul.

            It was similar in scope as when I stood in the vastness of the Arizona desert. I stood in the middle of the night, on a vast highway, so far from any town that there were no lights. The blackness was so intense, the stars so distinct, and so countless, it gave me the sense of standing right in the midst of them. The sensation of depth and distance incalculable, enveloped my soul. Again my soul seemed to be too small to take it all in.

            My sunset, and its prompting of my memory of the Arizona sky, brought to mind what St. Paul tells us.

 “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor has it entered the heart of man what God has prepared for those who love Him”

 A glory more vast than these?

Yes, to love Him : I must stretch my soul.   

Have a  great day!

David Cools

 

The Rooster and Mothers Day

The Rooster and Mothers Day

 

 

            Last October as I was preparing the farm for winter, I noticed a hen hunkered down on the ground with her feathers all fluffed out, not moving, not going anywhere. Seemed odd as it was a cold blustery day and no chickens were supposed to be able to get into the yard. I kept busily going about my business when, throwing a piece of blacksmith steel into my pile of old steel, brought me close to her. To my astonishment I saw a little yellow head emerge from under her feathers. Upon closer examination I discovered eight little chicks she was sheltering from the inclement weather. One of the hens  unbeknownst to me must have  escaped the environs of the pasture and disappeared into the bushes, nested, and hatched out her brood.

            I hastily set up the brooder house light in the brooder coop,  collected her and her progeny and kept them in there for the winter.

            They all grew up, four roosters and four hens. One of these roosters has now become the new Master of the henhouse as a weasel made dinner of the last one.



            Now the strange thing about this rooster is that he was hatched without a tail. He’s not totally bald, just that he doesn’t have any of the plumes that sprout from all chickens fannies. Now for roosters, whose plumes account for most of their  beauty, this one is quite a sight, seeing him strut around the pasture in blissful ignorance of his humiliation.

            Now for the longest time I hadn’t had a rooster. They aren’t necessary for the hens to lay eggs, but since having one for a while now I have observed a few traits that are very intriguing. When a worm or bug is discovered by a rooster, he gets all excited, begins to dance around, chortling, clucking, and making all sorts of strange sounds. This excites the hens and they come running. He then throws the bug to the nearest hen. If its grain he finds he tries to scatter it about. If we throw scraps to the flock he does the same, busily throwing morsel here and there to the hens, keeping up his dancing and chortling. The hens come first in his eyes and he does his level best to keep them well fed.

            He also warns them when hawks come flying in.  Squawking and yelling, he tries to get them to run for cover. And last but not least if his brother rooster gets too close he lights into him, and there is a heck of a fight. So far this tailless wonder is the undisputed master of the barnyard.

            Mothers Day was just a few days ago, and of course a Mother is so because she has bourn children. And what a special relationship that is, Mother and child. Most of us know this from our good mothers. Some who have wives who are also mothers see this daily in the nurturing of their own children. So intimate is this bond that our Heavenly Father says:

 

Can a woman forget her infant, so as not to have pity on the son of her womb? and if she should forget, yet will not I forget thee.    Isaiah 49:15            

 

            It is such a pleasure to see my children gambol about the farm, enveloped in the love of their good mother. I can’t help but wonder if us men took as much care of our women as this good rooster does his hens,  many more woman would find the confidence to desire, bear and cherish children.

             Do we provide a secure environment for her to prosper? Does she have to doubt our fidelity? Can she trust that we will never abandon her?

             All of us men have our shortfalls, just as this hapless tailless rooster. But she doesn’t care, does she have our love?, our faithfulness? Are we men of honor? of character?

             Kind of humbling to set my first goals to the lofty height of imitating a rooster, but have to start somewhere.

 

Have a great day!

David Cools

Roots

Roots

 

            Well, the carpenters have arrived, and usually this is a good thing. I like carpenters, The Carpenter from Nazareth has an invitation for Life and I hope none of us who dwell here ever cause Him to leave. I also have a couple of brothers who are carpenters and do wonderful work, I ply the trade when necessary to keep things moving on the farm. But these carpenters have come and set up shop uninvited and instead of building things up as a good carpenter ought, they are determined to cut and drill where they please with the purpose of carting off to their abode as much food from my pantry as they can pack.

            These are carpenter ants and their welcome when they first arrived was a bit chilly, even cold, but now has frozen. They must go.  We try to be very generous with our time and fortune but when a whole army invades with the purpose of absconding with everything that isn’t tied down it makes one feel like Leiningen and his ants. A battle plan must be drawn up. Leiningen did. So I must. You might remember the short story Leiningen Versus the Ants by Carl Stephenson? Well, he used a moat to his advantage but I don’t have a moat, I might have a mote in my eye at times that impairs my seeing things aright but I don’t have a moat.

            Sterner measures must be used. The first order of business was to track them, find out where they were coming from. Find their fortress, their supply house, where their strength comes from, their home, their roots, and hence the root of our problem.

            So I marshaled all the kids together and we went on an ant hunt. First we surrounded the house and looked meticulously on the walls to find where they were penetrating our fortress. Sure enough it was discovered that they were scaling the left pillar of the porch and pouring over the ramparts into the attic. From thence to fan out steal anything they could find in the house.

            Well, now that we found their trail we backtracked them. All of us crouched on our knees and slowly moved across the yard following a trail of ants back to their nest. After a time we indeed found where they were holed up. It’s at the foot of an ancient cherry tree in the yard. At its roots. The ants had bored into the rotten wood of the roots.  

            The cherry tree still stands, although large branches are dead. Some huge trunks have broken off during the years: But it still clings to life with what good roots remain. It kind of struck me. The confluence of two senses of the word roots meet here at the base of the tree. The root of the ants start here. The roots of the cherry tree start here. Both send out their life to gather food, both are responsible for the health of the growth. Both are responsible on how well the mature tree or hive prospers.

            Bad roots result in a unhealthy plant, it bears bad fruit, storm and tempest eventually overcome it and it perishes. Good roots result in a healthy plant, it bears good fruit, storm and tempest toss it and beat it up, but it survives.

            Couldn’t help but wonder. What kind of soil am I cultivating for my family such that its roots find healthy nourishment? That my children can be rooted in what is true, good and beautiful. When tempest toss their lives will they have the roots to withstand them and not fall? Will they be able in another sense to look back on their roots and find joy and solace there?

            Well I found this part that gives me great hope,

 

                Thy wife shall be as a fruitful vine by the sides of thine house: thy children like olive plants round about thy table.

 

            And we invited the Carpenter into our home and He promises to bring Life and it more abundantly. If he nourishes the roots how can I fail? Then,

 

Psalm 144:12 Then our sons in their youth will be like well-nurtured plants, and our daughters will be like pillars carved to adorn a palace.

               

            Food for thought as well as roots. Well, I’d better get back to the task of uprooting the uninvited carpenters before we have nothing left with to nourish body or soul. Might  save the roots of the ancient cherry tree in the process so it can continue to bear fruit and inspire. Well I’m rooting for all you too!

 

Have a great day!

David Cools