XVI

i thought i knew what it was to have a sixteen year old son. i figured it was pretty much the same as having a teenager only with complications. Sort of like Hemorrhoids and a case of poison oak. Then Happ (the fashionable son) went and passed his drivers' permit test. i knew the Ballyhoo gang had to celebrate this rite of passage of it's most fashionable member in true Ballyhoo fashion. So i collected Rascal and we plotted to greet Happ in a manner befitting the occasion as soon as the conquering hero emerged from his motor chariot. As we prepared our arsenal of snowballs we fleshed out our plans. "After he yells at us for messing up his new clothes we can all go out to dinner!"

"Yeah!"

The vision of a break in the holiday madness with a family night together danced in my head as my cell phone rang. Mynnie, (the pretty one) informed me that she would be dropping off our new driver at the restaurant where he and his buddies get Cheesesteaks every Tuesday.

Oh. Of course. He wishes to celebrate with his friends. Perfectly understandable. i hung up the phone and my dream of a family celebration and a traditional Ballyhoo Snowball Huzzah with an audible click. That's when i decided that now i knew what it was like to have a sixteen year old. It wasn't Hemorrhoids and rashes. It's more like dreaming of a steak dinner and getting a steak dinner. A Salisbury steak in a TV dinner.

Broken dreams and eight inches of snow don't mix so Rascal and i took our sleds and re-inflated our spirits in Carcass Basin. The hill is perfectly groomed and the pond frozen and disappointment cannot survive in the harsh glee of high speed runs across a frozen pond.

Time slurps on into the future, it is time to pick up Happ, so i venture out in Mynnievan to fetch him. He, not unexpectedly but not anticipated with delightedly, asks if he can drive home. To his surprise, i unexpectedly but received with much delightedly say, "sure."

Riding home. Trying to unclench my hands and keep my voice calm with the sensation of sitting in the dentist's chair with the needles, knives and skewers all laid in plain sight, i chuckle softly to myself, "no dummy, NOW you know what it means to have a sixteen year old son."

Just like every year since year 34.

In path of the Nor'Easter, the soon to be trampled discussed their doom...

"So they're going to decide tomorrow whether or not they will have to cancel church," informed the Informed.

"Cancel Christmas? Wow!" remarked the cynic.

"A year without Santa?" questioned the incredulous.

"No no," soothed the cynic, "it will just be a year without Jesus."

"Oh," sighed the much relieved, "that's okay then."

Happy Hunting

The Plains of Sabbath. The wide open spaces between the thickly, prickly forests of Necessity, the foggy Deserts of Dream, the stormy Seas of Calamity and the hyper-bustling Cities of Man that make up the rest of the hunting range. Here a hunter can ease down in the tall grass, test the wind and relax a little, knowing that his quarry cannot pass by unnoticed. Like a lion surveying the savanna, all the herds must pass a nervous day under his eye, predator and prey in full sight of each other. There is nowhere to hide until you reach the other side.

Thanksgiving Valley is this plain's name. And it marks the mouth of the Advent Race. A peaceful stream that flows through this fruitful field gathers speed and power as it pours over the precipice at the end of the vale. From there it's down, down, down the mountains in a tumbling, pell-mell fury of thunder and chaos until it finally bursts over Christmas Falls and into the Pool where some drown and others bathe and finally it slips out the other side and the quarry will be gone, never to return. Another Year gone, another Yearling straining at the gates in agonizingly youthful exuberance ready for its hunt. Its chance to run the gauntlet.

But the hunter is still thinking about the last hunt and all the hunts before. How to capture a year? How to hold on to that powerful beast? How to best use every bit of the members he managed to pull down? What did he learn? What worked, what didn't?

For this hunter, this valley, this morning of Thanksgiving has been a good place to slow the critter down. It's the last good grazing spot before it's dash down Christmas Ravine. Here i can walk among the herd, even run my fingers through their wooly manes. It's a sacred spot. A place to count blessings.

• Such as homes given...to us, to Clan Bubba, to the Cats.
• The departing of a Shepherd and a partner, hopefully both to happier hunting grounds.
• The arrival of a new partner and all the adjustments that means.
• For a camping trip, a beach trip, a reunion with my brother's family.
• For seasons of growth in the Ballyhoo.
• For more proof that God will provide, even in recessions, democratic presidencies and swine flu pandemics.
• Reconnecting with family, some i wasn't aware i had.
• For sins forgiven.
• For a few more sign in my larger hunt for joy and contentment.

And for knowing when to end a post that has buried itself in poetic metaphor without a single joke, laugh or snicker. Happy Thanksgiving to All and to All a good Hunt!

A Jeremiad.

Two days ago, at work in a basement, stuffing puddy into a thousand thousand little nail holes, i had at least six ideas for art work, nine for a story and three for a post here on the Coop. Here i sit in front of a laptop and there's more action on the static screen than in the oblong pumpkin. (Calling it the squash would convey it's lumpy irregularity more efficiently but then i don't think folk would get that i'm talking about my head.)

i've been thinking about change lately. As in: Can people change? Specifically for the better. For you see, in my experience, people don't. Change for the better that is. Once they reach some semblance of something we can label cynically as "maturity," they're personalities are fixed. The ingredients of traits, quirks and habits that make them able to be differentiated from the other primates in the herd have settled into the shape that they will only harden around as they age. From there on until the Big Chemical Breakdown, they will take that palette of colors and let them dry and darken with age. The most change i can say i've witnessed is when one of the colors, usually a particularly dark one to begin with, starts to take over. But this isn't change, this is just a natural progression of possession. We sell our souls to something and sooner or later or in most folk, gradually, it takes more and more of that real estate. Until all that's left is the slave and the master. The fearful person becomes the shut-in, the party animal burns out, the cynical philosopher becomes a grumpy blogger. Slaves to their sinful addictions.

Now my problem with this is this: i believe in the God of change. The Father so loved the world (euphemism for all of the little yellow, brown, red, black and pink idi-ants running around on it) that He gave His only begotten son. That whosoever, (or who ever wants to) believe in Him, shall not perish (die a worthless life and then spend an even more tragic eternity) but have everlasting life (life here should be capitalized. Life. Not the life that we suffer through here and is but a pale shadow of truly Living as it was meant to be, fully in God and He in us. No questions about purpose. No coping mechanisms. No incessant search for love and fulfillment. No lies.) That God has told me that He came to free people from their sins. Those that believe are no longer slaves, they are truly free. One of the evidences of this is that they shall live differently, different from how they lived before and different from all of those who have chosen not to believe. They shall truly change! This is my hope. Or i hope to make this my hope. Being a cynic, hope would be a change. This is what i pray for everyday. For myself and for others.

So how come i'm not seeing it happen?

A country for cur-mudgeons.

There was a man. He took a trip to a far off country and there he settled for a short while. While he was there he found a puppy. The puppy was starving, badly beaten, diseased and living on the streets. The man sought out the puppy's owner and stated his intentions to buy the dog. The owner demanded a high price and without batting an eye the man paid it, even though it was far more than the puppy was worth.

The man nursed the puppy back to health. He found him a home where the puppy would be looked after and gave him a name and a tag so everyone would know who the puppy belonged to. One day he took the puppy for a walk, told him how much he loved him, told him he was going away for a while and that when he came back, he would take the puppy to his new home where they would always be together. He told him that while he was gone, he wanted the puppy to be a good dog.

And then he left.

The puppy waited. And waited. And waited. After about an hour, the puppy realized that this was going to be a long wait. Puppy's have no real hard ideas about time. The puppy grew up. He did his best to be a good dog. He got along all right with the other dogs. He worked hard for the people who took care of him. He enjoyed walks and hunts and riding in cars with the windows open. He even settled down with another dog who had a tag as well and they had puppies of their own who he told about the master and country that they would all go to someday. And life went on.

But every now and then, the puppy would catch a scent of his true master. It might be on another person or another dog. It might be on something like a tree or wooded path. It might even be on the wind at sunset, as if carried there from some far country. The master's country. His country. At first the puppy would be excited. He would jump up and look, expecting any moment to see the master. And he would wait. And wait. And wag his tail. And wait. And sniff around trying to find more. And wait. And after about five minutes he would realize that this wasn't the time. The master wasn't coming. Again.

Then the puppy grew sullen. The puppy would retreat to dark corners and lie there. As he grew older, he grew less patient. No longer would he jump up. He would test the scent and if nothing changed he would go back to what he was doing. He still tried to be a good dog, but something had changed. His caretakers did not know what to do. His mate did not understand him. His own pups avoided him when they saw that familiar set of his jowls.

The other dogs made where ever they were at, their country. They dug holes and spread around smelly things. They lived in houses and acted like children instead of dogs. They chased their tails and bit whoever they pleased and barked and barked and barked. But the puppy thought they were all fools. He knew where he belonged and who he belonged with and this wasn't it.

Now is about the time in most stories that the Master should come or the puppy should take matters into his own paws and start off to find the Master or become a bad dog. But that didn't happen so i can't say that. The puppy is still working hard for the people who take care of him, he is still teaching his puppies about the Master, still trying to be a good dog. In short, he is still waiting.

Lately, he's been trying to wait in a more puppy like fashion. 'Cause puppies believe!

Teach your children well.

Does the Holy God have specific plans for us or does Jesus not care what we do as long as we do it all for the glory of the Father?

i have two sons, the Ballyhoo, Happ and Rascal. They are both creators.

Happ is a philosopher. He has ideas that swirl on currents of emotion, they are ephemeral; solid in the moment and then fading before the strength of the next minute's passion. He is a drummer and it seems to me that music fits his building style. He has much to say, too much for static mediums. Paper lacks the acreage to contain his spiritual pilgrimage. Too many borders, too many boundaries. He is the cowboy and only the wind can encompass his art. And so i think he will most likely build with the wind and on the wind and the wind will take his creations to the world.

Rascal is an architect. Rascal builds ideas upon ideas. Carefully selecting the next stone, the next brick from among the pile. Then shaping it, knocking off sharp corners or fitting it into the construct. Rascal aspires to perfection and permanence BUT only what is perfect must gain permanence. All failed attempts must be learned from and wiped away. Only what is good, what is solid, what has obeyed and fit the design in his dream can be seen through and then seen by the world. Rascal is young, blocks are the mode for now but blocks are the foundation of the man he will become. It seems to me that he is methodically choosing and learning and experimenting with what will become the building blocks of his own soul, his own direction, his life.

As their father, i love seeing them grow like this. i love answering their questions and seeing what they choose to do with the things they learn. Do i care what they do with their lives? Hell yeah! i'm going to be a lot more proud of them if they truly follow their dreams whatever those dreams may be. i'm going to be a lot more proud of a musician and an engineer than a male prostitute and the front end loader operator down at the dump. They don't have to be famous or particularly successful. i just want to look down the table at Thanksgiving someday and see two guys who are living, not just surviving. Two guys who are pursuing something, not running from something. Two guys who are investing their time here and not burying their talents so as not to lose them.

But that's me, what does the Almighty Maker of the Universe think?

The Black Sheep Rebellion (or What the Flock?)

"....and on the pastoral front, bloody fighting has again erupted in Cooper Nation. For more on that story we take you to our correspondent on the ground, Don Noemutch. What's the situation where you are Don?"

"It's becoming known as the Black Sheep Rebellion, Steve and up until this morning there was hope of a lasting truce, maybe even a return to the negotiating tables. But that dream of peace ended sometime last night when the shelling began and folks around here woke up to the war in earnest ..again.

Every year, many of the sheep in this wide flung flock gather here, in the traditional fold of the Cooper Nation to picnic, embarrass themselves at softball and horseshoes and do their patriotic part to deplete the local beer surplus. But it is not a complete gathering. Many of the flock could not make the annual pilgrimage. Scattered abroad, with young lambs being apprenticed to local shepherds, the diaspora quietly suffered alone. That is until the invention of the Easternet.

The information superhighway has brought millions of sheep together and that togetherness has brought something else... civil war.

Through a series of misinterpretations, hurt feelings and sidelong insults over the computer, a war erupted over the summer between the Cooper Nation sheep that remained in the fold and the many smaller, pocket flocks that lived in the surrounding hill country. These separate groups banded together and called themselves the Black Sheep due to the color of their wool. They rallied to the cause of having their own gathering in a place of their own choosing and had even formed a secret society to plan that new pilgrimage and it's meeting place. When the unexpected happened.

The shooting stopped. The two parties agreed, tenuously at first, to cease fire and start working through diplomacy on their mutual disagreement. This baby step was seen as a giant step forward and a welcome leap away from violence."

"What happened to renew the hostilities Don?"

"We can't be sure exactly but it seems, Steve, that the Nation sheep in the fold found out about the secret Black Sheep meetings taking place. Now the Black Sheep maintain that they had adjusted their plans to include the Fold Sheep since the truce but be that as it may, the shooting has started again anyway."

"Let us hope for another miracle truce, Don. Especially since I hear there's a bit of irony involving the name, "Black Sheep." Isn't that so?"

"It is Steve. The name Black Sheep is particularly an odd choice since All the sheep of the Cooper Nation are black."

"Haha. Will those sheep ever learn?"

"Only time will tell. Until then, there is very little co-operation in Cooper Nation. I'm Don Noemutch reporting from No-Sheeps-land. Back to you Steve."