A Long, Steady S A L U T E...

They fought... AND DIED so that I could have 364 other days to BBQ, fish, etc. THIS DAY... belongs to them, PERIOD.

 

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But For This ONE Thing…

My sons do not share my Passion for those things Outdoor… neither did my father. I must be the rock-skip from older generations of our clan across the waters of Time. I can still remember my Grandpa Arnold mowing the grass on his little farmette, on the outskirts of Mt. Grove, Missouri. Until his 80th spring, when he went Home, he used a rotary push mower, Key overalls… and bare feet to keep the park-like presence ever fresh for Grandma’s eyes. 

He farmed and cooned and hunted the hills and hollers of what became the Mark Twain National Forest nearly all his days. When he retired, he kept the homeplace and 6-8 acres for a summer garden, his beloved (and fairly famous) tobacco, and a firestoke of his own passion’d memories. I loved that old man, his gentle quietness… and the unveering path of manhood he blazed so straight through two world wars (he was born in 1888), two Depressions, pestilence, blight, drought, and a fiesty Irish wife… for whoever came next.

And but for this one thing, I might very well despair over the course my own days have taken. For you see, his children found no thrill in the being there~~no awe in the presence of oaks and willows, stone-bed creeks or rain. And with the exception of one daughter (who died a few month after he, and a few more before my Grandma), they found his character and metel to be of little value and even less use for their purposes (they fought to a blood-foamed frenzy… over 6-8 acres, a 2-bedroom house with grey shingle siding, and a 56′ Buick Special with a bad generator). 

And yet, because these things were a part of the bedrock of who he WAS, not just what he hoped to be seen as, he lived his convictions and his Passions for the right they were, as he could see it… and for the pure joy they gave him. And he passed them on to the only one in his presence that found everything about his world… and his presence FASCINATING. The time was short (he moved over across the chasm during my 7th February). But there was no sense of hurry, no rushing of lessons or times, just a full, rich embracing of whatever moment we found ourselves in together. 

It took me more years than I’m proud to admit to make that part of his character my own…

I do not own the future. My sons will, of course, have to finally do as they decide in all matters of character AND the Outdoors. But as I look out my office window at a warm August night overtaking what has been a pleasant August evening, I find myself recalling the sons of other men, who, for whatever reason, have over the years found value in the Trail I’m blazing (you see, the tangled vines and undergrowth of the Wild devour even the cleared ground of a giant… if not traversed constantly). And I smile at the joy and richness they have brought to the door of my soul. 

Gift for gift. 

They were not my “chosen” ones. They are the ones who chose, if even for a time, me. Even as I was not the one my grandfather originally prepared himself to share the richness he had found with. But I am so glad that when I showed… he did. 

Ahh, but for this one thing…

A Sweet Turn of FATE...

There are three paths home from the nearest island of "Commerce". Being a joyously UNapologetic country boy, I nearly always take the two routes that bypass 'civilization'.

A couple of weeks ago, my bride and I were heading home from a venture into the Wildes of Wally-world (yuk!). As I turned my head to the right in anticipation of aiming the Explorer in the same direction my wife said, "Oh, let's go THROUGH TOWN. I want to see the colts at the south end."

...uhmm, the things done for Love's sake.

After hitting 3,743 lights ALL WRONG ~ after seeing more boxer-short'd/dropped pants wanna be tuffs than any non-masochist should endure over an entire lifetime ~ and after nearly giving in to a SONIC attack (been working diligently on keeping this 50 year old body in at least mid-30s shape... another reason I don't drive down fastfood row). After ALL THAT, the horses were in the back pasture... no colts.

But at least we were free of TOWN! Ahh...

Then I hit the brakes.

Three of them. Small ~ Clueless ~ Starving pups ~ wandering right into my lane of traffic.

...and I knew instinctively and instantly what I would hear next.

"STOP THE TRUCK!"

Oh no (we already have 7 dogs and 3 cats, "rescued" over the years).

The passenger door flies open.

"Here, take this one. Here. Here."

Even as I grumbled about 'flea-bags' making a mess of my rear seat, my heart went out to these trembling, scabby, bone sacks of trusting Innocence.


My head turned right. But my bride's innocent request actually worked out to be a SWEET TURN OF FATE.

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Images from just two days of food, water, tick-pickin', vet visits... and love.

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The Thunder and Lightning... of HONEST COMMUNICATION

~ ~ ~

Governor Christie is like a Spring thunderstorm on the Plains... fearsome power of Nature, but the parched ground WELCOMES the rain!

The American citizenry (the get up every day, go to work, pay taxes, dream-hope-plan, love this country ~ AS IT WAS FOUNDED citizenry) have been through a searing drought, especially the last year and a half.

BRING ON THE RAIN Governor! We don't mind the lightning and thunder of Honest communication.

CM Sackett

...LOST?

~AMERICANA~

"Floyd, remind me again... who made you navigator?"

 "Clifford!"

"Clifford, we're LOST son... we ARE LOST!"

"No we're not.  I'm tellin' ya, I remember this old car and house... hunting camp is just around the next left!"

"Clifford, there ain't no 'next left' LEFT... THIS IS THE END OF THE ROAD!"

~

~

It's as American as apple pie; curiosity... wander-lust, that tug on the heart-sleeve to see what's over the next hill... down that other drainage... around one more curve.  When our Aussie friends give into its siren call, people say they've gone 'WalkAbout'.

When we do it, folks generally call it... getting Lost.

But that's not true at all!

When you find nothing of value along the trail ~ when you bring nothing out of the experience but blisters, 'low-fuel' lights and cracked lips ~ then yes, you were just LOST.

But, oh friend... when the eyes overload, the mouth says "WOW!", and the heart sings "Oh YES!"... when the pulse rate quickens and the stress level tanks... when the scribe of Memory and the shutter of the camera can hardly keep up ~

That's when you know, bone-deep, the true meaning of the term SERENDIPITY.

Now, to be completely honest and fair, it must be noted that not every occasion of Discovery feels exactly 'serendipitous', at the moment.  Single-syllable, four-letter descriptives sometimes seem to be a much better fit.  However, when the memories are rich and the smiles wrought of them are warm, you know you've joined the realm of the Rich who have, over the Ages, garnered the Treasures to be found...

...on the Trails LESS-TAKEN.

ENJOY!

CM Sackett

Liberty... is COLOR BLIND!

AMERICANS.

No "hyphen" NEEDED...

...NO HYPHEN TOLERATED.
CM Sackett

ENDLESS Season Snippits

Life-Snippets... A Month On The Road

The Road... Less Traveled

"Through The Lens Of MEMORY..."

The interstate I thought I was meant to be on roared and screamed like the unfurled ribbon of modern efficiency it was designed to be, less than a mile to the North of me.  Through the fog and the timber I caught occasional glimpses of the weekday side of myself whizzing by, jockeying for position to be the 'winner', the first... to stand in line and wait somewhere.

Did I take a wrong turn after all?  Or did some deeper, wiser side of myself finally step into the melee of my frantic 'success' and slow my pace for a purpose?

I don't know.

But as the slow, time-blessed miles of old U.S. 70 slid silently past my thankful eyes and brushed the cheek of my too-hurried soul with a misty, cool hand of remembrance, I knew this much...

The PAST, and its healing power were not lost ~ they were just an exit away, on the road... less traveled.

CM Sackett

 

"Man-Things... Body Shops"

 Junk.

Well, to the un-initiated perhaps... to most women, for sure.  But to a man who grew up in the dust and noise and smells and Wonder of a body shop, whose great pleasure as a boy of six, seven, eight, nine... thirteen was to help his dad flux the brass rods, mix the plastic ~ the primer ~ the paint, and take in all the heady aromas of Repair... oh, this sight is a thing of BEAUTY (even if it is only in the eyes of this beholder)!  You see, when the eyes of my frame look upon these old rigs, the eyes of my heart and Memory take over.

What rust?

What holes?

What 'wreck'?

I see a 'Sandlewood' (light gold/silver) paint job topped with PPG 'Harlequin' flames (squirt-work was my specialty, as a young man).  I see the flawless lines, Lexus-tight seams, the lowered stance.  I can clearly hear the deep eclectic rhythm of the cam'd-up big block rumbling in the smoothed/stainless-steeled engine bay... see the chassis twitch in perfect time to the power in her lovingly renewed breast.

Everything ~ the leather and burl-wood of the interior, the 3-inch stainless rivers of Tone underneath, even the feel of the Boulevard and the tunes on the deck... all of it is as clear and real and complete to my senses as I stand here now as it would be if the key were in the ignition and my hand upon the wheel of the finished beast.

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Oh, don't get me wrong.  I know all about the rust and holes and wrinkled dents (and busted knuckles, frustrated deadlines, bone-deep soreness ~ all over ~ and budget constraints)... I grew up in the WORK of turning wrecks into Wonders (and yes, spent my fair share of time cussing points of the process).  But I never tired of the satisfaction felt as the last bit of tape and paper came off in the paint booth.  I never forgot the eagerness I felt as the buffer sang and searched out the real beauty of the finish.

And I never grew weary of the return on Investment ~ in Joy, Laughter, Exhilaration, Contented sighs, Pride... and Thankfulness for the time shared with each creation.

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Hmm...

You know, I think I just came up with the perfect definition of "junk"... that for which nothing better, further, richer or worthy can be envisioned.

I think God runs one Hell of a body shop for souls.

Thank you Lord, for seeing more in me than the wreck I had made of myself... thank you, indeed.