ABOUT OUR HOME ON TANNERY HILL

...and the Queen(ie) of Fairy Lake
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I walk only 100 yards from my home to pay daily visits to the Queen of Fairy Lake.

Her Royal Highness is a beautiful snow-white Mute Swan that I have named "Queenie" because she is so wonderfully majestic. Queenie cruises the waters of Fairy Lake like a schooner, leaving behind a perfect wake as she surveys her domain and tolerates a following of ducks that are always careful not to invade her immediate space. 

If Queenie is in a good mood she will glide over to our vantage point on the bank and give my dog Lucy a couple of playful, not-so-mute "honks" just to establish her supremacy over the water she plies.  Customarily, dogs are not swans' best friends. 

Fairy Lake is actually an oasis of quiet, natural beauty with a perimeter trail that for the most part is a well-kept secret, even locally.  It is difficult to believe that a little more than 100 years ago Queenie's domain was an industrial site where Isaac Bowman and Henry Zinkan built a tannery just above the northern bank of the lake.  The tannery grew to become Southampton's major employer, until fire completely destroyed it on July 31st., 1900, throwing 100 employees out of work.

Houses, including ours shown in the Wrights Lane masthead, were eventually built on the site which was appropriatley named Tannery Hill.  When I was digging out a couple of large tree stumps last year I uncovered several pieces of tanning bark and burnt leather strips from the old tanning factory.  Other remnants from the fire are on display in the Bruce County Museum and Culture Centre which is located on the opposite side of the lake.   A large iron wheel that had been part of the hulking machinery in the tanning factory was retrieved from the bottom of the lake in 1983 and stands as a monument at the foot of the hill just below our property.

This kind of history fascinates me no end.  Just about as much as a certain regal swan that makes Fairy Lake her home.
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Pieces of century-old burnt tanning bark and leather unearthed in backyard dig

Tannery machine wheel was retrieved from Fairy Lake 85 years after historic fire

Mirror-like reflection of fall sunset over Fairy Lake

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Nature trail circumvents Fairy Lake

Even Lucy likes exploring the Fairy Lake trail

I'M THANKFUL FOR MY "MUNCHKINS"

There's no better time than Thanksgiving Day for sharing some old black and white photos of my girls with readers of Wrights Lane.  They're kind of fun shots that bring a smile to your face, like this cute one "Huggin' Cousin" that shows my daughter Debbie putting the squeeze on her cousin Teri.  To see more, click http://dicksgirls.blogspot.com/

TAKE IT EASY WITH "ORANGE" JOSH!

We are seeing a lot of the colour orange these days, due primarily to the arrival of the fall season and the celebration of Thanksgiving.

While the colour orange has different symbolic meanings, individual reactions to it seem to vary widely.  The other day my 16-year-old grandson, Joshua, offered what I think is a relatively unique impression of  "orange".

Commenting on his Facebook site, Josh said that he had just recently become aware of the colour orange and to him it seemed to have "a sense of goodness about it."  For someone his age, Josh is a pretty deep thinker and not at all afraid to express his feelings  -- a refreshing trait, to this grandfather's way of thinking.

In a way, I think I know where Josh is coming from and I will never look at the colour orange in the same way again.  Generally though, orange has been looked on as a power colour and one of healing.  It is said to increase the craving for food and is primarily associated with vitality and endurance.

People who like orange are usually thoughtful and sincere, according to colour expert Emily Gems.  She also points our that wearing orange during times of stress, or shock, can help to balance emotions. 

But a word of caution for Josh in all of this:  Orange is also the colour associated with the Sacral Hara Chakra (sexuality and reproduction).  Don't get to like orange too much just yet, Bud!

When you're feeling kind of orange, temper the mood with some blue...It's a "cooling" colour! 

A FRIEND ENTERS HIS LAST DAYS...

...And all I can do is ask "why"?

Death itself does not bother me,

it's dying that has me perplexed

I have a friend Richard who is dying of cancer...It is safe to say that we all have had a friend at one time or another who was dying of cancer...Most of us have had loved ones who have died of cancer.  It is an insatiable disease that is no respecter of who we are or what we are.  It is a killer and there is no justice.
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I have known Richard for more than 40 years.  We were next door neighbours at one time.  We just seemed to click.  We would give each other the shirt off our back and on several occasions came darn close to doing just that.  Our wives were good friends too.  We were plain, ordinary, hard-working people who were comfortable in each other's company -- and we had fun for a lot of years.  We shared inner most insecurities, we shared dreams, we rationalized the reality of our lives.  We were known to both laugh and to cry together.
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Because of circumstances in our lives, and the distance between us, we kept in touch the past few years by telephone mostly.  The last time I talked to Richard was almost two months ago when he revealed to me in an emotional 45-minute conversation the sorry details of his cancer diagnosis.  He had lung cancer and he was not looking forward to the necessary treatment -- no one does.  He was worried that he would not be able to finish clearing a wood lot.  He always had several chores on the go at the same time -- and some of them he actually finished. 
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Most of our conversation that day was devoted to reminiscences about the time we ran out of gas five miles off the shores of Lake Erie while on a fishing excursion, and the time we were delivering an old car of mine to his father who wanted to use it as an ice fishing vehicle, and a motor mount broke, spewing oil all over the engine that I had spent two days cleaning (a helpful mechanic along the way got us back on the road).  The car, a 1963 Meteor, was an absolute mess by the time we got it to Richard's father in St. Williams and I offered to give it to him at no charge.  "Don't worry about it Dick.  To me it looks like a Cadillac," he enthused as he handed me five 20-dollar bills, the previously-arranged amount.
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Then there was the time Richard and I worked for three weeks refurbishing an old boat that was destined to break loose from a trailer hitch as we were hauling it to the lake for its first re-launching.  Our pride and joy ended up in the ditch, totally demolished.  Our wives called us the "bad luck Charlies".  All we could do was laugh.

Richard used to regale me with his baseball playing prowess.  One day I suggested we have a game of catch.  My first toss to him glanced off the webbing of his glove and hit him squarely in his eye.  With his eye rapidly swelling shut, I suggested we "have a beer".  He readily agreed, letting me know in no uncertain terms, however, that I should have warned him that I was throwing him "a curve". 
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One evening we were out on the town when Richard's wife Pat became ill.  When we got home that evening it was discovered that a very "oozy" Pat had lost her false teeth.  I went back at midnight with a flash light and retraced our  steps that evening and found her teeth in a snow bank at the side of the road.  Again, all we could do was laugh.
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Friends being friends!
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As we concluded our last conversation Richard was in hysterics, relaying to Pat everything that we were saying.  I'm so glad we had that light-hearted, reminiscent chat.  For at least 40 minutes I think that Richard forgot about what was ahead of him.
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I received a message from Richard's daughter this morning advising me that her dad had experienced difficulty breathing and had been admitted to hospital where they removed 2.5 litres of fluid from one of his lungs.  Tests also showed that his cancer had spread to his liver, bowels, pancreas and kidneys.  He had been placed in palliative care where they were keeping him as comfortable as possible.  It will only be a matter of days.
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In the time that he has left, what can I say or do for my friend?  I don't even know if I can get to the hospital before the inevitable happens.
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Sometimes instead of worrying about what to say or what to do for a dying friend, we simply should ask them what they want us to do.
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I think that Richard would tell me to go on living, to enjoy every day to the fullest, to not worry about him because he is going to be okay.  He's going to be free of the body that has failed him and he will be there for me when I need him on the other side.  After all, that's what friends are for.
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But, please God, why does Richard have to suffer so much as his earthly count-down begins a few months shy of his 72nd birthday?  Is this the price we all have to pay for the the reward that awaits us in Heaven?  Why, God, is this happening to my friend?...Why did it happen to my wife Anne?  Why will it happen to me, as I am sure it will?
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Why?..Why?...Why?...Sometimes there are no answers to questions like this.  But we keep on hoping that someday there will be answers to the mystery of the life we live here on earth and why we have to exit so tired, so sick and so medicated, yet mercifully relieved in the end to be leaving behind all that we had worked for and all that we knew and loved.
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God be with you my very good friend.  I have to trust that He knows what He is doing.  Perhaps you already know and you can explain it to me someday.
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Be seeing you Richard...We'll talk again.  No more curves.  I promise!

YOUTHFUL POETS AND ACCOUNTABILITY

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Listen up old Dresden school chums!
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Do the names Bob Peters, Betty Wilmott, Alan Pegg, Donna Latimer, Sandra Cobbum, Sheila Raymond, Anne Stevens, Tiny Santing, Martha Deacon, Jack Skinner and Larry Gray mean anything to you? 
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Well, for one thing, the above-mentioned were all budding poets some 55 years ago.  To the best of my knowledge their creative efforts were only ever published once and in my ongoing preoccupation with nostalgia I have stumbled on them.
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For the next couple of weeks, starting Sept. 25, I will bring back to life some surprising scholarly renderings that are sure to spark fond memories for certain readers of Wrights Lane.  It should be fun!  The devil is making me do it.

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WE ALL HAVE 24-7 ACCOUNTABILITY
On an unrelated subject of "self-fulfillment", an interesting question was posed recently.
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"If you were to be followed by a camera crew 24 hours a day, seven days a week for the next 100 days, how would you conduct yourself?"
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Human nature being what it is, three things would undoubtedly happen.
...1) You would START doing things you say you should.
...2) You would STOP doing things you know you shouldn't.
...3) You would MAKE performance gains and change your life.
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This would all become "reality" through a self-imposed discipline of accountability which forces us to understand all unfinished goals, projects and relationships, and that's a good thing.  Accountability facilitates good character, credibility and lends itself to accomplishment in our lives.
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But in all of this, we often fail to realize that we do have 24-7 surveillance and it is not in the form of a camera crew artificially making us perfect the way we live...It is in the form of our Heavenly Creator who has laid out for us the only perfect blueprint for living. 
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It is every bit as important to know WHO we are accountable to as it is to know WHAT we are accountable for.

Photographs and paintings speak to us.  There is a story behind every one of them.  A number of years ago I painted a picture of my two daughters, Debbie and Cindy, splashing along the Lake Erie shoreline.  The water colour painting (above) was created from a black and white photograph that I had taken when the girls were about three and six years of age.  The photograph and the painting never fail to stir up emotions within me.  Now I have a new photograph that adds to those emotions and prompts me to ask: "Where did the years go?"  The new photo (below) was taken by my son-in-law Joe Rocha who just happened to catch his wife Cindy (the chubby toddler to the right in my painting), hand-in-hand with daughter Madison, 4, as they tested the water at Niagara-on-the-Lake recently.  There is a remarkable similarity here that only a parent and a grand parent can fully appreciate.

NEW SITE HONOURS DR. JACK RUTTLE

I am privileged and honoured to introduce a new site, "A Tribute to Doc Ruttle", as part of my ever-growing Dresden: Father and Son Turn Back the Clock web site.  This new feature is highlighted by a letter written to the University of Western Ontario Alumni Gazette in 1978 by Dr. Jack Ruttle a short time before bravely succumbing to a long struggle with cancer.  The letter summarizes Dr. Ruttle's 44-year career and is warm and informative.  It paints a picture of the life of a small town doctor during the period 1930 to 1974.  Dr. Ruttle was the father of my good friend Jim Ruttle for whom I created the site.  To view this tribute click http://atributetodocruttle.blogspot.com/

THAT WAS YESTERDAY, THIS IS TODAY...

The more I indulge in nostalgia, the more I have evidence that to varying degrees we all yearn for a sense of belonging.  For many of us, that longing is fulfilled by exploring our past and the role that family members and others have played in it.
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I have also noticed that people reflect on experiences of the past in two ways -- with  fondness or cynicism. The one is a positive way to look at situations and people while the other is a negative way to remember them.

I actually know people who seem to enjoy dwelling on negativity of the past -- little remembrances that cast aspersions. While it is most certainly a personality thing, I have never understood the mindset.  This particular trait is no doubt the result of a self-indulgent need to suppress personal insecurities by placing oneself in a superior, looking-down-the-nose position, which quite frankly annoys me.

There is no denying that there is negativity in the past, just as there is in the present.  People have done, and still do, funny odd things.  People had different degrees of intelligence in the past, just as they do today.  But, God bless them, they do not deserve to be desecrated in flippant reflections of years gone by. However, 'nuff said on that unpleasant subject.  Glad it's off my chest.
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As we get older we learn to be less affected by negative memories in order to maintain our sense of well being and I think that is a good thing -- a form of mellowing, if you will.  Heaven help me in particular if there is a hint of dementia here, however...Those things only happen to other people.  Right?  
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I tend to adopt the "that was yesterday, this is today" philosophy for the most part.  I find it healthier to let go of, rationalizing if necessary, the negative memories and to nurture the happier complimentary ones.  Albert Einstein was perhaps of the same mind when he uttered his famous quote: "There are two ways to live:  You can live as if nothing is a miracle; (or) you can live as if everything is a miracle."
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For me, life is a miracle.  Past or present, everything is to be celebrated.

FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL

Granddaughter Madison, 4, (right) hugs her "bestest" friend on their first day of school last week.  God bless them, guide them and protect them.  Life will never be the same.  Virtual babies today, big girls tomorrow. The world is their oyster.  Photo by Mom

KATHERINE IS TO "BLAME" FOR ME

Countless stories and reminiscences were exchanged at my book signing in Dresden on Saturday.  One of the best was provided by Katherine (McKay) Concannon.
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Katherine prefaced her story by saying that she was "responsible for my being born."  When someone makes a pronouncement of that kind you tend to sit up and take notice.
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Katherine's mother and father and my parents were good friends.  As she tells it, the McKay's visited my folks' home one evening, bringing along their recently-born little bundle of joy.  "The Wrights did not have a baby at the time and my mother laid me on their bed to bring them luck....Almost nine months to the day, Dick was born," Katherine stated with an impish smile of accomplishment on her face.  
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I know the long-forgotten story to be true because I remember my mother mentioning it to me at one point.  My mom and dad were childless for about five years before the old lay the baby on the bed trick worked its magic.
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Thank you for the story Katherine -- and for the role you played in my being born.

WE'RE NOT OLDER, WE'RE BETTER!

Special thanks to Wanda Pellerin for providing these photos and for her assistance in organizing Saturday's book signing.

BOOK SIGNING TURNOUT WAS GRATIFYING

This is the morning after a very long and wonderfully fulfilling day before and I am still basking in the marvel of it all.

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My book signing in Dresden was a huge success --beyond my fondest expectations.  In total, I signed 77 books in about 90 minutes time and the amazing thing is that I did not suffer the writing cramps that I had expected.  I am left with mixed feelings of joy and humility that so many people from my era in Dresden showed up for the event, many coming early and staying on just to chat.  At the same time I am just a little sad that I was not able to spend more time with each one individually and to say the things that one always seems to think of after the fact.

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In all sincerity, I love you all.  I would never have been so bold, or moved, to say that 55-60 years ago.
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There are those who maintain that you can never go back, but when you can turn back the clock and experience the emotions of yesteryear with fondness and respect and from the perspective of maturity, it is truly something special to take with you always.

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Contributing to the significance of the occasion were the friends I had never  met before who simply had an interest in things nostalgic and were interested in reading about my  memories of the period when I grew up in their town.  Having my eldest daughter, her partner and two grand daughters there to share the day with me, was also significant.  Heck, even the local media showed up.

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How lucky can one guy get?

My family, Alyssa, Darrell, Becky and Debbie enjoyed meeting Dresden friends. 

YOU CAN TAKE THE BOY OUT OF THE TOWN

...but you can't take the town out of the boy!
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The following is a story I wish I had remembered to include in my book, Dresden Life Remembered.  I get annoyed at myself when these types of items surface after the fact, but such is life in the world of someone with a memory like mine.
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THE MARTIN BOYS, Terry, Gerald, Lynn, Dennis and Arthur, were frequent visitors to the home of their grandparents who lived across the street from the Wrights on Sydenham Street in Dresden.  I played with Terry, Gerald and Lynn whenever they visited (Dennis and Arthur were latecomers to the family).
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One summer I was invited to attend a "threshing bee" at the Martin farm near Turnerville, about eight miles from Dresden.  Life on the farm was totally new to me and I was at first like a fish out of water.  For instance, how was I to know that a strange looking length of barbed wire that I unsuccessfully tried to circumvent, was actually an electric fence surrounding the cattle yard.  And no one thought to warn me about the hazards of disturbuting a hornets nest.


In my first 10 minutes at the farm I was sitting in Mrs. (Grace) Martin's kitchen cum emergency ward.  "You're really learning about the farm the hard way, aren't you Dick?" she chuckled as she dabbed a mixture of "laundry bluing" on the multiple hornet sting welts on my chest and arms.  "You're mother is going to think that you've been through the Boer War," she added as she removed the cap from a bottle of iodine which was destined for the scratches on my legs from the barbed wire.  One thing about the jolt of electricity that I received when I gripped the wire, was that it temporarily made me forget about the hornet stings. 


With the bluing and iodine working their wonder, I was soon joining the others on wagons in the field and actually sitting on the threshing machine itself, directing the shoot that fed grain into the barn.  A big deal for "a kid from town".


The thing that impressed me most about that day was the fact that a group of farmers from the area congregated at the Martin farm at sunrise to help with the threshing operation.  I was equally amazed at the virtual feast prepared by Mrs. Martin and several neighbour ladies for the hungry workers at noon -- roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, vegetables, all served in large help-yourself bowls, and the biggest slices of pie that I had ever seen.


The Martins' father, Jack, was a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy with a ruddy complexion and perpetual smile.  He was right up there on the father meter with my dad, Ken.  Of Irish heritage, Jack was a true sportsman in every sense of the word.  He loved soccer and was a pretty fair hockey goalie in his day, which explains his sons' subsequent lifetime involvement in community sports.  Father and several sons, in fact, are included in the Dresden Sports Hall of Fame.  Grandchildren carry on the sports legacy.

Always at home on the ice, the Martins formed a hockey team which took part in a number of games for charity.  From the left, Terry, Lynn, Jack, Dennis, Gerry; goaltender Arthur is kneeling in front.
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Jack was also instrumental in starting up a baseball team in Turnerville that would eventually see all five of his sons in the lineup.  One summer Dresden Midgets made the jaunt to Turnerville to take on the local nine in an exhibition game.  In lieu of a warm body to do the umpiring, good old Jack took on that job too.  I was the pitcher for Dresden in that game and at one point had occasion to dispute one of Jack's calls at the plate.
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"Oh, come on Dickie!" Jack responded, looking me squarely in the eye.  Something in the tone of his voice, and the almost disappointed look on his face, made me feel bad for having questioned his arbitrative judgement.  He had that way about him.
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Just a few more memories that linger in the mind of a kid from town.
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Special appreciation to Lynn Martin for providing the photo of his family's hockey team and another wonderful picture of his mom and dad on the occasion of their 50th wedding anniversary some years ago.

NO LOVE LIKE ENDURING LOVE

Where would we be without love to balance the scales of life? Think about that for a moment. Quite frankly, we would all go to hell in a hand basket.
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When we ignore or are indifferent to the needs of others, for instance, our hearts grow cold over time. Stone cold hearts lead to war and crime --inhumanity toward man. Bitterness. Those of us who were Boy Scouts and Girl Guides well remember the Promise that we repeated so many times in our youth: "...do a good turn for someone everyday." Thought guru Zig Ziggler gives it his twist: "Do something everyday for someone else that they could not do for themselves."
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When we capitalize on the everyday opportunities to express love to each other we cultivate a love that will endure, a love that will stand the test of time. Love that is an emotion only will never stand that test of time, as evidence marital relationships that turn sour because the partners lose sight of the need to nurture each other over the long haul. (1 John 3:18)
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In our lives today the pressures we face can, in themselves, wear us down. It is easy to start strong in our relationships but it takes strength, resolve and effort to counter the tendency to simply give up.
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We all, every one of us, need love. We cannot survive without it. When we capitalize on the little everyday opportunities to demonstrate love to each other, we cultivate a love that will endure -- a love that will "stand the test of time." We are talking here about love that is tangible, love that can be seen and felt. Love transformed into action.
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Others count on us, just as we count on them. We receive love by giving it!
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Love discarded is a tragic waste. Love kept alive is a blessing.
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For some reason I felt the impulse to offer that reinforcement today.

ORDERING...!

My girl Lucy loves Tim Horton's. Here she is ordering "two medium coffees with cream and one plain Tim Bit from the drive-thru menu. Guess who gets the Tim Bit!

"THERE'S A SUV IN YOUR LIVING ROOM"

My granddaughter Becky could not believe the text message she had just received: "Go home Becky. There's a black SUV in your living room! OMG.".
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Becky and her sister Alyssa were house-sitting for their vacationing aunt and uncle in nearby Bolton when the startling words appeared on her cell phone. The sender of the message was a next door neighbour friend from Brampton and, no, it was not an April fool's joke -- there really was a vehicle sitting in the living room of the house she shares with her sister, mom and two cats.

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The story is incredible. The impulse is to say "no way!"

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According to an eye witness who just happened to be working on his car in a next-door driveway, he was startled to see the black late-model SUV pick up speed as it rolled in reverse out of a driveway across the street. As the errant vehicle jumped the curb on the opposite side of the street, the witness said he could see that the door on the driver's side was swinging open and that there was a young person behind the wheel and another in the passenger's seat.

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With a split second to make a decision, the man jumped out of the way as the open door of the vehicle brushed past him. "My first impulse was to try to stop the car, but it was going too fast," he told a newspaper reporter at the scene.

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The vehicle glanced off the garage side of the neighbour's house, changed direction slightly and crashed through the front of my daughter Debbie's house as shown in the Brampton Guardian photo above. Emerging from the demolition were two very frightened young girls, approximately 12-years-of-age and, fortunately, unhurt.

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Information that was pieced together in subsequent investigation revealed that the girls were in the vehicle with the permission of the one's mother. Both mother and daughter were later charged by police.

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The resultant interior and exterior damage to my daughter's house (actually owned by her sister Cindy and brother-in-law Joe) was extensive. City engineers determined that structural repairs could be made but the contents of the living room and dining room were totally destroyed -- a chesterfield, chairs, tables, cabinets and a television all wiped out. Shattered glass was embedded in everything, including the floors, walls and ceiling which insurance adjusters ordered stripped and replaced.

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The front door of the house, which was not damaged in the crash, was nonetheless smashed in by police in their attempt to determine if anyone was hurt inside the home. (Debbie was at work in Richmond Hill at the time, so no one was home except the cats and they were okay.)

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"What are the odds?" you say. A nightmare!...What a terrible story!

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Well, the story does not end there.

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Out of necessity, Debbie took time off work several days later to make herself available to adjusters and repair people. With some errands to run, she was in her car at one point when "bang!", there was the sickening crunch of metal on metal. Another car had collided with the vehicle on which she had spent hundreds of dollars in repairs earlier that week. Miraculously, no one was hurt.

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Damage to both vehicles was extensive, however, and police were summoned. The driver of the other car, a young woman, sheepishly called the investigating police officer aside and admitted that she was driving her boy friend's car and that she did not have a valid driver's licence. Unbelievable! If that young woman ever does decide to conform to the law and get a driver's licence, good luck to her in applying for car insurance.

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As the damage to Debbie's vehicle was being surveyed, a tow truck driver was heard to comment: "You think this is bad? You should see what happened to a house in Brampton the other day."

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"Yeah, tell me about it...That was my house!" Debbie shouted. What are the odds?

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Some days -- scratch that -- some weeks, it doesn't pay to get out of bed in the mornings. It can be a crazy world out there, especially in the Toronto area where not everyone behind the steering wheel of a car has a driver's licence.

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In reminding her that things of this nature always seem to happen in three's, a sympathetic car mechanic friend offered Deb the words of comic strip character Elmer Fudd: "Be verwy, verwy careful!"

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Amen to that. Poor Deb!

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I'm afraid to answer the telephone anymore.

I LIKE BOLOGNA ON WHITE BREAD

Guess what I had for lunch today?...A nice fat bologna sandwich, that's what!
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You health nuts out there will no doubt take me to task for such an unhealthy food choice, what with processed meat being so bad for you, blah, blah. "Tell me you didn't have it on white bread," would be another response I would fully expect.
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"Of course I had it on white bread, with lots of butter too!" would be my honest and unashamed answer. I simply like bologna on white bread now and then, that's all there is to it.
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And, no, the Devil didn't make me do it today either...Actually it was singer-songwriter Alan Jackson who tempted me with that lunch time idea.
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That strange acknowledgement calls for an explanation. Right?
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Well, just before lunch I was listening to my favorite country music radio station when good ole boy Alan's latest song hit came on. In typical down-home style, Alan gave forth with exactly my own outlook on life as it exists today and reinforced it with an appreciation for things we take for granted, like my bologna sandwiches.
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I'll let Alan and his lyrics take it from here.
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There's satellite communications

Long distance Internet relations

The world's a little faster every day

I know it's all well and good

And I don't embrace it like I should

But I wouldn't wanna go backward even if I could.

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CHORUS

But I still like Bologna on white bread now and then

And the sound of a whippoorwill down a country road

The grass between my toes and the sunset sinking low

And a good woman's love to hold me close --

I like my 50-inch HD Plasma.

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Feels like they just reach out and grab

500 channels at my command

I finally gave in and got a cell phone

That I hardly ever seem to turn on

I guess I never have that much to say.

(Chorus)

I got a laptop that sits on a desk

I don't use it much except to check

Some ole car from yesterday I kinda like

That music thang, you just download 'em

And you can save about every song

That's ever been made.

(Chorus)

Well I guess what I've been trying to say

This digital world is really okay

It makes life better in a lot of ways

But it can't make the smell of spring

Or sunshine or lots of little things

We take for granted every day.

(Chorus)

Yeah, Bologna

A woman's love

And a good cell phone.

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Thanks for that Alan. I couldn't have writ it nor sung it any better! I relate totally...You stimulated my appetite and for that you deserve a "Blue Ribbon" -- no bologna!

WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO HAPPY MAIL?

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I was talking to a fellow in the post office the other day. We were both grumbling about the increasing number of bills that we receive and the fact that we just don't seem to get "happy" mail anymore.

People used to send out friendly greetings and letters and yes, we even got cheques in the mail. For crying out loud, I remember receiving pay cheques in the mail at one time and what a joy it was to open that envelope a couple of times a month. Pensioners, too, used to line up at the wickets at the end of each month to receive their regular government cheques. The post master was the most popular person in town on those days. Sadly, the inception of the direct deposit system at our banks has put an end to that kind of "happy" mail experience. Likewise, the Internet and email has changed the way we communicate with family and friends.

Now all we get in the mail are bills for hydro, heating, TV cable, credit card payments and municipal property taxes, to name but a few of the irritating reminders of our indebtedness for the necessities of life today. Then there are the flyers and direct advertising pieces in different forms that jams our mail boxes on a regular basis. I am convinced that the only person in the world that does not feel a degree of annoyance over the bulk advertising that we are exposed to these days, is my wife Rosanne. I swear, she never saw a flyer, a catalogue or any piece of advertising that she did not like.

Rosanne is the same with bills...She actually pays them before the due dates and is quite upset when she does not receive them in the mail well in advance. I have heard her actually squeal with glee when opening a long-awaited bill. Different strokes for different folks, I guess.

As for me, I'd never go to the post office again if I didn't have to pick up bills and advertising flyers for Rosanne.

A BOUQUET FOR MY READERS

Our summer weather this year has been spasmodic, to say the least, but flowers in our gardens seem to be flourishing. I share some of the July beauties from my garden with followers of Wrights Lane today. What a wonderful world we live in. The earth truly smiles through flowers.

ROSES FOR ME IN DECEMBER

If you ever wondered why I produce Wrights Lane, the following comment in response to my "One Couple's Journey With Cancer" site will answer that question. Certainly, for me, it makes everything worthwhile. I hope it is not construed as self-serving.

"Thank you for your bittersweet story of love, courage, devotion and endurance. I found this site quite by chance as my eyes captured the word "cancer".

"My 28-year-old daughter is fighting cancer too. She is married with two small babies and our faith in God is still moving mountains. I shall include you in my prayers. You and Anne had that once-in-a-lifetime kind of marriage. Such devotion; such love! I could almost feel it.

"May God continue to comfort and guide you. I read somewhere that 'God gave us memories so that we could have roses in December.' May you have roses in December. God less you..."

--Hevinlee Melton

Apropos the post below, I add "Hallelujah!"

Hevinlee herself has authored a book on child abuse and I will report more on that in Wrights Lane at a future date. Meantime, please join me in praying for her daughter and the two babies who need their young mother.

HALLELUJAH FOR OUR MERCIES

I received a message from a friend the other day. She was expressing delight in how things had developed in her life in the recent past and ended her update with the word "Hallelujah!"

Most of us know that Hallelujah means, "Praise ye the Lord"; and we all can thank God for the wonderful blessings in our life. But how few of us put a Hallelujah to the record of our common mercies!

It strikes me that it would be a good idea sometimes to analyse our pleasures and to seriously consider the state of our affections. What about asking this one question in the midst of every enjoyment: "Can I put up a hearty Hallelujah at the end of it?"

SUNSHINE MAKES US SMILE

"Heavenly sunshine, heavenly sunshine, filling my life with glory Divine..."

We are all lovers of sunshine. The eyes brighten while gazing at the natural beauty of a sunlit scene. That warm beam of heavenly light has penetrated our very heart and made us feel glad to be alive. I am looking forward to much more of it this summer if, in fact, summer-type weather comes to stay with us for more than a day or two at a time.

But you know, there is another kind of sunshine that we all love. Is there not someone in your life whose smile is a brighter and dearer sunbeam to you than the brightest ray that gladdens the earth on a summer's day? That would be the smile of some dear being whose every thought is blended with our own and without which this would be a very gloomy world indeed.

Some time ago I wrote a post in Wrights Lane about the merits of a smile and, not so coincidentally, I end my latest book on that very subject. Like sunshine, a smile truly brightens our day.

There is yet another kind of sunshine that is in store for us -- an eternal kind of sunshine that no night shall ever cover over. The last cloud in the valley of the shadow of death will break away before the dawning of eternal daylight, and everlasting sunshine, for every one of us. It has been expressly written, that: "There shall be no night there."

May the clouds and storms of this life, then, be borne with patient and joyful anticipation...And a "sunny" smile!

LOOK FOR THE FINGER-POST

A couple of items ago I tested readers' knowledge and memory of "whetstones". Time now for another test.

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What do you know about "finger-posts"?

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Well, I've given you another clue in the accompanying illustration.

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A finger-post is just that-- a post with a sign, often shaped like a pointing finger or hand, indicating a direction. We find records of finger-posts dating back to the 16th century.

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Some time ago, a fellow affectionately known as "Old Humphrey" (how old was he?..about as old as me!) was travelling in a strange neighbourhood when he came to a place in the road where it branched off in opposite directions. Humphrey immediately slowed down his vehicle, not knowing how to proceed.

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It was indeed a perplexing situation, because taking the wrong road would have caused Humphrey great inconvenience, and his gas gage was hovering on the empty mark. Suddenly he spotted a finger-post which at first glance had escaped his view. A closer look revealed the left arm of the post pointing towards two distant towns, neither of which he wanted to visit.
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Much to his dismay, the opposite arm had been broken off. Ever the optimist, Humphrey took heart in thinking to himself: "Well, now at least, I know very well the road I am not going to take."

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It is not uncommon for any of us to reach a fork in the road of life. Our built-in finger-posts more often than not point in two directions -- right and wrong. Sometimes, as in the Old Humphrey story, the "right" finger is broken off, but we know very well the road we should not take.

The decision on what direction we take is always ours to make. If we choose the wrong road we might not have enough gas to get back.

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Consider well the finger-post!

TRY A LITTLE KINDNESS!

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There are few hearts so hard, few spirits so churlish, as not to be affected by kindness. Think about it...a kind thought is influential, a kind word is encouraging, and a kind deed is at all times a blessing.

Many years ago, a man spoke a few kind words to a young woman who was in ill health. It was not an overly profound utterance, but as the years rolled along the woman never forgot the man's words. On her death bed, in fact, she expressed an earnest desire to see the man again if he was still alive.

The man was located and summoned directly. When he entered the hospital room, the woman wasted no time in explaining that the words he had spoken when she was unwell many years before had led her to believe that he would be willing to render another deed of kindness in her dying hour.

She said that something was laying heavily on her mind. It seems that she had for some time been at variance with a friend who had judged her unfairly and this had resulted in unresolved, hard feelings between the two. To forgive and be forgiven, and to die in peace with her estranged friend, was the desire of her soul.

The man said he would see what he could do to fulfill her wish and within hours he was able to entice the friend to the dying woman's hospital bed.

The two old friends wept, prayed and forgave each other. In a few days, with a mind impressed with a sense of abundant mercy, the woman died in the presence of her reconciled friend, calmly and confidently committing her spirit into the hands of her Redeemer.

This is a rather simple story about several acts of kindness that had a major impact on a sick woman's life. The sad part is that she waited until her last hours were numbered to resolve the issue that was so troubling to her. But how many a death has been rendered unhappy because a dispute and associated unkindness was left unresolved?

Perhaps we should take a review of our own past lives. It is never too late to atone for the manifold acts of unkindness that we might find there. We can obtain peace of mind and clarity with mankind if we are mindful of the amazing grace that pardons us.

A scripture passage comes to mind: "Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which spitefully use you and persecute you."

LET'S ALL USE A WHETSTONE IN LIFE

Okay young people, here's a question for you. What is a whetstone?

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Of course I gave you a clue by running the attached photo of two near 100-year-old whetstones used by my father to sharpen his barbering scissors and razors some 60 and 70 years ago. I'm not sure if many barbers sharpen their own tools today, straight razors being almost a thing of the past.

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Though it is sometimes mistaken as a reference to the water often used to lubricate such stones, the word "whetstone" is a compound word formed with the word "whet", which means to sharpen a blade, not the word "wet".

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Whetstones are almost as old as time itself. History tells us that ancient warriors of contending armies would retire to sharpen their swords for renewed combat, after they had blunted them so much in hewing down their enemies as to render them unserviceable. Large stones or boulders that show signs of wear on all sides, have been found close to battle grounds giving evidence of not just soldiers but whole communities shapening, or edging, tools there.

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Brutal hand-to-hand combat by sword was a terrible thing and one shutters to think or how those old warriors who lived in strife and contention would take such trouble to sharpen their swords in order to inflict human injury and death over and over again.

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I've been thinking about whetstones for some unknown reason and it occurs to me that metaphorically we should look more closely to our own sharpening devices where we may rub up and renew our affections toward others. Unlike those soldiers hundreds of years ago, we can "put an edge" to our zeal for life and sharpen our desires and convictions after every good word and deed.

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Is it too dull an idea to suggest that the old whetstone still has application in our lives today?

WE CAN ATTACH BROKEN THREADS

Consider this story from the imagination.

A little girl, about four years of age, came crying to her mother as if her heart was breaking. She had been sitting very quietly for some time on a little stool in her bedroom, sewing a piece of cloth from her doll kit for practice just as her mommy had shown her.

When her mother inquired about the cause of her distress, the small one reluctantly revealed that it was a broken thread. She seemed overwhelmed with the conviction that all her work was in vain.

"Did you think, sweetie, that I could not fasten it together again for you?" asked the mother, wiping the streaming tears from her daughter's flushed cheeks. "Yes," sobbed the child.

"Oh! but I can in a minute," replied the mother. "See, just like that!" she exclaimed with a few quick twists of the needle and thread.

When you stop to think about it, how often have we been like that little girl -- depressed at a particular twist of fate? How often have we poured out our grief with, as it were, a broken thread in our hand not considering how easy it would be to reattach it with a little faith and application -- how easy it would be, likewise, to ask our Heavenly creator to heal all the broken hearts of His children when they cry.

SNUB BEGAN A BEAUTIFUL RELATIONSHIP

KEN'S LETTER BROKE THE ICE

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One of my soon-to-be published books will be entitled Dresden Life Remembered. In putting this book together I keep coming up with little long-forgotten gems from the past.

I have written extensively about my mother and father and their love affair which began in their teens. This evening I came across an old weathered envelope bearing a two-cent stamp and postmarked July 3., 1918. It was addressed to Miss Grace Perry, Town (which meant it was mailed in Dresden for general delivery/pickup). Everybody knew everybody in town and street addresses were unnecessary, in fact houses were not even numbered in those days.

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The contents of the envelope are just too priceless to keep to myself. Or at least I think so anyway.

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The years were stripped away as I removed a neatly folded letter and immediately recognized my father Ken's hand writing. By means of introduction, I will simply reveal that my father was 19 years old at the time and my mother would have turned 16 within days of receiving the letter on or about July 4Th. Here are Ken's heart-wrenching words as only he could write them.

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Dresden, July 2nd./18

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Dear Friend:

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No doubt you will be somewhat surprised, perhaps annoyed, to hear from me.

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I think I understand thoroughly your wish. It is needless for me to state it, but that is not what I am writing about.

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I have spoken to you several times lately and you never let on you saw me. This leads me to think I must have done you some wrong and made you "sore" at me. I can't think what that might be as I did not do it intentionally. I am not trying to ignore (?) nor am I asking you to speak to me if you don't want to.

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What I do wish is that you would be kind enough to tell me what I have done. I really would like to know, perhaps just for curiosity sake.

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Hoping you will favour me with a reply.

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I am

your friend.

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K. Wright

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Note: I do not know how my mother responded, but she must have communicated favourably in one way or another. I am living proof of that. As it turned out, Grace and Ken never had any other boy friend or girl friend. Amazingly they had a very long courtship, marrying 15 years after my dad wrote his letter. I love sharing stories like this!