About three maybe four years ago, during a Bible study, we were given the task of writing our own psalm. Now, don't get me wrong I know I am not David, but this task seemed to come at a time when I needed it. We could write a psalm of praise, comfort, attributes, prayer the list goes on. We only took 10-15 minutes to write. I kind of like that way of writing because my brain gets out of my way, I have just enough time to write, kind of down and dirty. I can worry about grammar and syntax later, but for right now, for right here, on my blog I am writing the dirty first draft Psalm exactly how I wrote it then. Maybe I will tweak it later. The fear of over thinking almost always out weigh the spontaneity of pen to paper with no worries. So here is my Psalm of praise.,
Psalm 1
Your grace O Lord covers me
and warms me like a blanket
even when I am wandering
Intro the cold
Your hand O Lord guides me
in paths of truth
and brings me back
when I have strayed
Your Voice O Lord is the voice I hear
in times of need
in times of despair
and in times of great joy
Your face O Lord is the face I seek
for it is the light that brings shadows
and shade to my day
and sheds the dark and the fear
Amen
I have always felt that this "song", "poem" just sort of falls off like it isn't finished, but these things tend to work themselves out.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Just A Little Blast From The Past For You Thomas, On Your Birthday
I wrote this story in the winter of 1991. I wrote it for all the loggers in my life, my husband, my daddy (yes, I know he was technically a truck driver), my friends and for the men in our community who were losing their lively hood. For those who stood tall when faced with starting over because the only thing they had ever done was becoming a lost "art" and for their wives, mothers, sisters and lovers who started their day with a prayer of safety over their men and gratitude for the job that kept them afloat. This essay was written for a college writing class and a year later published in the college literary magazine. I am not sure if it was fate or just an over site in timing, but the woman who read before me shared a poem of loggers as the rapists and pillagers of the land and so, I will begin these words in print just as I spoke them that day: I am the daughter of a truck driver, a niece of a life long logger and now the wife of a logger and I have never know a group of people who love the land and its forest's more than those who spend their lives inside the forest and upon the land they so gratefully work.
Logging In The Basement
The mid-afternoon sun ripples the air waves as it rises from the pavement. Friday afternoons the logging crew finishes up the week at our home. Men with double identities, driving beat-up old pickup trucks will soon park to form a barrier between our sidewalk and the street. Tom, my husband, better known as Skippy to the guys, will be the first in line, pulling in right behind him will be Don, the Big Guy, he'll heft his 6'3" 320 pound frame from his pickup and his giant hands will brush the tangled mass of hair from his face and straighten the straggles from his wild man beard. Al and Brett, or Crazy Al and Bert, if you prefer, arrive together. At last the men are all here. They meet in our front yard, their faces dirty, their hands raw from the brush and the rigging lines and their shirts dripping with sweat. One might think they would be miserable, but they aren't. Quite the opposite, they are smiling and rejoicing, for it is Friday night and they are alive. They file through the door one by one, tip their hats to me, then descend the stairs to the basement, where a fresh keg of beer and frosty mugs await them.
Their voices gently float up the stairway along with the music they have chosen as a background to their conversation. After a long day in the brush, logging is the subject they speak. The language sounds foreign to an outsider like me. What does it mean to ground lead or side block? I don't know and perhaps I never will. To the loggers downstairs they share a common ground and a secret tongue. As the conversation continues, they'll go on logging and yarding invisible trees to the invisible landing that sits behind the bar in our basement. I think the landing must be plugged by now and if they aren't careful they may have to invite a truck driver over to help them make room for more.
As afternoon gives way to early evening, the cacophony from below no longer floats upward, but pounds its way up each and every step. The music is turned up louder to match the conversation and the stories are more detailed. The Big Guy tells about getting hit in the head with a log; so startled by the event, he couldn't figure out why he was suddenly prying his face out of the unforgiving mud that plagues most winter landings. Tom, Al and Brett have all heard this story before on previous Friday nights, but it still amazes them. They all know if it had been one of them they wouldn't be sitting at the bar telling the story. It's Don's stature that kept him alive. It's quiet for a moment and then the next story begins. "Texas Love Song," by Elton John, booms from the stereo and Don sings along.
"So it's Ki-i-yippie-yi-yi
You long hairs are sure gonna die,
Our American home was clean til you came,
And kids respected the Presidents name."
The hour grows later and the men are getting hungry. From my place in the kitchen I can still hear their stories. I understand how they get lost in the logging and lose track of time, so I'll call their worried families and let them know their men are all right. One of the guys will wonder up here soon to call home, but for now it is taken care of. Dinner is ready and as I descend the stairs for the first time tonight, I enter a new world. Aromas are thick in the air, earth, sweat, fresh cut trees, saw gas, wood chips, maybe there really is a landing down here. A round of thank yous from the men seated around the bar and I then return to the familiarity of our living room.
It's getting late now somewhere around midnight. Brett has left to find a date and Al has gone home to Cassie, his wife and Alison, his baby. Skippy and the Big Guy are the only ones left. The conversation is quieter now and more solemn the music still plays, but softly now. There is talk of the spotted owl and the future. It looks bleak for them and I wonder what will become of the men who log in our basement on Friday nights. Will they keep on working and yarding trees in the outdoors, or will they become true basement loggers, only yarding invisible trees to invisible landings.
I wrote this exactly as I did all those years ago. I had to fight the urge to change it, make it better somehow and then I decided it was how I thought of those nights and so it shall remain exactly the same except for one small thing,,, I dedicated this story to my Husband, my dad, but now I would like to add one more, To my sweet friend Cassie, I think of you often and the silly car rides to and from work. May the Lord wrap his arms around you Cass, and I hope that you will be part of my greeting committee when I enter Heaven. It was you who understood this crazy way of life and I would give anything to watch you laugh at me in the mornings while getting my three little girls ready for school and me ready for work. I was stressed, you were laughing. Thanks my friend for showing me how to laugh when the walls were caving in.
Logging In The Basement
The mid-afternoon sun ripples the air waves as it rises from the pavement. Friday afternoons the logging crew finishes up the week at our home. Men with double identities, driving beat-up old pickup trucks will soon park to form a barrier between our sidewalk and the street. Tom, my husband, better known as Skippy to the guys, will be the first in line, pulling in right behind him will be Don, the Big Guy, he'll heft his 6'3" 320 pound frame from his pickup and his giant hands will brush the tangled mass of hair from his face and straighten the straggles from his wild man beard. Al and Brett, or Crazy Al and Bert, if you prefer, arrive together. At last the men are all here. They meet in our front yard, their faces dirty, their hands raw from the brush and the rigging lines and their shirts dripping with sweat. One might think they would be miserable, but they aren't. Quite the opposite, they are smiling and rejoicing, for it is Friday night and they are alive. They file through the door one by one, tip their hats to me, then descend the stairs to the basement, where a fresh keg of beer and frosty mugs await them.
Their voices gently float up the stairway along with the music they have chosen as a background to their conversation. After a long day in the brush, logging is the subject they speak. The language sounds foreign to an outsider like me. What does it mean to ground lead or side block? I don't know and perhaps I never will. To the loggers downstairs they share a common ground and a secret tongue. As the conversation continues, they'll go on logging and yarding invisible trees to the invisible landing that sits behind the bar in our basement. I think the landing must be plugged by now and if they aren't careful they may have to invite a truck driver over to help them make room for more.
As afternoon gives way to early evening, the cacophony from below no longer floats upward, but pounds its way up each and every step. The music is turned up louder to match the conversation and the stories are more detailed. The Big Guy tells about getting hit in the head with a log; so startled by the event, he couldn't figure out why he was suddenly prying his face out of the unforgiving mud that plagues most winter landings. Tom, Al and Brett have all heard this story before on previous Friday nights, but it still amazes them. They all know if it had been one of them they wouldn't be sitting at the bar telling the story. It's Don's stature that kept him alive. It's quiet for a moment and then the next story begins. "Texas Love Song," by Elton John, booms from the stereo and Don sings along.
"So it's Ki-i-yippie-yi-yi
You long hairs are sure gonna die,
Our American home was clean til you came,
And kids respected the Presidents name."
The hour grows later and the men are getting hungry. From my place in the kitchen I can still hear their stories. I understand how they get lost in the logging and lose track of time, so I'll call their worried families and let them know their men are all right. One of the guys will wonder up here soon to call home, but for now it is taken care of. Dinner is ready and as I descend the stairs for the first time tonight, I enter a new world. Aromas are thick in the air, earth, sweat, fresh cut trees, saw gas, wood chips, maybe there really is a landing down here. A round of thank yous from the men seated around the bar and I then return to the familiarity of our living room.
It's getting late now somewhere around midnight. Brett has left to find a date and Al has gone home to Cassie, his wife and Alison, his baby. Skippy and the Big Guy are the only ones left. The conversation is quieter now and more solemn the music still plays, but softly now. There is talk of the spotted owl and the future. It looks bleak for them and I wonder what will become of the men who log in our basement on Friday nights. Will they keep on working and yarding trees in the outdoors, or will they become true basement loggers, only yarding invisible trees to invisible landings.
I wrote this exactly as I did all those years ago. I had to fight the urge to change it, make it better somehow and then I decided it was how I thought of those nights and so it shall remain exactly the same except for one small thing,,, I dedicated this story to my Husband, my dad, but now I would like to add one more, To my sweet friend Cassie, I think of you often and the silly car rides to and from work. May the Lord wrap his arms around you Cass, and I hope that you will be part of my greeting committee when I enter Heaven. It was you who understood this crazy way of life and I would give anything to watch you laugh at me in the mornings while getting my three little girls ready for school and me ready for work. I was stressed, you were laughing. Thanks my friend for showing me how to laugh when the walls were caving in.
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