Had a great day - went out for a ride to look at the river....

This story/memory has a whole new meaning for me today. 

******
Just being outside made me and my two brothers giddy! The fresh warm spring air wafting over us, entering our lungs made us act like drunken sailors as we ran and ran, falling over ourselves with glee!
 
This was our first escape from being cooped up in the house all winter long! Now we could finally enjoy the wide-open prairie!
 
After we’d run ourselves to exhaustion, we just flopped ourselves onto our backs and lay there on the surprisingly warm dusty earth in the middle of the yard. It was pure joy just resting, chests heaving as we caught our breath.
 
As I was looking up into the beauty of the bright blue prairie sky, I could hear the staccato sound of our tractor in the distance.
 
Another sign of spring, Dad was back on the field. Evidence that the season of spring had really come and that the warm lazy days of summer were just around the corner!
 
In the midst of my dreaming, I noticed a change. “That tractor is getting louder!” I said, lifted my head wondering if I could see our green tractor, and sure enough I could just see the top of the machine from my grasshopper perspective coming onto the yard.
 
“Hey, let’s go see what Dad’s doing!” I suggested.
 
“Yea, let’s go!” my brother Walt responded jumping to his feet!
 
Leo my youngest brother joined Walt and me as we trotted towards the tractor now entering our yard.
 
As my father drove towards us, we stopped, waving and cheering. Dad slowed down to roll proudly past us waved and smiled broadly as if he were on parade.
 
Since Dad was going quite slowly, we noticed that the metal packer wheels bristling with metal extensions on the seeder, looked very much like car tires.
 
We always enjoyed playing with rubber tires…. rolling them around the yard seeing how fast we could go with them… racing them.
 
So, Walt and I started pushing these metal wheels hand over hand as if they were rubber tires!
 
Leo was pretty small and just ran along behind us.
 
“Come-on, let’s make them go faster” we yelled to each other pushing harder on the wheels – pretending we could make a difference.
​
Suddenly, something happened, Walt’s pants got hooked onto one of the wheels lugs, his leg started lifting up and down as the wheel rolled along.
 
Noticing this, I thought he could easily free himself, but he couldn’t. His pant leg was getting tighter and tighter, I tried to get a grip on him, scrabbling for anything… fumbling….
 
Next thing I knew, he had lost his footing and was on his back being dragged and then being lifted up onto the turning wheel!
I had a most crazy thought, “Walt’s going to die? – And I’m the older brother who had suggested this…stupid game!”
 
Now he was screaming at the top of his lungs!
 
I was screaming!
 
Then everything stopped!
 
Walt had landed on the other side of the packer wheels, his whole body except for his head had gone through the gap between the bar and the wheels! Now only his head was showing above the bar! One second longer and he would have been decapitated.
 
Dad appeared – shocked – surprised at finding us screaming for our lives. Apparently with the tractor engine going, he hadn’t heard us screaming at all.
​
He had actually just stopped at the pump to fill the tractor with gas.
 
Shakily, he untangled Walt. We were all trembling.
 
Mom hearing all the yelling and screaming came out of the house running!
 
That evening supper was very different, very quiet.
 
Dad explained that he was crossing the yard to begin seeding on another field and only at the last minute decided he should take some gas now to save a trip back later.
 
An unplanned stop that had saved my brother’s life in the nick of time. 
 
What if? What if? None of us dared to go there.... 
 
I realized a few things that day.
 
First, that it was important that you only roll rubber tires.
 
Secondly, that I did really love my brothers…(and one sister) ....a lot!
 
Thirdly, that as King Solomon observed, "there is  a time to live and a time to die.... "*

* Ecclesiastes 3

Feeling better. Looked chemo in its hollow eyes - and decided I didn't like it. Will withdraw from the treatment. I prefer to have my wits about me as I face this new challenge in my life.

Let the stories continue.....

*****


In high school, even the hard work and boredom of farming became tolerable because I could now step into the characters I was reading about.
 
I had a new escape, I had exchanged my sketching for reading.
 
The books that caught my imagination during this time were Moby-Dick by Herman Melville, Lord of the Flies by author William Golding, which confirmed for me the wicked potential of kids that I had experienced first hand, and my favorite The Deerslayer, by American novelist James Cooper.
 
Cooper’s book is an exciting story about the adventures of the woodsman known as Deerslayer and his Delaware Indian friend, Chingachgook. They meet at the lake to plot a rescue of a girl who has been abducted by the hostile Huron tribe. The novel presents the violence and unpredictability of life in a place where only a few hunters and hunting parties have ever set foot.
 
By Cooper’s descriptions of the pristine life of nature, I experienced a new appreciation for living out doors in our own nature – the farm. The bushes, the grasses, the dugouts and the buildings were a setting for many new imaginary adventures.
 
I tried replicating the skills of the hunters that I was reading about - moving through the bush without a sound!
 
In the morning I would get the cows for milking, sneaking up on them, circling downwind, approaching  on my belly to see how near I could get before they’d notice me. It also made my father a little impatient wondering why it took me so long to herd the cows to the barn.
 
The other story that influenced me a great deal was Moby Dick, the story of the monomaniacal Captain Ahab, who on a previous voyage had his leg bitten off by the white whale Moby Dick and in all subsequent voyages Ahab was obsessed with looking for revenge on the whale.
 
I didn’t have a whaling ship but I did have a stone boat, a low flat sleigh of boards nailed to two 4X4 beams underneath which were cut at an angle in front that acted like skies, sliding on the ground.
 
The primary use of the stone boat was to pick stones off the field. Being ground level the sleigh made stone picking a lot easier as we didn’t have to lift heavy stones very high to get them onto the stone-boat – we kind of just rolled them on. This was never a fun job – but something we did on those long summer days. Hard on the back!
 
The second purpose for a stone boat was to help with our regular Saturday chores of shoveling manure from the barn gutters.
 
We milked seven to ten the cows twice a day, which meant that every cow spent about 3 – 4 hours every day of the week leaving a pile of manure and pee in the barn that had to be cleaned out every weekend!
 
First of all we would shovel the manure into the wheelbarrow, (wow did it smell) then dumped the load onto the stone-boat.  Once the stone boat was loaded, we would hitch the horse to this stinky stone boat and she'd pull it to what we called the “manure pile” in the pasture, about 100 yards or so from the barn.  Perhaps I should call it a hill that grew sometimes as much as 25 – 35 feet high during the winter. During the summer it was used as fertilizer in our garden and so on.
 
When I became old enough to do this rather ugly, boring mundane weekend job on my own, I began to pretend. I now had a boat and a Moby Dick challenge.  
 
How high could I get the horse to pull that loaded stone boat up that hill?
 
Running alongside the stone-boat with long reins, I would encourage the horse to break into a run as we approached the incline of the hill.  She was great as she got into the spirit of it and worked her way up the hill, in the end her hooves digging into the relatively soft material till she came to a stop.
 
Since we would be doing several loads, I pretended it was a contest to see if we could always go a bit higher than the last time!
 
It was a weekend contest!
 
Then during our annual spring runoff pond behind the barn, I tried to turn the stone boat into a raft!
 
If I was careful, standing at the back area to balance the weight of the chain at the front and if I wore my rubber boots because it floated just at water level, I could pole it slowly around my imagined ocean pond.
 
Many an imaginary battle or journey was taken on this “whale boat!”
 
Eventually it was too cumbersome and not fast enough for me so I would tie barrels together and build my own raft. At least this raft floated on top of the water. However, sooner or later the barrels would come apart, and many experiments ended with me being dumped into my swampy lake. I was having to go in to change clothes many times to the annoyance of my patient mother!
 
But the ending of my story differed from the book. In the book when the white whale, Moby Dick, is finally sighted, Ahab's hatred robs him of all caution, and the whale drags Ahab to his death beneath the sea.
 
Perhaps its because I wasn’t motivated with revenge  or anger –  I was motivated.... I’m not sure I knew what I was struggling against.  What was my Moby Dyck?

All I knew was that I needed to keep struggling against the routine of farming, the deadness of the mindless chores - and keep my imagination alive.  

Hearing from old friends - just makes my day.  Cards, jokes, and those simple words of love and prayer continue to uphold me.

Oh yes - I also am grateful for a simple bowl of caramel pecan bits ice cream.

Life has taken on a new simplicity.... 

******
In high school I was finally able to exchange bullies for buddies – singing buddies in fact.
  
In our church, we had two block brothers – talented singers - and another enthusiastic leader who loved to sing -- and me.
 
Amazingly we had the four voices represented to form our own male quartet – a performing barbershop quartet in our own home church - with the usual parts; soprano, alto, tenor and base.  
 
Singing together was easy for us in fact often when we talked about our next performance, we would break out into song spontaneously and practice even on our telephone party line. It was amazing. I belonged.  
 
One of the favorite tenor songs.
      He's got the whole world in His hands…
      He's got the fish of the sea in His hands
      He's got the gamblin' man in His hands
      He's got the sinner man in His hands….
      He's got the little bitsy baby in His hands….
      He's got you and me, brother, in His hands
      He's got everybody here in His hands


Singing together we also hung out together.
 
I’ll never forget one beautiful spring day we went to eat lunch and study at the edge of the school property that ran along the Yellowhead highway through town. We’d often did this, sitting under the trees in the shade watching the action on the highway.
 
One of the things peculiar about our group was that one of our buddies just hated school and studying! One day he decided his Social Studies text book looked way to new! After all, we were getting to the end of the school year and it still looked new! This he decided had to be dealt with!
 
We all watched in surprise as he picked up his relatively unused large text book and marched purposely through the ditch to the edge of the highway. He stopped waiting for a gap in traffic and set the book down on pavement directly in the path of the passenger side tire a normal vehicle would take. He turned and darted back throwing himself onto the grass beside us, our eyes glued on the highway in great anticipation!
 
When the first car came, we were all yelling: “He’ll try and miss it! He’ll swerve. He’ll crash…” To our amazement the car swung to the side and missed the book.
 
“Wow that’s a lousy driver!” our disgruntled student yelled disappointed!
 
Another car approached and again it avoided the book! Now we were all into it, yelling, howling in laugher as we discussed the bad driving skills demonstrated on the road!
 
Then to our surprise a huge semi came into view! We all jumped to our feet, all of us so excited yammering at the same time! “Let’s see how good a driver he is!”
 
If we would have had time, I’m sure we’d have gambled on it, but here he came and we all froze staring at this sixteen-wheeler barreling down the road towards the tiny social studies book!
 
Above the increasing roar and rattle of the semi, all of a sudden, we heard a distinct series of three “slams” as the wheels flashed by us! The book opening and closing between each tire at high speed with the crushing weight of several thousand pounds!
 
We ran towards the road like yelling like banshees!
 
Our disgruntled student, darted onto the road and picked up what was now a rag of a book! In an instant this thing had aged 1000 years! We were gathered around him in the middle of the ditch, like scientists examining the Holy Grail! Wow had that book changed!
 
It had tire tracks all over it, including rubber stains! Its binding was very loose, so the book wasn’t a rectangle anymore! It opened easily and stayed open! It was an amazing accomplishment and our disgruntled student was thrilled.
 
His hatred for the subject had been as soothed to some degree. He was looking forward to carrying the book everywhere now knowing everyone would be so impressed with the amount of time he’d put into that subject!  Obviously, everyone would think this was his favorite class!  Bonus.
 
Was he ever going to look into that book again? Not a chance! Mission accomplished!

Apparently I'm dehydrated. I'm was admitted to Victoria General Hospital - spent the day being hydrated, drained of 1 3/4 litres, feeling lighter and feeling better - now home again.

But let the stories continue....

*****
The first time I got on that yellow school bus that stopped at the end of our long driveway, I felt as if I was stepping into another world – and I was ready for it.
 
Finally, I had finished elementary school and had graduated to grade nine, which meant attending  Borden High School, a 14 mile trip from the farm.  Because we were picking up students  all along the way, it took an hour to get there and back every day - a great party every day.  
 
It was a culture shock right from the start.
 
The first day our English teacher explained that a movie based on a Shakespearian  play was being shown in the Borden Theater downtown. Since this was the last day it was being shown, this was our only chance to see it. "Attending the show would be the first literature lesson," he explained excitedly.  Everyone was  elated.
 
I was in shock. I’d just been baptized that summer and in the process had agreed not to attend movies of any kind.
 
My mind was spinning! Meanwhile the very enthusiastic teacher was herding us out of the classroom, down the hall for a quick washroom break, and then into the bus already waiting for us outside. Even the introductions were going to happen later.

I was numb and speechless; stuck in a herd of people I could not escape without creating a huge scene.
 
Next thing I knew we were walking into the theater with the usual  flashing lights bordering bill board advertising. 
 
I was pushed here and there and into a seat!
 
I have to say I don’t remember much of the movie. I was very impressed with the huge movie screen, something I had never seen before, but my mind was numb, resisting it all, trying not to take it in. This was all wrong!  My inner voice was screaming. I had been taught this was sinful – and yet it didn’t feel that wrong.
 
I was still in shock when the movie was over, and I was shoved out of my seat like a puppet, just following the crowd. I had no idea what I’d just seen!
 
For the rest of the day, I couldn't believe that here all these good people had just participated in something I had been taught was so wrong – and yet now seemed so innocent. Guilt was pressing into my conscience! Yet even though I had been trying not to pay attention, I knew it was a good story. I was very confused. 
 
On the bus going home it occurred to me that possibly a movie depicting a school- worthy, literary story was not the same as attending a worldly movie!  After all the teacher was a professional.
 
In the days ahead, the teacher began to unpack the story we had seen in the theatre. The classroom discussions were invigorating and insightful. I loved the story, and my mind began to embrace a new understanding of the power of story.
 
Finally, I concluded that the church had miscalculated again and called something sinful that wasn’t. I knew my parents would never understand this, so I was glad that I’d decided not to talk about it when I got home.
 
Literature became my new secret pleasure, and I started to read.  
 
As I opened up to literature, I also grew in admiration of the English teacher who I considered a new safe mentor, Mr. Heinrichs. He seemed to notice me too.
 
The next story that caught my attention was Les Misérables, a historical novel by Victor Hugo. The novel contained various subplots, but the main thread is the story of ex-convict Jean Valjean who becomes a force for good in the world but cannot escape his criminal past. Loved it. After al it was a story of redemption ....
 
You can imagine my surprise when the school chose it as their annual drama production and then chose me to play the lead role of Jean Valjean.
 
Of course, there was another ethical dilemma when the lead character, Jean Valjean, needed to light up a cigarette - against another church rule. The crazy thing was that I had never smoked, nor intended to, yet under the direction of my teacher I was to pretend to light up and go through the motions.  It was called acting. With this kind of permission, I could step into character and love it.
 
I changed that year. I was no longer an artist – I was a performer.  And I had discovered a new freedom in story.

​Here let me just pause for a moment….

First of all, thank you for continuing to respond to my story. I am still receiving emails and comments, encouraging words, jokes and Bible verses. All are greatly appreciated.

Let me assure you that I am living off of your words right now – food has lost its appeal. I can't always respond to thank you -- but I am reading them and smiling.

I also want to reflect back on my early life. The years in elementary school were tough - but they were a preparation.
​
*****

Like many children, I was born into the wrong family as it were. I was an artist born to a farmer father and an insecure mother.

I had difficulty with the rote teaching/learning methods so dominant in the schools during those years. And trying to learn English at the same time. 

I also suffered Astigmatism – an eyesight problem, being short sighted with an inability to focus.

​I was a sensitive child born into what was then very much a macho culture – and yes – the pacifistic Mennonite culture can be a very dominating unforgiving culture. And I suffered the brunt end of an acute family dysfunction rivalry. 

I also had the responsibility of being the first born – having to deal with pioneering lifestyle. Imagine a seven-year-old riding two miles to school on a Clydesdale – alone - and expected to be in control of the huge horse.

It was no doubt a boot camp introduction to life.

But in hindsight, it served a purpose. I didn’t know it – but I was facing a future more challenging than most.

I would be facing an unforgiveable act of a stranger – and then on top of that - I was questioned.... not formally but I did have to take a lie detector test to validate my story. The suspicion crushed me. 

Every part of my identity would be attacked. So even though I still feel sorry for the little farm boy that had to endure all that…. I am grateful for the foundation it gave me to face my destiny.

Now onto the next section of my life... high school....
​

It has been a month now that I was diagnosed. What a month! Life can change drastically.  

This weekend we had a wonderful birthday party for Georgia, who turned seven years of age, and a zoom with my siblings... But I couldn't participate that way I would have liked to.  Sometimes I feel I am suffering a very serious flue - ongoing and relentless.

I think I might need to face some realities...pray for me.

In the meantime, I continue remembering....

​*****​
Being declined baptism was in some ways a public event. Since the school was so closely tied to the church, everyone seemed aware of it. 

It was as if my bully cousin was given a new license to pick on me –  except that now he had learned to do it sneakily. There were times when he would seem to come out of nowhere and would spook my horse. He would actually light a match - sparks flying - just close enough for her to see it. This usually happened just as I was mounting her. She would bolt out of the barn me hanging on for dear life  as she galloped out of control across the school yard. 

There was simply nothing more humiliating or embarrassing then to lose control of one's horse in public - and here I was streaking across the school yard like a mad man.

It could have destroyed me, all of it, but I must say that I had a very solid theology – a world view that helped me deal with it in a healthy way. Of course, I was troubled, angry sometimes, and discouraged, but I wasn't confused. I knew where I had come from and I knew where I was going.

First of all, I didn’t blame or direct my anger towards God. I was convinced that God was good and that he was all-powerful. As farmers we worked hand in hand with God, and I saw it all.

I saw the way my father maintained a bull to service our cows and the surrounding community herds. I saw the forceful, lustful breeding and then in spring the miracle of birth – calves being born, gently pulled from the mother’s womb and stand on their wobbly legs in a matter of minutes.

I saw the seeding of the fields of wheat and the harvesting every fall. I saw the flowers in my mother’s garden, unfolding in all of their splendor and buzzing with bees, all in perfect harmony. I saw that the natural baseline of all of life was good and solid - full or miracles.

In church I learned the Genesis story of origin how there was good and evil, and that mankind had chosen evil which now permeated everything. I was taught to honor the privilege of choice.

I saw the evil. I saw the groaning of nature, too much rain or too little. I saw the way my father had to shoot a coyote suffering from rabies that had found its way into our yard chasing all of us in doors. I saw the winter blizzards so fierce my father had to tie a rope to the barn and the house so he wouldn’t get lost in the white. All of life was a challenge.

From our Mennonite history, I learned that if you are a devote believer in God and try to live out his goodness,  you will inevitably be persecuted. I made the connection that my bully cousin was picking on me – not out of rejection of me personally - but because of the favor of God on my life. If I was to follow God, I could expect opposition.

I also learned from my Sunday School teacher the stories of the Bible. I especially identified with the biblical character of  John the Baptist, the strange man who lived in the wilderness, who had long hair,  ate locusts and honey in the desert. He appeared in his public ministry dressed in a tunic of camel’s hair and leather belt. I was sure that John the Baptist was an artist…… There was a place for originality.

I had also developed a healthy mistrust of authority, the Pharisees in life. the people who ruled without love. There was my grandfather and my father who thought that whipping me – essentially a good person – was going to improve me. I couldn’t forget the pastors who had condemned my art and yet our church used illustrated leaflet, hand-outs,  to tell and teach the Bible stories.

I could not accept the pronouncement that I wasn’t ready to be baptized whereas the others in my class were. I knew I was a child of God. God had shown himself to me in a very personal way.

I saw the beautiful spirit of submission and humility modelled in the Mennonite women  who were constantly being bullied by the men. I knew all about being bullied. My own mother never complained but found comfort in her garden when her husband was too demanding and the church culture so minimizing. They had the left door - the men had the right door.

I had become aware of the girls being bullied in school and identified with them, standing up for them. They responded to my concerns and clung to me too much for my comfort - and the fellows hated me for another reason.  I was not in position to advocate for them but I always sympathized.  I understood bullying. 

I had the good example of my Sunday School teacher who was a strong leader in the church, an athlete in life, who didn’t treat me different than the other boys.

The year of probation was difficult but I decided that it would be an opportunity to study the Bible for myself in a new way. The message that seemed to jump off the pages was the message of the power of forgiveness.

Some of it was relearning the story of Christ’s crucifixion on the cross – and the power of salvation. Some of it was adopting the forgiveness of the martyrs like Stephen in the Bible, the first apostle to be stoned to death for his faith. And of course our own Mennonite martyr Dirk Willems who saved his pursuer from drowning and paid with his own life.

During that year I needed to apply the power of forgiveness to find my way back to love and freedom.  It was a year well spent… lessons well learned.

A year later, the church accepted my application to be baptized. I finally belonged. I felt I had passed a huge, important test. 

I have good days and I have bad days. On the good days, I enjoy everything with a new intensity. On the bad days, I curl up and lose myself in soft  worship music. I also remember....

*****
​
When I was young, we prayed as a family one night per week, usually kneeling at our chairs. Every morning, my father read from a devotional book at our breakfast table.  We took our spiritual life seriously. 
 
We attended church regularly. I loved our church….I even loved the way we travelled to church.
 
During the summer months we went by family-sized buggy pulled by one of our horses. In winter we went with our larger “bunk” a sleigh completely closed in, covered with canvas which had a small wood stove in the front for warmth.
 
The sled  had four skis. The two in the back were fixed white the two in the front could turn. Inside there were benches on each side. When it was really cold, we’d all scrunch together on one of them, wrapping the buffalo robe over us. My father had also warmed larger stones which we could put under the rug on the floor to keep our feet warm. Meanwhile the little stove inside was also going, reflecting firelight shadows on the walls, warming up the bunk.
 
The bunk had a sliding window in front from which my father would drive the team of horses controlling them with reins that came into the bunk through a slit under the window front.
 
From outside we were quite a sight, steam from the horses and smoke from the wood stove smoke stack trailing behind as we travelled the two miles to our church.
 
At the church, there was a long narrow barn shelter painted red, with a roof and individual doors for each horse or team. Inside stall walls were half height so the heat of the horses combined kept them all warm. 
 
Once there, the yard was a huge social experience. The winter air filled with voices and laughter! Women pausing to talk as children ran about, the men unhitching their teams of horses and finding a stall for them. Then, everyone moving quickly towards the warmed-up church for the service.

Our church was painted white with a bold false front. There were two front doors; the right for the men, left for the women. The doors opened into a foyer with coat racks that led into the sanctuary filled with rows of wooden pews; the right for the men, left for the women.  It had a balcony in the back and a basic platform in the front. The left front ide was reserved for the choir, the right side for the piano and in the middle stood a large podium for the speaker. There were no pictures on the white walls, not even a simple cross.  It was a very plain building.
 
We would hold our Sunday School classes in the basement in little rooms curtained off from each other. I had this amazing Sunday school teacher, not sure he even noticed me but he was everything I admired. He was a community star athlete, baseball and hockey, plus he would just teach us the stories from the Bible with personal application that inspired us. 
 
I enjoyed the sermons as well. There were several unpaid lay pastors who took turns preaching. Each was unique, had their own style and method of teaching.  The lessons were from the Bible and illustrated with life examples. 
 
But my personal experience of God wasn't confined to my family or the church. 
 
I remember one profound moment. It was harvest time. We were combining and I was on the field as grain hauler waiting for my father's signal that the hopper was full.

Meanwhile, sitting in the truck, with the door open, relaxing while watching the northern lights, I began realizing they were coming alive , spreading from horizon to horizon, a boiling cauldron of color.

I slipped out of the truck and watched the colors whirl around the sky - mesmerized. They got lower and lower. I could hear the sizzle! They enveloped me from horizon to horizon all around me!
 
I became afraid - backed into the truck - overwhelmed with fear, and I began to pray to God to protect me! Was something threatening happening in the skies? 
 
Then I felt surrounded by a moving light, coming in closer and closer! I realized it was God! There was no need to be afraid… I was in the presence of love. I felt the shivers run through my body like never before. Transfixed.  

The combine's lights flashed, my father was signaling me and I had to return to earth. I had just encountered the power and beauty of God  - I would never be the same. 
 
It was around this time that a group of us boys, all the same age, were invited to join the church. I felt spiritually ready. Baptism was an unofficial Mennonite way of recognizing the “rite of passage” or a “coming of age” in which the young people in the church would attend classes that prepared them to be baptized as adults and become members of the church.

I’ll never forget the evening when we all gave our testimonies, our stories of salvation to the church. It was the practice of the church to vote whether to accept us or not. All of my companions received a resounding “yes” from the congregation. I received the only “no” without an explanation. 
 
The assumption was that I was too young and they told me to try again next year. I didn't believe them. I was approximately the same age as the others. It was a vote against me - I was somehow still tainted. 

It was a very long- quiet ride home.

I was so hurt... it took me a while to recover. Then  I resolved to spend the probation year becoming the best Christian ever - removing the taint from my life forever -  whatever it took. 
 

I'm not fond of nausea so it has been a hard week. But this evening I watched an old fashioned hockey game,  Laine was in town - and the Jets won on overtime.  Couldn't have asked for more... forgot about the cancer thing....  reminded me of the good old days.

*****

In 1956 the Saskatchewan government sent the power line through our community. Later, several men from the community came around and wired up our barn, house and summer kitchen for electric lights, switches and plugs.
 
It felt like we had arrived in the 20th century. Life would never be the same.
         
First of all, we had access to radio – and the community which always had been hockey fans were now fanatical about Hockey Night in Canada which was airing on Saturday nights. It was a family event. My younger brother took a shine to the play-by-play sports announcers adding his own interpretation into their real-time commentary.
 
As we listened, we would begin to warm the house for the Saturday evening bath time! My mother would pull out the round tin tub, fill it with warm water and we’d all have a bath! One after the other beginning with the youngest.
 
The water cooled as we went along. So, the idea was to get in, wash and get out as soon as possible. Then a new pitcher of hotter water would be added for the next victim. We needed warmth.
 
We had two large stoves. In our kitchen there was the wood stove on which my mother did all the cooking. Another wood stove located in the centre of our family room, which heated the rest of the house.

Since wood was our fuel for heat, this meant that during every summer we had to go out to our bushes and cut down trees, trim the branches and bring them to the farmyard. Here they were piled up into a huge pile.
 
Then in fall, we would take a day, invite our aunt and uncle, and we would have a work-day cutting wood for winter warmth for both of our houses.

To do this each log had to be cut into one-foot-long pieces by hand. With the advent of steam engines and tractors we connected a large round saw to the tractor 15 or so feet away with a belt. Once the blade was running, we would place the log on a table that tilted easily towards the whirring blade, and push the log against the blade, keeping the pressure on as the blade, sawdust blasting downward, dust ballooning into air the around us, slowly went through the log. Once that happened, we’d bring the table back, slide the log end a foot past the blade and repeat the process! It sounds dangerous, dusty and dirty, and it was, but it sped up the process incredibly!

The logs then needed to be split before feeding them into the stoves. Eventually that became one of my jobs where I would split these pieces of wood with an ax on a huge stump. Then load up my arm with as many pieces as possible and carry them through the spring-controlled fence gate and all the way to the porch of our house, where I’d dump them into the “wood-box” as needed every few days or so.

This warmth the wood provided was special and appreciated. You could see the fire burning through the vent controller, flickering onto the walls especially in the evenings.
 
All of this was great until we all grew up and certain bathers began to insist of privacy! My sister being four years younger than me began to find the public bathing a privacy issue.  Towels were held up for privacy! We were told to leave the room!
 
Then came the surprising solution! Electricity. Dad built another porch to the house and turned the former one into a laundry/bath room, so now my sister could have her bath in privacy. Us guys carried on in the kitchen for the time being.
 
Meanwhile my dad continued the renovations upstairs building three bedrooms, a small bathroom with a hook to hold it closed. Inside was an oval container with a wooden seat and lid, into which we put a five-gallon pail – inside plumbing.
 
On one hand there was advancement: on the other hand we were still a farm.
 
I remember when a calf was born outside in freezing temperatures and my father brought it into the house laying it on the floor at one end of the kitchen near the stove to warm up – all wrapped up in a blanket. That was amazing for us kids, as animals on the farm were not allowed in the house. Now we had one there for a day or so! Wow. And, thankfully it was amazing to see the calf revive and survive. 
​
It's amazing that we all revived every Saturday night and survived.

I think it is finally catching up with me.... feeling down.

*****
 
It was Sunday afternoon and I was sitting at my desk on the second floor by my bedroom window that overlooked the driveway, our garden and the fields beyond - happily doodling away.
 
Because my father was the Sunday School superintendent, he was in charge of the donations and kept an abundant supply of paper in the same drawer that he kept the heavy tin cans of pennies, nickels and dimes. He never denied me paper which I snuck upstairs to my room to learn how to draw. There was simply nothing better then spending a quiet Sunday afternoon drawing.
 
Suddenly I noticed a car driving very slowly onto our yard. We weren’t expecting company. The doors opened and shut.
 
I could hear them coming into the living room directly beneath me. There was no laughter. There wasn’t the usual chatter of guests, there were long silences in the conversation. This meant that my parents were nervous!
 
Now I was nervous! Who were these people?
 
I vaguely wondered if my mom would soon call me down stairs and get me to draw for so they’d have something to talk about.
 
I was often called upon to be their entertainment.
 
I actually looked forward to doing this for them because it was so fun seeing people’s amazement over anything I drew!
 
I listened in anticipation.
 
There it was.... downstairs I could hear my mom walking across the floor to the door that led upstairs. It opened. “Hey Clifford could you come down and do some drawings for our guests?”
 
“Coming Mom” I responded, jumping out of my chair and scrambling down the stairs as fast as I could! This is what I lived for – I would never have said “no” to this kind of thing.

I burst into the room in great excitement! The blackboard was already set up in the kitchen at the bottom of the stairs.
 
When they came out of the living room, I realized it was one of the pastor couples from our church!
 
Now it all made sense! These were serious scary people, no wonder there had been silences in their conversation!
 
As my parents pulled out chairs for them from our dinning room table, I could tell that there was tension! There was very little talking and no smiles anywhere!
 
It seemed to take forever for the four of them to get settled, everyone moving slowly and being so polite and stuff. This was not good! Something was up and I had no idea what it was!
 
Finally, when everyone was in their place, my mom suggested that I could start drawing whatever I wanted.
 
I slowly turned to the blackboard realizing no one had greeted me or introduced me! No one asked me about school like most adults did. Something was at stake. It was weird. Was it my fault? What had I done now?
 
I found myself wiping the blackboard with the rag one more time just to give myself time to think and relax worried that with this tension in the room I might start shaking too much to draw anything decently!  Drawing took concentration.
 
I chose to draw a cat. After I’d finished drawing, I turned around. No one said anything. I could see my mom was worried. She asked me to do one more, which I did, trying to relax and keep my hand steady as I drew one of our Clydesdale horses.
 
As I turned to face them again, I heard the pastor tell my parents that he was impressed with my drawings, that I had very “good hands!”
 
My rising relief was dashed when he looked at my parents and told them in no uncertain terms that if I continued drawing, I would lose my faith and my soul would be doomed to eternal damnation!
 
“Eternal damnation” I didn’t even really know what that meant but I knew it wasn’t good. What I heard in my own mind was that he didn’t ever want me to draw anything again! That my drawing was a dangerous thing!
 
As he continued to speak, my parents nodding, glued to his words, I slowly inched myself through the upstairs door and out of sight.
 
As I went up the stairs as silently as possible, I heard him suggesting that I should become a finish carpenter!
 
By now I was in tears. I stumbled into my room threw myself onto my bed, wrapped myself up in my blankets and wept unconsolably. Art was all I had; I had nothing else.
 
At this point in my life there was no separation of my image of God from that of the church. The underlying message was that God did not like what I as doing… my art was a sinful temptation not a gift.

It was only much later that I learned how the Mennonite leaders felt about art – and the use of imagination.
 
To them, “Art is dangerous, and Mennonites have always recognized that. It’s not only that it is unpredictable or uncontrollable. At a fundamental level, the act of creating can be an act of hubris, excessive pride or self-confidence, putting ourselves in competition with the One Creator God who can’t be defined or named, and who demands that we make for ourselves no “graven image or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth” (Exodus 20). This biblical reference warns against using any visible depictions of God and even against art itself. “Woe to him who strives with his maker,” says Isaiah 45.”*
 
My parents and I never talked about it again – and they never invited me back to the blackboard to entertain their friends. They were no longer proud of me.
 
In defense of my parents, after this proclamation, they never told me to stop drawing…. They discouraged me from drawing in my school scribbler or to be so open about it - but they never stopped me from drawing at home - they chose to ignore it.
 
Yet every Sunday morning, I saw the contradiction…. Every Sunday, during Sunday school we were told wonderful Bible stories and given leaflets after the lessons decorated with beautiful paintings portraying the biblical story we had just been taught. I  had taken them home as reference pictures – hoping some day to use my art in this way. That dream was dashed that day.
 
Frantically I looked for something else of value. Both of my parent admired, my Uncle Otto a dynamic wonderful speaker. Everyone admired him.
 
I decided to leave art behind
 
I decided to become an orator… a preacher, a pastor…anything but an artist.
 
*Mennonites and the Artistic Imagination Margaret Loewen Reimer-The Conrad Grebel Review 16, no. 3 (Fall 1998)
 

The first thing I noticed on the day after my chemo treatment was that I was feeling more normal - first time since the diagnosis.

II have more energy for the day.... so I will go to my happy place. I will revisit my memories... my stories.

******
Out on the bald prairie on a brightly moonlit night there's no sound more ominous than a coyote's howl, the moans of an owl, the scratch of scurrying ground hogs or the deep silence of the stars reaching out and touching the horizon.
 
The worst chore was having to get water after dark. We did have a yard- light near the house but it was limited to the front porch and did not light up to the barn located about 70 yards from the house, where the water pump was located.
 
For me stepping out of the ring of light was like stepping into another world teaming with phantom monsters.
 
I’d try all kinds of mental tricks to avoid thinking about them out there waiting for me, cranking up my courage to go the distance without losing my mind! Even if I started just walking, I’d end up breaking into a full panic run to just get it over with.
 
Coming back was even worse, you cannot out run a tiger nipping at your heels when you are carrying two heavy pails of water.
Sometimes I spilt quite a bit of water by the time I got back to the house!
 
But there was one summer night that stands out from all the others.
 I remember bringing in the water and pausing… standing in the complete darkness looking towards the south east direction, and it was as if I could see the Russians advancing.
 
I’m not sure how I even knew about the Russians at such young age…. Perhaps it was following my terrifying, charismatic grandfather and hearing him tell stories of the family escape from the first Russian revolution and discussing the ongoing threat of  the Cold War with my parents. I don’t remember the exact conversations, but became aware of the fear of Russians, probably through that amazing osmosis of a child listening to snippets of adult conversation.
 
This combined with my interest in the native American battles that I found described in our school library – Davy Crockett … the King of the Wild Frontier made the threat of war real. It could happen here on the prairie.
 
One particular night I could hear in the distance the rumbling of tanks, trucks and machinery. On the horizon of the flat prairie, I could see the flashes of gun fire, the occasional fire balls, and the bombs exploding. I heard the flight of rockets, the blasts, the sound of machine gun fire, and concussions, all of it very real. 
 
I tried to comfort myself by thinking that someone was defending us against the Russians, and the action would stay out there but I wasn’t convinced. The threat was real and seemed to be moving closer.
 
I went into the house, finished the evening shores, and then went to bed. The war continued in a nightmare. 
 
I was so visibly shaken the next morning, my mother noticed and asked me what was wrong. I told her about my fear that the Russians were coming. She assured me that the Russians weren’t coming but sensed an underlying fear. She asked me if I wanted to pray - and then invited me to pray with her. . 
 
I had prayed in church before but now being with her  - someone I trusted  - made it different somehow. I nodded. She led me through a simple child’s version of a salvation  prayer.

I felt relieve immediately but when I went out side to play - everything had changed. The grass was greener, the sky was bluer and the air was fresher.  I had stepped into a new world and a new life.  And that’s when I knew it was real… God was real. I had discovered something real. 

I had discovered an important reset button.