Ira looking wise and thoughtful. I like this picture so much that
I’m considering it as a permenant heading for each blog.
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As a child growing up in southern Ontario, I remember watching fireworks every year on Victoria Day, which is on a Monday, prior to May 25th. Of course, “watching fireworks” is a relative term. We watched from our house roof as the celebration unfolded in the town of Aylmer, 6 miles directly to the west. Usually right after the sun had set, while the horizon of the sky was still dull with its glow, the first little orange ball would pop up and explode. Followed by the spectrum of greens, reds and every imaginable shade in between.

It was a memorable, not like Christmas or your birthday, but memorable, event. A day or two before, one of us boys would happen to see on the calendar that Victoria Day was coming up. Oh, yeah, fire works. As the day ended, we would drag blankets out an upstairs window onto the east porch roof, then hop up to the low-pitched roof of the new section of the house that my father built after the family arrived in Canada in 1953. We’d lie there with our heads propped on our elbows in anticipation. From our vantage point, the little fireballs we cheered and “awwwed” at were about the size of a man’s fist. But it was all we had and it was fun.

Years later, in the late 80s, I saw my first real fire works up close. My brother Nate and I were traveling, through Missouri somewhere, as I recall. I was in one of my last “Amish” stages, so Nate, poor guy, was doing all the driving. We were passing some small town around sunset, when we heard thunder. Which was strange, because the skies were clear. The highway curved around and suddenly before us erupted a massive explosion of fiery splendor. Fireworks. We gasped. Nate stopped and parked the car beside the highway. Other drivers did the same. And we sat on the car hood and watched the show. I was awestruck. These things were massive and LOUD. In a Eureka moment, it clicked in my mind for the first time that the tiny fireworks we had always watched in Aylmer so many years ago were actually similar in size to those exploding before us.

Since then, I have watched fireworks up close a number of times, but don’t usually go to such events because of the crowds. It’s always a mess getting out. But for those of you who did, I hope you enjoyed them this year.

For the first time ever this Independence Day, I watched the Nathan’s Hot Dog eating contest in New York City. It was a midday ESPN event. (Yeah, yeah, I was bored and the weather wasn’t very nice, so save it.) Japanese champion Takeru Kobayoshi, who had won the contest for the last six years straight, was defeated by American Joey Chestnut. Mr. Chestnut ate a new world record 66 hot dogs and buns in 12 minutes and brought the championship belt home to the cheers of the roaring crowd. Mr. Kobayoshi ate only 63. Why those guys didn’t explode on the spot is beyond me. The whole thing was surreal and simply unfathomable. And pretty silly, actually.
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And now, as Paul Harvey says, Page Two. A few words about this site. First, I apologize to all readers for the deterioration of civility and respect in some comments posted during the last two weeks. In the heat of the moment, things were said that should not have been. Including some comments from me. They remain posted. To date, I have been very hesitant to interfere with a blog’s natural flow. However, as the editor, it is my responsibility to lay out some clear ground rules. I have not done that, so the blame for any confusion is mine.

The (new) rules are as follows: Anyone is welcome to comment. Anyone can disagree (and is encouraged to do so, if legit. But don’t disagree just to be contrary.) with anything I write or with anything anyone else posts. But one rule will be stringently enforced in the future. You MUST remain courteous. Write what you want, but write it like you have debated before. Be a gentleman. Or a lady. You can attack IDEAS and trash them all you want. Or a sports team. Or the kind of truck I drive (Personally, I think Fords suck). And so forth. Of course, all politicians, past and present, are fair game for your best shots.

But if you trash the one you are addressing, what kind of response are you realistically expecting? Consider that for a moment. (Oh, yes. Sorry. I am dumb, stupid, and can’t think through or process anything for myself. Thanks for pointing that out to me on this public forum. I now see it your way.) Come on. We’re all intelligent adults here. If you are serious about getting your point across, act like it. Personal, demeaning attacks (as defined by me) will be deleted from now on. And if anyone persists in such behavior, that person will be asked to cease participating in the conversation (On this site, consider me a Benevolent Dictator). Finally, the person you are addressing or challenging has no obligation whatsoever to respond.

The issue of race triggered the decline of civility. About that I have a few words as well. I know what prejudice is. I grew up in an Amish family during the 60s and 70s (before the Amish became media darlings). Because we dressed so differently, we were stared at in almost every public place we went. Some of those stares were hostile. At the local sale barn one night, when I was about 12, a young townie tough guy kicked me right in my you-know-whats for no reason, other than I was a little Amish kid. Right in front of his giggling girlfriend. I never told a soul. As a teenager and later as an adult, I was cursed publicly because my people don’t fight in wars. And more than once, while driving my horse and buggy along the highway after dark, redneck thugs hollered and cursed as they roared by in their pickups. Once, they threw a glass beer bottle, which shattered right under my horse’s hooves (fortunately, he was not injured). There were many other instances; these are only some that quickly come to mind. Granted, it was cultural, not racial prejudice/intimidation. But it was real enough, and I accepted it as just a part of life. And life is not fair. (As a side note, years ago I did try to use my status as a minority of one to get into Harvard and Yale. They didn’t bite. Their loss.)

In the current atmosphere surrounding racial dialogue, I particularly despise “shibboleth” tests of any kind. I will not engage in such. Because it is never enough. Not for those demanding proof. And certainly not for those who desperately try to prove they are not racist. You can’t disprove a negative (When did you stop beating your wife?). So I just won’t go there. If that’s a problem, that’s too bad. I also believe that anyone who claims to be totally prejudice-free is either sadly misguided or a blatant liar. We all have it somewhere, deep down or not so deep, against something, somebody or some group, because that is the natural condition of the human heart.

In my opinion (and it’s just my opinion, so restrain yourselves before attacking), Christians and Rednecks bear the brunt of more prejudice than any other two groups in America right now. Once the suicide bombs start in this country (and they will), it will be Muslims, and naturally so. In some circles, the fact that I am white makes me de facto prejudiced. And racist. That’s where we are, and that’s the way it is, as I see it. Of course, I would give up my viewpoint for a better one convincingly presented (as the Amish preachers always said when closing their sermons, but didn’t mean).

I try to respect every person until or unless that person shows he doesn’t deserve it. That’s pretty basic, but it works for me. True respect takes care of every other issue, including the current much-hyped sensitivity we are all supposed to have. For the more detailed debates, I defer to Fred the Curmudgeon. He has a lot of columns archived on his site. Some of them address race and racial issues. I haven’t read a single one that doesn’t make a lot of sense.

This has been a strange week. Melancholy is the best word to describe it. Not overly depressing, not deeply sad, just melancholy.

“All changes……have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.”
—Anatole France

And how was your week?

YOU ARE WELCOME TO POST A COMMENT ON THE LINK ON THIS PAGE ONLY.

“But some prayers are hard to pray.
Well, some things, it’s hard to say.”
—Country music band Sawyer Brown, “Hard to Say”
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ADVICE
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Since this site was launched in April, there has been no shortage of advice, both solicited and unsolicited, mostly the latter. I appreciate all who take time from their busy daily schedules to spend a few minutes reading what I write. I respect those who comment publicly on the Comment section, even when they are critical or, as happens occasionally, overly belligerant or just flat out wacky. However, as the result of some recent emails sent to me privately (which is also OK), I think it’s time to do a bit of housekeeping.

One such email suggested (among other points, some of which were postive and very complimentary) that I cease wailing so much about the wasteland and try to be a bit more upbeat. “……Most people don’t usually want to hear how bad things are……Any Amish kid can get up in the morning and be depressed……It takes much more to be upbeat in the face of a desolate landscape,” said the writer. Well, maybe. And any Amish kid can whistle past the graveyard with all the syrupy, upbeat Sunday School mush and goo in the world and fool no one, too. (Now let’s all turn to page 112 in our text, where we notice that we should all be thankful for our blessings every day and smile even when we don’t feel like it. And tell everyone you meet today to have a nice day.) Spare me.

A basic reminder is in order. This site is a place for me to write. About who I am, where I am, what I think, and the world around me. And what I am experiencing. Whether it’s slogging through the wasteland. Or sailing under clear blue skies. Or anywhere in between. I never know what the subject matter will be from one week to the next. In retrospect, some of the content in my earlier blogs now seems rather naive and silly. But I wrote it. The blogs will remain archived. They are what they are. And I will continue to write. I probably take it a little too seriously sometimes. Occasionally, some of you do too.

The “Wasteland” essay was different, out there, with several dimensions of meaning. It was what I felt. Some may have concluded that I’d lost it. Maybe I had, there for a moment. But it reflected where I was (and still am, mostly), and I couldn’t have written anything else. An upbeat essay that week would have been as fraudulent and disingenuous as a Democrat politician claiming he likes tax cuts.

As I’ve said many times, I appreciate every hit on this site. Everyone is welcome. Well, almost everyone. But if you don’t like what I write, or my style of writing, there are 50 million other sites. Use your mouse. Go check them out. Meanwhile, I’ll keep plugging along here. I hope you will too.
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RAGE
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“Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, but give it way a while and let it waste.”
—William Shakespeare

It was simmering the weekend my parents were here. It had nothing to do with them, so I held it in. Last week’s blog was all about them and Dad’s return to Sidling Hill, and I tried hard not to let the narrative get corrupted by my other emotions. It erupted after they left. Rage. Full blown, black, brutal, cursing rage. Rage so deep it shocked me. It coursed through my veins, flowed through my system like a choking poisonous bile, it clouded my mind, upset my balance, it made me question the very foundation of my philosophy of life, it ripped to shreds the fabric of my existence (what little remained), it left me weakened and sputtering, sleepless and haggard. I had an almost overwhelming urge to smash and destroy, consequences be da***d.

I fumed and cursed to Patrick, my new boss (and now finally, thankfully, new owner at Graber Supply). I called a close friend or two. I had lunch with a pastor friend.

“Where do I go with it?” I asked the pastor after my five-minute opening tirade.

“You have to give it to God,” he said. I rolled my eyes. Spare me again. He hastily continued. “That sounds trite and simplistic, I know, but it’s the only way. You’ve got to. Verbally. Force yourself, even if you think it won’t do a bit of good. Verbalize it. And keep on doing it until He takes it from you.”

He paid for the lunch. So I figured the least I could do was follow his advice.

So I have. I’m still at it. The rage is still rolling and bubbling and pitching around down deep inside. But without hate. The Lord will take it. Over time. I hope.

I have a new favorite Bible verse: “…… avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” Rom. 12:19. There’s a whole lotta prayin’ going on reminding God of the promise in this verse. And will be for a long, long time.
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UPBEAT THINGS
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“There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning.”
—Louis L’Amour

On Saturday afternoon (6/23), Patrick and I headed down to the Christiana Mall in Wilmington and I purchased something I’ve long coveted, a laptop computer. Not just any laptop, but an Apple MacBook. Patrick, a confirmed Apple aficionado, bought one a few months ago and kept amazing me at the office with the little computer’s capabilities. Now I have my own. I’m very excited about it. It even has a little camera mounted on the front when opened. The picture of me at the beginning of this blog was one of the first I took with it. The picture was taken in the “drawing” (it looks like it’s drawn) mode, and the camera has many more such options. Now I can blog from anywhere, anytime, when traveling. And work on that elusive novel.

Me and my new MacBook

I am becoming moderately concerned about my Braves. They seem to be puttering around with little clear direction or focus. And the lowly Phillies have now crept up and passed them. Or, more accurately, they are seesawing back and forth in the standings. Shocking, embarrassing and completely unacceptable. One small solace I have is that the Yankees (yes, I must say this.) are slobbering around aimlessly as well. I saw recently that pitcher Roger Clemens’ record was 1-3. That means the Yankees paid about $4 million (his pay is just under $1 million PER GAME) to one man for one win. It can’t get much more satisfying than that.

At peace on the Tucquan Trail

Last Sunday I attended “church” on the hiking trail again. It’s been more than a month, and I needed to clear my head and think through some things. The Tucquan Trail always has an amazingly calming effect on me, and I ambled along, taking my time and a few pictures. As usual, by the time I circled around and approached the starting point, the Trail was being overrun by couples, children and dogs.

On the Trail

Old Stone Chimney along the Trail

After the hike, I stopped by at Steves for lunch. My nephew Gideon Yutzy (son of Alvin and Naomi) from MO was there as well. He was in the area a few days before heading to Granada for five weeks on a group mission trip. His brother Jason Yutzy and wife from MN were planning to be around too, but I guess someone’s good ol’ VW quit chuggin’ away at 30+ mpg and they could not make it. So we can all notice from this lesson on page 3 of our text that owning a car with the highest mpg in the world won’t do a bit of good if the vehicle won’t run.

WE WELCOME NEW LIFE……..

Hunter Eugene Miller, son of Lowell and Dorothy (my niece) Miller, Kalona, IA.
Born June 9, 2007. Ray and Maggie Marner are the proud grandparents.

AND SAY GOOD-BYE……
Bishop Henry J. Hochstetler of Bloomfield, Iowa, passed away early in the morning of June 28, 2007. He was 67 years old. Henry had been afflicted with incurable bone cancer for about a year. He refused treatment and prepared to die. I visited him briefly in January when we were in the area to see my parents. At that time, he was a shell of his former self, but still recognizable. He was glad to see me and said the Waglers from all over the country have been well represented in visiting him.

Henry baptized me in the fall of 1982 or 1983; I can’t quite remember the exact year. He was widely known throughout the region for the rhythmic, almost rollicking, flow of his sermons and formal church prayers. I can close my eyes and still hear him quoting one of his favorite Scripture verses in German, his calm rhythmic voice rippling over the congregation like a gentle wave:

He has showed you, O man, what is good.
And what does the LORD require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
and to walk humbly with your God.
—Micah: Chapter 6, verse 8

To me, that verse defines his legacy. He was a kindly man with common human flaws. May he rest in peace.

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