When the Rubber Hits the Road

A man has made at least a start on discovering the meaning of human life when he plants shade trees under which he knows full well he will never sit. D. Elton Trueblood

The other day I was headed home from my weekly book study group. The streets were damp from a light drizzle that had recently fallen. I was driving uphill, so as I rounded a corner I added a smidge more gas with the accelerator and felt the tires spin. 

When I got home I walked around the truck and gave the tires a close inspection. They still had plenty of tread on them; I have really stopped doing much driving, what with retirement and the pandemic-induced home-body I’ve become. The problem wasn’t the quality or depth of the tread, so I had to delve deeper into the mystery of the spinning rubber.

Ah; rubber! I put my tactile sensors to work and, lo, there it was! The tires may not have had much wear, but they were getting a bit long in the tooth, so to speak. I felt around and discerned they had lost their elasticity. They’d become like old pencils whose erasers only smudge the marks one is trying to clean up or, worse yet, tear the paper when one rubs too hard.

The tread is willing, I mused, but the grip is weak.

With winter making its approach, I decided to run down to the local tire center and get some replacements. They cost more than I’d wanted to spend, of course, but the peace of mind that comes with a fraction more traction is priceless. 

The lobby was fairly still and subdued. A television was tuned to a sports channel. The volume was low, but the voices of the on-air opinionists would puncture the quiet every now and then as if screaming opinions would make them sound more believable. Fortunately, God blessed me with a capacity to tune out the pontification of pundits – it’s my superpower.

I scrolled through my phone to pass away the time as the waiting room had no magazines with which to thumb through. It may seem more sanitary that way, but I think customer sanity is being overlooked. Nevertheless, as I scrolled, a gentleman ambled up to where I was sitting and began to make small-talk.

For those who don’t know me, I confess I’ve never been good at small talk. Once I get past the current weather conditions, my quiver of conversational arrows is empty. I think social anxiety sends any freshly oxygenated blood straight from my head to my toes so that the relative vacuum that normally exists between my ears becomes super-charged, causing eyes, ears, and lips to close, and my soul to spin away into the remaining Twilight Zone of my existence.

Against that impulse for survival, however, I found myself looking into the gentleman’s eyes (for he was wearing a mask). It wasn’t chit-chat he was after. 

I closed the news app I’d been perusing and slipped my phone into my pocket. We continued to exchange a few pleasantries, and then the conversation went deeper. The details are unimportant, but I learned the gentleman lives alone. His wife is in memory care and he is approaching ninety. He wasn’t being gabby, it turns out; he was just thankful that his leaky tire had gotten him out of his empty house. He was hungry for company.

“Company.” The root of the word is “pan,” bread. In a world where pundits scream at one another, where politicians lie about one another, where people bury their noses in their phones and flip one another off on the road, my friend just hungered to make a connection that didn’t involve radio waves or electronic wizardry. 

As he got ready to leave (once the nail had been removed from his tire and patched “good as new”) we wished each other well. He had air in his tires and a spring in his step.

The problem with our world is that we spend too much time spinning our wheels.  My truck needed new tires; I needed a new attitude! A better attitude could help us get to where we’re going (and give us better traction, to boot) whenever the rubber hits the road here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

 

The Lady in the Ivy

 

Fears are educated into us, and can, if we wish, be educated out. Karl A. Menninger 

I was doing some yard work a couple of days ago and came across what, at first, appeared to be a crime scene. While I normally write in prose, I found the event inspired the flow of some poetic juices. Don’t worry; Emily Dickenson, Robert Frost, Carl Sandburg, Amanda Gorman need not fear my joining their august ranks anytime soon. I do hope you’ll enjoy it, though.

O lady in the ivy, 

Just who the heck are you? 

I found you as I trimmed the vines

Your visage shocked me, true.

I had no plans to find a thing

Beyond the tangled vines

So when I came across your face

I gained deep worry lines.

At first I thought I’d found a skull

You had a bony hue 

I pulled away more leaves of green

So I’d see more of you.

The paleness of the skull I viewed –

My eyes did pierce the screen –

Of foliage that once hid your face,

‘twas mostly still unseen.

I wondered ‘bout the grizzly end

That’d put you in my care

That I should find you in my yard

Beneath that ivy lair.

The spiders scurried to and fro,

I made my way to you,

My sheers drew closer to your scalp

O’er which the ivy grew.

With tenderness I pulled the vines

Which o’er your face had grown

I hoped that I would do no harm

To you who lay alone.

I said a prayer, so quick, so fast,

Your welfare my concern

That I could free your cold remains

And who you were, discern.

I plucked away the vines and twigs,

Your face came fully clear,

I fin’ly knew what I had found,

I found your smile so dear.

Once unearthed, you were in my grasp,

A treasure I had found;

You weren’t a skull at all, my dear

Discovered ‘neath that mound.

The woman ‘neath the canopy

Of ivy, leaves, and vines, 

Was nothing but a statue’s face,

Erasing worry lines.

I brought her out from her drear tomb,

Exposed her to the sun,

And told her now she’s free at last

The ivy battle: Done!

While Halloween is a few weeks off, I hope this puts you in the mood. This was a “fun find” and sent me in a direction I don’t normally go. It was a good reminder that things aren’t always what they seem; it is good to continue digging past our fears and accepting the answers we discover in the process here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Valley of the Shadow

NOTE: Every now and then during the month of October, I will be posting a very brief short story with a Halloween or Horror theme. If that’s not your cup of tea, please feel free to move along. 

Sergei was a man who feared no man. Neither did he fear wind, storm, or things that go bump in the night. He did not fear to walk through the valley of the shadow of death, either, for he knew he was the meanest SOB in that valley. So it came as something of a surprise when a lonely little lamb ambled up to him one day to bid him good morning.

Sergei was not accustomed to any person offering him greetings, let alone a fuzzy little lamb, so he stopped in his tracks, stared straight into the face of the wooly critter before him and asked, “What the heck do YOU want?” His response was more of a sneer than a question, but the lamb took no notice of that and answered, “Nothing more than to offer you a good day, my brother.”

Sergei was an only child. He had no brothers or sisters, cousins, or kin of any sort, so he prepared to bite off the head of the wee one who dared speak to him as he made his way through the dark valley upon which he was stomping. Before he took his first bite, though, the lamb spoke one more time, with timorous voice, “If you would let me pass, dear sir, I will grant you one wish, after which you may do with me what you will.”

“I wish you would fill my tummy with your delicious self,” howled Sergei with delight. “I have outsmarted you, you scrawny white Brillo pad!”

“As you wish,” replied the lamb, upon which time she blinked three times and -- poof -- transported herself immediately into Sergei’s belly, whereupon she began to feast on him from the inside out!

It appears the lamb had pulled the wool over Sergei’s eyes! Bwah ha ha!!! 

The HEADSTONE

NOTE: Every now and then during the month of October, I will be posting a very brief short story with a Halloween or Horror theme. If that’s not your cup of tea, please feel free to move along.  

Francois was walking through the cemetery one fine day when he heard a voice call his name. He looked around, but no one was there. “Francois!” He heard his name again and realized that not only was it a voice he did not recognize, but a voice that sounded dark, damp, and earthy. “Yes,” he answered, somewhat nervously.

He pondered his situation. He came through the cemetery quite often, but he was a careful lad, and thoughtful. He treated every grave with respect. He crossed himself upon entering and leaving. He stayed on the pathways between all the graves, headstones, and vaults. So why would the spirits or ghosts speak to him -- if that is who or what he was hearing?

The voice rose up once again from beneath his feet, answering the ruminations of his mind. “The grounds upon which you tread are holy grounds. The day is coming when you will join your neighbors here, but do not fret. It was through an act of love you came into being. It is to love, you are here. It will be Love who calls you home.”

“I thank you for your wise counsel, but who are you?” asked Francois.

The voice answered:

“I’m the One in charge here, of course. I am called ‘The Head Stone.’ Duh!”

Note: Photograph: Lyman Cemetery (Lyman, WA)

FRIGHT TIMES

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Every now and then during October, I will write a very brief short story with a Halloween or Horror theme. If that’s not your cup of tea, please feel free to move along. Each story may be illustrated, but I won’t post any blood or gore. After all, this is a Blog, and that is scary enough.

George was a hard-working barista for a local drive-through coffee specialty shop. He had to arrive at least an hour before opening time to prepare the beans, creams, and cups for the customers who would always begin arriving (impatiently) at least ten minutes before it was time to open. George didn’t care. When they pulled up to the window, he was ready for them, even if they were early.

On this day, however, George was not prepared for his first customer. “May I have your order,” he asked with his usual chirpy ‘tude. That changed when he noted his first customer was an empty black robe with hood, no face, and carrying a scythe. “Yes,” answered the robed figure in a deep, quiet baritone. “Two large, hot, black coffees. Plain.” George said nothing, just nodded.

He poured two quick cups of the hottest, freshest, blackest coffee available in his little shop. “Two fresh hot Grandes,” he said, as he handed them to the black robed customer. George looked several times into the black-as-coal Cadillac idling beside the service window, but there wasn’t anyone beside the hooded driver. George should have known better, but he couldn’t help asking, “Um, who is the second cup for?”

For a moment, George thought he could catch a glimpse of crimson fire where the hooded figures eyes should be, and beyond that, perhaps even a whiff of burning brimstone or Sulphur. The ghoul answered, quietly, “It’s for you!”

George quivered where he stood, and a deep, dark belly-laugh roared forth from the creature’s mouth, after which he added, “Master says I cannot come home without either a cup of fresh coffee or your soul, so I got the second cup for your sake; its for you! Have a nice day.”

The END