My Cup Runneth Over (Musings of an Unspecialized Generalist)

Singing the song Ancient Words, “long preserved for our walk in this world...,” in worship this morning excited something I have had rumbling around in my mind for  weeks, or maybe even years. Then, going to Applebee's for lunch, and hearing the host say,   “Here's your guys's menus.” and, being addressed or referred to as “guys” every time the waitress came to check on us, ignited a sleeping volcano in my mind. A line from Poe’s The Cask of Amontillado came to mind--“The Thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as best I could, but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge.” Yes, I gave our waitress a fair tip; she had served us well. She, along with the host, had also inspired resolve within me to put the random rumblings of my mind into written form--thus, this blog; and I foist it upon my friends. When I was a high school English teacher, I would often dismiss my classes with the admonition “Watch your language.” Yes, it was a double entendre. I wa...

 My friend the artist,  Bear Claw Jack, gave me an unusual piece of a tree--an American Elm burl. Jack usually transforms such pieces into turtles, but this one was for me. (I promised him a pen from it, but that wasn't part of his giving it to me.) I have long admired burls on trees; there is a huge one on a tree on Jefferson Road that I have ogled for many years, but I have never had one. I have seen many beautiful things made from burls; but now I could make some really unusual pen bodies and who knows, maybe something else. I felt like a desecrator when I put this treasure on my table saw to cut right through its center; but I did it anyway. I had never seen anything quite like these segments of the heart of the burl. I then sawed some ¾ inch pieces to turn into pen bodies.The next step, drilling and gluing in the tubes completed, I turned one piece down on my lathe and the result was amazing. The beautifully unique was now the uniquely beautiful. I pressed the...

When I was around 30, I saw an ad in a magazine for a musical saw. I remembered “Uncle Bob,” who, when I was a kid, came to our church every once in a while and played his saw. I ordered the advertised saw thinking, “I’ll bet I could make music on one of those.” The saw arrived in a couple weeks, and in about 15 minutes after  unwrapping it, I was making some screechy music. It didn't take very long to fine-tune the screeches and produce some sonorous sounds. I have performed many times and places and even won some trophies for my playing. I have been sawing off and on since then. I wrote a booklet on how to play the saw--it wasn't a best-seller. The   joy that I experience when I play my saw defies explanation. Beyond that, what do I love about playing the saw? It’s unique, and that is enough; but there is more than that. People are often amazed when I play my saw; perhaps it is the novelty of it, but  most people genuinely enjoy it's flowing music. And, I bel...

A few years ago, I noticed that people often held the door open for me as I went into the gas station store and they often called me “Sir.” (I wasn't sure I liked either at first.) But, there is an upside to aging. McDonald's has “senior coffee.” Our appliance repairman gives a senior discount, and many other businesses also reward one for being aged. There are many benefits to longevity. Last Sunday, Doris and I reaped one of the benefits of great-grandparenthood. We traveled to Jackson and saw Jay Victor Marchewka dedicated to the Lord in a worship service at JaxNaz Church.  It was a gift to us--a benefit to our aging--a God-directed blessing. We are grateful for our children and grandchildren who walk in and with the Lord. We have every confidence that Jenna and Jordan will raise little Jay in the nurture and the admonition of the Lord. Being a great-grandparent seems rather tangential in our culture. (Father Abraham would not have liked our lifestyle.) Howeve...

      Putting the finishing touches on a lion that I had started a year and a half ago, reminded me of how much I love sculpting wood, especially tall stumps. When we moved to Barton Street, there were some trees that had to come down; one was even topped into our garage roof by the wind. I didn’t want the trees taken all the way to the ground; I was in hope that I could find a tree sculptor to transform them into something remarkable for me. But there they were, kind of ugly centenals--more than ten-foot tall stumps, almost embarrassed by their toplessness.       In 2014, Doris and I went to Art Prize in Grand Rapids where I saw some sculpted trees that inspired me to think that I could do that. After all, I had a chainsaw! Besides not knowing any chainsaw artists, I knew if I found one he would be very expensive to commission. Still I asked around, but found no one close by.        I star...

Ben Franklin's Poor Richard said in his Almanac, that we don't realize the value of water until the well grows dry. The loss of something important highlights its value. (How well I remember a several week stretch, when we lived in the country, going a few weeks without any water coming from our well!) With loss of memory, Poor Richard’s proposition is only partially true, however. Part of the problem with profound memory loss is that the one who has it cannot remember that she has it. Only to the one who can remember is the value of memory highlighted by its loss. Such memory loss is not that alone; it is part of a larger complex; it is the result of certain brain shutdowns often deemed dementia. I have been blessed with an excellent memory; the person I love more than any other has not been so blessed. Perhaps, in God's gracious Providence, my memory is good enough for the two of us. I pray that it will be so. Profound memory loss also brings memory d...

Some things defy defining. They are clearly evident, like class, you know it when you see it, but you can't quite explicate it. Motorcycle riding is one such  phenomenon. This past summer my brother-from-another-mother-and-father made me a deal that I could not refuse: Art made me the new owner of his 1982 Honda motorcycle--sweet. In my younger years, I bought a Whizzer motorbike that had been in a wreck; and I rode that when I could keep it running. My brother Ron had an American Moto Scoot   that he let me ride quite a bit. I took a  spill from that once when I hit a large chuckhole in the road. I went face-first down the blacktop. I had a Cushman motor scooter that I rode and rode until I got a car. I have always liked two-wheelers with motors on them.   Dan bought a motorcycle when we lived out on the farm, and I rode that some, but I had never really owned a motorcycle. When Art said to me, “Hey! I want you to have my Honda.” I was ecstatic. (I ...