A boy and his bike

It was such a fine November afternoon, it was the first day of falling back into time, the boy knew that as his old friend Roger used to say, he should be burning daylight. So the boy put on his bicycle clothes and set out on his Italian Basso bicycle, but the back tire was flat. So the boy returned and got his Canadian Miele bicycle and aired up the two tires, and set out. But the seat was too low so the boy returned home to find an Allen wrench to raise the seat. The boy started out again but his Cateye Astrale 8 distant and speed computer would not work. So he got off the bike and tried to make it work. It would not work, no matter what the boy did. So the boy said, I do not care about the speed and the distance, I shall just ride until I decide to turn around. So the boy set out and he rode. He rode past the Pounds Hammock where the yellow flowers were in the wet ditches from the previous nights rain. He rode past the Gateway College and the new library and out toward US90 on the newly paved college entrance curving road around the municipal airport. It was a smooth ride on the 23c continental tires aired to about 90psi. The boy said to himself, what a foolish boy I am! I packed a pump and a tire wrench, but I did not pack a tube! What good would a pump and tire lever do the boy if he had a flat? Well, the boy had the Apple IPhone4 and he determined he would call his mommy if he had a flat.
She would come and bring him home if he got tired or had a flat. But the boy did not have a flat and as he turned off the four-lane divided US90 by the big cold storage plant and ambled down Still Road , he crossed the still warm railroad tracks from the train that had just passed. He rode and rode in the pine wood forest of the Osceola and thought of the huge Canebrake rattlesnake he once saw crossing the road, and how he stopped and the Canebrake let him take his picture. The boy liked Canebrakes, even if no one else did and tried to run them over. Well, the boy came to the place he thought would be a good turning around place. It was the crooked pine tree with the placard way up high out of reach around its trunk that said, "Judy's Tree". The boy several years ago came with his friend Steve and they placed the placard on the tree in memory of their friend Judy, who they used to ride around in the woods with in her old Chevy pickup truck and her little mutt dog. Judy died of cancer and the boy was very sad every time he rode by Judy's tree. There was one little yellow flower growing beside the tree and he took a picture, thinking, Judy probably would appreciate that.
The ride back was less tiresome as the wind was to his back and he was able to speed along, though speeding to the boy was around 13 miles per hour. He promised he would not tell his playmate Rick who liked to speed along over 20 miles per hour.
It was a good ride and it was over all too soon. And it was only four and the burning daylight was already winding down. The boy did not like the new time, but he had no say in the matter, so he just accepted it.
He put the bike back in the shed next to the Basso and took the Astrale inside with him to put a new 2032 battery in it so next time he rode, he would know exactly how far sixteen miles were and how fast twelve miles per hour was, but it really did not matter to the boy. The boy was just glad to ride his bicycle.

Ava and Carson

 

Nikki

With Nikki Kistler tonight, Saturday in White Springs. The tattoo on her arm is in honor of Billy, her foster brother who recently died.

Ava

Tonight we all, except Melanie, who went to Outback with her mom and Gerald in Gainesville, traveled over to White Springs for the Community Holiness Church festival at the ball field.
The purpose was to see Nikki and Ava, kin to us through Lewis my brother being Nikki's father.
Nikki is in the Air Force, stationed in Washington State, soon to be stationed in Ft Walton.
I was most interested in seeing Ava for Nathaniel is just a few months older and I wanted to gauge where Nathaniel would be in his development. Ava was able to talk much more than when she and Nathaniel were last together with Jordon and I back in February.
The sad thing to me was from that one day being with Ava back then, upon leaving, she called me pappa and cried to stay. This time, she gave me no attention or recognition. That pained me in that the longer I stay out of Nathaniels life, the dimmer grows his young memory.
I am most thankful again, as mentioned earlier, for the connection Jordon has re-established with Landon. I trust it shall soon be a full communication.

Bridge Two

The trout and mullet were left to rot
Otis and Skeebo had to go
For Kelly they had forgot
to watch and the car didn't slow
as grill and boy met
upon the number two
and the shiners died in the gill net
its a long way holding you
in the back seat home
before cell phones
what will we tell Pearl
and Billy Earl
The day the trout and mullet died
upon Cedar Key bridge number two
The night no fish were fried
The skies were of crisp blue
and the presents were wrapped
Kelly my son will run
Pull the bait from the nets
Leave Kelly home please
Please little Kelly watch
but Skeebo forgot
the car did not slow
and Kelly set out in a trot
and to Williston Memorial
they did go
To pronounce him gone
and the Pelicans came along
to gulp the remaining fish
and Kelly Randolph
never opened presents
on his third
Christmas.

Oct 18, 1961-Dec 25, 1964

Of races won

From a column I wrote March 17, 1984...
With a record turn-out of nearly 175 entrants for the past 1984 Blue-Grey Fun Run, I often wonder what thoughts of heroism these kids entertain while they wait for the start.
One of my most memorable experiences while 'fun-running' came as a lonely third grader in Monticello, Florida.
Being a minister's son, our family had made the first move of many, this one from Sopchoppy, a quaint, "our town" sort of Big Bend community of 800 residents. Compared to Sopchoppy, Monticello was as grand as Washington,DC, with its Jeffersonian courthouse, historic homes and our rambling two-story parsonage.
Impressive as all this was, I was most impressed to know that the school in Monticello had four third-grades. I did not know that so many kids my age existed. Needless to say, the first weeks of school found me in a state of awe, fearful and searching for friends.
As young boys do anywhere, we were engaged in a constant struggle to see how far, how fast, how big, how good or how whatever, we could do better than the other fellow. P.E. and recess were our times for testing.
Being the new kid in school, I wanted very much to measure up. In third grade at Jefferson Elementary School, measuring up meant being friends with Jimmy Haines and his group of chums.
Jimmy was the best athlete and pack leader of Cub Scout Troop 864. He and his friends were the object of the girls' secret notes and they were the first ones picked for any game. If I could break into their circle, life in this new place would be complete, I reasoned.
My chance for "breaking-in" came unexpected one afternoon in P.E. when coach Cooksey announced that the upcoming field day, we were going to have a race to see who was the fastest runner in all of third grade.
I secretly dreamed of seeing myself falling across the finish line, exhausted, Deborah Daniels, who I secretly admired, who openly had "cooties", but inwardly I adored, bestowing kisses and congratulations on me.
Whatever my motivation, from the thought of being the fastest out of so many, to the girls, victory was my only dream and desire.
The big day arrived and coach Cooksey called for the final event of the day. He had us all line up across the playground and gave us our instructions: "At the sound of the whistle, run and touch the white rail fence, turn around and run past me. First one back is the winner," he bellowed.
Tense, our hearts beating in anticipation of the whistles shrill sound, we leaned forward with uncanny discipline. "Tweeeet!" Shrilled the whistle and off we tore in a tangle of tennis shoes, dungarees, pig tails and skirts.
Jimmy Haines, as expected, took an early lead. Everyone expected Jimmy to win, as usual. But not far behind Jimmy was the new kid no one had thought to consider.
As I pulled along side him, I got a look from Jimmy that would have made you thought a girl was about to pass him.
To make a short story of this 200yard marathon, with less than 20 yards to go, I put on a "Alberto Salazar like" surge, unequaled to this day, which propelled me past Jimmy and on to victory by three whole yards. By adult standards, not much, but in a child's estimation, a run-away.
How good victory felt. Jimmy and I were suddenly best buddies. His friends became my friends. They asked me to join their group. My new kid image was lost in 60 seconds of running. The girls didn't kiss and congratulate me(thank goodness) but I found without looking, the benefits of that one fleeting moment were never forgotten.
No ribbons, no plaques, trophies or medals.
Just the satisfaction that even a child feels when he has acceptance, recognition and a feeling of worth.
Today, I look at all those kids in area running events and see in their eyes, that same determination I felt so long ago.
To them, may it always be just what it is, "fun-running".

Musing

Going through the old computer and looking for a certain photo...coming upon photographs recalled and so many, so many....

Slow Thaw

Landon emailed Jordon again today with more information. They live on the base, right on the Pacific Ocean on the eighth floor of a tower apartment. They had a mild earthquake, which rocked the building recently. The surfing is good and in the winter it snows in the mountians north of them so they have already gotten snowboards. He told of the fellow he works with, mentioned sending some photographs. So the thaw slowly comes. I asked Jordon to have him send video of Nathaniel.
Thanking God for this break in the ice.

Lake City Logo

the proposed new logo.....

Current logo

hate flyer

original design

Compare the original logo here that the city adopted in the early 80's to the messed up version they use today, I again contend, they need to restore the original I drew way back when.
The reason it was changed? You guessed it, the NAACP waged a hate campaign, calling Lake City the Hateway to Florida, saying Logo must go! upon the courthouse steps. I stood in the crowd of ranters at the back by the then Tison Auditorium City Hall and shook my head.
And what did Mayor Kirkland do in the cloak of dark for appeasement? He got a black high school art teacher who took the soldier on the horse out and across the top of the logo plastered a bunch of marching soldiers, not even drawn to blend, taking Columbia's location in Florida out of the design, totally over-emphasizing the Olustee Re-enactment and Battle. It threw the balance off the logo and yet, kept the Confederate flag in the design while adding the American flag in the prominent position! Go figure! The South won this battle. Cannot erase that truth of history.
My solution, which fell upon deaf ears, was simply to place the original Florida flag or the confederate flag with the one star  where the Confederate battle flag was. As most of the ranters could not tell what a flag was unless it was crossed, this would have gone totally unnoticed by those ignorant of history, only choosing to fall for the politically correct line of history.
One day perhaps one will come into office and restore the original logo, restore the poor Alligator who had to go and telling the NAACP to take a long hike North. Dream on, dream on.

A falling through

today Jordon made contact with Landon in Japan via email. he told Jordon that he could maintain contact with him, but if it was in order to let mom and dad get in touch with him, he would cut him off as well. and how can we thus have the opportunity to ask any forgiveness? Melanie today is in constant tears. i am simply numb, blocking the pain.

I will give you wasp

This photograph, from an old derelict church along Suwannee Valley Road, now torn down, shows a poorly wrought painting of Jesus, with the words above in the banner scroll, "Come Unto Me", a reference from Matthew 11:28 where Jesus says, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me: for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls."
As if in a mocking manner, the dirt daubers had built a nest right over the face of Jesus. It spoke to me. In most of my spiritual life, what I have received was not rest, but wasps.
We were told this world is not our home, that we were to look for a heavenly one. Thus, by inference, anything here was of lesser value and worth. The things of this world were to be shunned, as sinful, as of the flesh, worldy, devilish.
Art, why that is idolatry, a graven image, putting something before God. Music and literature as well. If it did not fall under the narrow confines of the defined, it was to be shunned. We poked fun at the Amish and Mennonites who took this other worldliness to the extreme, but we autere Baptists and Methodists were equally to blame.
In the quest for the upper story, we learn not to appreciate the lower story in which we lived.
The fellow brothers and sisters we were called to love, when we fell out in disagreement over the color of the altar cloth, or the pew styles, we parted to form a church of the Shaker style pew, to our own liking, shunning those who remained in the pew of a lesser color.
We said that we loved God and our fellow men above ourselves, but in practice, we didn't. We loved our image. Our way. The highway was for the wanderers, the strangers, the blind, the halt, the ones who could not see our way.
Comfortable and proud in our Shaker style pews, we listened to the preacher of our own choosing, preach a sermon that spoke only to us. We could see the world out there, for we did not like stained glass, we took of our grape juice communion, for we dared not inbibe wine, we pulled all icons from our white walls, for that was idolatry, a graven image, we sang the honky tonk southern style, for the chant was boring, high churchy, and we could not get to the benediction soon enough, for how quickly the Olive Garden filled on Sundays with those fortunate to abide by the clock upon the back wall.
And so the sting of wasps was what we got.

Round and around

Will I make it around for another revolution of the mill? To crush the cane, to extract the juice, to boil down into syrup, to bottle and sit upon a shelf?
It seems I shall not even make it through this October of family birthdays, the almost weekly reminder from the cakes full of candles that life has passed by many of family, that the revolutions for others are winding down, the mill hard laboring to squeeze the remaining juice from them.
And still we circle, drawing upon some courage, some hope out there, that there shall be a good end to all the circling.
From this once tight circle we have family flung all over, scattered as the pummy pile high with the bees hovering over them. It seems almost an impossible task to recover them, once squeezed beyond recognition. We can only pray that someday, the circle will again close in upon us all and we shall again, drink of the sweet juice, gathered around the old mill.