Recently, as I packed for a two night stay in a cabin at Diamond Lake, I was struck by the realization that it was taking a lot more time to pack than it used to. There are just a heck of a lot more items to take along.

Pill minder: check. Hearing aid batteries: check. Cell phone charger and cell phone: check. Credit card: check. Toothbrush and toothpaste: check. Extra socks: check.  Camera: check. Binoculars: check. Polaroid glasses: check. Zinc oxide: check. And so it went. It all filled two carry-all bags. I piled those in the back seat, along with two extra jackets…just in case…and a sleeping bag…also, just in case.

By the time I loaded my  fishing gear, the back of my pickup was a clutter of road-trip tool boxes, extra water, a cooler (full of snack bars), an axe, a bucket and a shovel. I was so intent on not forgetting anything, I nearly left my fishing pole sitting on the bench in my garage. And that reminded me to check for my fishing license.

My three fishing partners agreed we would eat our meals at the lodge restaurant, so planning for food was unnecessary. That’s why all four of us each brought an extra cooler with coffee, creamer, cookies, bananas, and assorted snacks. Sort of a “just in case” array…most of which we took back home when the trip was over. (I think we could have easily fed ourselves for several days from the coolers.)

It was enough to trigger memories of my childhood, and to take me back to a simpler time. Often in summer, when I finished my Saturday chores, I’d stuff some dried prunes in the pocket of my jacket, along with a twist of salt in waxed paper, grab a handful of matches, strap on my hunting knife, grab my .22 and a box of shells, and then head for the hills in behind the house…all in about five minutes. Simple, efficient, fast. No clutter whatsoever.

Now, I worry if I forget to take my cell phone with me to the grocery store in my nifty SUV. Progress? Probably. I know my boots are better now than the moccasins I once made…and which gave out on me about five miles back in the hills. But that’s a story for another time.

Rod

 

 

 

I don’t think I’m unique when I confess I spent some time as a young man asking why I was here, what was I here to do…looking for the answer to the big question: What is the meaning of life?

All I can say for certain is I didn’t find the meaning of life in religion, or in beer, or in the baser pursuits. I’ll confess I have as yet to find a satisfactory definition, and I envy those who find meaning in religion. But, I’ll also confess the big question didn’t seem to matter so much after my children were born. I knew then what my job was: to nurture, to protect and to love my family. For a time that seemed enough.

My questions about the meaning of life didn’t really emerge again until after my children were grown. For a time, when they began to bring me grandchildren, I set the big question on the back burner again. But as my grandchildren mature and have children of their own, my “job” becomes less and less necessary, and I find I’m back again searching for the meaning of life again.

I buy books with catchy titles like “Chasing Mystery,” or “Man’s Search for Meaning,” or “The Lost Years of Jesus.” Good books written by people who might just have caught a glimpse of the answer to the big question, but who can’t really explain their insights to me. I read and ponder and still come up dry.

I don’t despair, because a lot of people brighter than I am have spent a lot more time in the same search. But if forced into a corner by logic and by intuition, I finally confess I believe the meaning of life is defined by how we choose to lead our lives. Who we marry, gives meaning to our lives. How we choose to deal with adversity and loss gives meaning to our lives. How we deal with success and failure gives meaning to our lives. How we love others also gives meaning to our lives. And what we value gives meaning to our lives.

One man who glimpsed the meaning of life is Viktor E. Frankl, a concentration camp survivor. He was a bright man who’s last edition of his story of life in a concentration camp is called, “Man’s Search for Meaning.” It’s not about the horrors of concentration camps, but how some people rose above the squalor and degradation. It’s available on Amazon at a reasonable price. If you are among those still chasing an answer to big question, you might find his book very useful. In the meantime, if you already have the answer to the big question, I’d love to hear from you.

In God We Trust

Rod

 

Until my old friend Randal Kelley died, I hadn’t realized just how important it was to me that he remain among the living. Friends from my sophomore year of college, we let geography and occupations and just plain old life see to the business of infrequent face-to-face visits. Christmas cards and phone calls kept the candle of our friendship alive…after a fashion.

But we always knew, or at least believed, we would get together again…one of these day. And then I got the sad phone call from his wife Penny. I’m not kicking myself for not making the trip to Port Townsend, but I’ll miss the notion I could visit with Randal again…one of these days.

Sometimes when I’m alone…and no one can hear…I talk to old friends long dead as if they are still living, and as if they can hear me. (What if they can? Wouldn’t that be a hoot!)

Based on memories of early times, I might stare at my tackle box and say, “Well, Benny, what should I use to catch one of these Diamond Lake rainbows?” (We had a great trip there years ago. Caught lots of fish trolling flies.) Or I’ll look in Dad’s old tool box and say, “Well, Dad, let’s see if you have the right size socket for this job.” (And the right one is usually there.)

I don’t know if there is a moral to the story, but I do know old friends and memories of old friends are one of my psychic life rafts. Now, if those who yet survive just didn’t live so far away…

No, that won’t do. It’s time to make the rounds again this year. Shoot, I might even get on a plane if it’s necessary in order to see old friends…before we run out of time…one of these days.

Rod

 

Nibbling at the edge of my mind is the notion of not deliberately doing any of the things that enrich my life for the last time. I’ve decided to just save some of them up for the those times I might really need them. Instead, I’ve decided to think in terms of “the next to the last” Thanksgiving dinner; the “next to the last” deer hunt; “the next to the last” camp out; “the next to last” trip to Diamond Lake; “the next to last Christmas; “the next to last” cross country trip. It sits better on my soul than “the last time” sits.

Of course, if the history of mankind is the blueprint for our individual lives, there will be a last time for each of those things that enrich our souls. But, I think I’ll seek comfort from looking for new things to do and places to go and see for the first time.

The new term “Bucket List” grates on me a bit, but we all understand what it means. I think it’s time to postpone some of those “last time” activities and trips and list a few things to do “for the first time.”

Hmm…the train trip from Sumpter to Prairie City might be a good place to start. And I feel the need to trace the Oregon Trail through Oregon and Idaho. I’ve never boated from the dam on the Owyhee Reservoir to the head of the lake. And there’s always Rogers Fishing Lodge on Vancouver Island.

Now, just as soon as the next novel, Abiqua is done…

Blessings on all of us.

Rod

At the ripe old age of fourteen, I was smitten by a girl with long, shiny brown hair and a sweet smile. She lived upriver from our place, so I had the joy of riding as her seat mate for eleven miles and thirty some minutes from our school to my bus stop. The ride home each school day was something I really looked forward to.

When she asked if I would like to go to church with her, I decided I would indeed. After several Sundays, I remember the preacher, who was really on a roll, asking if anyone wanted to be saved and blessed by Jesus. My girl friend (I thought of her that way by then) took my hand and led me down the aisle. And so I was saved…from what I was still not too clear about, but if she thought it was a good idea, I did, too.

There I was, a brand new Christian with a pretty girl friend. I felt like I had life by the tail. But to my chagrin, when we next met in church, she was sitting by a young man, and it wasn’t me. And she took to riding the bus as his seatmate, not as mine. So, being fourteen and embarrassed and confused by feminine wiles, I became a Christian and then stopped going to church in just a few short, jarring weeks.

I sort of put that memory away until last year. I was fishing with a couple of old classmates when one of them (I won’t spill the beans as to whom) asked if I remembered her. He said she had asked him to church and had gone to dinner with him a couple of times.

I played it straight, by which I mean I didn’t laugh when he said he was going to church now, but she wouldn’t go out with him anymore. He said he couldn’t figure out what was going on. I wanted to tell him, but I was afraid he might be angry if I told him that here she was, some sixty-four years later, still vamping for Jesus.

Amen

Rod