Bibliobulia

Bibliobibuli

I am not sure how old I was when I started reading books. Yes, I was introduced to the Dick and Jane books in grade school but I am talking about when I started to really love reading. It was so many books ago that my memory fails me.

I think it started when my grandmother would take me to downtown Minneapolis on the bus. It was an hour ride from our house to the city center. Our first stop was Woolworth’s so we could sit at the lunch counter and have BLTs and a malt; then off to the book corner of Dayton’s Department Store. Grandma said, “Pick out a book, I want you to learn to love reading.”

Well, that was the start of my addiction. It was the Hardy Boys Mystery’s that got me hooked. On the bus ride home I devoured half of that first book. I couldn’t wait for another bus ride, lunch and book. My best memory of my grandma is encouraging me to love to read.

I don’t know how many books I’ve read through the years. All I know there are a lot. My taste in books is rather eclectic: classics, mystery, biographies, history, fiction, theological and thrillers. Until recently I loved the feel of that hardbound or paperback in my hands. Now I have gone electronic and read all my books on Kindle. This portable electronic devise goes everywhere with me. What a joy and privilege to have a book at my fingertip and the desire to read it.

Here’s a quote attributed to H.L. Menken about reading: “There are people who read too much: bibliobibuli (book drunk). I know some who are constantly drunk on books, as other men are drunk on whisky or religion. They wander through this most diverting and stimulating of worlds in a haze, seeing or hearing nothing.”

Thanks Grandma for giving me the gift of loving to read!

Two Dot

Two Dot

One of the pleasures of living in Montana is jumping into your pick up truck and driving. The state is over 650 miles from the Idaho border to the North Dakota border. It is about 350 miles from the Wyoming line to the Canadian line. In other words, there is a lot of open space to explore. From the rolling prairie in the east to the mountain passes in the west, Montana is a smorgasbord for the eyes.

This fall Judy and I along with our friends set out exploring. It was a beautiful autumn day with a gentle breeze and blue sky. We headed north out of Bozeman searching for new places. Along the way we saw old homestead buildings, a resorted early 1900’s church, lots of antelope, deer and a moose! Pulling off on a deserted road, we had a Happy Hour with wine, cheese and a jaw dropping view.

The highlight of the day was stopping in Two Dot. This is a very small town located in the heart of Montana. It was established in 1900 as a station stop on the now abandoned transcontinental railroad. The town got its name from a rancher who donated land for the town. His cattle brand consisted of two dots, placed side by side on the hip of his cattle. Once a thriving center for commerce, traders and trappers, it now has a Post Office and a bar and a few homes.

Driving down Main Street, crossing the Musselshell River, is like a time warp into what was Montana a century ago. When we pulled up to the bar, people sitting outside welcomed us with a “Howdy neighbor!” Although the past glory of Two Dot is gone, there is still a remnant that welcomes strangers.

In recent years, the town regained fame in a 1983 Hank Williams Jr. song “Two Dot.” Here is the refrain: “But I’ve climbed up the Rockies and swam down the Snake; I spent winters trapping in the Mosery Breaks. This ain’t the first time I’ve been in a jam. I’m from Two Dot Montana and I don’t give a damn.” Amen

Round Table

Round Table

Growing up in a family of eight children presented a number of logistical problems for my parents. One of the biggest was how do you get that many bodies around the kitchen table? Eight kids, two parents and one grandma demands a large table. We had a big kitchen so a round table with several leafs to enlarge the seating capacity was the answer.

One of my favorite childhood memories is all of us sitting around the table for an evening meal. The combination of high chairs, booster seats and adult chairs filled all the available space on the circumference of the table. Because it was so large, it was hard to reach for the butter, salad dressing or the salt and pepper. Everything needed to start eating was on the opposite side of the table and unreachable. Asking a sibling to pass “the whatever” was a lot like asking them to quite eating altogether.

Then came the Lazy Susan. This modern marvel bypassed the moodiness of family and delivered the goods. A Lazy Susan is a round piece of wood on a stand that rotates on ball bearings and holds condiments for a meal. When that appeared on our kitchen table, life got a lot easier. Now I didn’t have to ask someone to pass the salt. Also, I had a toy to spin while waiting for supper to be served.

Those days of the round table with our family sitting around it are long gone. All that is left are scattered memories of growing up in a large family. It is hard to find a round table any more, at least one that would sit eleven people. Once in a while I see a Lazy Susan sitting atop someone’s kitchen table with a floral decoration on it. Then all those memories come flooding back.

The Bible says: “Your wife will bear children as a vine bears grapes, your household lush as a vineyard, the children around your table as fresh and promising as young olive shoots. Stand in awe of God’s Yes. Oh, how he blesses the one who fears God!”

Little did I know how blessed I was.

The Old Road

The Old Road

Several weeks ago, a friend and I drove from Bozeman to Minot, North Dakota. We went to celebrate the completion of the new sanctuary at a sister church. I rented a 2015 Ford Explorer for the trip. Montana recently upped the freeway speed limit to 80. So we cruised in luxury through the plains of eastern Montana and the oilfields of western Dakota. Autumn was having its way with the aspen and the harvested fields of grain and sugar beets.

Traveling that long stretch of interstate, I caught glimpse of the abandoned two-lane highway that used to carry traffic from the Midwest to the Pacific coast. Sections of the old road were used for local traffic. Some of it was overgrown with tumbleweed. Other parts completely gone except for a bare, flat stretch of roadbed.

Even though we made good time on the expanse of concrete that ran for hundreds of miles, I felt sad to see the decay of a once powerful road that carried life and supplies to far away places. As we sped over the concrete bridge that spanned the Yellowstone River, I couldn’t take my eyes off the old, rusting Iron Bridge still willing to serve any who wanted to venture into the past; a stark reminder that beauty and gracefulness are often replaced by utilitarian ugliness.

I am reminded of the prophet Jeremiah’s words: “Go and stand at the crossroads and look around. Ask for directions to the old road, the tried and true road. Then take it. Discover the right route for your souls. But they say, ‘Nothing doing. We aren’t going that way.”

Oh, we almost set a land speed record getting from point A to point B and back again. But I can’t help wonder how much we missed along the way. When I travel fast I see a lot of nothing. When I take the time to travel slowly, I find all kinds of interesting people and places. As practical as that concrete ribbon is, it can never replace the back roads of Montana.

Kingdom Manure

Kingdom Manure

Growing up in the suburbs of Minneapolis, we lived in a nice home on a two-acre lot with a swimming pool. Of the eight children, my brother Mike and I were responsible for lawn care. That meant cutting the grass, weeding the flowerbeds and picking up dog poop. These chores kept us busy and out of trouble. At times, we felt like slave labor while our five sisters enjoyed some housework and the pool.

One year our father got the idea to plant an orchard of fruit trees. Once planted these trees needed constant watering and care. One day a dump truck arrived and deposited a whole load of manure. Mike and I were instructed to shovel the manure in a wheelbarrow and spread it around each fruit tree. For us it was more than one day’s work. When finished we smelled like the inside of a barn.

 I finally worked up the nerve to ask my dad why fruit trees need manure, he told me two things. First, manure is full of nutrients that feed a tree so that it can produce fruit. That answer was hard to believe considering where it came from. Secondly, he said that manure spreading was character building. He went on to say that in life, there are situations that are far worse than the smell of manure. It was time to learn how to handle the smell.

Jesus told a Kingdom story about manure: “A man had an apple tree planted in his front yard. He came to it expecting to find apples, but there weren’t any. He said to the gardener, ‘What’s going on here? For three years now I’ve come to this tree expecting apples and not one apple have I found. Chop it down! Why waste good ground with it any longer?’ The gardener said. ‘Let’s give it another year. I’ll dig around it and fertilize it, and maybe it will produce next year; if it doesn’t, then chop it down.’”

Producing fruit either on a tree or in the heart needs more than wishful thinking. It takes a lot of tender loving care and a wheelbarrow load of manure. Just because it stinks doesn’t mean it ain’t good for you!

Thanks Dad for all the character building.