Bus Station

Bus Station

It was as hot August day. The two hundred mile drive in the old Chevy station wagon to visit friends seemed to drag on forever. The air conditioning wasn't working very well and that only encouraged the shortness of patience. It was turning into a day of infamy for the Semsch family.

After several potty stops and nearing our destination I thought it would be fun to take a side trip to an ancient Indian buffalo jump. There are a number of these historic places in Montana. Maybe a little history lesson on the way would be a welcome diversion. The problem was I missed the exit on the Interstate.

That mistake started a heated discussion between Judy and I. Actually it had started long before then and now my navigational error led to an escalation in martial disagreement. By the time we arrived in town, Judy and I were yelling at each other. Ever been in a situation where the next few words were going to seal your fate? This is where I put my foot in my mouth big time.

Driving by the Greyhound bus station, I mentioned to Judy that if she was that upset with me why didn't she get on the bus and go visit her mother. That was the last straw as far as she was concerned. She took me up on the suggestion and said to drop her off at the bus station. So that's what I did and drove away with four screaming kids in the car wanting their mother back!

Now what do I do? After driving around for twenty minutes, I swallowed my pride and told the kids we were headed back to pick up their mom hoping she hadn't left yet. There she was sitting on the steps of the bus station not a happy camper. I asked her to get in the car, which she finally did. I drove to the city park, let the kids get out and run around while we tried to act like adults.

The moral of this story is: 1) only go for long drives on hot days with a car that has good air conditioning; 2) don't promise something and get distracted and miss the exit; 3) learn to keep your mouth shut and only open it to say “I am sorry, you were right, please forgive me.”

A Bushel and A Peck

A Bushel and A Peck

On Valentine's Day we took a drive to Ennis, a little town snuggled between two mountain ranges along the Madison River. Here there are gift shops that Judy likes to check out. In one shop I spotted a small burlap pillow with the inscription “I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.” I bought it!

When I was a kid I remember by Grandma Tooie smothering me with kisses leaving red lipstick smudges on my face saying, “I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.” Almost suffocated by the hugs and over powered by her perfume, it's a miracle I remember those words of endearment. I don't recall much about my grandma but I do remember the bushel and the peck.

Doing some research, I discovered that this was the title of a song made famous by Doris Day in 1950 when I was six years old. Listening to her sing it on You Tube brought back more memories than just Grandma’s hugs. A bushel is a dry measure equal to 32 quarts. A peck is a dry measure that is a quarter of the volume of a bushel. Growing up, we would go to the apple orchard and buy apples by the bushel and the peck. That's a lot of loving!

Many times when I see my grandchildren, I will grab them in a big hug and tell them what my Grandma told me: “I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.” Inevitably they look at me the way I looked at Grandma and wonder what is he talking about.

On Facebook I read this note from grandparents to their grandchildren: “I may not see you every day, or talk to you everyday, but I think of you and love you everyday.” So Abigail, Sophia, Ella and Ben, here's a big sloppy hug from Grandpa saying, “I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.”

Certified Mail

Certified Mail

I was working at my desk shortly before Christmas when the doorbell rang. It was the mail lady who had a certified letter for me to sign. It isn't often that I get certified letters. In fact they scare me because I immediately think someone is after me and the only way to get me is if I sign for their summons. A little paranoia I agree but these days you can't be too careful.

I confess that I was curious as to who was sending me a certified letter. Sitting down, I opened it to find that the Church Pension Fund of the Episcopal Church was notifying me that I was eligible for a pension. To say the least, I was shocked. Many years ago, when I left this denomination where I served as a priest, I was told that I would forfeit my pension since I had not served long enough to be fully vested. Being young and somewhat naïve, it was a small price to pay for my freedom.

Once I got over the shock, I emailed their office asking if this was for real and if so what did I have to do to start receiving my pension. Several weeks later I received a packet via Fed Ex, which contained numerous forms to be filled out and returned to their office. I still was a little suspicious that I was actually going to receive some money. I was told that payment would start once the papers were processed.

I shared this unexpected news with several friends. They were excited that such a blessing was coming my way. In the course of our discussion I learned that those monies that were taken out of my monthly pay check while I was a priest and put toward my pension was actually my money. By law, when I reached retirement age, that money was to be returned to me in monthly payments. That made sense.

I don't believe the Psalmist had my good news in mind when he penned these words but I certainly make the connection. “Yet I am confident I will see the Lord’s goodness while I am here in the land of the living.”

 I have yet to receive a certified letter from Rome.

Cruciverbalist

Cruciverbalist

I don't remember when it first began. It must have been a time in my life when I was in dire need of a distraction from the harsh realities of everyday life. Whenever it was, a habit was formed that is almost impossible to kick. My early morning routine consists of a cup of coffee, Bible reading, the local newspaper and the crossword puzzle.

A cruciverbalist is one who is skillful in creating or solving crossword puzzles. Since I don't have a clue how to create a puzzle and certainly not proficient as solving one, I refer to myself as a frustrated crossword puzzle solver. The word cruciverbalist comes from two Latin words: crux (cross) and verbum (word), a fancy name for a masochistic pastime.

I started my crossword obsession with the rather simple daily puzzle in the newspaper. After lots of cheating (looking at the answers printed on the next page), I got the hang of it. Most days I was unable to complete the puzzle but every once in a while I did. What a sense of accomplishment. Since then I have moved on to the LA puzzle and the ones you find on the Internet. Basically the same results.

My excuse for working the daily puzzle is that it stimulates my mind. Finding that four-letter word for “desert” that starts with the letter “A” gets my brain working.  I have read several articles that suggest working the puzzle on a regular basis helps keep senility and even Alzheimer's at bay. I hope that prognosis is not dependent upon correct answers.

I don't think the writer of the Old Testament book of Proverbs had crossword puzzles in mind when he penned this verse but it's hard to fault its application. “A man has joy in an apt answer, and how delightful is a timely word.” My new mantra as I ponder the complexity of the crossword puzzle!