Blogged Out

 

Blogged Out

 

That’s right. This is the last Mangy Moose blog entry. When I started writing the blog my intention was to put down life experiences that might be of interest of family and friends. Although there have been times when I wandered from this theme into areas of social commentary, I tried to maintain balance, always with a dash of humor.

 

My first Mangy Moose blog was back in November of 2014. Since then, I published a weekly blog without missing a single Monday morning. Through up and down times of home and church life as well as spontaneous insights from the Lord, I enjoyed sharing with you, life lived here in Montana.

 

Often, I am asked “why don’t you make the blog into a book?” I confess I have an aversion to the idea of writing a book about myself. The real question is “who would read it?” Anyway, it is a heck of a lot easier to come up with a one page than a book.

 

In preparation for this last blog, I went back and counted how many I wrote. The total is 343 blogs over a period seventy-two months (6 ½ years). That’s a lot of words even for the Mangy Moose.

 

I want to say a big thank you to my family (siblings and children) who were my greatest fans. Also, to friends and friends of friends who faithfully logged on to Facebook every Monday morning to read the musings of the Mangy Moose. It has been a joy to share life with  you. Thanks for your support and comments.

 

The Mangy Moose!

 

Chores

 

Chores

 

Taking the full garbage bag from underneath the sink out to the garbage can in the garage, I was struck by the thought that I’ve been doing this for seventy some years. Why that random thought? Well, some of the things I do, I do on auto pilot. The daily routine of household chores is an integral part of my life.

 

As I write these words, I hear my mother’s commanding voice, “Daniel, how many times do I have to tell you. Take out the garbage!” Not that doing it took such exertion. It was such a bother to be told you had to do this or else. Little did I realize that the routine of garbage handling was a building block of my character.

 

The truth is I continue to do many of the chores from childhood. Cleaning up after myself, hauling my dirty clothes from the bathroom to the laundry room, making the bed, hanging up my clothes, clearing dishes from the dining room table and putting them in the dishwasher to name a few.

 

Yard work chores haven’t changed much either. Even though we live in an HOA community, I am still raking the lawn, hand mowing a small patch of grass by the patio, trimming the hedge and my favorite: picking up dog poop. All those domestic skills I learned as a child under the watchful eyes of my parents.

 

Although I tried to pass the discipline of chores unto my children, I don’t know how successful I’ve been. Nobody seems interested in picking up dog poop anymore. When the grandkids come over for a visit, I invite them to help me in this yard chore, but I get no takers. I wonder what their back yard looks like.

 

A big thanks to mom and dad for teaching me the discipline of daily domestic chores. Those daily jobs are no longer chores. They are integral part of life. I have to say, my wife and dog are grateful. What else can one ask for.

Smart Phone

 

Smart Phone

 

How did I survive without one? I’m old enough to remember life before technology birthed this handheld instrument that transformed the way the world communicates. The ugly black desk phone with a rotary dial morphed into the sleek princess with push button dialing. It even came in assorted colors. Now they are relics in the antique store.

 

My issue with a smart phone is that it’s smarter than me. Owning one assumes I have more grey matter than all those little connections on the circuit board. The learning curve to operate one is an experience. It is humbling to ask my grandchildren to show me how to download or delete an app. They look at you and in a blink of an eye they’ve got it. What is intuitive to them is mind boggling to me.

 

Now I have numerous apps. In order to be a techy hospital and hospice chaplain I need a minimum of five apps. More include: Mail, Facebook, Merriam-Webster Dictionary, Microsoft Word, Calendar, Camera, Photos, Bank, Social Chess. I can’t forget the app for my hearing aids that function as a hand’s free device. Life has become a touch screen ritual in staying connected.

 

Here’s a short poem that says it all: Ode To Cell Phones

 

Cell phone, oh cell phone. With all your smart little keys, bright light screens and caller ID, I can take you wherever I please….

 

Cell phone, oh cell phone. With you, I am on time. Dates, clock, calendar and alarms and the list can go on.

 

Cell phone, oh cell phone. Entertainment is your job. Music, pictures, videos and more, with you, nothing is a bore.

 

Cell phone, oh cell phone. I need you for sure. Without you I would be lost even more.  (Anonymous)

 

The question is: What happens when the electricity goes out?

 

 

 

Meds

 

Meds

 

My father was a doctor. Growing up, I was exposed to things medical. From dinner conversations to seeing my father despair over the loss of a patient, medicine was part of life. On more than one occasion I tried to fool my father so I wouldn’t have to go to school. He would say “take two aspirin and we’ll see how you are in the morning.” I couldn’t outsmart the resident doctor just because I wanted to play hooky.

 

This morning in the middle of my ablutions, I opened the medicine cabinet above the bathroom sink and was shocked at the rows accumulated medicine bottles. Being in rather good health, I only take a few prescriptions. I have shelves of half empty plastic pill containers. A reminder of less healthy days. A wakeup call that life is fleeting and there are no meds to keep me from the inevitable.

 

As I stared at those potions of medical marvel, a verse from the Mary Poppins movie ran through my mind: “A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down in a most delightful way.” I chuckled recalling that I inherited my mother’s sweet tooth. I don’t take my meds with sugar but I am not opposed to the idea.

 

I am thankful for the medications prescribed by my physician. Taking them are part of my daily routine. Alongside daily exercise, healthy relationships and a spoon full of sugar, I’m in good shape for the shape I’m in.

 

A word of wisdom from the Old Testament book of Proverbs: “A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a broken spirit saps a person’s strength.”

 

It’s time to clean out the medicine cabinet and find some sweets!

Obituaries

 

Obituaries

 

It was my father who encouraged me to read obituaries in the newspaper. I know this sounds rather morbid. At first, I couldn’t figure out why he would suggest that I pay attention to the death list. Reading about people who are no longer alive is not my idea of entertainment. Little did I realize that his suggestion would introduce me to an essential fact of life, death.

 

You can find the obits in your local paper. They are listed after letters to the editor and just before the sports section. Some are short with just basic facts while other take up several columns including a photo of the deceased in better days. It’s expensive to have an obituary printed in the newspaper. Editors have found a never ending source of income in death announcements.

 

One thing stands out about obituaries: they never say anything bad about a person. Not that they should but to read some you would think that the deceased was one step short of sainthood. It makes you wonder what this person was really like. I remember reading an obit of an old acquaintance feeling ashamed that I had such a different opinion of him in life.

 

It’s Easter week. Reading the gospel account of the passion, death and resurrection of Jesus, I’m reminded there is more to life than an honorable mention in the obituaries. An angel at the tomb told the women “Why are you looking for Jesus among the dead? He is risen!”

 

We sang this chorus at church on Easter Sunday: “Jesus is alive and well! Jesus is alive and well! Tell everyone you see, tell them for me. Jesus is alive and well.”

 

Good News that should be on the front page.

 

Grandma"s House

 

Grandma’s House

 

Growing up grandma lived with us. Her room was a sanctuary for her eight grandchildren. A listening ear and a comforting hug were a tonic to our rough and tumble household. On social media I found something that brought back memories of grandma. I share it in part. The author unknown.

 

“Can I Sleep at Grandma’s Tonight”

 

Grandma’s house is where the hands of the clock take a vacation with us and the minutes unhurriedly go by.

 

Grandma’s house is where an innocent afternoon can last for an eternity of games and fantasies.

 

Grandma’s house is where the cupboards hide old clothes and mysterious tools.

 

Grandma’s house is where closed boxes become chests of secret treasures, ready to be unveiled.

 

Grandma’s house is where toys rarely come ready, they are invented on the spot.

 

Grandma’s house is where everything is mysteriously possible, magic happens and without worries.

 

Grandma’s house is where we find the remains of our parents’ childhood and the beginning of our lives.

 

Grandma’s house, on the inside, is the address of our deepest affection, where everything is allowed.

 

I wonder how our world would be if more children had the opportunity to visit and sleep over at Grandma’s house. Would there be less rancor and division in our society if grandmas would rise up and say enough is enough. Time on Grandma’s lap with a hug and a kiss can do wonders for young, tormented souls.

 

Thanks, gram, for being there for me during those difficult days growing up.

 

 

Mentors

 

Mentors

 

By definition a mentor is a trusted guide and counselor. This is a person who has earned the right to speak into my life. Mentors are women and men who come with a variety of backgrounds and walk alongside sharing experiences, equipping life  tools and imparting practical wisdom. From personal experience, they are worth their weight in gold.

 

This past week I received news that one of my former mentors went home to be with the Lord. This man had a major influence on my life personally and as a pastor. Giving freely of his time and energy, he encouraged and equipped me for what lay ahead. Although there was a season of misunderstanding and disagreement, we were, by the grace of God, to forgive one another giving thanks for the season that we had together.

 

Mentoring is not an easy job. It takes a great deal of trust to allow another to bring correction into your life. I am no exception to the fact that there is more enjoyment to the positive someone has to say about you. Yet, life lessons are rarely learned by flattery. Embracing correction from one who has your best interest at heart is essential to maturing.

 

The goal of mentoring is not to make a carbon copy of yourself. Rather, it is the experience of walking alongside another encouraging and equipping by word and example. This allows both people to learn and experience all that God has to offer each person. In reality, mentoring is a relationship that welcomes mutual respect and willingness to share life.

 

I am thankful for the mentors God has placed in my life. Each came with unique gifts to share. I can honestly say that had I not taken the opportunity to walk with them, I would be living a less enriched life.

 

Thank you, Lord, for guiding my steps.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waiting

 

Waiting

 

In Montana when you start thinking of spring in mid January you are in for  disappointment. Winter has a mind of its own and does not yield to the wishes and whims of mere humans. Although spring officially starts in less than a week, that is no promise that winter in over. Springtime in the Rockies is not a date on the calendar but a slow progression of melting snow and increasing sunlight.

 

I heard mention that robins are returning. I wonder how their migration places them in such a hostile environment so early. Hearing their chirping early in the morning is a clarion call that spring is coming sometime. My grandmother used to say, “the early bird gets the worm.” Not sure these freezing birds have a chance.

 

I find waiting hard. I know that inevitably the season will change. I remember how wonderful it feels to step outdoors seeing the freshness of trees, grass and flowers coming out of hibernation. No parka, scarf, gloves or boots to do it. Driving around town the other day, I saw someone in shorts and flip flops shoveling the sidewalk. I am not the only one with cabin fever.

 

Yes, waiting is hard. Another adage from grandma: “a watched pot never boils.” Whether I am waiting for the the change of seasons or changes in life, I am reminded of the words from the Old Testament prophet Isaiah:

 

“Those who wait on the Lord will find new strength. They will fly high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint.”

 

Still waiting!

 

Outhouse

 

Outhouse

 

Sitting by the campfire on a warm March afternoon I noticed a small shed nearby.    I never noticed it before. It was one of those nondescript structures that belonged to another age. Having faithfully served earlier generations, now it was in slow decay.

 

Rarely do you hear of outhouses in our postmodern world. Thanks to human ingenuity, indoor plumbing has replaced the daily visit out back. Once an integral part of life, making way in all kinds of weather to the small wood hut that brought relief and a moment of privacy.

 

I remember the outhouse on vacations up north where an indoor toilet was a convenience not yet embraced. Not that I am a connoisseur but through the years I made use of the outhouse in exotic places: Jericho, Israel (rustic to say the least but with a great view of the Dead Sea); Mombasa, Kenya, East Africa (out in the bush with no TP, praying an elephant would not stop by); Aguascalientes, Mexico (a short visit to be sure); in the Australian outback (one of the best); not to mention all the camp sites where at least amenities were provided).

 

Just in case you think I have completely gone over to the dark side, here is a short poem you might enjoy:

 

Ode to the Outhouse

 

The little outhouse that was out back, had two seats and a wooden floor. With last years Sears catalog, and a half moon upon the door.

 

A busy little place it was, things were always brewing. And everyone that went inside knew what they were doing.

 

A place of quiet and solitude while seeking some relief.  You’d feel a great accomplishment though your stay was always brief.

 

There’s nothing left but shambles now, it’s crumbled down by time. But it still is standing straight and tall, in the outback of my mind.

 

 

Lent

 

Lent

 

Not my favorite season. Every year Lent comes around in the middle of winter. In our northern climate that means short days and long nights with snow, ice and cold. As if that wasn’t enough to put up with, church provides a season of self denial in preparation for Easter Sunday which has less that a fifty-fifty chance of warm, sunny weather. More than not Easter egg hunts necessitate winter gear and shovels.

 

Growing up, Lent meant a six week marathon of giving up your favorite things: candy, TV, fun activities. In our church tradition it meant no meat on Fridays making room for Mac and cheese, fish sticks, and Spanish rice followed by family devotions. It was an endurance race to see if I could make it to the end of Lent without cheating. Not exactly the intended spiritual motivation.

 

You can tell that I don’t embrace that kind of self denial as a means of getting closer to God. There is much to be said for taking personal inventory of life on a regular basis. In fact, a daily discipline of keeping short accounts with God and others is much healthier than a once a year sacrifice.

 

After more than a year of living with the consequences of COVID, a contentious political election, social and economic upheaval, I am not sure what is left to give up. Our freedom of movement, time with family and friends, eating out, no vacation, to say nothing of the loss of human life has provided plenty of opportunity for self denial and sacrifice. To make matters worse, we were denied the indulgence of Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday) to kick of the Lenten season.

 

The Bible exposes our desire for outward obedience while ignoring the hardness of our heart. In the Old Testament, the prophet Samuel rebuked King Saul for his disobedience which he tried to hide: “Do you think all God wants are sacrifices, empty rituals just for show? He wants you to listen to him! Plain listening is the thing, not staging a lavish religious production.”

 

Saul lost his kingship and his life. Let us not cloud our relationship with Jesus by focusing on externals and ignoring matters of the heart.

 

Do they make fish sticks anymore?

Below Zero

 

Below Zero

 

Here it is, almost to the end of February. The days are getting longer although it is still dark before supper. There are signs that spring is not all that far away. I saw an article in our local paper that someone spotted a robin in town. An early bird who has a good chance of not finding any worms.

 

However, the past week found us in the deep freeze. For the first time in two years the thermometer dipped below zero for almost a week. Trees groaned under the heavy weight of snow. Plenty of ice under a thin layer of fresh snow made driving and walking treacherous. I was almost out of breath just getting dressed to venture out: heavy boots, parka, scarf, lumberjack cap and mitts. I wasn’t going to freeze just to get the mail.

 

Our forced air furnace at home worked like a champ. In weather like this it pays off to have the furnace cleaned and checked in August. Almost nonstop blowing warm air for the past two months. I kept praying that the power won’t go off and the furnace break down.

 

The church on the other hand was having a hard time of it. First our old wall furnace in the hallway stopped working while the Montessori school was in session. After my son Tim tore it apart, he discovered the intake and exhaust vent were struggling to keep up with demand leaving ice and condensation in the line.

 

Having that back in working order, the sanctuary furnace decided to quit. Kasey, our associate pastor, got down in the crawl space and gave the furnace a couple of hard taps and it started up. The next day the furnace man came and did a more professional repair. Just when I thought we had everything solved the Montessori teacher called to say the vacuum cleaner wasn’t working.

 

I found this bit of wisdom on the Internet. Thought I would share it with you:

 

“If you choose not to find joy in the snow and cold, you will have less joy in your life but still the same amount of snow and cold.”

 

 

Casual Call

 

Casual Call

 

For the past three years I served as a volunteer chaplain at our local hospital. I have logged over one thousand hours and gained valuable experience. Visiting and praying with patients have enlarged my compassion for the human condition. Being with families who lost their loved one from disease or accident has reminded me of the frailty and brevity of life.

 

Recently, I applied for a casual call chaplain paid position at the hospital. This means I will be on a rotation list with other hospital chaplains responding to emergencies that involve trauma accidents and death. Although I have done this as a volunteer, this new position involves day or night calls on a scheduled basis. A new challenge for me.

 

Interestingly, I started my pastoral ministry fifty years ago at a large metropolitan parish that had casual call ministry to three major hospitals. Still wet behind the ears, I was thrown into life and death situations at all hours that shook my very foundation. When I left that assignment, I swore I would never be a hospital chaplain again. Life has a way of changing your outlook and priorities.

 

It can be said that I am spending many of my waking hours with the sick and dying. In addition to being a local church pastor I am now an on call hospital and hospice chaplain. In these later years of ministry, I feel more fulfilled and energized than ever before.

 

Growing up I knew it was somewhat of a disappointment to my father that I didn’t want to follow in his footsteps as a doctor. Sometimes when I walk the hospital halls or stand in the ER, I wonder if my dad isn’t looking down and smiling and saying, “I knew you had it in you son.” I think my Heavenly Father is saying the same thing.

 

Sorry, I need to go, the pager is calling!

 

 

 

 

Coddiwomple

 

Coddiwomple

 

A recent Internet post pictured two monkeys talking. One said, “we can have gatherings up to eight people without issues.” The other money responded, “I don’t know eight people without issues.” The problem with a pandemic is that it exposes our insecurities and fears. Like the monkey points out we all have issues. Something nobody wants out in the open.

 

That’s why the word coddiwomple caught my eye when a friend posted the word on social media. It is an English slang word that means to travel in a purposeful manner towards a vague destination. As we approach the one year mark of the pandemic that word captures the journey. A journey that started out with a bang: symptoms, deaths, politics and few answers. Not knowing where it would take us, we have been on a pilgrimage few have experienced before. Even now with infection numbers decreasing and vaccinations increasing, when will the journey end?

 

I don’t like it when I don’t know the when, where, what and how. I function much better with the certainties of life. As if I had those answers pre-pandemic. This wake up call has taken all by surprise. My sense is that when it is all said and done, the new normal will be quite different than the one we left behind.

 

I keep going back to these words from the Bible: “Trust God from the bottom of your heart; don’t try and figure out everything on your own. Listen for God’s voice in everything you do, everywhere you go; he’s the one who will keep you on track.”

 

Don’t let your coddiwomple distract you from God’s purpose for your life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blue Willow

 

Blue Willow

 

I don’t remember a whole lot of my grade school years. Those spent in Catholic schools I really don’t want to remember. Public grade school better memories. My fifth grade year at Burwell was the best. The old red brick building still stands beside Minnehaha Creek.

 

I didn’t get into much trouble that year except for a fist fight in the boy’s bathroom that brought our teacher full steam ahead into our inner sanctum. She was a tough lady and knew how to handle boys. Also, there was the time I got a pencil stuck in my cheek. It took a trip to the nurse’s office to fix that.

 

It was the  Blue Willow story that really captured my attention. One day, my teacher brought a blue and white dinner plate to class and told us the legend of the Blue Willow. It was a story of long ago when China was ruled by emperors. There was a magnificent pagoda, fruit trees, a bridge, and a beautiful girl who feel in love with the wrong man. The lovers were caught and were about to be killed when the gods turned them into doves. A tragic love story memorialized on a plate by a 18^th century Englishman.

 

I have no idea why the Blue Willow plate still sticks in my mind. Could it be that it was my first exposure to something visual outside my life experience? Was it the tragic story of love gone wrong? Maybe it was the only thing that made sense to me in fifth grade. The truth was I was madly in love with a girl in our class who wouldn’t give me the time of day. My first romance gone south like the Blue Willow doves.

 

It was at my twenty-fifth high school reunion that I ran into that fifth grade flame. For some strange reason, she reached out and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Some things just take a long time.

 

Thank you, Blue Willow memory, for teaching me that love does springs eternal.

Chess

 

Chess

 

It was my dad who introduced me to chess. I was ten when he brought out the chess board and began teaching me the names, positions and moves of each piece. I was fascinated. Little did I know it would be the one game that would last a lifetime.

 

Not long ago I watched The Queen’s Gambit, a Netflix mini-series. It was a good movie that reignited my interest in chess. I have played the game on and off again ever since my father taught me. There were seasons when I didn’t even think about chess. But whenever I heard the word, I was eager to dust off the board and find a playing partner.

 

For years I collected chess sets. I was into unique pieces that brought character to the game. An onyx set from Mexico and another set made of olive wood from Israel were among my favorites. Also, a small magnetic set I bought in Germany many years ago. Most of my collection I have either given away or lost in moving back and forth to Montana.

 

Recently my oldest son challenged me to a game via the Internet. He found the app Social Chess that supports online games. Quite different playing chess on my iPhone. I am technically as well as strategically challenged. Each player is allowed up to three days to make a move. That may seem like an extravagant amount of time, but it works well with our busy schedules. By the way, I won the first game.

 

Here’s a little wisdom about chess for those who are unfamiliar with the game:

 

“No one has ever won a game of chess by only taking forward moves. Sometimes you have to move backwards to take better steps forward. That’s life.”

 

“Chess says everything about husband and wife. The King has to take things one step at a time, while the Queen can do whatever she wants.”

 

Your move!

 

It Is Well

 

It Is Well

 

Not long ago I had the privilege of praying for a man who was seriously injured in a car accident. He and his whole family were on vacation when this tragedy happened. Not only were many of his extended family injured, but his wife also died at the accident scene. Unable to attend his wife’s funeral, he was facing several difficult surgeries.

 

When I asked if I could pray, he said yes. Then he looked me in the eye and said: “I am thankful for all that God has done for me even in this loss. It is well with my soul.” Here was a broken man who had every right to be angry at God for allowing this to happen. Instead, with tear filled eyes, he could say it is well with his soul.

 

After our time of prayer, we talked about the tragedy of the man who penned the hymn It Is Well With My Soul. A businessman who in the mid 1800’s lost his son in the Great Chicago fire, his business nearly ruined by economic downturn, and not long after lost four daughters when the ship his wife was on collided with another ship at sea. Instead of anger and cursing God after such a loss, he wrote the lyrics that later became solace and hope for all who walk through the valley of death.

 

Here are the words of a grieving man praising God:

 

When peace like a river, attendeth my way,

When sorrows like sea billows roll;

Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to know it is well,

 It is well with my soul.

 

“Even when I walk through the dark valley of death, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me. Your rod and staff protect and comfort me.” Psalms 23

 

Kool Aid

 

Kool Aid

 

Remember those hot summer days as a child when there was need for shade and a cold drink to refresh? As a child I relished those times when my mother ripped open a package of Kool Aid, and poured it into a pitcher filled with ice. Just the bright color of flavored sugar set my taste buds astir. A cooling refreshment at its best.

 

Kool Aid was invented by a man named Edwin Perkins in his mother’s kitchen in Hastings, Nebraska in 1927. First called Fruit Smack it became an instant hit as the perfect summer drink for kids. To this day that city has an annual Kool-Aid  Days celebration in August.

 

This  popular summer drink took a turn for the worse back in late 1978 when cult leader Jim Jones laced grape Kool Aid with cyanide poison. The whole commune of  918 people, 304 of them children, were tricked into drinking it. All died a horrible death. Since then, Kool Aid fell out of popularity.

 

In our day “drinking the Kool Aid” has taken on the connotation of being suckered into an idea, a cause, or a particular point of view that distorts the truth. Unwittingly persuaded to join the crowd, enticed by the persuasion of a personality, a cause, promise of a better life or just the sweet taste on something new.

 

I believe there are many Kool Aid stands run by politicians, government officials and social media who are selling sugar laced lies and distortions to entice our nation into anarchy. This past week is a good example. What actually happened and what we were told happened was laced with poisonous distortions.

 

Caveat Emptor (let the drinker beware). We are being encouraged to sip the Kool-Aid that is destroying our nation!

 

 

 

RRXing

 

RRXing

 

The tracks cut a swath right through the north end of town. If I want to go anywhere, I have to cross over them. It makes no difference if I’m in a hurry or have time to burn, I have to factor in the possibility of waiting for a train to go by. There are over twenty trains a day carrying coal to the West coast or bringing import cars from Asia to the Midwest. Whatever the cargo, I still have to put my foot on the brake and wait.

 

The other day, sitting at the tracks daydreaming, a remembrance came to mind. As a kid I always took the bus to school. Whether it was nice or storming, the yellow bus was my mode of transportation. On the way to school, the bus had to cross several railroad tracks. It would stop, put out the sidearm with its red stop sign, open the door and out would jump a boy or girl whose job it was to flag the bus safely across the tracks. The bus crossed over, picked up the flagger and be off to school.

 

I wanted to be a flagger. That person had to be an older student. One trained to look both ways on the tracks making sure it was safe for the bus full of kids to cross. The flagger wore a white sash with an attached chrome badge. I wanted to be one. It was something about the white sash, the badge and the responsibility of looking both ways and waving the bus through that made my heart go wild. Finally I got to be one.

 

I was startled out of my memory by the guy behind me honking his horn. The arm barrier was up, the lights stopped flashing and the bell stopped ringing. Time to move on over the tracks and say good by to the memory of times past.

 

These days you don’t see kids jumping off the bus and waving it across the tracks. No more sashes, badges or respect. Today, what parent would allow his child to do such a dangerous and foolish thing? Bravery and honor out the window as our kids are protected from harm’s way. The daring days of youth gone forever.

 

I only wish I had kept my white sash and badge. I could wear them in the privacy of my truck, looking both ways as I bounce across the tracks.