Grandpa stopped over to the house one day to say Hi. I remember grabbing the camera and taking this shot. He posed just so, and gave his usual squinty eye look.
Everyone knows that look, it means he’s thinking something and best beware.
In this picture he is the age I am now. If I look it is possible for me to see his sisters in those eyes, something that never occurred to me then.
Old Spice, that’s what he always smelled like.
This man took me fishing down at We-Que-Ton-Sing, six-wheeling at the dunes, boating on Lake Gogebic, golfing in Harbor Springs. Many times I watched him working out in the garage or fixing things up at the cabin.
So many times he waved to us from his office as we walked to school through the snow.
I thought he would live forever, this man I adored.
This was the last time I would take his picture.
He left us way too soon.
In January of 2005 while participating on several online forums, a gentleman was discussing various forms of music with me
The discussion turned to the topic of different types of flutes and it ended with him asking if he could play a song for me
Not a fan of talking to strangers on the phone, he then suggested he could call at a certain time and leave the song on the answering machine
The time arrived and I awaited the call
He started by stating who he was in a shakey voice and then he played an old hymn on the strange flute
Oh the feelings that swirled as I listened to his recording
As quickly as he had started he ended and left kind words
I never knew his real name or where he lived,
but such a sweet kindness to leave a song for a stranger
I didn’t always use them. I’d never seen it done. Dowsing was for crazy old loons wasn’t it?
Our family spends an inordinate amount of time hunting down old family cemeteries and graves, hoping to find a piece of ourselves. (The above is my Dad at Snells Bush Church Cemetery in New York)
One day at work in Burlington, Iowa, a co-worker said she was going with a group to learn to dowse so they could find the graves in a Paupers Field. This interested me and was the start of many small experiments with “the sticks,” as we call them.
Thay came in very handy when Gideon couldn’t talk to tell us what was wrong, or when deciding which oil to use to help heal.
Sometimes we take them with us out into the desert while petroglyping so as to know to stay away from shallow Native graves under big rocks.
Sometimes, like in the above picture up Diamond Fork Canyon, they all go bonkers and then you know to leave it be.
They come in handy when a remote gets thrown in the garbage by tiny hands or finding most missing items.
For mine I prefer a cheap hangar bent at just the right places and cut down to size.
I may tell of a few other times when some rods appeared just when needed but that is for another story.
My kids all know just where to look when they hear the words, “Go get my sticks!”
If you drive high enough in Wyoming you wind through the Big Horn Mountains until you reach a point where the rock looks like Hopiland and then, there you are.
Hike for a bit up this nice little road and you come out at the place where earth meets heaven and prayers take flight.
Even on a peaceful morn you can hear the light beating of drums on the wind and the song of creation rises above the clouds and you envision circle dances all around as the spirits of long ago twirl their blankets along.
One day, it is known, someone will sing the perfect song and with a rainstorm to cleanse the bare earth, she too will sing the song of everlasting peace.
My mother was very sick for the last many years of her life. After trying many Doctors my sister Annette suggested more alternative medicine. Most of us were not for this idea as none had been able to help and even mom was getting tired trying new things. I was called to go down to Orem to see what this new quack was about.
From the moment he entered the home I started in with the questions. Mom was in her bed and he was standing across the room from me. I am sure he had been in this uncomfortable position before so he knew a bit about how to handle it.
He stopped what he was trying to do and dealt with me instead.
He said, “Hold up your hand.” He then proceeded to put up his hand as if he had a baseball in it and threw the air at me as if it were real. My middle three fingers bent backward as if a fireball had just passed by.
I stood there shocked and amazed, here was something I needed to understand. Here was an answer to my prayers for my son.
This was a door opening.