THE WEAVER FINCH

Poor dusty little weaver finch,
I see you all year long,
You are so very common,
A note, your only song.

You have no claim as native,
You were not called, but sent.
You came only for a visit,
And became an immigrant.

Your ragged nest hangs from my eaves,
Your bread is pauper’s fare,
Your chicks fall helpless to the ground,
And no one seems to care.

I wonder if God has made you,
To show the proud elite?
That His love and care be boundless,
The ground level at His feet.

THE WEAVER FINCH
© 1992, 2018 by Michael Leonard Jewell

To Mary and Patty Wolf–fellow birders of my youth.

 

 

Advertisements

MY DAD WAS NOT A SNOWFLAKE!

Of course, I’m sure you have all looked out the window! It is mid-morning here and snowing hard; looks like about three or four inches so far. This puts me in mind of something that happened about this time of the year back in the early 1960s—perhaps ’62 or ’63.
We lived on the old Meadowbrook farm and Dad had gotten the car stuck in the deep drifting snow somewhere down the road. He had a fire engine red *1958 Plymouth Suburban (a station wagon if anyone knows what that is anymore) and it was built like a tank. Dad had to dig himself out and the result was severe frostbite in his hands, and he had to be admitted to the hospital (Mercy Hospital in Benton Harbor).
On our way there, we stopped at Grandma and Grandpa Jewell’s so they could watch us while Mother drove him to the hospital. Grandma insisted on making Dad some fried eggs and toast because he hadn’t eaten anything (you remember how she was!), but he was in so much pain that his eyes watered with a wince and he wrung his hands and could only feel relief when he went outside in the cold. Large blisters had formed on the backs of his hands. I tried to talk to Dad but Grandpa Jewell told me to leave him alone for now.
Dad spent several days in the hospital and when he came home, his hands were wrapped in gauze. Just imagine going through this in the old days without immediate access to a doctor or painkillers. No snowflakes need apply here!  MLJ

*Trivia: Our 1958 Plymouth, fire engine red, was the same year and color as the car in the Stephan King movie “Christine” (except ours was a wagon instead of a sedan and as far as I know, wasn’t possessed!). MLJ

IS IT NOT CHRISTMAS WHEREVER YOU ARE? PART IV

(A Short Story from the Old West)
© 2018 Michael Leonard Jewell

PART IV OF VIII

Parker, the scout on this drive, riding far up ahead, discovered a large patch of thick grass not covered with much snow. This welcomed find prompted Mr. Swinson, the trail boss, to hold the herd there for a day or so to fatten and rest. This would allow Hans the cook a chance to catch up and give him more time to contrive a suitable Christmas meal from the food stocks left in the chuck wagon.
It was mid-morning and Hans was rolling out his sourdough biscuits for later on in the day. These he would bake in cast iron pots called Dutch ovens that had three “spider” legs on the bottom, designed to keep them straight and steady in the hot coals. These heavy, cumbersome pots were stored in a wooden box called a “boot”, mounted below the pantry at the rear of the chuck wagon.
The biscuit dough was leavened from a crock of sourdough starter. Sometimes called a “mother”, this precious yeasty substance was from an original batch made many years ago. After a quantity of starter was drawn out to leaven the dough for a batch of biscuits, a like amount of flour, water and sugar was “fed” back in and stirred to replenish it. The cook guarded his crock of sourdough starter like a hawk, often keeping it warm near the fire, or tucking it under his arm while he slept at night.
Hans would most always complement his fluffy brown biscuits with a pot of thick “sop”—a strong, tasty gravy made from a roux of fatty meat drippings. As he cooked the meals each day, the flavorful renderings were saved and stored in a metal can with a tight lid. A “gob” of this dark brown gold was later heated in a large pan, mixed with equal parts of flour and made into a thick bubbling gravy by adding water. Salt and pepper was the only seasoning needed.
The quantity and even the quality of food on a drive might change from day to day, but the sop had to be right. Trail cooks were often known and judged by the taste of their sops. Coffee, biscuits, and sop were available to the men regularly to keep them warm, happy, and satisfied.
“Hans!” Swinson barked to his longtime trail cook, rubbing his hands and warming his backside before the glowing coals of the fire. “It would be nice to have somethin’ extra special for the boys on Christmas. They’re kinda down in the mouth because of the weather, thinkin’ about their folks back home and all. Have you given any thoughts to the matter?”
“Yes, sir,” he answered. “I’ve been ponderin’ over that and plan on makin’ a mess of baked beans with salt pork, onions, and the last of our molasses. It’ll be hot, at least, and we can piece out with cornbread. I also thought I’d make some fried dough with sugar and cinnamon for a dessert.”
Swinson was thoughtful. “Not exactly turkey and stuffing is it? I have some dried apples and peaches I picked up in town a while back. They’re in my saddle bags—been savin’ them as a treat for the men. Do you have enough flour and sugar to contrive some kind of pie or cobbler for a dessert? Looks like this would be a good time for it,” the hard, leather-faced trail boss said with a smile.
“I think so, Boss,” Hans replied. “I’ll let you know what I come up with, but if we get close to a town, we better send Juan with the buckboard to restock our supplies. Could you also have one of the boys help him scavenge more firewood? We’ve been going through it pretty fast in this weather.”

(Part V coming next week)

 

THE EMMAUS ROAD AGAIN

Let me walk the Emmaus Road,
Along with Thee—hand in hand,
Let us take our journey home,
Across the burning sand.

Teach me the Truths of Thy coming grace,
From Eden’s bliss to Bethlehem’s star,
Forgive my slowness to believe,
My blind eyes holden to perceive.

Turn in, turn in and stay awhile,
Let not Thy footsteps pass me by,
Forever cause my heart to burn,
And vanish not from my needy side.

And while I yet on earth must dwell,
Until my change doth surely come,
Let me always at moment’s whim,
Walk the Emmaus Road again.

THE EMMAUS ROAD AGAIN
© 2012, 2018 by Michael Leonard Jewell
Luke 24:13-53  KJV

To my wife Rita

IS IT NOT CHRISTMAS WHEREVER YOU ARE? PART III

(A Short Story from the Old West)
© 2018 Michael Leonard Jewell

PART III OF VIII

All of the men from trail boss on down to the young wrangler who cared for the horses had certainly expected this particular drive to be over by now. The foul weather had not only impeded their journey, but also caused supplies in the chuck wagon to dwindle. Until their travels brought them close to a sizable town, they would be unable to restock the staples of their shrinking pantry, i.e., flour, sugar, beans, corn meal, salt pork and bacon, and most importantly—coffee.
Surrounded by hundreds and even thousands of these rugged cows, one might assume that the most common fare on a cattle drive was beef. It would seem convenient to cut one out of the herd, now and then, to feed the men, but relying on healthy cattle for food was expensive, eating up the profits. The trail boss had to answer to the owners of the cattle and explain the losses to the buyers at the railhead. Besides, cowboys that had to toil day and night for months amongst these oft-times ornery critters did not find their appetites whetted by the prospect of a steady diet of these beasts.
It was part of the normal course of things on a drive to find dead cattle along the way from some mysterious cause, or killed by some wild beast. These would usually be left where they lay to feed the buzzards and coyotes. Only healthy cattle injured by some misadventure, perhaps with broken limbs or unable to keep up would be shot and butchered for food. This was Mr. Swinson’s rule, keeping with the Scriptural admonition from Leviticus:
That which dieth of itself, or is torn with beasts, he shall not eat to defile himself therewith: I am the LORD.
The men would not starve, however, and if unable to shoot enough deer or rabbits along the way to supplement their diminishing food stocks (the men had seen none of these creatures in over a week), they all had eaten mule meat before. Notwithstanding, if “push came to shove”—there was always the *beeves.
* Beeves:   Old English plural word for “beef”; used synonymously for “cattle”.

(Part IV coming next week)    

CONTINUE

As the Father hath loved me, so have I loved you: continue ye in my love.   John 15:9

It has been said that one remains successful by continuing to do the things that made him successful. This may be why successful people are cautious regarding change because they are not sure what they are doing “right” and fear they might inadvertently change that “thing” that made them, and will keep them successful.  I believe there is a lot of truth and wisdom in this simple concept. The Scriptures seem to agree and we are often admonished to “continue”.  Please carefully consider these several verses and the promised benefits to the Child of God by continuing:

Then said Jesus to those Jews which believed on him, If ye continue in my word, then are ye my disciples indeed; And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.   JOHN 8:31, 32

Continue in prayer, and watch in the same with thanksgiving; 
COLOSSIANS 4:2

But continue thou in the things which thou hast learned and hast been assured of, knowing of whom thou hast learned them;
 II TIMOTHY 3:14

If ye continue in the faith grounded and settled, and be not moved away from the hope of the gospel, which ye have heard, and which was preached to every creature which is under heaven; whereof I Paul am made a minister; 
COLOSSIANS 1:23

Now when the congregation was broken up, many of the Jews and religious proselytes followed Paul and Barnabas: who, speaking to them, persuaded them to continue in the grace of God.
ACTS 13:43

(reprint from December, 2015)   MLJ

 

IS IT NOT CHRISTMAS WHEREVER YOU ARE? PART II

(A Short Story from the Old West)
© 2018 Michael Leonard Jewell

PART II OF VIII

Since the snow and cold had settled in, the men had been generally quiet and withdrawn, spending the long hours on their horses while the herd was on the move. When in camp, they took their turns standing four-hour watches with an almost mechanical routine. When not on a horse, they gathered close to the fire, setting their backs strategically against the bite of the cold prairie winds to eat their grub and nurse their steaming tin cups. Then crawling into their bedrolls exhausted, they dreamed dreams of being elsewhere, only to be roused again in a little while to saddle a fresh horse from the *remuda and begin their watches all over again.
Now in addition to their already grueling labors, Mr. Swinson had ordered the men to make “rakes” out of whatever they could find, clearing enough snow to allow the cattle to forage on the frozen grass underneath. A cowboy always worked best from his “office”, that is to say, his saddle, but this task would require him to be mostly afoot, sometimes standing in the cold, wet snow for hours.
One enterprising cowboy being careful not to startle the herd, got the bright idea of making a “drag” out of a heavy tree branch to pull behind his horse. Seeing that it worked rather well, Swinson ordered the men to abandon their rakes and do the same. If the snows persisted, this tedious procedure must needs be repeated every time they made camp, consequently causing the horses to wear down quickly, requiring them to be swapped out even more frequently from the remuda.
Hans, the Swedish cook, feeling empathy for the weary, miserable cowboys, ordered Juan, his helper, to unpack the long heavy tarpaulin from the “pup”, a short wagon that was towed behind, and to stretch it from the top of the chuck wagon to the ground. Treated with linseed oil to make it shed moisture, it gave the men a measure of shelter out of the cold wind, to eat their meals and lay out their bedrolls.
A hot fire was kept going around the clock and there was always a pot of thick, black coffee, sometimes called “six-shooter” because it was said that one might float a pistol on it.
Mr. Swinson, a tough, battle-hardened trail boss with many years experience, tolerated very little in the way of mischief or slackers on his cattle drives. His virtue, however, was that he truly cared for his men and their welfare, willing to do almost anything for an honest cowboy who worked hard and was loyal to him, albeit, he might not always show it on the outside.

*  Remuda:  A herd of saddle horses from which cowboys on a cattle drive would choose their mounts, sometimes changing them several times a day.

(Part III coming next week)