Saturday, August 05, 2023
I missed the Scattergood reunion tonight, because a personal tragedy has sapped me of all strength not to mention ability to drive up to Iowa, though it is only about an hour and a half these days. My thoughts are with the Scattergood people as they are enjoying an evening concert and a happy reunion.
I remember meetings in the Scattergood meeting house, where there was a wood stove, maybe a candle or two, and wooden benches. The windows were of the very old style and well taken care of. The high school kids were restless and snickered occasionally. One could hear the trucks in the distance, downshifting in order to make it up one of the few hills on interstate 80 in Iowa.
Having been on the road for a long time, and camped beside many an interstate, I kind of liked the sound of those trucks.
Now that a personal tragedy has struck I need the strength of that silence, the wood stove, the fine old meeting house. God was there. I made my son an apartment, set it up for him to recover upon his return, and I made sure God was there too. In silence we will find a way.
We are lucky, actually, that he is alive. And I am lucky that I am, as well, given some of the experiences that interstate reminds me of. One thing I learned out there on the road is that while you may control where you go, and how you get there, and sometimes even when, you are not in control of the big picture. In the case of the recent tragedy, only a fine set of circumstances determined that we would all be in the right place at the right time, so that the boy could be saved and live to see another round. That's all I'll say. By the grace of God, I can still hear those trucks.
They have built a wall now, to protect the meeting house from the sound of the trucks. That's just as well, I suppose. The whole reason they had to make the interstate go around the curve in the first place, was to go around Scattergood and a graveyard near it where some of Nixon's ancestors were buried. That cursed them, though, to the sound of the downshifting gears. If the interstate had gone straight, it never would have had to curve around or go up a hill.
Such is the nature of fate. Once the new pathways are made, curved around and up a slight rise, the endless downshifting of trucks fill the winter mornings, and the cold crisp air cracks with the logs in the fireplace. Somehow I also remember, that the time of this particular memory was the middle of winter. The other times, you could just walk out the door.
I remember meetings in the Scattergood meeting house, where there was a wood stove, maybe a candle or two, and wooden benches. The windows were of the very old style and well taken care of. The high school kids were restless and snickered occasionally. One could hear the trucks in the distance, downshifting in order to make it up one of the few hills on interstate 80 in Iowa.
Having been on the road for a long time, and camped beside many an interstate, I kind of liked the sound of those trucks.
Now that a personal tragedy has struck I need the strength of that silence, the wood stove, the fine old meeting house. God was there. I made my son an apartment, set it up for him to recover upon his return, and I made sure God was there too. In silence we will find a way.
We are lucky, actually, that he is alive. And I am lucky that I am, as well, given some of the experiences that interstate reminds me of. One thing I learned out there on the road is that while you may control where you go, and how you get there, and sometimes even when, you are not in control of the big picture. In the case of the recent tragedy, only a fine set of circumstances determined that we would all be in the right place at the right time, so that the boy could be saved and live to see another round. That's all I'll say. By the grace of God, I can still hear those trucks.
They have built a wall now, to protect the meeting house from the sound of the trucks. That's just as well, I suppose. The whole reason they had to make the interstate go around the curve in the first place, was to go around Scattergood and a graveyard near it where some of Nixon's ancestors were buried. That cursed them, though, to the sound of the downshifting gears. If the interstate had gone straight, it never would have had to curve around or go up a hill.
Such is the nature of fate. Once the new pathways are made, curved around and up a slight rise, the endless downshifting of trucks fill the winter mornings, and the cold crisp air cracks with the logs in the fireplace. Somehow I also remember, that the time of this particular memory was the middle of winter. The other times, you could just walk out the door.
