Israel 2. The Long Day Part 2

My choice of food for breakfast was obviously a mistake!  It’s possible the way I began feeling was due to exhaustion, but whatever the case, a volcano began rumbling in my stomach, and every bubble of gas that erupted upward tasted like that horrible, awful, pickled fish.  I spent most of the day feeling like I’d probably need the plastic bag that my sweaty hands were clutching.  But thank God, it never came to that. 
  

Pickled herring.  

That’s not the way you want to start a trip, but other than that, the day began on a very bright note.  Our tour guide spoke excellent American English.  We hadn't been sure what to expect on that front.  I’m pretty certain that some Israeli guides have a Hebrew or Arabic accent, and it might take a little work to follow along.  But we were fortunate.  He introduced himself as Mickey, and said he has been living in Israel since the age of seventeen.  Ah, so that explained it.  An American-born Jew who spoke our native American English.  Just like the nice man next door.  Nope.  Not so fast.  Mickey went on to explain that he was born in Russia into an ethnic Jewish family.  His native tongue is Russian.  His last name is Nikolaev.  He learned Hebrew in Israel, and learned English at university in Israel.  He had become a Christian while attending university, and that’s a story for later.

Leaving the hotel, we headed north, driving the highway that runs along the lovely Mediterranean Seacoast.   Our first stop was the ancient seaport town of Caesarea.  There, we examined the ruins of Roman architecture, including an aqueduct, an amphitheater, and other columned edifices.  It was impressive for most of the group, I suppose.  I tried to enjoy it, but found myself wandering around, keeping the restroom within easy striking distance.  

The thing about Caesarea, if you remember chapter ten in the book of Acts, it’s the place where Peter was called to visit a Roman Centurion named Cornelius.  It sure wasn’t Peter’s idea to go.  God had to give him a vision as he napped on a roof-top in the seacoast town of Joppa.  Today that town is known as Jaffa—a suburb of Tel Aviv—about thirty miles south of Caesarea.  It’s a great story, and as gentiles we need to really appreciate the significance of what happened there.  This was the moment when God made it clear to the Jewish disciples that salvation was for ALL people.  And here we were, standing in the very place where Cornelius had no doubt walked, and prayed, and gave honor to the God he did not yet completely understand.  

The next stop was Mt Carmel.  Getting to the top of it was an interesting journey of twisting roads and switchbacks.  On any other day, when pickled fish were not part of the equation, I would have really enjoyed this.  However, under the circumstances, it was nearly unbearable.  

But this mountain—this was the very place where Elijah had a little contest with the prophets of Baal.  Four hundred and fifty of them.  You know the story.  It is described in 1 Kings 18.  After the prophets of Baal had worn themselves out, cut themselves, and just in general made fools of themselves, their fire still wouldn't ignite.  Then Elijah prepared his sacrifice, and watered it down really good just to make sure that spontaneous combustion was out of the picture.  Then he prayed, and I’m pretty sure he quickly moved back from the sacrifice, because a moment later God sent a blast of fire from heaven that burned up the sacrifice, the wood, the stones, and the water.  Now the people knew who the real true God was.  And it was all over for the four hundred and fifty prophets of Baal.  Not one of them got away.  

The thing I liked about Mt Carmel was how far you could see out over the valley.  It gave the illusion of being on top of the world.  It was a lovely place, and one could easily see why this was a good spot to offer a sacrifice, or get struck by lightning.

Then it was time for a stop at Tel Megiddo.  Think Armageddon.  Yes, THAT place.  

This is a very historic hill where at least twenty six layers of civilization have been uncovered.  It is located at a very strategic place, overlooking the Jezreel valley, as well as guarding a mountain pass that was used as the main trade route linking Egypt in the south and biblical Assyria in the north.  This is the location where many, including our guide Mickey, believe that the last great and final battle will take place.  The Battle of Armageddon.  Revelations 16:16.

This is also a place that was ruled by King Ahab in the 9th century BC.  And the interesting thing he did was to dig a shaft approximately 100 feet down into the bedrock of the hill, then a horizontal shaft more than 200 feet long that led out to a cave in the hillside where there was a spring.  This could be used as a source of fresh water for the hill-top city, and would be especially handy if ever the city was under siege.  We walked through this tunnel, and it was amazing to think that people could carve a walk-way through solid rock with hammers and chisels almost three thousand years ago.

   

The water tunnel on Tel Megiddo

          Next on the agenda was lunch.  As we headed north-easterly from Tel Megiddo toward the Sea of Galilee, we stopped at a restaurant in Afula where the group could go in and order whatever they wanted.   From my seat-of-affliction on the bus, it appeared that everyone was enjoying a wonderful meal of pita bread, hummus, finely chopped salads, falafels, and shawarma.  

Following lunch, our route took us past Mt Tabor.  We didn’t stop, but the events that happened there are well documented in Judges chapter 4.  It’s one of the more interesting stories that I remember from childhood.  It’s the place where Deborah—Israel’s prophetess and leader—told Barak (not Obama) to take ten-thousand Israeli soldiers to the top of the mountain.  This was a trap.  The enemy, a Canaanite Commander by the name of Sisera, and his army, came after them, but Barak and his men charged down the hill and killed them all.  All but one.  Sisera took off like a coward running for his life and ended up in the tent of Jael, a woman.  He was very thirsty, so she gave him milk, covered him up, waited until he was asleep, and drove a tent peg through his head.  I liked that story when I was a young Mennonite kid.  I shouldn't have liked it, I suppose.  It didn’t quite fit with our theology.  But we were taught the story anyway, and the next Sunday the lesson might have been about loving your enemy.  God was sort of confusing then, and I’m not sure I have it all sorted out yet.  But this much I am convinced of;  when scriptures seem to disagree, Jesus is the referee.  And we know what He said about our enemies.  And speaking of Jesus, Mt Tabor is also the historically traditional  spot where the transfiguration took place.

 

This is Mt. Tabor

Moving on, our next stop was Kibbutz Ginosar, which is a town located at the place where the New Testament town of Gennesaret used to be, along the western shore of the Sea of Galilee.  Here, we visited a museum that houses a 2000 year old fishing boat.  It was dug from the mud in 1986 during a drought, and is like the ones that Jesus and the disciples would have used.  

Then one final event for the day was a boat ride on the sea of Galilee that took us from Ginosar to the city of Tiberias.  It was getting dark by now, and the waters were calm, but one could imagine ferocious winds roaring around the mountains and across the water, stirring up waves that could terrify even the most experienced fishermen of Galilee, until they cried to Jesus, “Wake up! Don’t you care that we are about to drown?!”

Boat ride on the Sea of Galilee

And then we pulled into a dock at Tiberias, and were taken to our hotel for the night—the Leonardo.  Following a delicious supper buffet, in which I could participate, it was finally time for our bodies to get horizontal.  We didn’t stay up to fellowship or watch the news.  No games.  No romantic walks along the shore of Galilee.   No.   It was 7:30 PM , more than fifty-three hours since seeing a bed, and sleep was coming on.

Halle..lu….. z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z.

Israel 1. The Long Day, Part 1

It’s a gamble—traveling is—but you always expect the best.   Other people may have accidents, illness, flight delays, or bad weather.  But not us.  We had it all planned out in advance.  For seven months we had dreamed, schemed, made plans, and anxiously anticipated the trip that Dad and Mom had hoped to do with us quite a few years earlier—a trip to Israel for the five Ross brothers and their wives.  

Two years had passed since Dad left us, and Mom and I had spent many wonderful Sunday evenings together.  She’s really an interesting person, and this is her time.  While Dad was still with us, he carried the conversation ball, and Mom didn’t talk much.  Of course we all miss Dad, but these evening conversations with Mom wouldn't have happened while he was still living.  These visits are a treasure.

So this particular Sunday evening in March as we were talking about Israel and the time that Mom and Dad had spent there, I remarked that I would love to go there for a visit someday, but in the same breath said it will probably be quite a few years until we can manage to pull it off.   And Mom, bless her kind generous heart, said, “Well, you need to go, and I’ll pay your way.  Daddy (she always called him “Daddy”) and I were going to take all of you to Israel a number of years ago, but it didn’t work out.  It’s time to do it now.  I want to send you.  I won’t be able to go along, but I really want all of you to go.”

Wow!  That set the wheels turning!  Talk about straight out of the blue.  Mom wanted to surprise my brothers with the trip, but I wasn’t so sure that everyone would want to go. So I called some of the other brothers and asked them how they felt about going to Israel.  After a little hesitation by some, it became unanimous.  We began checking with travel agencies, and several of us came across Pilgrim Tours.  They had a variety of trips and dates, very good reviews from many people who had used them, and best of all, excellent prices.  Now it looked quite feasible and it was time to get serious.  

“I want you to go as soon as possible,”  Mom stressed.  “I want to be around to hear all the stories when you get back.”

That made sense of course.  At 94 years of age, you just never know.

So we took the plunge, arranged the trip with Pilgrim, and began with all the preparations of getting passports ready, purchasing a few light-weight clothes, making sure our carry-on luggage would pass the size requirements, and reading up on places in Israel.  The trip was months away, but it’s always good to be prepared.  Know what to expect weather-wise, how much spending cash to carry along, what information should be left with family, etc.

The experienced travelers in our family weighed in on how to pack lightly, and how to get enough clothing and necessities in one carry-on suitcase so we wouldn't have check in and retrieve luggage at the airports.  Traveling light just made sense.  We made some trial runs with packing, and sure enough, it worked.

As time went along, friends and extended family learned of our plans, and it became obvious that for some, our intelligence and decision-making capabilities were waning in our golden years.

“You’re going where?” some would ask.  

“It’s dangerous,” they said, and if they didn’t say it, you knew they were thinking it.  You could see it by the look in their eyes.  ‘You’re crazy,’ they were thinking.  

But think about it.  American tourists don’t just disappear without a trace, or die a violent death in a foreign country without the US media jumping all over it.  And how many tourists have you heard about dying in Israel lately?  How many have you heard about dying in the USA?  Right.  It happens here more often.  We figured it was best to keep things in perspective, and not give way to the fear-mongering.

Seven months seemed like a long time, but time flies, and before we knew it, it was November and we were down to the wire.  We had planned from the start for all of us to leave from Washington Dulles Airport so we could make the journey together in it’s entirety.  

We left our vehicles at a Comfort Inn near the airport, took the shuttle to the Air France terminal, and stepped into the lobby full of excitement, with three hours before flight-time to get through the required steps for our boarding passes and security checks.  

But… as we stood in line, a nice young lady from Air France came along and sweetly informed us that there was going to be a five-hour delay.  Our plane was making a round trip from France and back, and on the way to the USA, it had to turn back to Paris due to a medical emergency.  Oh boy.  A five hour delay in Washington was bad enough, but this would mean missing our connecting flight to Tel Aviv as well.  We were all together though.  That was nice.  Whatever happened, we were in it together.

It seemed like a long time, but finally we boarded the wide body A380 Air Bus and took off across the ocean, headed for Paris.  It was now mid-night, and we had been awake for 18 hours, but it was nearly impossible to sleep at the airport or on the plane.  Just like little kids on a sleep-over, it doesn't work very well.

Roughly eight hours later, we landed in Paris, and soon learned that our next flight would not be leaving for another nine hours.  What to do?  Should we take a bus into Paris, and maybe even visit the Eiffel Tower?  It was an hour away they said, and we would have to go through customs both ways.  Nah, it just didn’t seem worth taking the risk of something going wrong.  So we hung out at the terminal, playing games, taking walks, trying to take naps, and waiting.

Finally, it was time for the flight to Tel Aviv.  This time our ride was on a Boeing 737 and lasted a little over four hours.  By the time we landed in Tel Aviv and made our way through customs, it was nearly 6 A.M. Israel time.  We managed to locate our shuttle driver who took us on a rapid ride to our hotel, nearly  an hour away.  It was around 7 A.M. when we walked into the hotel lobby and inquired about our rooms, hoping for a shower and change of clothes.  It had now been around 41 hours since leaving home, and we were ready to freshen up.  But no.  The man behind the counter refused, and told us to go eat breakfast.  What?  We need a shower!  

So we located the breakfast room and joined the others in the tour group for our first meal in Israel, a breakfast buffet.  Right off it was obvious that we were going to have some new and interesting food.  We expected that.  In fact we wanted that.  I especially was looking forward to that part of journey.  I like to try new things, and Mom had told us how wonderful the breads were in Israel.  She was right.  But there were other things that needed to be sampled too.

I was browsing the offerings when I noticed some 2-inch squares of fish.  Hmmm, I thought this might be interesting.  So I took a piece back to the table along with a few other items.  And the fish was surprisingly good.  It was pickled.  That was unexpected.  I’d never had pickled fish before.  It was similar in flavor to our pickled eggs in the States, with vinegar, sugar, and spices.  So I went back for more.  Four or five more.  And then a variety of other tasty items that looked pleasing to the eye, and good for the body.

In the meantime, while eating breakfast, we had located our tour guide, Mickey, and asked him if he could possibly get us our rooms so we could shower and change.  He soon came back with two keys.  It’s the best he could do, he said.  We looked at each other, looked at our watches, and ran for the rooms.  We only had about 15 minutes until the bus was scheduled leave, and we needed that shower.

With scant minutes to spare we boarded our lovely purple bus along with the other 31 people, for a total of 41 plus our guide.  It seemed remarkable how refreshed one could feel after a nice breakfast, a quick shower, and clean clothes.  

And so we made it!  We were in Israel, and just in time to begin the tour with everyone else.  Thus began the third morning of our long “day.”  

The blue image on the map represents Israel.  It is a tiny country.
  In square miles, you could fit nearly five Israels in the state of Ohio.

And this is enough for today.  We’ll pick up right here next week, and bring you along.

From Kidron, Ohio; the little town that was named after the Kidron Valley that begins in Jerusalem. On the outskirts of Kidron, we own a modest ranch home located on Jericho Road  This is probably not a coincidence.  Just as the original Jericho Road runs east out of the Kidron Valley in Israel, so does our Jericho Road run east out of our Kidron Valley.   Have a wonderful weekend.  Enjoy the leaves.  So long.

Amish home on Jericho Road a little east of our home. October 24, 2015.

Ammon's farm. Photographed October 24, 2015

Riding Camels

It’s the "mystery" animal—at least to me.  A tall, gangly creature, the camel is able to withstand desert storms with its ultra tough skin, and long eyelashes that filter out the blowing sand; go many days without water, and walk tirelessly on large feet designed specifically for withstanding hot, soft sand.  A camel can carry large loads of cargo for great distances, as well as human beings on it's back.  And their versatility doesn’t end there.  They produce meat, leather, baby camels, and milk.  Makes me wonder what camel cheese might taste like.  Or a camel milk shake.  Maybe even some fresh, sweet camel milk on Corn Flakes.

Well, hellooooooo.

Check 'em out, buddy.  May I borrow your toothbrush?

The camel, not native in the land of my birth, is very much alive in my earliest memories.  The best of all Bible stories include this extraordinary beast who bore the wise men who brought the gifts to Jesus.  Nativity scenes nearly always depict these creatures in a place of honor, along with three wise men, two or three shepherds, several sheep, one lowing cow, one donkey peering into the manger, one Mary, one Joseph, and one baby Jesus.

But in that scene, it's the camel that gets me.  It's because I've never ridden one—and I’d like to.  I’ve unwillingly been the rider of a great horned Jersey cow named Pogey, thanks to some older brothers who thought it would be entertaining to set a little feller on her back.  I was just a little guy, and the horns terrified me.  The sharp appendages appeared as if they could inflict some real damage, and I didn't want to be damaged.  The fact that I can still clearly remember the incident, likely indicates some damage of the emotional sort.  But I forgave them long ago.

I've also ridden a donkey.  Not a very good proposition if one wants to get anywhere fast.   But speed notwithstanding, the donkey is a fine animal, with a personality much like a dog, and a raw, beautiful voice full of morning greetings—albeit, a voice that could use a little tuning and volume control.   And yes, it is also a beast of burden.   Gazing at photos of donkeys carrying amazing loads is baffling to the human mind.  It nearly seems like a scientific impossibility.  But there are the pictures, so it has to be true.

Just another day.

That's not the worst burden the lowly donkey must bear though.  It is quite possibly the most misunderstood animal in the universe.  “Stubborn.”  “Stupid.”  “Ignorant.”  “Ugly.”  “Antennae ears.”  “Mule.”  All these monikers attempt to describe one of the most intelligent, loving creatures that God has created.   And they’re all wrong.  First of all, this humble creature was chosen to carry Mary a great distance as she carried Jesus.  It took a careful, surefooted donkey to do this.   But that's just the start.  Let's go back to the name-calling.   “Stupid” and “stubborn.”  These words must go together into the abyss, because the donkey is neither.   The donkey is a creature of high intelligence with enough brains to be very cautious. This is very often misunderstood as being stubborn.  It is not.  Do not forget Balaam, whose Donkey was "stubborn" and saved his life.   Really, do not forget this.  If you are riding a donkey that is normally very obedient, and one day he refuses to go forward, and even pins your leg against a wall, please go back the other way.  Or if you're really brave or seriously lacking in intelligence, see if he will talk to you.  It has happened before.  Balaam gave his donkey a beating three times, and the donkey spoke to him.  Balaam spoke back, and the donkey responded back to him.  It was a human-like conversation going on there.  Name me one other animal that has ever done that.  I'm telling you, right there is an intelligence to be reckoned with.   And just to clear up the mule thing.  It takes a horse and donkey to make a mule.  Mules are sterile.  Mules cannot make mules.  It takes a donkey to make a mule.  Again, the lowly donkey does something no other animal can do.  The unfortunate term “jackass” is also misleading.  Technically, it is the proper term used to describe a male donkey.  The more common usage of the term has little to do with the four legged creature, but more to do with how an uncouth person might describe an individual who has greatly displeased them.  Certainly, none of the intelligent readers of these musings would ever do that.   And just one more note.  Some folks wonder what the difference is between a donkey and a burro.  No difference.  Burro is the spanish word for donkey.

And about right now it would be time to say something like, "but I digress", except that I find that term to be so worn out that I cannot use it.  So getting back on track, here we go.  

I have ridden a cow, a donkey, ponies and horses, but never a camel.  It is about time to do this.  As mentioned previously, the camel is a rather tall animal.  I’ve been astride tall horses in times past, and the ground seems to be quite a ways down.  Far enough to get hurt if one were to fall off.  But the camel  takes the height problem to another level.  It’s puzzling sometimes how you can stand beside something like, say a shed roof, and looking up, it doesn't appear to be very high at all.  But then you get up onto the roof and look down, and a strange phenomenon takes place.  Suddenly the distance to the ground has more than doubled.  It's really very discomforting.  Makes you want to hug the ladder and ease your way slowly back down until your quivering legs reach firm ground again.  Then you look back up and there it is again, back to a measly 10 or 12 feet.  What has just happened?  It's one of life's mysteries.   But see, that's what I expect may take place when I climb aboard a kneeling camel and it lurches to its feet.  Suddenly it will seem that the ground is twenty or thirty feet below, and I am trusting my life and limb to an animal that, without a moment’s notice, could take off across the desert and not come back for many days, and I would end up being a dried up pretzel stuck on it's hump, having been too terrified to make a leap from those great heights.  But it's a chance I will take.  Yes, I still want to ride a camel.

And now the rest of the story.  All these longings to ride a camel were precipitated by our planned trip to Israel in the fall of 2013—a dream that came true.  It was a “bucket list” trip.  Just visiting Israel was at the top, but the sub-list included riding camels, swimming (floating) in the Dead Sea, and walking where Jesus walked.  Also, spending time in Jerusalem, and visiting the Garden Tomb where Dad and Mom had been on staff for six months.  The next few writings may be a little longer as we take you along on the journey to Israel, and talk about our experiences there.  

I would like to acknowledge right here that many Christians have opposing views on the Palestinian and Israeli conflict.   I will not be joining in that discussion in these writings.  If you ever get the chance to go, don’t hesitate.  It is safe.  Really, it is, and it’s a wonderful experience.

And yes… we did ride camels while visiting Israel.  Sure, there are places right here in Ohio where one can go for a camel ride, but that just wouldn’t be right.  One needs to be in the lands where camels originate to get the full experience of taking a ride in a desert area.  If you want a horse and buggy ride, you wouldn’t go to the Mid-East.  You’d come right here to Wayne or Holmes County to an Amish farm to get the full experience.  Many do, and you may want to consider it too.  Such a lovely area, and we are blessed to live here.

Beautiful Amish farm on Jericho Road, just east of Kidron, Ohio.

From Kidron, Ohio, where the fall foliage is nearly at the peak of color, and the tourists are out in full force.  The pastures are very green again, and the trees and wooded areas are glowing with every shade of greens, yellows, oranges, and reds.   Get out of the house and view the wonders of creation if you are able, and have a wonderful weekend!  So long.

Jericho and Zuercher in the Fall

Sitting here staring at this screen is about the most uninspiring thing a person could do on a day like today, but we’ll hurry and try to brief about it.    Perhaps it would be good to inform you how beautiful it is out there in case you hadn’t noticed, or in the extremely unfortunate case you are blind and unable to feast your eyes on the luscious yellows, oranges, and reds.  What a wonderful gift it is to be able to see and enjoy all this natural beauty that surrounds us in the month of October.   I thank my Creator God for these things.  If you haven’t been out and about yet, you really should take a drive to see for yourself.  Consider our area if you are able, but if not, allow me to share some pictures that were taken this morning in the places I generally walk.

I wanted to cover more ground this morning than usual, and hit a few additional roads in our neck of the woods, so between 8 A.M. and 9 A.M. my car headed east on Jericho.  I don’t remember steering it actually, because I became so caught up in the surrounding beauty that the car was pretty much on auto pilot.  It seemed to read my mind though, and made quite a few quick stops to allow for capturing the scenes of autumn that are making beautiful backdrops for the Amish farms.  The farm houses and barns are rustically attractive any time of year, but this is like putting the bow on the present.  What a gift it is to live here in Wayne County Ohio.   I do not take for granted the fact that my home is surrounded with enviable scenes of bucolic beauty. 

 Sometimes it is almost necessary to pinch myself to believe it is real.  So without further descriptions that won’t do justice to the scenes anyway, we’ll simply present the photos as they are, in the hope that you may be inspired to get out of the house and see for yourself.  If you do not live in our area, you are most welcome to visit.  We should have another week or so of gorgeous fall foliage.

Maybe we’ll see you in church on Sunday.  I’ll be playing a marine band harmonica for prelude and offertory at my home church of Sonnenberg Mennonite.  Thankfully, this is only asked of me once or twice a year.  Makes me really nervous, but if playing a few gospel songs with this tiny  instrument brings a blessing to a few oldsters and not-so-oldsters, then I am happy to give what I have.

It may be interesting to some of you to know that many Amish are quite accomplished on the harmonica.  For many years I worked with an Old Order Amishman by the name of Eli G.  He was good—a lot better than me.  He could even do the Orange Blossom Special with two harmonicas just like Johnny Cash.  Loved to hear that!  Eli was also a good guitarist.  In his younger years he was part of the Green Tin Band along with a local group that were headed up by John Schmid.  I think most of group was comprised of Amish who had not yet joined the church.  Buck Wayne’s Mary did some awesome vocals, and I can still see her and John at the Kidron Fireman’s barbecue singing Johnny Cash’s song,  “I’m Going to Jackson.”   If I remember right, Eli was right there too, backing them up on the bass, and doing some harmonica.

Speaking of John Schmid, let me toss this in.  He’s a great guy who has a prison ministry, bringing the gospel through preaching and music to a captive audience.  He has also recorded quite a few records, tapes, and CD’s over the years.   If you've never heard him, go to YouTube and type John Schmid in the search bar.  You’ll find quite a few songs.  He is very popular in our area, and when he sings at local events, the Amish throng to hear him.  He does some funny songs in Dutch too.  The Amish really enjoy those.  

As for Sunday morning though, I need to get off here and go practice.  I’d like to say this first.  We have a wide variety of excellent musicians at our church.  Vocalists and instrumentalists.  We are very blessed with these gifts.  One of our guys is really good on the Saxophone.  He takes a turn now and then too.  I really appreciate the last time he played for offertory.   For some unknown reason it didn’t go well.  Actually, that’s being kind.  It went really rough for him, and no doubt he was thoroughly embarrassed as he finally gave it up mid-song and took his seat.  Now, I’m not sure what happened there, because he is good.  I think I’m on to his game though.  Trent may correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems likely that he figures if he really messes up, he won’t be asked again.  Maybe I will try that, but probably not.  And seriously, I doubt that’s what he had in mind either.  Here’s the thing.  We give our best, but we’re still human, and somehow if things don’t turn out well, we know we are not alone.  Thank you, Trent.

From Kidron, Ohio—home of the world’s hardest-working men (that’s how they make up for being so homely), most beautiful women (and they can cook too!),and the most energetic children (they’re really cute too—especially the ones that call me Grandpa).  Have a wonderful weekend!  So long.

How's That Spelt?

Fall dropped in on us ten days ago, and it sure feels like it.  The air is cool, the trees are displaying patches of color, and the squirrels have taken over the two hickory trees in our back yard.  That’s alright, they can have the nuts.  I gathered them up the first year we lived here on Jericho Road—at least tried to.  The squirrels got most of them.  The nuts we did manage to harvest went directly into the freezer, to preserve them until cracking and picking out the meat.  But that’s where they stayed until the box broke, and then there were frozen nuts everywhere.  We never really got to them.  So yeah, let the furry little creatures have them.

 

It’s always entertaining to watch squirrels busily scurrying around the back yard burying nuts.  They do the same thing in the wooded areas, and you have to wonder how they can find them again.  I’m convinced that they don’t find a lot of them, and soon there will be a hardwood forest where they planted the nuts and acorns—unknowingly paying it forward for the next generations of bushy-tails.  Even the lowly squirrels have a job.  Nature’s little arborists.  Just one more small detail among the mountains of evidence that the Master Designer has things well planned.

If it weren’t for winter coming next, fall would be my favorite time of year.  Actually, it still is.  And truthfully, the first couple snows are pretty nice too, but after that, you can have it.  It seems that many others share those sentiments, especially as we age.  But fall—sweet pleasant weeks of autumn—with cool nights and moderate days, beautiful colors and bountiful harvests.  What is there not to love about this season?   Oh, and cider!  Delicious, sweet cider.

And the walking.  Sure am missing it lately.  A couple weeks ago something went wrong in my hind foot, and it hurts to walk.  I’ve had plantar fasciitis before, but this is different.  My foot won’t bend without the feeling of a knife going down through the top of it.  Not sure what brought this on, but with long steps like mine, it’s painful.  Now after hobbling around trying to spare my foot, the old knee is having sympathetic pains to go along with it.  Actually, the knee probably hurts from favoring the foot.  Stubbornness is prevailing, and it will fix itself with time, or eventually the doc may get a call.  In the meantime, the bicycle is dusted off, and the trip up and down Jericho and Zuercher is on two wheels with an old single speed made for women.

Sometimes I ride this bicycle to work, and always take a ribbing about it being a “girls” bike.  This doesn’t really bother me.  I bought it at a garage sale for Juanita several years ago for the grand sum of twenty-five dollars.  This was a wise move.  We were considering purchasing good bicycles as a way of burning some calories, but something told me that the desire to get out and ride might be a passing fancy, so we made a small investment to test the idea.  And, well… the riding didn’t go well for Juanita, so since she doesn’t ride it, I do.  Who cares if it’s a woman’s bike with no bar from the seat-base to the front.  I could have used one like this when I was a little kid, and it wouldn’t have hurt so much when my feet slipped off the pedals.

Anyway, riding a bicycle uses different muscles than when walking, and pedaling a single-speed up the long Zuercher Road hill is a challenge, but doable.  Sure gets the old ticker racing.  It gets to rest as we (the bike and I) coast down the long, gentle slope towards Jecky Hershberger’s dirt lane, and then we pick up breath-taking speed going down the steep hill that leads into the S curve.  Negotiating around the curves, there is still enough forward momentum that it’s not too difficult to get up the next hill.  And on we go, past Chipmunk Hill Woodworking, and onward to Western Road.  Another long slope allows for coasting past Jacob’s and Sam’s.  Then we go over the next hill and back up again until reaching State Route 250.  Sometimes I walk this far, but not right now.  A round trip to this point and back home is close to five miles.  Although it is done much faster on a bicycle, those hills on a single speed quickly remind me of the health benefits of doing what I’m doing.   I’ll probably change my biking route sometimes, but this is familiar territory, and it’s always fun to talk with Jacob, and occasionally with his brother Sam who farms right across the road.  

A little over a week ago, Sam was planting the field where his son Johnny stopped the bullet.  I spoke with him while he was out close to the road pouring seed into the planter.   I assumed it was winter wheat.    He informed me that it was spelt, and then told me that he is certified organic.  This is great!  He can get a better price for the grain when he sells it to retailers like Stutzman’s Farms who mill it into flour and puff it for puffed spelt cereal.  Not only that, but he said he can feed spelt to his horses.  Wheat is not so good for horses, he went on to say, but the spelt can be used with no problem, and is higher in protein than oats and wheat.

So now I’m all curious about using spelt flour as a replacement for wheat flour.  From what I can find out so far, it digests easier than wheat.  It is also water soluble and has less gluten than wheat, so some folks who cannot use wheat products can do okay with spelt.  But please don’t take my word for it.  Do your own research.  I just thought it was interesting how the Amish have been getting into organic farming and raising crops that will bring a better income.

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Last week it was difficult to think of something write about, but it worked out okay.  Thank you all for your “likes” and kind words.  It was humbling.  Really.  It puzzles me how these weekly words coming from a fairly addled mind can speak anything of interest into the above-average minds who read it.   My favorite response came from cousin Jay’s wife, Donna Crisenbery.   She wrote, “I love your stories even when you don’t have anything to say.”  Laughed out loud on that one!  Made my day!  You know, I think it boils down to something I read not long ago written by William Nicholson in his book, “Shadowlands.”  He says this,  “We read to know we’re not alone.”  Perhaps that’s why these musings strike a note at times.  We’re all on this journey called life, and we need to know that somehow we are normal, (whatever that is), and that we’re not that much different than most other people.  We need to know that everyone else has difficulties and embarrassments.  And especially, we need to know that all those folks out there that appear to have it all together--they don’t.  We also need to remember that we are all in this together, and here’s the kicker; none of us is going to get out of here alive.   So let’s talk with each other, and be kind to each other.  

Just one more quick note.  I stopped at Kidron Town and Country last evening for some bananas, and glanced at their bulletin board on the way out.  You just never know what interesting thing you might find there.  Sure enough, the following note caught my eye.

“Found one mile west of Kidron.  Male cat about five years old.  Very tame and friendly.  (If anyone is letting cats off around our place, please stop it!)  Call 330-857-XXXX”

So there you have it.  If it’s your cat, you may claim it.  If you dropped it off, you know what NOT to do from now on.

From the lovely small town of Kidron, Ohio, where all the men are homely, all the women are beautiful, and all the lovely children will come back home. So long.