The cool breeze blew against the heat on my back and head as I stood in the afternoon sun. The clear skies provided no resistance to the brilliance of golden sunshine in these waning days of winter. As Spring officially comes a mere few days away, the plants and animals have not waited for our interpretation of seasons, but have followed more accurately the marks of time passing in nature and have exploded in a plethora of sensations.
Flowers, shrubs, and trees are erupting in buds and their scented petals permeate all outside spaces. Even the grass seems to take on a richer color and texture and though the trees still have no leaves, there is scattered shade casting patterns over the ground lending its design to the dramatic scene. As the chill of winter abates and the browns and grays of winter are arrayed in magnificent greens of seemingly infinite shades and hues, everything I see is catapulted from the ordinary to the extraordinary.
Winter, in its subdued veil, lacks the vibrancy and the exuberance of Spring through its season of sleep. And now, the land is waking up. All around the signs of life are in abundant evidence, filling up the void of the cold that has preceded the past few months. Birds, squirrels, rabbits, and all manner of forest creatures are moving about and welcoming the return of Spring.
Looking around in the quiet of a country life, you feel comforted that all is as it should be. Life returns, and breathing deeply in the clean Spring air, you not only see life return to the land, you can actually feel it.
Standing there in this scene, I don an old leather ball glove, its feel is smooth and worn with the smell of the old leather tickling memories in my brain as I hold it to my head to shade my eyes a moment. Standing across from me, one of my little girls stands with glove on and ball in hand. It' is again softball season in our rural wonderland.
My 9 yo asked me Friday afternoon to throw with her this weekend. And I would not let such an opportunity pass. It seems that time is precious in my current stage of life. Working through the week away from the house and having only the weekends to achieve true quality time with the family, life has become an act of artful balance, and I don't always stay balanced. But I try.
And so on Sunday afternoon, amidst the beauty of the world around me, there was the unmistakable "thwack" of a softball connecting directly into a ball glove while an exuberant 5 yo bounced in near continuity on the trampoline. A little while passed and the rest of the family returned from drama team practice at church. And so I was now joined by my wife and my 11 yo daughter who put on gloves and we created a throwing pattern of all four of us.
After watching this a short while, my 15 yo daughter, who is not sports minded, asked to join in. Since she is completely new to throwing and catching, something she never had an interest in when younger, we included her in and I helped her refine her throwing and catching. It wasn't long until she was really doing quite well for a beginner.
My 17 yo son came outside once to cast some word of wisdom to us all and then disappeared back into the house, presumably into his teen cave that is remarkably similar to a bedroom. I think he may have been hoping a football or frisbee was part of the equipment. Seeing none, he didn't linger long.
But you know, the point of my being there was not to throw the ball, or to catch it. That was just something to do. It was an activity that was essentially stress free, fun to do, but kind of pointless in the grand scheme of things.
No, it was not for the sake of softball I was there. The reason why I was out there with my family doing this activity, was to be with my family, to share something of their life with them, to listen to them, talk with them, and love them all. I was there to be with them and let them know they are important to me and they are loved by me.
As I said, maintaining the artful balance is the goal, but it is not always something I do well. But I am trying, and I am learning. As a husband and a father, I understand my role is not only critical in the family, but it is something that I am required to do. God gave me this family and one does not have to search too hard in the Bible to find His instruction to the husbands and fathers.
And this weekend God gave me this beautiful weather, the time, and the understanding so that I was without excuse and without need of one. Standing there Sunday afternoon with a ball glove on was where I was supposed to be that afternoon. I was here for my own Spring training.
There is something exceedingly comforting and peaceful when you know where you are supposed to be and what you supposed to be doing. And when you are there doing it, there is abundant joy to be found.
Copyright 2007, Kevin Farley (a.k.a. sixdrift, a.k.a. neuronstatic)
Monday, March 19, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
The Firing Range
I remember growing up in a rural setting well. From even before I ever went to school, I was taught by my father how to properly respect and handle firearms. I remember all my years of growing up with guns how my father would tell me how to properly hold a firearm, how to clean it, and how to always treat a gun as if it is loaded. I think he did rather well and I am thankful my father took such care with me in dealing respectfully with firearms.
For example, I remember back when I was but about 5 years old. My father brought out a shotgun to let me shoot it - the specific one does not come to mind at this time, after all I was only 5! So there I sat, in front of my father on the steel rails of the railroad tracks while he held the weight of the gun and I aimed and fired. And my target? Well it was the trash barrel out behind the company doctor's office of course :-)
So there we were shooting up the good doctor's trash barrel out behind his office, from the railroad tracks, aiming and shooting across a public road.
Ah yes... good times.... good times...
And other times we would go back into the hills and set up targets of various kinds - like glass bottles, boxes, jugs filled with water, nearly anything you could think of as a target. And we would stand beside the truck, sit in the bed of the truck, or just stand off to the side and practice our aim. We would shoot everything from small caliber handguns and rifles, to large caliber rifles, to shotguns of various gauges from 410 to 12.
For example there was this one time that my father was helping me improve my aim with a .22 caliber rifle (a small caliber if you don't know). I was just a boy, I think around 10 or so. So my father told me to "lean over the hood of the truck" to steady my aim. But when I tried, I was so short, I could not see well. "Dad, I can't see it too good." I would say. And after a few iterations of that my father said "Just shoot the target!". There may have been a few choice words there. Honestly, I don't remember :-)
So I gently squeezed the trigger and "KAPOW-FWUNK!" There was this horrible noise and my mother who was sitting in the cab of the truck at the time (she was a bit more nervous around guns I think), was looking wide-eyed with her mouth open. Apparently with the "KAPOW" there was a corresponding shaking of the vehicle with the "FWUNK".
And there I stood, staring in amazement at the fact that the old Ford pickups had a "slight" ridge in the center of the hood. This particular hood now had a really nice, deep, round dent in it.
"You shot my truck!" said my dad, equally amazed. And from inside the cab my mom cut any reprisal short when she said "I don't want to hear one word! He told you he couldn't see but you wouldn't listen."
So for the next few awkward moments I stood there with the sinking feeling that I may well not live out the night. My dad looked at mom, my mom looked at him. They both looked at me. Then we all looked at the hole. When we realized how bad things could have gone with a ricochet bullet as we all stood around there, we packed up our stuff and left for home.
Ah yes... good times... good times... :-)
Over the following years I got bigger guns and better aim. I also got a lot taller. I was a little runt at 10. I never shot another truck, well... at least not like that... I had purpose in shooting them later... and I always remember proper firearm safety because really, he did a fantastic job teaching me.
So in the past year, I started teaching my son and daughter firearm safety. My son has been shooting a few times before, but it wasn't until my father gave him a .22 Hornet that he now owns his own gun and really likes to shoot it. I wanted to start with him years ago, but living in modern suburbia people tend to complain when they hear gunshots from your backyard. No really they do. I couldn't believe it either.
And so now, living on the farm, I take my son and my daughters (I picked up a gaggle of small females when I got married), and we set up some targets just away from the house so we shoot into a hillside. We mostly use 2 liter soda bottles filled with water, but we also shoot trees, twigs, boxes, anything we can get our hands on.
And so the other day, there we sat, my son and I, on the back porch. I took an old computer monitor down into the woods, set in place as a target, handed my son a full box of shells, and I said "see what you can do with that thing, but you have to clean up the mess". He had a blast shooting holes in the monitor tube, then blowing off chunks of the housing. I brought out a 20 gauge and loaded a lead slug shell into it. The resulting hole into, through, and out the backside, blowing a cloud of plastic dust everywhere, was well worth it.
Ah yes... good times... good times... :-)
But I will never, not once, tell my son or daughters "just lean over the hood of the car to steady your aim." I think we already covered that lesson.
Copyright 2007, Kevin Farley (a.k.a. sixdrift, a.k.a. neuronstatic)
For example, I remember back when I was but about 5 years old. My father brought out a shotgun to let me shoot it - the specific one does not come to mind at this time, after all I was only 5! So there I sat, in front of my father on the steel rails of the railroad tracks while he held the weight of the gun and I aimed and fired. And my target? Well it was the trash barrel out behind the company doctor's office of course :-)
So there we were shooting up the good doctor's trash barrel out behind his office, from the railroad tracks, aiming and shooting across a public road.
Ah yes... good times.... good times...
And other times we would go back into the hills and set up targets of various kinds - like glass bottles, boxes, jugs filled with water, nearly anything you could think of as a target. And we would stand beside the truck, sit in the bed of the truck, or just stand off to the side and practice our aim. We would shoot everything from small caliber handguns and rifles, to large caliber rifles, to shotguns of various gauges from 410 to 12.
For example there was this one time that my father was helping me improve my aim with a .22 caliber rifle (a small caliber if you don't know). I was just a boy, I think around 10 or so. So my father told me to "lean over the hood of the truck" to steady my aim. But when I tried, I was so short, I could not see well. "Dad, I can't see it too good." I would say. And after a few iterations of that my father said "Just shoot the target!". There may have been a few choice words there. Honestly, I don't remember :-)
So I gently squeezed the trigger and "KAPOW-FWUNK!" There was this horrible noise and my mother who was sitting in the cab of the truck at the time (she was a bit more nervous around guns I think), was looking wide-eyed with her mouth open. Apparently with the "KAPOW" there was a corresponding shaking of the vehicle with the "FWUNK".
And there I stood, staring in amazement at the fact that the old Ford pickups had a "slight" ridge in the center of the hood. This particular hood now had a really nice, deep, round dent in it.
"You shot my truck!" said my dad, equally amazed. And from inside the cab my mom cut any reprisal short when she said "I don't want to hear one word! He told you he couldn't see but you wouldn't listen."
So for the next few awkward moments I stood there with the sinking feeling that I may well not live out the night. My dad looked at mom, my mom looked at him. They both looked at me. Then we all looked at the hole. When we realized how bad things could have gone with a ricochet bullet as we all stood around there, we packed up our stuff and left for home.
Ah yes... good times... good times... :-)
Over the following years I got bigger guns and better aim. I also got a lot taller. I was a little runt at 10. I never shot another truck, well... at least not like that... I had purpose in shooting them later... and I always remember proper firearm safety because really, he did a fantastic job teaching me.
So in the past year, I started teaching my son and daughter firearm safety. My son has been shooting a few times before, but it wasn't until my father gave him a .22 Hornet that he now owns his own gun and really likes to shoot it. I wanted to start with him years ago, but living in modern suburbia people tend to complain when they hear gunshots from your backyard. No really they do. I couldn't believe it either.
And so now, living on the farm, I take my son and my daughters (I picked up a gaggle of small females when I got married), and we set up some targets just away from the house so we shoot into a hillside. We mostly use 2 liter soda bottles filled with water, but we also shoot trees, twigs, boxes, anything we can get our hands on.
And so the other day, there we sat, my son and I, on the back porch. I took an old computer monitor down into the woods, set in place as a target, handed my son a full box of shells, and I said "see what you can do with that thing, but you have to clean up the mess". He had a blast shooting holes in the monitor tube, then blowing off chunks of the housing. I brought out a 20 gauge and loaded a lead slug shell into it. The resulting hole into, through, and out the backside, blowing a cloud of plastic dust everywhere, was well worth it.
Ah yes... good times... good times... :-)
But I will never, not once, tell my son or daughters "just lean over the hood of the car to steady your aim." I think we already covered that lesson.
Copyright 2007, Kevin Farley (a.k.a. sixdrift, a.k.a. neuronstatic)
Under Cover
Not too long ago I purchased a used vehicle. I needed something more reliable than the aging Volvo I bought last year. Now while the Volvo was a good $1100 car, it was just that, a 1990 model car that cost a mere $1100. And now it has a long line of issues, not the least of which is I had to disable all heat and AC because the car's computer is totally whacked.
But you know what, with a mere 260,000 miles under its belt, it just needs some attention and that Volvo could give another 260,000 miles easily. But I think its time the Volvo went on to its hardest assignment yet: it has become the "teen car", and my teenage kids will drive it... or at least what's left of it... until there is nothing left of it. Yes, its on its last legs.
So what did I buy? Good question.
I really wanted to get some kind of pickup truck. I still wish I had my old pickup truck - a 1993 Chevy S10 pickup that had been through 3 significant accidents and was still going strong. However, I had to give up the pickup and my dog in the divorce in 2005. Dang I miss that truck and that dog.
So I looked around at used small pickups. Over priced and under-powered was the norm. I looked at some of the bigger ones. I am left with one question: how does a poor man afford a pickup in 2007? Everything is so expensive. Why is it I could get a used caddy cheaper than a used F-150?
Well, I guess there's something women like about a pickup man. And equally it seems there's something men like about a pickup woman.
So my wife and I were out looking at car lots, just casually mind you, when we saw it. The car. It was kind of unassuming, with its darker than dark tinted windows and blackwall tires with no hubcaps. A Chevy Impala sitting there all innocent and quiet.
"It is a former police car" said the salesman.
"Done!" Oh man, the cool factor kicked in and I bought that thing, complete with interceptor engine. Yeah, I was hooked simply by its former life.
And now, when I drive it on the Interstate, many people see me coming up behind them and they either simply slow down, or get out of the way. It DOES look like a police car, at least in the rear-view mirror.
All I need now are some fake antennas on the trunk and to hang my jacket by the rear seat window.
Copyright 2007, Kevin Farley (a.k.a. sixdrift, a.k.a. neuronstatic)
But you know what, with a mere 260,000 miles under its belt, it just needs some attention and that Volvo could give another 260,000 miles easily. But I think its time the Volvo went on to its hardest assignment yet: it has become the "teen car", and my teenage kids will drive it... or at least what's left of it... until there is nothing left of it. Yes, its on its last legs.
So what did I buy? Good question.
I really wanted to get some kind of pickup truck. I still wish I had my old pickup truck - a 1993 Chevy S10 pickup that had been through 3 significant accidents and was still going strong. However, I had to give up the pickup and my dog in the divorce in 2005. Dang I miss that truck and that dog.
So I looked around at used small pickups. Over priced and under-powered was the norm. I looked at some of the bigger ones. I am left with one question: how does a poor man afford a pickup in 2007? Everything is so expensive. Why is it I could get a used caddy cheaper than a used F-150?
Well, I guess there's something women like about a pickup man. And equally it seems there's something men like about a pickup woman.
So my wife and I were out looking at car lots, just casually mind you, when we saw it. The car. It was kind of unassuming, with its darker than dark tinted windows and blackwall tires with no hubcaps. A Chevy Impala sitting there all innocent and quiet.
"It is a former police car" said the salesman.
"Done!" Oh man, the cool factor kicked in and I bought that thing, complete with interceptor engine. Yeah, I was hooked simply by its former life.And now, when I drive it on the Interstate, many people see me coming up behind them and they either simply slow down, or get out of the way. It DOES look like a police car, at least in the rear-view mirror.All I need now are some fake antennas on the trunk and to hang my jacket by the rear seat window.
Copyright 2007, Kevin Farley (a.k.a. sixdrift, a.k.a. neuronstatic)
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