What shall I do this Weekend?

Sue was busy all week gathering Goldfish snacks, color markers and other art and craft supplies.  She was gearing up for the All-Church Retreat in the Piny Woods of East Texas, and she was in charge of the programming for kids.  She drove 70 miles to meet with the "Activator Team" from Austin College who was going to send out some of the college kids to help with the camp activities.  Sue started in July in search of just two people to hire for childcare over the weekend - and it now being the third weekend in September; the waffling and non-committal vibes of those she spoke with were keeping her simple request from being fulfilled.  She simply asked that they submit an application and get a background check, but this task was still far from gelling as Friday approached.  As the cut-off time drew nigh for hiring some help, she would again call as a reminder to those who expressed an interest and get a response, "Oh, do you need that form? I'll get that right over to you."  The next afternoon, she inquires, "Where is your form?"  She gets an answer, "Oh, i guess I forgot. Ha ha."  She then receives a resume, but not a completed application nor a background check.  Are they really all a bunch of hillbilly in East Texas?

With this flurry of autumnal activity whizzing past me, I realize I will be baching it for Friday and Saturday.  What shall I do?  What shall I do with a day-and-a-half to myself? 

THE envelope please!

This particular official envelope comes with a City of Garland logo embossed upon the upper left corner with the return address listing: Code Compliance Department.  I ceremoniously slit the top of the official envelope and read: 

     VIOLATION: Encroachment - Street.  Please correct by 9/27/2013.
     Comments: Take a 14 foot pole and place it next to the curb and anything that touches the pole needs to be trimmed back to allow for safe passage of vehicular traffic.

That settles it, I now know what I'll be doing this weekend. Those dangerous twigs and leaves hanging less than 14-feet above the curb are a danger to vehicular traffic! 

Friday brings a welcome cool front through Dallas and drops some needed rain which is followed by pleasant air, cool and dry on Saturday morning.  However, I get a text from Sue on Friday nighr, having driven through driving rain in East Texas on her way to the retreat, once she arrives she (and everyone else) discover that the power is out at camp.  The electric water pumps without power means the toilets need to be flushed by carrying in buckets of water from the lake and poured into the bowl.  Those that remembered to bring flashlights are heroes in the pitch dark sleeping quarters.  And 1 of the childcare workers actually managed to get his papers in just in time to help out (the other 1 was told her service could not be used since she didn't get her paers in).  This congregation at the All-Church Retreat was wandering in the wilderness until the power was restored around 6 AM Saturday morning.  They survived.  They crossed into the Promised Land.

Meanwhile, I stepped out in the morning to check my pole pile.  Let see here, there is a 7 1/4 foot pole, a 10-foot pole [I use this one to NOT touch things], a handy 6-footer; but alas, no 14-foot pole to check for dangerous foliage from my ash trees. I guess I'll just have to go out and buy another length pole.  I select a nice orange 14-foot aluminum pole, it is a telescoping jobber with a saw and a pulley-activated brush hook at the end.  A veritable Swiss Army knife kind of pole, or maybe a Swiss Army pike.  I pay my $43 and I'm in business.

I extend my telescoping tool, I lay the saw blade in a little crotch and begin making the sawdust drift down into my eyes like cellulose snow flakes.  I drop a couple of branches in short order.  Then with a flick of the wrist I snag a few other branches with the brush hook and yank on the rope and down they drop in one smooth motion, just like Marie Antoinette's head.  That was fun.  But now I think that there are still some dangerous twigs about to grow out into the street very soon - they must go as well I decide.  I get my chain saw and lean my ladder against a couple of upright bifurcated parts of the trunk.  I wrap my needs around an inclined branch for balance and squeeze the trigger to bring the chain saw to roaring life and cut off the 7-inch branch.  Once nearly severed from the main limb, it bows to the ground but is not completely cut off. It needs a little under cut.  I hold the chain saw bar to the underside of the limb and cut it off, it then slides down limb and pins my foot in the V of two major trunks.  I immediately think of that hiker who had to cut off his own hand with a pocket knife in the Utah wilderness in order to free himself from his doom of dehydration after being pinned by a loose bolder.  At least it will be quicker to cut off my foot using a chain saw rather than carving it off with a pocket knife.  I am relieved to be able to lift overlying limb off of my own limb, and swing back onto the ladder and scamper to the ground.

I go to town cutting off a couple more 7-inch branches and cleaning out the interior of my two front yard ash trees.  I haul off a hefty amount of biomass to the curb where the city is kind enough to use my tax dollars to haul these offending bits and chunks of wood and leaves away on Bulk Trash Wednesdays.

I await my next assignment from the city. 

I saw off some of the thicker portions of the logs and stack them next to the garage for this winter's fireplace.  Ashes to ashes as the saying goes. So true.

What's in a Name?

What's in a name?  That which we call a rose would by any other name smell as sweet.

So posits Juliet to Romeo, in so saying she expresses her belief that there is no power in the given name.  I am reluctant to argue with Mr. Shakespeare  but I have come to believe in the power of the mythic narrative and within the narrative, the power and destiny imbued with a given name.

Now, I will not discount coincidence or even tragic irony, but as it was from the very beginning when The Lord gave Adam the task of naming all the animals, it was at this point in giving names, that man came to have dominion over all that he had named and power over all the earth.  I believe in the power and destiny of a given name.

A few weeks back while struggling to restore lost files and folders to my business computer [see "Wasted Days & Wasted Nights" blog], I began to climb around in the on-line Family Tree that my wife had started researching last year.  Specifically I was looking for Civil War service from the Keyser Family of Virginia and wondering if my Great Great Grandfather, Alexander Hamilton Keyser (Sargent with the 33rd Virginia Infantry Regiment (Company H, "Page Grays"); Stonewall Brigade) had served with any of his brothers or brothers-in-law.  I was searching for records of any soldiers with the name Kite; likely brothers of his wife, Bellzoria Kite Keyser.  I traced out some details on the Kite family branch.

What's in a name?
First, I run into a recognizable and familiar name to any one with a $10 bill in their wallet.  My Great Great Grandfather on my maternal grandmother's side, Alexander Hamilton Keyser.  Interesting that he served under General Thomas Jefferson "Stonewall" Jackson, Hamilton and Jefferson being bitter rivals and founding members of America's first divergent political parties; the Federalists and the Democratic-Republicans.  I see that it was not uncommon among the first generation of United States citizens to give a child a first and second name honoring great men of the early Republic (I have not found anyone with Aaron Burr [surname], and doubt I will).

What's in a name?
Belle Kite (1843-1913) married Alexander Hamilton Keyser (1837-1910) in October of 1866 and raised eight children, one of whom they named William Noah Keyser (1871-1965), he being my Great Grandfather on my mother's side.  There is quite a span of Williams' on that side of the tree, along with a fair amount of Georges, as well as some Johns.  These are common names, may be chosen to honor a favorite uncle or such, but they do not invoke anything singular or special.  Ask people what comes to mind with the name William or John and I'll bet you get as many different answers as the number of people you ask.  But my Great Grandfather, William Noah got his middle name from his mother's father, Noah Kite (3/24/1814-9/29/1870).

What's in a name?
Ask anyone what they think of when they hear the name Noah, and I'll hazard a guess that you'll get a lot of single minded answers split between thinking of "flood" of some variation of "animal/ark in the Great Flood".  Noah is one of those names that sharpens all thought to a single event, in this case, the Flood from the Book of Genesis.  So, what is in a name when you carry a moniker so tied to a single event, such as 40 days and 40 nights of rain to flood all the earth?   "Noah and the Flood" have been preached for millenniums and the story is shared among half the cultures inhabiting this now dried off planet. 

Be circumspect when you select a name.  There is power and fate wrapped and folded with a given name.  The following is a story about my Great Great Great Grandfather, his wife and the six children still with them on the farm; their life and their death along the banks of Virginia's Shenandoah River:

From The Kite Family History, by Virginia A. Kite, 1889.

     Noah Kite and his family lived at Columbia Mills, Virginia, where he owned and operated a large flour mill, a store, and other enterprises that made Columbia a busy little mart. He was a man of great energy, public spirited and surrounded by a happy family and contented employees. This little community, blessed with so much to make them satisfied and happy, presented a condition of domestic tranquility seldom found in the country. His farm was an ideal one, well stocked and highly cultivated, which was a source of pride to the whole family. Proud of his heritage, and with an intelligent, loving wife and children, no man could have desired more. This was the picture of Noah Kite and his family when the terrible flood of September 29th, 1870 burst upon them.
     A ceaseless downpour of rain had continued for several days, and the little streams soon widened into creeks, and the river that had always been so placid and beautiful, winding its way among the farms, and by its perpetual activity encouraging the natives to greater exertion; had now grown into a raging torrent, that swept the low grounds of every living thing in its path. The rain continued and the waters in the river rose higher and spread wider and wider over the beautiful farms. The poor, bewildered farmers looked in dismay upon the vanishing crops, but no one had the remotest idea that any worse danger threatened them.
     On the evening of the 29th of September 1870, Noah Kite saw the dark muddy waters gradually rising in the house. When the first floor was untenable, he took his family to the next floor, and soon the second floor was flooded, and with all possibility of escape gone, they could do nothing but climb out on the roof and pray for deliverance. His wife and children were all out on the roof in the pelting, ceaseless rain that still continued. Night came on. And in the pitchy darkness the old home began to rock, and in a moment it swung from its moorings, and with its cargo of humanity, and the accumulation of years in the old house, it dashed down the stream, impatient at the time these helpless doomed people had to live.
     No pen can describe the anguish of their hearts as they looked upon their little ones in their helplessness. One by one the children lost their hold and were swallowed up by the murderous waters. With their hearts breaking, and their prayers for rescue unanswered, they still tried with all their might to hold the children together. But with all their efforts, as the old housetop careened and trembled, they would find another one gone, and then another, until none were left but the father and mother. They had seen their little ones drop into the very jaws of death, unable to do more than say farewell. These two, who had been devoted companions for so many years. And who had feasted their souls in the pride of their loved ones, had seen their offering, as it appeared to them, refused and cast aside, and they stood now bereft of every gift of God but their immortal souls, and these, the devouring waters demanded. Louder than the roar of the flood was heard the breaking of the timbers, and the old house went to pieces. The souls of these good old people went up out of the water and joined their children.
     Nothing in the annals of history equals the horrors of this flood of the Shenandoah. except the Johnstown flood. Many persons were drowned, houses were washed away and the destruction of the corn and wheat crops and cattle along the course of the river was incalculable. Noah Kite's body was found six months after the flood in a drift in Long's Bottom, recent rains having washed the debris away, disclosing a human body, which was identified by a ring he wore as Noah Kite's. His wife's body was found a few weeks after the flood in Long's Bottom also. Eudora, the beautiful daughter, was found in the top of a sycamore tree near Luray. As she was known to be an expert swimmer, it is supposed she swam to this tree, where she died from exhaustion. Elenora Kite Norman's body was found at Front Royal, a distance of thirty miles from home. The two younger sons' bodies were found on Mr. Henkle's farm, and tenderly laid to rest in the old Kite burying ground.
     Before the blinding, driving rain began, how beautifully glowed the green fields, the well staked vineyards, the luscious apples blushing in the rays of the rising sun, the mighty hills tranquil as eternity, covered with haystacks and grain and all the products of nature that make the farmer contented. This verdant valley became in a night a nere waste of sand and debris. Fortune, that smiled so benignantly on Noah Kite's family one day, had turned a devastating hand upon them the next, and the two boys who escaped death found themselves bereft of everything on earth but themselves. Their fortunes had gone with the drowned family down the river, and they had to seek shelter and a place to lay their heads among their more fortunate friends. The son George Kite was saved by his brother Erasmus Kite and Mr. Martin. George was carried to the barn and drifted to a straw rick, where they stayed for thirty-six hours before being rescued by neighbors.

[The author, Virginia Kite, was a sister of my Great Great Grandmother, Bellzoria "Belle" Kite.  Belle married Alexander Hamilton "Ham"* Keyser in 1866 and thus had moved off her father's farm by 1870, she was 6 months pregnant with her son William Noah when both her parents and four of her younger brothers and sisters were swept away and drown]

(*)Another irony: the nickname of Belle Keyser's husband was "Ham"; Ham being the the name of one of Noah's sons in Genesis.
********************

I recall hearing a story once from my mother when I was quite young about people caught in a flood back east, in the old days, who survived by clinging to a matted haystack as it floated down a flooded river.  I recently asked my mother if she recalled that flood story?  And if so, would it have been the Great Shenandoah Flood of 1870?  Mom said she could not recall ever telling me that story.  Never-the-less,  I was impressed at the time by the details that while those flood victims found fortune in a floating haystack, they also had to share their straw ark with venomous cotton mouths and other snakes, rodents and insects fleeing the rising waters.  I do not recall if these other critters seeking safety climbed onto the straw two-by-two.

Noah and his family drowned in the Great Flood - 143 years ago today.  Not the twist I was expecting with a name like Noah.

Wasted Days and Wasted NIghts

Is it possible that the fabulous Freddy Fender, among his many talents also presaged the coming of the computer age?  I think so.

The application of the computer has been a awe-inspiring element of the last 25 years.  When I first went to work as a geologist, my company had an entire floor devoted to the 'Drafting Department'.  I would make a geologic map with pencil on blueline paper and then go down to the drafting department and hand-in the my hand-drawn map, where I could expect a 3 day turn-around before the draftsman had traced my contours with a thin roll of drafting tape on a piece of Mylar and then lettered all of the text and numbers by hand with a Leroy set before being printed in black and white (color was airbrushed and usually only upper-level employees could request color maps).  Now, I have software that I can quickly draw and edit, color and letter in a variety of fonts all in a single day. Save the file and print as many copies as I need.  The computer and mapping and data management software have changed everything for the better.  Mostly.

I unlocked my office door the other Monday, booted-up my machine, it starts, then stops.  I try again, this time it does not start.  I look up a computer repair service on the internet using my phone.  Eugene comes by in about an hour and says, "Your power source is fried."  Eugene takes my machine away to replace the power source.  I get a call late that night from Eugene, "Yeah man, all your hard drives are fried too.  Real bummer.  I can rebuild your machine and get it to you tomorrow."  
Wasted Days & Wasted Nights.

I give Eugene the OK; new hard drives, new mother board, new DVD player, new power source, new processor, new USB ports.  Fortunately I had been doing the occasional back-up on an external hard drive, and I had recently purchased an automatic back-up software package.

Once Eugene bring back my new machine the next afternoon, he spends some time to work out the bugs, getting all three monitors to light up etc., I then go to restore my backed up files.  I get my most recent files to restore, but I realize I had not selected any of my critical geologic projects - the heart of my business to be backed up.  I hope that the larger older manually backed up files contain my critical geologic mapping data.   
Wasted Days & Wasted Nights.

I can see the older files which I think may contain my geologic project listed on my external drive, but I can not get my BackUp software to recognize nor restore them.

Wasted Days & Wasted Nights.

I read the instructions, I surf the FAQ's on the company website, I soak my keyboard with big pitiful tears.  I write the company tech support.

Wasted Days & Wasted Nights.

I submit an incident report to the company, I get a response.  In order to read the older files, I have to change the file extension from the older version to the newer version.  I do that and attempt to restore the lost files.  I can read the older files, but I can not get them to restore.

Wasted Days & Wasted Nights.

I resubmit my incident report.  I get a reply that I need to add a new line of code to my config.ini file.  I do that, but I still am unable to import and restore them.

Wasted Days & Wasted Nights.

I re-resubmit my incident report, and I get a reply, I need to add yet another line of code to the config.ini file and create a new folder.  I finish that task, but I see that "0 Files have been Restored" in my report.  

I am singing Wasted Days and Wasted Nights (in my mind).

I then check in my newly created folder, and there they are. My old files with my geologic projects.  I loose the last seven months of modifications, but the core of the data is now restored.  I am pleased.

My projects are there!  I dry up my eyes Before the Next Tear Drop Falls.

KMOM - You're on the air!

I can imagine the bygone days; it is Sunday evening, 8 o'clock and the knob switches on with a hard click, more of a crack, we allow the vacuum tubes warm up as we gather around to watch our radio set.  Then, coming into our home through the ether, it is a familiar voice: "Welcome ladies and gentleman and all the ships at sea. You are listening to 'Sunday Night Talk' from the studios of KCOU on the immaculate campus of the University of Missouri in Columbia.



Our hosts for the next 2 hours are our son Grant and his roommate Carson, along with sidekick Eric.

Actually, we just upgraded our radio set and ditched the vacuum tubes and crackly radio voices, and now get streaming audio over the internet - but you already guessed that.  As you my recall from the previous week's show, Carson was talking about his Mom in Chicago and threw out the off-handed remark, that "we should get all of our Moms to call in sometime."  Grant's mom chuckled at the the thought, but expected the 'shoot from the hip' style of Sunday Night Talk would never get around to organizing all the moms for a show.  This past Sunday (September 15), the phone of Grant's mom chimes at 7 and she see that it is her son calling.  "Mom, we need you to call in to KCOU during our on-air break around 8:45 tonight to be on our show, you need to say a little bit about yourself and then share an embarrassing story about me.  OK? Thanks, I got to go, we're in a planning meeting right now."  Apparently, such is campus radio.

When her cue came up, Sue called in as Mom #1, and shared the story of Grant vomiting through the foyer and leaving a foul and slimy trail into the bathroom of the high class Eismann Center, where his Dad had just danced during the party scene in the Christmas time performance of The Nutcracker.  The long and faithful readers of this blog may recall this episode being documented as the very first blog on this very site some years ago [Archives: Sunesonscenes December 2006]. 
cut & paste: 
http://sunesonscenes.blogspot.com/2006_12_01_archive.html 

Grant added some of the details from his perspective; about how the first wave of nausea hit just as he was to exit the plush auditorium, splashing the doors in his hurry to exit, the second bout followed swiftly dowsing the rich, thick carpet in the foyer.  As he dashed across the lobby into the men's room, he aimed for the trash receptacle set into the wall, but missing that opening, he left most of his mashed potatoes dripping from the wall next to the paper towels.  That was my son's review of my debut ballet performance and providing a classic tale for the Christmas season.  A midst much on-air guffawing within the studio, Eric then requested, "Don't stop with just that one, what else do you have on Grant?"  Mom let him down gently with a follow-up "cute" story about the strong sense of justice in the young Grant, telling of finding him a bit teary with his nose planted against the wall in the time-out corner, self-imposed punishment for some infraction of which only he was aware.  Some years later, when it was time to repaint the wall, there was a noticeable smudge about 3-feet above the floor where several time-outs had been served, some of them tearfully self-imposed and all served with great and sincere remorse.

The other moms both contributed "throwing up stories", taking their cue from Sue.  Eric barfed on a flight, covering the seats in front of him and sprinkling vomit up and down the aisle - the stewardess was of no help. Terry told of Carson coming home from a party in high school and nearly fouling the hair of his visiting cousin who was sleeping on his bedroom floor.  Carson thought it was a wonderful segment of the show, allowing as to how it turned out better than he had hoped.  

The show moved on to other topics, but now the truth is out there - and so much more, TMI.

That's a wrap. 

Hey! What's that sound?

Sometimes things have been they way they are for so long, we forget that it was not always this way.

I was listlessly flipping through the channels on the TV; CNN, the local news, baseball.

Sue was doing something on the computer in the breakfast nook.

September 1 was a night like all the the other nights that have gone before.

She calls out to me, "Hey. Do you hear that sound?"

I say, "No.  What sound?"

She tells me, "I hear a strange sound, like the leaves or something..."  Then she asks me to go investigate with her.

We trepidaciously open the back patio door, and there it was!

Right as rain - as they say.  The magnolia leaves were being pelted with large rain drops.  It's been awhile.  A mere eighth of an inch smattered across the whole long span of dog days of August this year.

I was reminded of a story told to me by a colleague who grew up in West Texas; one day their two-year-old dog began barking and howling something frightening and fierce while cowering inside their garage.  They rushed outside to see what kind of trouble was upsetting the hound so much.  Turned out it was a rain storm - something strange this dog had never experienced.

I guess we kind of know how that dog felt.  

Or maybe after watching CNN, Bashar al-Assad and the "Red Lines" being drawn, maybe I know how Buffalo Springfield felt.

Hey! What's that sound?

All A Loan in the Real World - Metaphoric Metamorphism

There once was a young man, as for life's leaning, he was skewed toward that of a philosopher's mind, and some say a tad hard of hearing.  This young man took Geology 401 (Introduction to Geology and Earth Sciences) and came away from Dr. Mack's first lecture impressed by the fact that all of the world is built upon one of three types of rock:
   A) Sedentary
   B) Ingenious, or
   C) Metaphoric.

With this understanding of terra firma and the substrate upon which all of life on Earth stands; he developed his life's philosophy rooted firmly on the ground while he gazed up to the heavens and tried to make sense of all that was around him. 

   As he explained his philosophy to me, it went something like this: In brief, much of life is like those sedentary rocks; deposited slowly and orderly, in nice layer upon layer, by gradual and most often monotonous events occurring day-after-day.  Yes, these sedentary layers of life can be folded and even faulted by larger forces, but they remain recognizable as to type of layer and to the time and sequence in which they were formed. 

   Then, there are the Ingenious rocks which are formed by massive up-wellings from deep within the very core of the Earth.  Ingenious rocks are often accompanied by episodic and violent outburst of glowing clouds, fire, smoke and outpourings so hot that the Earth itself is literally melted and flows across the landscape altering and rapidly transforming all that lies before it.  Ingenious rocks have the power to blow the tops off the largest mountains and scatter the remains to the four winds.  Or it can move from the deep and not erupt, but lay molten-hot for ages just below the surface; but once exposed can reveal veins of gold and exquisite gems and minerals that has charmed the eye of all mortals since the beginning.  Such are the origins of these Ingenious rocks, that often lie at the roots of life's immense mountain ranges.  The power of genius.

   Lastly, there is a select set of rocks which this young man understood to be of the Metaphoric variety.  These Metaphoric rocks are rocks of transformation, rocks that have been changed.  These Metaphoric rocks are the very kind of rocks that are sought by the likes of Michelangelo to sculpt the great stories of humanity in the likeness of Pieta or David.  These blocks of marbled Metaphoric rocks were hued and erected by the ancient Greeks to build monuments to the divine and erect the halls of democracy - undoubtedly their greatest gift.  The humble slate is also counted among the Metaphoric rocks as well.  The slate has served as the instrument to transfer knowledge from the Aristotle to his students throughout all the ages.  This humble slate, of Metaphoric rock origins was the focus of attention, placed front and center on the wall in the American Public School room to transfer knowledge from one generation to coming generation known as the "black board".

Of course, I am loath to destroy a young man's philosophical core, so I did not correct his classification to the proper geologist's rock types:
   A) Sedimentary
   B) Igneous, and
   C) Metamorphic.
Besides, maybe he on to something; and why be hard-nosed about the classification?  Perhaps his was a "poetic" rock type classification that will indeed serve him well.  While the geologist will always properly use sedimentary, igneous and metamorphic to good and useful purpose while at work; there maybe yet are a few imaginative geologists who will in their heart-of-hearts understand mankind's poetic connection to the Earth as well as one's own life as Sedentary, Ingenious and Metaphoric.  

What is under your feet today? 
Upon what type of ground do you now stand?
Today, I am standing on Metaphoric ground.  A ground fertile for stories, great ideas and suitable for building monuments and lasting institutions in which to invest heart, soul and treasure.  The metamorphic slate upon which we write our metaphoric narrative.

Inga, our eldest has transformed and transferred out of the realm of the Sedentary.  A life of comfort of known class schedules, the routine of each academic day slowly depositing educational experiences, defining layers of Freshman, Sophomore, Junior and now the last layer, Senior and now Graduate.  It was a life of predictability and gradual deposition of experiences confined largely to the basin of the campus at the University of Oregon in Eugene.  But now, there is a great unconformity, the orderly progression of days and activities of the Sedentary has ceased.  There are no more sedimentary layers to be buit grain upon grain.  Her apartment lease expired at the end of August, her relationships with friends have been folded, displaced and faulted as they move on to graduate school or moved on to find employment or move back home; this week was an episodic, unconformable event.  Things have changed for Inga - big time.  It is the end of an era.

While waiting for responses to her resume and inquiries in her chosen field of Health Care Policy, she has taken up the offer from Annie, the widowed mother of her boyfriend Sean, to move into a room in her house in Salem.  Everybody has to be somewhere.

Inga had boxed up her meager possessions, including the giraffe-necked whisk kitchen implement and was ready to load them into the back of her Subaru wagon.  However, her bed and a few pieces of furniture would have to be transported to Salem by a rented U-Haul.  Inga (with a degree in "Planning") made reservations with the nearest U-Haul franchise and reserved their smallest truck for $110 days in advance.  The morning of the move, the U-Haul folks tell her they have rented out all of their small trucks - but there is one available in Harrisburg (only 25 miles up the road).  U-Haul makes her an offer. "We'll rent U a larger truck, give U and extra day and charge U only $80).  Inga takes the deal.  She says that she can run laps inside her big truck.

Inga's 5-foot nothing frame wafts into the behemoth front seat of the U-Haul truck and she inserts the key and starts the engine.  Leaving the parking lot, she knows she needs to go left, but is not sure she can safely see to her right to turn left.  She goes right with the idea that she can loop around and get going the direction she always intended.  After miles of traveling down a narrow country road in the least-favored direction, she executes a precise 38-point Y-Turn.  She is now headed back to her place.  Sean meets her there and quickly hauls all of her stuff down and loads up the truck, which she "lets" him drive up to Salem.  I think Annie is happy to have the Inga and her son back in the house.  I know Inga is quite grateful for a place to land.

And here is the Metaphor I have been warming up to all this time:  One makes plans, one makes reservations for the next step in life.  And then you don't get what you planned on.  But, you still have to get down the road to your destination, but some times the route is not as direct as you thought is would/should be.  Turn around and go the direction you need to go - even if it involves a 38-point Y-Turn out in the middle of nowhere.  Be grateful for those who are there to help carry your burdens and loads.  Your U-Haul adventure was but a metaphore for the life ahead.

Embrace the future with faith, confidnece and hope, you will always be surprised by life and the transformations to come.  But cling not to despair.  There is a future for hard-working people with a plan, a dream and a direction.  Go forth with imagination, intelligence, diligence a large soul and an openess to the leading of the Spirit.  Inga, be faithful and you will find it.  Enjoy the journey!

Metamorphic rocks come from intense heat and pressure applied deep underground.  From the philosophy of the metaphoric and metamorphic; when these rocks are lifted back to re-emerge on the surface they become the marble of monumnetal building stone and enduring sculptures as well as the sparkling and glittering phyllites and the humble slate adapted to receive and transmit wisdom of the ages.  You now feel the heat and pressure of life's forces, but know that it is because you stand on transformative ground.  Do not fear this change nor let your dreams parish, your vision is your future - hold to them as to a great treasure.  

It may seem like all that is before you is student loan debt and that you are nothing but a loan in the world - but from your Dad's perspective: you are a blessing and I have no doubt that you will receive blessings and emerge from this metaphoric metamorphic anxiety into a new world that will be a life sculpted into unimagined knowledge and beauty - and to be honest, a fair amount of schist as well.  Be ready to be transformed in spirit and mind.

Hear the words of the prophet Jeremiah to those in exile in a strange land and separated from the familiar: "For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."