As the end of the month approaches, many of us are reflecting on those who have left this world to journey in another place. For mine, they seem close. Part of me knows they always will be close, and part of that knowing is remembering. They have their jobs and tasks to do, and I believe a big one of those is to watch over us. One of our jobs is to keep a thought on them, to remember who they were and what they meant to each of us. The memory is a most amazing place and in our thoughts a bridge to far lands and close friends.

My nephew shared the following memories of my Dad and his Grandfather:

“My Grandpa was someone who always had interesting things to say. I would ask him questions about engineering and science, and he would reply to them in a fascinating, intelligent manner. He would sing songs like ‘You are my Only Sun Shine’ and ‘Ragtime Cowboy Joe,’ and he had all sorts of short wise sayings and was a very gentle man.

“The last thing I discussed with him before the stroke, which changed him for good, was the old vacuum tube radio and record player cabinet. He had a box of vacuum tubes downstairs, and he agreed to look at the machine with me to see if we could get it working. Unfortunately, the stroke claimed him before we were able to complete this. That was almost eight years ago. I still have that box of vacuum tubes.

“I was fascinated by the old computer that he had in one of the rooms. He told me that the machine was separated into a game system part and a computer part, and that he remembered a kid who used to really like playing the original Nintendo.

“One of his projects was the old convertible that he had in the garage. He bought it many years ago, and it sat there unused for as long as I could remember. A day dawned near the time when he got his stroke when either he or someone else got the car working again. He took us for a drive and he gave my Dad a chance to drive it. My Dad noted that it handled like a truck.

“Grandpa would enjoy going out to eat with Grandma and the family. Such outings included the times when we ordered pizza for everyone. Back then, the taco pizza actually included little pieces of tortilla. When I was really young, he would sometimes draw characters like Mickey Mouse on the restaurant napkins.

“Then the stroke happened, and he no longer spoke much, but he was still a joy to be around. His friendly, cheerful demeanor and hearty appetite made up for his lack of speech. For many years he could still walk and would help grandma out with her wheelchair. There was a wit to him that shone through in spite of his muteness, and he would even be interested by things like business magazines and engineering work.

“The departure of my Grandpa is very sad, as all deaths are sad, but it should be noted that he had a wonderful, full life, and he will live on in our hearts forever. We will never forget the wonderful ways in which he touched all our lives and the stories that he left behind with us. I have no doubt that he has gone on to heaven, as he possessed the gentleness of a lamb, the strength of an ox and the brain of a college professor. We will miss him.”

Good thoughts and good memories.

For your enjoyment, here’s the refrain from that favorite of Dad songs, “Ragtime Cowboy Joe”:

“He always sings

“Raggy music to the cattle

“As he swings

“Back and forward in the saddle

“On a horse

“That’s a syncopated gaiter

“There’s-a such a funny meter

“To the roar of his repeater.

“How they run

“When they hear his gun

“Because the Western folks all know

“He’s a high-falutin’, rootin’, shootin’,

“Son of a gun from Arizona,

“Ragtime Cowboy Joe.”

Keep singing, Dad, and telling those stories.

Son Jim

On July 5^th, two days after Mary’s mother Me-Maw died peacefully in her garden, my 91-year old Father died peacefully in Minneapolis, Minnesota with my 94-year old mother nearby to hold his hand.

My Father grew up on a farm in Iowa. Dad had just turned seven when the Stock Market crashed on October 29, 1929, Black Tuesday, and the Great Global Depression started. He always felt they were lucky. The family grew their own food — so they ate, even though they had no cash money. I remember him telling me how they put milk in their bicycle tires, because they couldn’t afford new tubes. I’m not quite sure how that worked, but it was a good story and I’d always think: How did he do that? Dad was a resourceful fellow who was good with his hands. He became a mechanical engineer, started his own firm, and helped build schools, churches and hospitals. He loved his work, he loved to help people, and he loved to eat. I knew his time might be close when my sister sent me an early-morning email saying Dad wasn’t hungry. Dad was always hungry – he grew up during the Depression, and he always cleaned his plate.

We all gathered for the funeral. Mary and I rushed home after MeMaw’s funeral, changed clothes, packed our bags and headed for the airport. It was a good meeting: the 4 children and their spouses, 10 grandchildren and significant others, and 13 of the 15 great grandchildren. Not as big a crowd as that of Mary’s relatives, but a very nice family gathering for a sad and happy celebration of Dad’s, Grandpa’s and Great Granddad’s life.

On the day of the funeral, it was Farmers Market at the church’s upper parking lot. I liked that. We parked below and walked up for the service. Red geraniums lined the steps. I thought how much Dad loved to plant and work with his hands in the soil. He had a rock garden full of flowers, and his white and purple phlox were famous for streets around. The phlox is still one of my favorite flowers, it was one of the first things I drew in grade school, and I seek it out on spring car trips to discover the early blooms. Dad often grew a red geranium in a pot on the back porch. I have one beside the front step that looks much like these.

The petunia is another favorite. In Iowa and Minnesota, the petunia grows all summer long. In the Texas heat, they last only to early summer. I plant them nevertheless. These potted sentinels graced the lane where the hearse was parked.

On the hill nearby, the wildflowers waved.

Among those flowers, the purple prairie clover looked out. This is wild clover. On Dad’s farm, they grew sweet clover. It was full and purplish red and when you pulled out the petals, you could suck the sugar out of the white base. As kids, we loved to visit that field and taste the sweet clover.

Black-eyed susans were bouncing in the mid-day breeze, reminding me of dancing ballerinas and “Corky.” Corky in her tutu is the picture downstairs of my Mom as a girl. Dad met Mom in Nice, France during World War II. Dad had been in the artillery, but they discovered he could sing, play an instrument and tell a joke – corny, but he was always something of a jokester. Well, the folks in charge transferred Dad to Nice to help entertain the troops on leave. My Mom was there with the Red Cross, doing the same thing. One day, they met on the steps of a casino that had been turned into a theatre for the troops. The story is that Dad found out Mom was from Iowa and promptly told her that he was going to marry her. Apparently, Mom was not so taken with him. She slapped him so hard she knocked him down those stairs. Dad was persistent. He sent her a single rose every day. At the end of the War, she hadn’t said “Yes.” They both returned to their separate homes in Iowa, about 100 miles apart. The rest of the story is that one day Dad was out there on the tractor plowing in the field, when a sibling rushed up yelling that a girl was on the phone. Dad jumped off, rushed inside, rushed out, jumped in the car and took off. The tractor was still running. I was born about a year later. You gotta’ watch out for those dancing ballerinas.

Butterfly weed. That’s what they call this golden orange wildflower in Minnesota. On the hill as we drove off following Dad in the hearse, the butterfly weed was bright as the sun. When we arrived home a few days later, a little orange flower was in a pot on the front bench. They looked the same. My granddaughter with my mother’s name had left it for us.

We drove between the fields of white markers, row-on-row under the blue sky, and stopped for the interment ceremony at Fort Snelling National Cemetery. The old soldiers were already there, standing at attention with their vintage rifles. The squad gave Dad a 21-gun salute, and the officer-in-charge presented Mom a neatly folded American flag. The children held their ears. We all cried a bit. Then, the kids ran and played between the white stone markers.

My granddaughter with Corky’s smile pulled a rose from one of the arrangements and placed it in my lapel. I have it still. As we left, I watched the white markers of the soldiers climb the far hill and thought, “It’s really not that far.”

For each story, there’s an end and a new beginning.

Grandpa Jim

It is with sadness I inform you that Uncle Joe’s mother died in her garden on July 3^rd. MeMaw, as she was called by her 12 children, 27 grandchildren and 18 great grandchildren, was picking tomatoes. My wife and Uncle Joe are two of those twelve children. The garden this year was one of Me-Maw’s best. A son-in-law found her resting peacefully between the rows, a smile on her face. The bowl of tomatoes was placed carefully on the ground. Not a tomato was lost.

I walked the garden the next day, the Fourth of July, and took these pictures. The day was cool for Texas, like MeMaw had arranged the weather, and the sun was bright and welcoming.

Down past the tomato plants and over in the corner, I found the watermelons. One was already inside on the counter waiting for the arrving relatives and friends. Over the next five days, until the funeral on Monday, July 8^th, I think we had watermelon for every meal.

The cantaloupes were not quite ready. Here’s a pair peaking out to watch the garden strollers. Whenever I looked out, someone was walking in the garden between the plants.

MeMaw’s garden is so old that the okra grows wild, pushed back to make room for the other vegetables, but always left to bloom, produce and seed for the next year. See the little ones here — with a morning yellow and black-centered flower hidden between the leaves. It’s best to pick the okra small, because the small ones are the tenderest and the best for canning. Folks were in the building beside the house canning or packing vegetables every day – okra included. I don’t think it will stop.

Most of the tomatoes had been picked by the time I reached the garden. Here are a few green waiting for the next days to ripen, and one red waving goodbye. There’s nothing quite like a fresh tomato.

The green beans were wiggling and stretching, hoping to join their friends in the kitchen.

Along the side of the house is an old peach tree. That tree has weathered many a storm. It’s not as big as it used to be, and it bends some where it hangs over the sidewalk. Despite the many seasons, I found peaches ripening on its branches, proving the worth of that old friend. MeMaw loved her peach jams, jellies, pies and cobblers.

Not far away are the pomegranates. An odd fruit, about the only thing that ever happened to a pomegranate was to get eaten by a kid. Eat and Spit. Spit and Eat. It was great fun for many a child over many of year.

The poppies were gone. After the poppy flowers bloom, MeMaw would wait for the pods to dry on the stems. She’d know they were ready when she’d shake them and hear the little black seeds inside rattle back and forth. Then, she’d snip the pods, sit in a chair on the back porch, carefully cut the tops off the pods and pour the seeds into a bowl. When the bowl was full, MeMaw would transfer the precious cargo to plastic bags to store in the cool of the freezer. The seeds would patiently wait there until rescued, ground and boiled into the sweet-tasting poppy seed mixture for poppy seed kolaches and buchta. Me-Maw’s poppy seed buchta was the best.

Back to the porch and Grandma with those pods, MeMaw always saved the “empty” pods because she always left a few of the tiny black seeds inside. She’d take those pods and throw them over the plowed garden for next year’s poppies and next year’s poppy seed crop. There was always a next year for MeMaw.

This year someone else will spread the poppy pods. Next year, there will be poppy flowers to welcome MeMaw’s garden.

We miss you, Dear One, and look forward to seeing you again,

Grandpa Jim

The following is an overheard conversation that occurred a few weeks ago outside the NorthPark Mall in Dallas, Texas:

“The sun is the highest I’ve ever seen it.”

“No, it’s the highest in the sky that you’ve seen the sun since last June 20, 2012. This is June 21, 2013. It’s the summer solstice.”

“What’s that?”

“In the Northern Hemisphere, the summer solstice is the first official day of summer. It’s the day when our sun, ‘sol’, appears to stand still, ‘stice’, as high up in the sky as it will get. After the summer solstice, that burning fireball reverses its path and starts moving south again. Today, on the summer solstice, the northern half of our planet enjoys the most sun, the most daylight, of the whole year.”

“Cool.”

“No, warm, even hot, because on this day up here in the north you see more of our star than any other day.”

“Is this as hot as it will get?”

“Nope, this is Texas, it will get hotter.”

“Even though . . . the days will get shorter?”

“Yep?”

“Why?”

“The short answer is the atmosphere is recovering from the cold weather and heating up slowly. The more precise answer goes something like this: Even though the heat input is at maximum on the solstice day, the rate of heat input (gain) striking the Earth continues to be greater than the rate of heat dissipation (loss) from the Earth for some time. In fact, through much of the summer, more heat is entering the Northern Hemisphere than is leaving. So, until the days get much shorter and the heat loss exceeds the heat gain, the average daytime temperature keeps increasing. As autumn approaches, the balance falls back, and the shorter days start to become cooler.”

“Cool.”

“Right. I knew you’d get it.”

“But . . . now it’s getting hotter?”

“You got it there — fry-an-egg-on-the-street-and-eat-it-with-hot-sauce, hotter-in-Texas hot. And, here is a picture of the egg popping in its frying pan on the concrete:

“For that egg, you will, of course, need a liberal ladeling of hotter-than-hot Texas hot sauce. So, for you to try, here’s a local bottle of one of our favorite salsas with its fire-engine red label, jalapeno man with shades and the warm warning: “Not Responsible for Obsession.”

“To salvage those burning taste buds, you quickly pick some cooling mint:

“Then, you rush into the kitchen, where Ms. Mary crushes that fresh mint into a pitcher of ice water with fresh lime for that oh so refresing: Ms. Mary’s Summer Mint Water:

“Smacking your lips and beginning to feel your mouth again after your jentacular repast from the street, you stare at the quintessential Dallas, Texas summer bloom — the white crepe myrtle:

“Responding to a hushed cry from inside, you rush back to spy the rising Texas sun burning through the roofs of Uptown Dallas:

“Swiveling your head, you catch the mists before the Opera in Paris, France evaporating at the solar assault of the Lone Star State, as you quickly pull the shades and save the scene:

“As a matter of fact, I just looked into my crystal ball and the temperature in Dallas will hit 100 degrees Fahrenheit (37.8 Celsius) for the first time next Thursday, June 27^th. On Friday, June 28^th, the triple digits will soar to 104 degrees F (40 C), dropping back to 100 F on Saturday, followed by a cool front.”

“Cool. Why?”

“Because the weather in Texas is unpredictable. You know that?”

“How cool?”

“Well, today, if today were Monday, July 1^st (and it is, but don’t tell everyone), the high at 3:53 pm was 88 degrees Fahrenheit (31.1 degrees Celsius), and that’s really cool for a high in Dallas in July.”

“If that were today (and I’m confused, because I thought we started talking today, June 21^st), then what would be tonight’s low — whatever night it is?”

“You are perfectly right to be confused, because today is June 21^st and today is July 1^st, and the predicted low on July 1, 2013, tonight, is 64 degrees F (17.8 C).”

“Cool . . . I think.”

“You can say and think that again (but, please don’t), because the average low for this evening in Dallas has been 75 F (23.9 C), for a predicted difference of -11 degrees F (-6.1 C) with where tonight is going.”

“Will it actually be that cool in the middle of the beginning of a hot summer?”

“I don’t know. I can’t predict the future. Can you?”

“Tomorrow, I can . . . I think.”

“Cool.”

* * *

And, you stay cool in the hot weather, if you can – even if you have to jump back and forth, fry an egg on the sidewalk, cover breakfast with hot sauce and gulp a big glass of Ms. Mary’s Summer Mint Water to stay refreshed and have fun with the sun.

Happy Summer!!

Grandpa Jim

It’s a blockbuster.

My granddaughter and I were wondering what to do Monday morning. Everyone else was working. “Grandpa,” Katelyn said, “Man of Steel.” “Superman?” I asked. “Yep,” she confirmed.

So, with no one watching, we steeled off to the theatre for the 11 am show.

“The Man of Steel” is a phrase that dates back to 1986 when the comic-book Superman was revamped, restructured and upgraded with a new look. Yes, Superman started in the comics. In fact, two high school kids living in Cleveland, Ohio discovered the superhero in 1933. Jerry Siegel was the kid-writer and Joe Shuster was the kid-artist who together described and drew the blue costume, red cape and red-and-yellow “S” on the chest of the man-from-Krypton. He was, even then, a dashing figure.

In 1938, the two young people sold the Kansas farm boy with the hidden powers to Detective Comics (which became DC Comics). Siegel and Shuster bartered their rights to Superman for $130 dollars in cash and a contract to provide DC Comics more super materials. In retrospect, the price was not much for the person-from-another-planet-with-the-amazing-powers who would become an international cultural icon.

Superman first appeared in Action Comics #1, the June 1938 inaugural issue. The cover is that of a tight-suited, clean-cut figure in a flowing cape running with a car lifted above his head. The strongman drives that car into the shattered remains of what is obviously the bad-guy’s transport, as the local citizenry run screaming away, their hands in the air. Without a doubt, the man-of-first-appearance made quite a first impression.

And, he did. He initiated the comic-book boom in super-heroes-in-tights. Who would have thought guys in tights would sell comic books? Our two kids from Cleveland did, and so did DC Comics. In fact, Superman-in-the-Comics became so popular that in February 2010 an original Action Comics #1 with the car-tossing-man-in-tights sold at auction for a cool $1,000,000. Superman is here to stay.

Now, on to the movies.

Paramount Pictures first hired Superman to do a series of seventeen, ten-minute, animated cartoons between 1941 and 1943. Of course, Superman posed for the cartoonists, but he wasn’t actually in the pictures.

Apparently, the purchasers-of-tickets-to-dark-theatres liked what they saw. In 1948, Columbia Pictures coaxed Superman to appear in the live-action film entitled simply “Superman.” In 1950, Columbia asked the increasingly-popular speedster to re-appear in “Atom Man vs. Superman.” As the last title suggests, the plot was thickening.

In 1951, “Superman and the Mole Men” tunneled into theatres everywhere. The film was fifty-eight minutes long, was shot in 12 days on a studio back-lot, and was a trial run for the TV series “Adventures of Superman.” Interestingly, an actor by the name of George Reeves played this Superman who bridged the movies to T.V.

In 1978, the real Superman movies started with “Superman I” and an all-star cast. Marlon Brando played Jor-El, the Kryptonite father of Kal-El (Superman’s space-born name before he landed in Kansas and moved in with the Kents). Gene Hackman entered the scene as the evil and dastardly Lex Luthor – boo, hiss. And, of course, Christopher Reeve (no apparent relation to George of the Mole Men above) was the clear-eyed man-in-the-skies and the mild-mannered Clark Kent on-the-ground with the dark glasses slipping from his, or Clark’s, nose as they both fall for Margot Kidder playing the knowing and ever-caring Lois Lane – hooray, much clapping and great fanfare.

The series was born: “Superman I” (1978), “Superman II” (1980), “Superman III” (1983), and “Superman IV: The Quest for Peace (1987).” Superman Reeve and Reporter Kidder starred in all four, and all four were financial successes, but near the end the fans were getting tired. A change was needed, and Superman retired from the cinemas . . . for a while . . . to contemplate what should be his role for a changing planet.

Superman attempted a return in 2006 in “Superman Returns.” It wasn’t the same. A tragic accident had paralyzed Christopher Reeve. He could not return for the role. The new actors received positive reviews and the film did well at the box office, but it really . . . well . . . it wasn’t Superman. Maybe Superman was a hero-of-the-past, without a home or a need in the new age.

Last Monday, for us, the “Man of Steel” returned. There is a realism in this new film that I don’t remember since I opened my first comic book years ago. It’s not the same and I know that, but somehow it is and I don’t know exactly why, but it is. All the fantastic special-and-can’t-be-avoided effects assaulting me in my lounged-and-tiered recliner are there. I was anchored firmly in place to the floor of the timeless-and-dark-polished mega hall of mesmerization and sensory deprivation, but somehow all the trappings of the modern cinema didn’t seem to matter. I even forgot I had on 3-D glasses.

I’d never seen this person before, this Clark Kent, but I had. I know I’d never seen Krypton like this, but I had – I just didn’t remember . . . until now. This was new, but it had always been there. When I tossed our empty popcorn bag and nacho container into the leaving trash receptacle, I knew that. As I carried our shared Superman-memorial soda cup into the mall and Katelyn adjusted her “I-Love-Superman” sunglasses, I knew it had always been there. I just hadn’t seen it before.

I’m glad Superman is back. Take a look and see for yourself. You may not be surprised. You may find an old friend, or maybe a new one. Superman is like that – timeless, I hope.

See you at the theatre – I’m going back for a second look,

Grandpa Jim

The winter wheat is late this year. In fact, the farmers of central Texas are just now harvesting the golden fields of grain, and we are only ten days from the first day of summer.

Why do they call it winter wheat?

Now, that is a very good question. In this part of Texas – down from Dallas/Fort Worth through Abbot, West and Penelope to Waco, the farmers planted the seeds for the current crop back in November of last year — 2012. Remember, fall of 2012 started on September 22, 2012, and our past winter started on December 21, 2013. So, the wheat seed was planted in the fall, but it’s not called fall wheat.

I just talked to Uncle Joe down on the farm and asked when he planted his winter wheat. The response was November 26, 2012. I asked Joe what he was doing today, and he said he was harvesting winter wheat. Hmmmm, I thought, and inquired, “When would you normally harvest the wheat?” “About May 15^th to the 25^th,” was Uncle Joe’s answer.

Folks, this winter wheat harvest in Texas is about a month late, just making it in before the end-of-spring line, which is June 20, 2013, and nudging right up there to summer, which begins June 21, 2013. It may be that some farmers will be harvesting winter wheat in the good old summertime — after June 21st.

I asked Uncle Joe why the wheat was late growing this year. “It didn’t rain until Christmas,” was the ready explanation.

With no rain, it appears the wheat seeds rested and enjoyed the Holiday lights, waiting for a Christmas Day gift of moisture falling from above, before germinating and breaking the surface of the dark plowed ground.

“But, why do they call it winter wheat?” I asked Uncle Joe, remembering the reason I’d called.

“Because our wheat grows in the winter,” I heard over my cell phone. “Wheat up Kansas way, as far south as Oklahoma, is planted later because of the cold. That wheat comes up in the spring. They call it spring wheat, because it grows in the spring. Our winters are milder in Texas, so we can plant in the fall and the wheat grows in the winter – winter wheat.”

Makes sense.

“What you using to harvest the wheat?” I asked.

“A combine with a platform head and reel,” Uncle Joe answered, matter-of-factly.

“And, how’s the yield look?” I was curious, what with late rains and a late harvest.

“In an average year,” Uncle Joe began, always careful not to answer a question too directly, without some background information and time for thought. “In a good year, we’ll average about 50 bushels.”

“That’s per acre, right?”

“Right . . . per acre.”

“And . . . how’s it looking this year?” I was getting curious.”

“Pretty good, I’d say.”

“About how good?” The suspense was getting to me.

“Most is coming in at . . . or above . . . say . . . 60 . . . some up to 80.”

“Wow, Joe, 60-80 bushels per acre for winter wheat. I mean, that’s great.”

“Not bad. Would you like me to send you some pictures of the harvest?”

“Sure, Joe. I’ll put ‘em in the blog post.”

 * * *

Check back later. When I get those winter wheat pictures, I’ll post them right here.

It may take a while. Uncle Joe’s out there right now bringing home the harvest.

Now, that’s got a right nice ring to it, wouldn’t you say?

* * *

For your perusal and enjoyment, here are the pictures from Uncle Joe of the ongoing winter wheat harvest.

I call this first one “golden wheat at evening with the combine working and the corn stalks beyond tasseling.” It sure looks like that corn is making for a fine harvest of its own.

See the sun catching Uncle Joe or Brother Charles (can’t tell who is driving) right in the eye. I think that far-off corn is growing as we watch.

It looks to me like that combine below is heading back to the road to lighten all that grain it’s hauling.

Sure enough, I see Brother Charles off-loading those wheat kernels in a golden stream to the waiting grain wagon. It doesn’t seem these farmers are stopping for dark. The shadows are lengthening.

After a gulp of Gatorade and half a sandwich, they’re back at it. You can see the wheat straw left behind by the combine. That straw can be raked and baled for cattle feed. Down at the farm, pretty much everything goes to some use. It’s that way in the country — always has been.

Below, Charles has made the turn for another cut and glean. A word about that turn. The entire field is mapped by a Global Positioning System (GPS). Uncle Joe installed a tower back by the cow barn. The satellites in space talk to the combine’s onboard computer through that tower. When the turn is made, the computer processes the GPS information and aligns the combine for the next cut. Day or night, the combine can roll and the harvest continue.

And, night it is getting to be. But, the combine keeps cutting, the wheat keeps piling and the farmers keep working. It’s that way at harvest time. And, I’m glad it is. So, we can wake up to that bowl of cereal and just keep eating.

Right nice of them, don’t you think?

Grandpa Jim

Is witch hazel a witch itself, or is that twitching the hazel witching?

Witch hazel is a popular, ornamental, flowering, deciduous shrub. “Deciduous” is a word meaning the leaves fall off the plant in the winter.

The flowers of the witch hazel are unusual in that they often appear on the barren stems after the leaves have fallen and the skies turned cold. The witch hazel plant is thought to have originated in North America, Japan and China. The North American species is sometimes called “winterbloom,” because that is what it does – it blooms in winter, and there the story begins. . . .

Witch hazel flowers are clustered together, with each separate blossom having four long, slender, strap-shaped petals extending from a core bloom. These straps, which are finger-like in appearance, can be yellow, orange or red. Altogether, the flowers look quite bizarre. On a winter’s trek through a barren wood with a bracing wind blowing, the twitching fingers of the witch hazel could be seen to twist and reach out toward the walker — as if casting a spell. I am reminded of the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz, her face contorted under the tall, black, pointed hat and those long-nailed fingers wiggling out to scare Dorothy and her little dog, Toto.

Perhaps, witches have always behaved in this way. It may be part of the show — you know. If you’ve ever ventured through the naked woods to buy a potion from one of the original purveyors of pharmaceuticals (or watched from the safety of a theatre seat), you know you want to feel you’re going to get your monies worth – that this is the real thing. For credibility, perhaps the witches of movies and lore have had to look the part, as they bend over the boiling and bubbling cauldrons and wiggle their fingers, before reaching out the vials and taking the coins from the shaking hands of their customers.

You were never so glad to leave. Rushing back along the path, you spy the colorful hazel blooms and mutter to yourself, “Witch hazel, witch hazel,” and hurry on your way. Apparently, the name stuck, and that odd winter plant with the finger-like petals came to be known as the witch hazel.

Reinforcing this interpretation is the fact that the word “witch” derives from the Middle English word “wiche.” “Wiche” itself comes from the Old English word “wice,” which means pliant or bendable. In the Old England of yore, hazel twigs were used as divining rods. A divining or dowsing rod was used to find ground water, buried metals, gemstones and gravesites. It was thought the divining rod would bend toward that which was hidden in the ground. The bending of the finger-like stick resembles the fingers of a witch’s hands twitching and pointing down into the pot of newt’s eye and frog’s leg. We see there the origins of the word “witch” — in the words and traditions for finger-like motions and appearances.

It was, I fear, fated that the strange-looking, cold-weather bloom with its pliant and bendable finger-like petals would seem of witching origins. Those petals moved like a witching rod, and they may well have appeared to the viewer hurrying past to resemble the hovering hands of the ladies of legend plying their trade in natural medicinals.

Between the two of us, I know the witch hazel is no witch itself, but I still see through its winter flowers a land of flying monkeys and hear far off a cackling laugh.

It never hurts to have a bucket of fresh water standing by. . . .

Just in case – you know,

Grandpa Jim

Will a herd of wholly mammoths again be heard pounding the grassy steppes of Siberia?

The possibility exists – if a living mammoth cell can be found, and the extinct animal can be cloned from that living cell.

In the paper last week, it was reported that a wooly mammoth carcass had been found on the Lyakhovsky Islands off the north coast of Siberia. This is not new news. Folks up there have been digging up mammoths for years. So, what’s the big deal with this latest find?

Blood

This mammoth had been flash frozen in pure ice. And, in the icy cavities beneath the prehistoric tusked creature, pools of dark red blood were spied. When the scientists broke through the ice, the blood came running out. Samples were collected, packed with preservatives and sent to Yakutsk, Russian for evaluation. If there are living blood cells in those samples, the possibility of a successfully cloned de-extinct young mammoth just went up remarkably.

The reason the scientists are so excited is that the blood of mammoths is thought not to freeze in extreme temperatures. In part, scientists believe this is what kept those behemoths of old trudging through the frozen landscapes of Siberia 10,000 years and more ago. Mammoth blood is apparently a type of antifreeze that kept the big animals warm – along, of course, with a healthy dose of fat and a very serious wooly overcoat. The temperature at the site where the blood was found was about 17 degrees Fahrenheit (-8 degrees Celsius). And still the blood flowed. Ladies and gentlemen, we may have a living mammoth cell.

If that cell is alive, here is how the cloning may work. Scientist will coax the cell to re-produce into more cells, hopefully many more individual cells – say a couple of million cells for starters. Cloning is not a sure thing — so, the more raw material to start, the better the chances of success. Next, those smart guys in the back room will try to re-program some of those cells, that are so quickly dividing, to grow together into an embryo, that is, a little baby mammoth. (This has to be very tricky step, but the science of cloning has advanced, and a living embryo is apparently a very doable thing – if you can get a bunch of living cells to start.) Then, that little baby mammoth embryo will be implanted into a surrogate elephant mother’s womb. (Elephants are the closest living relatives to mammoths.) If all this can be accomplished (and you can see there are a great many “if’s”), the next step is PATIENCE. The normal gestation period for an elephant is about two years. So, get ready to wait, and wait, and wait. And, when the phone rings in the middle of night two years from now, jump into the car and rush to the elephant hospital and wait, and wait, and wait some more. . . .

What’s that noise?

It sounds like a loud rumbling, like a stomach growling.

A baby elephant is called a calf. A calf may stand three feet (one meter) tall and is usually quite hairy with a long tail and a very short trunk.

The stomach of a baby elephant calf will make loud rumbling and growling noises that other elephants can hear. To Mom, this is a contented sound saying, “Everything is okay, and where’s the food?”

At that moment, the delivery room door crashes open and the baby elephant doctor rushes out, pulls his mask aside and shouts, “It’s a boy!” He pauses and adds, “A very hairy, wooly, healthy mammoth calf!”

Now, that’s a story I want to read. It may well be better than Ian Fleming and 007. For fun, the cloning experts may want to borrow one from the James Bond titles. If I may suggest, those very happy grumblings sound to me like “From Russia With Love.” How about to you?

I hope someone brought a lot of baby food,

Grandpa Jim

I started to write this piece to explain why I write.

“Why do I write?” I asked myself.

Good question, I thought, and immediately sermons came to mind.

A good sermon-giver often has numbered points and those numbered points often start with the same letter – to help you remember what the preacher said when you rush out afterwards for Sunday brunch (we know you were thinking about lunch at church). At the restaurant, someone is going to ask: “What did Brother John say?” If Brother John ordered his points and used the same starting letter to alliterate and reinforce your memory, you may remember the words and quite impress the table company with your theological acumen.

The “FIVE E’s” are: 1. Express, 2. Entire, 3. Entertain, 4. Encourage and 5. Excite.

That’s why I write. I think it’s why anyone does what they love to do.

#1, Express: I, like you, want to express myself. I want to let others know how I feel about things, life, the news, colors, numbers, the cold I had last week, and what my Grandmother told me all those years ago that just popped into my head. The first “e” is Express, because we all need to do it, and we should. We need to express who we are and what we’re about.

#2, Entire: The second “e” is Entire, because, quite simply, we do what we do to be complete. We each have a nudging feeling of incompleteness, like when the TV show stops and the commercials start, we know there is something more, and we feel compelled to wait and see. The wait-and-see is our need to be completed, to be finished, to be entire. That’s why we never stop looking for stuff to do, things to be better at — that rainbow just over the hill and around the bend that will answer all our dreams and make us perfect. Of course, we never find perfection, but we never stop seeking. And, when we find something we love to do and we know we want to do it, we go head-and-sinker overboard to get better at it, to make-or-break, to sink-or-swim, to be-the-best and show-the-world. That’s why I write. To some extent, I think it’s why we all do what we do – to be Entire.

#3, Entertain: Selfishness will only get you so far. The first two “e’s,” necessary though they be, are I-centered e’s: I want to Express myself; I want to be Entire. Self-based motivation is absolutely necessary for a good jump off the line, but it will never carry you through to the finish. Now, we turn to the U-based e’s. I may not look altruistic, but I do know I can never do for myself if I don’t do for others. So, I write to Entertain you. I want to Entertain you. Without someone else involved and appreciating what I’ve done, there’s really no point in me doing anything – and certainly not what I love to do. We are social creatures. We must interact. Entertain is also the secret of the second “e,” Entire. Try as we might, we will never feel complete until someone else smiles back at us and says, “Well done.” We entertain because the buck does not stop here, it goes from me to you and back again. I must Entertain you to be Entire; I must Entertain to Express myself; and I must Entertain so that we together can be more than me.

#4, Encourage: Every once in a while, you learn a Secret of the Universe. This is a big one: Encourage. There is no greater motivator in the history of man and woman, and no greater return for your efforts. I write to encourage you, to bring a smile to your face, a quick step to your walk and a word to share with others. It’s a snowball effect. When you do something you love to do, those around you see it, they feel it, it brightens their lives, they are encouraged, and they share that warmth and energy with others, where it starts to roll, to gather mass and momentum, and pretty soon, you turn a corner, and SMACK – it hits you right in the face, knocking you down with a laugh and a smile and the realization: “I started that.” Yes, you did. Encouragement never returns empty-handed. It’s the gift we get by the Encourage we gave that comes back to Encourage us even more.

#5, Excite: As you lie there, knocked down by the snowball of Encourage-ment on the rebound, you feel it. I’m excited, you pinch yourself. Others are excited, your eyes widen. I feel great; I’ve got energy, you jump out, dazed and a bit light-headed. What happened? The Five E’s are what happened. You practice the first four (Express, Entire, Entertain and Encourage), and the fifth (Excite) is the bonus ribbon on the package for you and others. It’s not that you do what you do to obtain excitement. It’s that when you do what you do to Express yourself, to be Entire, to Entertain and Encourage others, the Excite just happens, and the energy will flow. There is no guarantee of good health, but if you practice the E’s, you will have done everything you can do. You will Excite and you will be Excited. Some might say it doesn’t get any better than that.

So, what was the sermon about?

Swallow, before you answer,

Grandpa Jim