Thirty - Thirtieth

I am but one. I am only one. I am alone. I am weak. I am afraid. I am stressed. I am lost. I am confussed.   But, now because I am with her, or better, bound to her by covenant, eternal in nature, done by one holding the priesthood power of  a loving God, yes to her with the auburn accented brown hair and dark brown eyes, eyes with a clear view of her goals looking forward and not backward,  her with the uncompromising attitude for obedience to God, love for her Savior and commitment to family, her with the lips that speak no ill of another, lips from which pleasant tones spoken, bypassing my ears and penetrating my heart, summon me, because of that, "our marriage"; I am still one, but I am one with her. I am never alone, even when spearated because she is litterally a part of me. When she is with me, my strength is renewed, I am confident, I fear nothing, (but spiders - she kills them for me), I am calm and at peace and can now see clearly myself, even more, I can see "myself" more clearly.

                                                                      One...?

...or Two...?

We're One!

I bring her flowers....

 ...and she makes me cookies.

 Thanks honey for thirty years of sunsets.

Grandma Wilkeys Furnace

Just shy of July...

Small beads of sweat begin to form on my head, invisible to the naked eye, as a thick mugginess envelopes me. I finish quenching the thirst of the dozen and a half live plants, and a few fake ones (they look so real), clinging to life in the hostile environment.

Gently a sweet and seemingly innocent voice inquires, “Do you think we need to turn off the ‘Pilot’ lights?”

I hesitate at the thought, then scramble to release the kitchen floor-furnace of its responsibility to heat the kitchen and dining area of the 1900’s vintage home, being that we are just four days away from the month of July and only four more days away from that day we call the fourth of July (took a lot to come up with a name for that holiday) and only then would it be just eight days away from my birthday, but wait, I am detracting from my story. Oh yeah, uh scrambling…So, using the control handle for the “temperature level” I place it over the “pilot” control rod – success! A fit. I turn the control fully clockwise, and another success! The pilot dims and then, with a last little huff, extinguishes.

I then approach the living room furnace with the same hopes of simplicity, to extinguish the flame we call “pilot” and relieve the living plants of the excessive heat being wastefully generated. To my anxiety the “pilot” control lever has been disabled, thus requiring one to manually operate the control from the underside of the house. “Not me,” I thought, justifying that the temperature has been this hot for this long, another day or two or three would be just fine until another, more braver, more responsibly minded, energy conscious person could perform the task. Returning to the kitchen area of the house the once innocent voice asks again, “So do we need to go downstairs to turn off the pilot light?” “We?” I allow to flash through my thoughts. As much as I like the “We” thing, THIS was just going to be a “Me” thing; separate, single, and alone – not appealing whatsoever.

Here is where weakness rules fear, nothing here about faith mind you. I have a weakness to respond to that voice – ok, but let’s move on. Slowly I descend the thirteen stairs, armed. (I should not have counted them.) Armed with a 14 L.E.D. flashlight (something in between the size that the Easter Bunny might leave in your basket or the Tooth Fairy might leave under your pillow in lieu of money for a rotten tooth) in one hand and a broom in the other. Having received no prior training in self-defense for either weapon, yet I proceeded, though with questionable confidence. As I descended to the basement floor the coolness was suddenly apparent and refreshing.

Quickly the beads of sweat mention as I opened my story were gone. Cautiously I proceed to the far bedroom to gain access to the underside of the house, glancing both left and right as I go,

quickly flipping on every switch I pass to regain my wits as the lights illuminate my path.

Arriving in the corner of the room at the access panel, situated approximately four feet off the floor, my fears returned and the coolness became unapparent as the sweat returned to my forehead. A cold sweat.

Trying to make light of the situation and to be brave (because there was a woman upstairs who delights in a brave man) I tapped on the access panel. It was probably only milliseconds later when I felt the bump on my head from jumping back and hitting my head on the overhanging furnace exhaust vent pipe after having heard a reply tap. Recapturing some of the “brave”that I once owned I pursued my quest, speaking to myself with words of reassurance that there was a reasonable explanation, yet wanting to have this discussion with myself in a room with more people, above ground level, and in the daylight. Me and I came to grips with each other and we agreed to proceed.

Slowly, I removed the access panel, continually assuring myself of a clear exit path while doing so.

After using my weapon of choice, the broom, I removed all possible signs of webs in the opening (thinking pleasant thoughts of fishing in the Uinta mountains while doing so) knowing full well that should I come into contact with one of those webs I would be launched into a “wigged-out fit”,

...something comparable to diabetic suffering a seizure.

Now…just beyond my reach sat the gas control valve. Heaven only knows why the engineer didn’t make a shut off lever instead of a knob that requires one to turn it, a feat I could not perform from my position. Here again I began to argue with myself, posing all that I am up against; i.e. Sunday clothes, spider webs, not to mention spiders (ok I’m not mentioning them). Considering other people (including hundreds of other relatives) that could perhaps be coaxed with candy from their parents to climb in and simply turn the knob which would shut off the valve, douse the pilot, and subsequently cool the house. Or at least, not heat it. I again, lost the argument. (Please make a note of the following – should you decide to use this bedroom in further sleep-overs.) I obtained a pillow from the nearby bed, placed it over the opening of the portal, climbed into the access hole, looking around for any movement (I should not have looked), reached carefully , ever so slowly as to not deviate from the cleared path and then quickly turned the knob to the off position. Thrusting myself from the access hole, like a cat jumping from a pool of water, I replaced the access door and somewhat speedily returned to the living room, praying as I went that the “pilot” was doused.

Peering down into the spyglass atop the furnace, I observed nothing but darkness. Prayers are answered!

Since returning from this disturbing experience my right hand has randomly and involuntarily gone into some sort of agitated flapping fit, like a short flag in high winds, because of a mentally scarred feeling of a brush with a web upon exiting the access hole.

"Fall" - to your knees.

      Sneaking in like a stranger coming through the back door of your home, all too well disguised with myriads of shades of reds, yellows and orange leaves, and teamed with several heart warming mid-day afternoons followed by crisp evening breeezes, along with heavily dew'd morning grasses sprinkled in spots with a dusting of frost, a scene that any earthly artist has yet to reproduce in magnitude, "Fall" arrives.

       Green tree leaves once shielding the gound beneath from the harsh rays of the summers sun, now, in reverse, as if giving off the sunlight they have collected all summer, present a brilliant display; in effect creating an endless sunset that lasts for days.

       With its' arrival one may quickly offer a "cold shoulder" rather than accept it's offerings of beauty and harvests. However, taking a bite out of a fresh picked red delicious apple, shortly after Falls' magical coating of frost in the orchard, or perhaps sampling some fresh warm apple pie filling, may be all that it takes to quickly warm a heart to the season and cause one to not think of what was lost or suddenly gone but turn outward, in gratitude, for what they have, as well as what they had.

Thank you.
Dedicated to the most grateful person I know. Mom Wilkey

mind travel

Not long ago, when the moon was just a crescent sliver in the western sky, I was out in the back yard wishing on a falling star (ends up it was a satellite), when I realized that I had not put in adequate time at my favorite lake in the Uinta mountains, called Hidden Lake, and for those of you that know I’m bluffing,  I’m calling it Decoy Lake. Nonetheless and while I was further reflecting on my last trip there, the memory of the cool crisp pine scented breeze blowing across my sun warmed scalp while standing there on the edge of the lake, its ripples, so intensely reflecting the setting sunlight that it appeared like suspended diamonds, and to the lens of my camera, magical accents of bokeh, I could not remember my password. Talk about an escape!

Bokeh life.

Her reading began instantly and subtley as a cozy spot in the sun was procured.

When suddenly and magically they appeared; just a short distance away, as if summoned simply by thought, as her reading took her into a world of fantasy and fiction, small yet brillant glimmers of light, or was it "life".

For the most part, in the beginning, except for one, they kept their distance. They, the "life" were seemingly sensitive to motion and sound, or perhaps just a break in concentration on the part of the reader.

Further stealing herself from her surroundings reading deeper into the pages of her book these small life like glimmers drew closer and more brilliant as if to assist her, the reader, into deeper more realistic realms of her story.

The plot thickens, the story line intensifies, the characters taking on personalities and traits that she, the reader, can so intimately relate to, the events growing more realistic,

...closing the gap of time lines of hundreds of years, creating a strong sense of time travel.

My presence is again noticed, the distraction pulls her back, momentarily, to my world.

But not completely, as observed by a single glimmer of light spilling out from the pages of her book.

The End ...or is it?