In The Cigar Box

On the grounds of the Kansas City Art Institute one rolling classic work of art after another found its spot.  Each place was reserved for a particular car with space enough to see the sun and shadows dance in the gleaming shine of the lacquer paint on the panels, fenders and chrome accents that made each machine unique.  The entry parade is like the circus has arrived and the large trucks disgorge the treasures that had been transported from across the land to this rolling meadow resting between the dorms, studios and classrooms where art is the only mission. The rumble of an Austin Healy 3000 is as distinctive as James Earl Jones’ voice.  In Love Story , Oliver drove an MG TC whose canvas top remained stowed with no regard for temperature or precipitation.  (Although, as anyone who loves MG’s knows, the top and side curtains did not deter the cold nor the rain from reaching the driver’s body.)  A Jaguar XKE, two Corvettes and a Porsche Speedster almost s...

Going home with all of the marbles sounds good.  Losing your marbles is a fate to be avoided.  If, however, you only lose your Pee Wees and keep your Shooters or Boulders, you still have something in the bag. On summer days in Fisher, my brother, a couple of second cousins, two neighbor boys and I would draw a circle in the dirt big enough for six young boys to have room to shoot.  We each had to contribute some Pee Wees or Targets to the center of the ring before the game could start. Each of us carried a drawstring pouch usually made of light canvas or burlap.  Ours were home-made by Aunt Jessie on her treadle Singer while we impatiently watched the process of threading, stitching, filling the bobbin, and clipping the last stitch.  Gerry’s and mine were made from different colors of material left over from some prior project.  Aunt J always took care to make sure the material was manly - not frilly remnants from a lady’s dress or kitchen curtain...

Are we special – or not special? The commencement speech that went viral on YouTube last month was delivered by David McCullough Jr. to the graduating class where he teaches. While the bulk of his address was intended to challenge the young graduates to aspire to great heights and to work hard to achieve those aspirations, the most often quoted or replayed segment is where he reminds those seniors that they are “not special.”  He used statistics to demonstrate that there are thousands, hundreds of thousands or even millions of other people who are roughly equivalent (in skill, situation, accomplishments, opportunity, capacity and so on) to each person in his audience. In our church this past Sunday, the sermon related to Father’s Day.  From Genesis, scripture recounts the story of the time Abraham was commanded by God to sacrifice his son Isaac.  The thoughtful sermon drew on the similarities and differences between God’s love of all of his children and a father...

This time of year dawn breaks in the small hours.  No one else was up.  There were still a few hours until the mandatory checkout – departure time.  My family slumbered while I was alone on the deck watching the sun’s rays pierce the horizon and paint the eastern sky pastel pink to purple.  Another great week with more memories stored away for later stories, laughter and some exaggerations. Dreading the long drive home amid the melancholy that accompanies departures, I once again recalled the local legend of the white dog.  Without recounting the full legend, seeing a white dog upon departure solidifies the memories made, connects you to the spirits who have gone before and promises adventure and a sure return lies ahead.   I’ve never had a white dog but mused that Pup’s black fur might have turned white when she earned her place as an eternal guardian. Just to enhance the mojo of legend, we ate our last beach meal at the Dawg House....

When a scene or a smell brings a memory, it can arrive as suddenly as a slap on the cheek.     Traveling east with the undertow, the dolphins rose out of the ocean in a ballet set to the music of wind with rhythm added by waves rolling and slapping the shore.  It was dusk.  Still a couple of hours before moonrise but the sun was slipping below the western horizon.  Another cycle turned as daylight gave dominion of the sky over to darkness and the sea tide rose to salute the moon in the east.  Twenty two minutes after high tide the first arc of moonlight broke the horizon.  A red-orange ball obscured by ragged streaks across rose to awe-filled eyes.  In the hours between dolphins jumping until the moon burned bright 25 degrees above the horizon, the cycles of days replayed.  Sam Paul once told me that if you let the sand from the Sandhills region of North Carolina get in your shoes, you’ll never be able to shake it out....

It was a 1952 Chevrolet - Dad's first new car. Unlike the fancy plastics and high strength metal alloys used in modern cars, this car was made of steel. It probably weighed more than some of those behemoths that motor across our interstate highways carrying payloads like a Miniature Schnauzer or a sack of groceries. This was before President Eisenhower used his logistical knowledge of moving troops and supplies to build the interstate highway system we take for granted.  In about 1953 when our family, now five of us, would travel from Kansas City to eastern Illinois, the route was mostly on US 40. The terminology for this road, like the famous Route 66, was “route” but compared to most roads it was a highway.  Like most federal highways, US 40 was a narrow, two lanes wide.  Oncoming cars and trucks were separated by only a yellow line and there were places where even that demarcation disappeared. The "highways" could be distinguished from state routes or county ro...