In The Cigar Box

There are no words.  No words can further consecrate nor add adornment to the honor of a freely given sacrifice.  Without words, though, the rest of us might not remember, might not appreciate, might not grasp the enormity of what so many have done, have given, have sacrificed. On this fourth Monday in May the morning sky remained dark.  A steady rain buffeted by breezes is as solemn as it is a simile for the stillness that forever follows sacrifice.  We are here; we are free; we have bounty; we have time.  They gave us these things through courage conquering fear and commitment overcoming doubt.  They acted in reliance on an acute belief in rightness, on the nobility of duty.  The morning paper brought the story of six men whose plane went missing on Christmas Eve forty years ago in the Laotian jungles bordering the Ho Chi Minh Trail.  The story wasn’t about their mission or their heroism but about a cupful of thoroughly charred bone fr...

Never later than the third inning is when Alex Gordon’s uniform will have its ochre-green lightning bolt emblazoned from shoulder to knee.  Sometimes the streak is accompanied by patches of dirt made mud from the sweat on his back as he slides spikes-up into second.  In some way, everyone who every wore a baseball glove or a uniform, even if it was only a t-shirt and cap, wants to leave the game with his jersey & pants streaked with the soil and grass stains from the field of play. Of course, roaming the outfield grasses of major league ball parks is the epitome.  Alex can slide through the grass and onto the warning track as he dives to steal a certain double from an overly optimistic opponent.  Or he might leap high against the padded wall to let the webbing in his mitt make a home run go into the books as a simple out.  The stains from those plays are a testament to prowess but there really isn’t anything like the taste of the dirt that surrounds ho...

Eva and I were were out on the back porch talking about it - the day.  Of course, her vocalizations were limited to an occasional yip, bark or sympathetic whine.  Perhaps that’s what mine sound like to her.  I’ve learned that she is a terrific listener.  Not wanting to dominate the conversation though, I listen as she moves her head, looks me in the eye and cocks her head in the exact tilt to let me know that she is considering the point I just made. Tonight the talk covered lots of subjects but mostly it was an off loading of my odd frustrations that weighed heavier than their substance should allow.  At one particularly salient point a small flock of geese flew low over the pond and then rose quickly in their perfect vee formation out of sight over the bluff to the northeast.  She turned and looked at me as though she wanted to comment on how silly all of the geese behind the point of the vee were.  If that lead goose flew into a brick wall, th...

May arrived incognito.  Tulips, pink ones that commemorate a friend’s passing and yellow ones to reflect springtime sunshine, were stooped over like and old man leaning on his cane as they carried inches of heavy, sleet laden snow.  Widespread clouds reached their arms as high as thunderheads while dragging knuckles on grassy ground, budding flowers and greening leaves.  Hanging baskets had to be taken from their shepherds’ hooks and decorative chains to wait inside while winter exhaled through half of spring. Drizzling rain that arrived on Thursday looks like it will now take the Monday clipper bound for parts east of here to deliver more shivers. The same cold rain visited Churchill Downs until moments before the call of “Riders Up!”.  In that race several pounds of mud from the storied track, where Seabiscuit and Secretariat ran to fame, would be deposited on jockeys’ goggles, owners’ silks and horses’ nostrils, ears and powerful piston legs.  Orb ran t...