“Legacy is not what we leave behind but what we launch.”
I have been really blessed to have several young men who have asked me to come alongside them in their life journey. We have spent time together sharing stories about our fathers, our siblings, our spouses our significant others, our work, our dreams and our faith. The time with those young men has meant a lot to me and I miss it when I am gone for an extended time. There have also been numerous times when we have parted company after a get together and I flash on something I should have shared. So, I decided to take a stab at doing a blog. Along the way I discovered there were other people, outside of the group I am mentoring, who for various reasons want to read the blog.
Please understand, I am not a trained writer. When I post something I will try to keep it short and to the point. I am also going to try to take it a step further and depending on the subject I will try to scrub it with scripture. The last thing I am is a Bible scholar so it will be a way for all of us to find out what God has to say about anything he leads me to share. That brings up another point – I will write only when God leads me to share something He determines is important. There will be no schedule to this blog. I might put up several posts in a short period of time and there might be times when several weeks or even months go by between posts. I will notify you if there is a new post up on the site.
I hope you enjoy the stories about my journey. Please feel free to share them with others if you think they may be of interest.
I know, I know, I normally post about every 6 weeks or so and now you get the third one in a month. I’m not trying to be overwhelming but something happened this morning that was so amazing I just have to talk about it.
First, a little background. For the past 24 years we had lived in a very rural area where everyone had acreage. We never got to know very many of our neighbors and there was no real sense of community. Sure, we knew and enjoyed the people across the street and a few other adjacent neighbors but that was about it. Part of it was circumstantial and part of it was our failure to proactively reach out. None-the-less, we were somewhat isolated and didn’t actually know what we were missing.
Fast forward to last year when we had the opportunity to purchase a lot in the Columbine Country Club area. We have been members of the club since 2020 but had never considered the possibility of pulling up stakes and moving there. Then, little by little, through the club, we started making new friends. Most of them live in the Columbine Valley community. The more we watched life in the community, the stronger our desire to experience the same kind of connections the residents of Columbine obviously enjoy. What was really impressive was the number of people in the community who are Christians. Three years ago I discovered there was a mens Bible study group that meets at the club on Wednesday mornings. Terrie found a similar group of ladies she meets with. They have become some of our closest and most valued friends. In addition, our networks at the club continue to expand. Everyone has been so welcoming and excited for us and the new house we have under construction.
Today though, brought it all into focus for me. There is a resident in the community who has been suffering through cancer. The prognosis is not good and on top of everything else he has contracted sepsis. He is not a believer, I’m not sure about his wife. None-the-less, the strong faith community in Columbine Valley is gathering around the family. Due to the rigors of the disease and necessary stays in the hospital the family had not been able to do things like cleanup the yard or even keep up with simple house cleaning. One of the ladies in the women’s Bible study group arranged for a cleanup company to go in and take care of what needed to be done. Multiple members of the community chipped in to pay for the service. Another group organized to provide meals for the family. But what happened this morning brought everything about this community into focus for me. A suggestion had been made, for anyone who could attend, to gather in the gentleman’s yard to pray for him and his family. So this morning, what appeared to be somewhere between 80 and 100 people showed up at the house, formed a circle in the front yard and began to pray for God’s healing and protection for the man and his family. I have witnessed similar prayer groups before but never quite like this. There were entire families who came together to join in. There were neighbors who know the man and his wife well. There were people who have never met them. It was emotional. It was beautiful. It was intentional. It was an amazing display of faith and community.
So on this day, Christmas Eve 2025, I am more convinced than ever that the move we are making – the community we are being accepted into, the place where we are going to “finish well,” is right where God wants us.
In Galatians 6:2 the Bible says, “bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ. In Hebrews 10:24 it says, “And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near.
That is what I observed this morning. A community that is committed to bearing one another’s burdens and a community committed to “stirring up” one another to be a living example of God’s love and the promise of the Gospel. How much better could our world be if we would make those commitments every day?
It is Christmas time again. A time of year traditionally associated with “giving.” Giving can come in many forms and for a multitude of reasons. The easiest form to consider this time of year is Christmas gifts. Exchanging gifts at Christmas is traditional and expected. The giving I want to talk about is not about following tradition or expectations. The giving I am going to explore here comes from the heart and rises out of our faith. 2 Corinthians 9:7 says, “Each one must give as he has decided in his heart, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver.”
When I started this blog the primary goal was to share some of my life experiences with the readers, hopefully to help you avoid some of my pitfalls and as an encouragement to keep pressing forward in seeking an abundant life. I find it hard to talk about giving because what I am going to relay might appear as self-righteousness, tooting my horn. What I want you to understand is the joy giving has brought into my life and the life of my family. I also have an urgent need to relate to you how God will bless your giving as long as it comes from the right place in your soul.
Growing up, I remember my Dad wrestling with the annual commitment requested by the church we attended. He and mom would talk about it, sit it aside for a few days then talk about it again. After all the talk he would fill out the annual commitment card and drop it in the collection plate on the designated Sunday morning. I never got the idea that it brought him a great deal of joy. In fact it seemed like it was a source of angst for he and my mother. None-the-less, once per month, he would write a check for his commitment and place it in the collection plate which was passed around prior to the end of the service. It helped shape my first thoughts about giving. Those thoughts swirled around his consistent way of fulfilling the commitment he made, never making excuses for why he should skip a month. I am not trying to say that you shouldn’t tithe to your church. You should. But it should be out of joy, knowing you are using God’s provision to share the good news of the gospel with others rather than out of a sense of obligation. Giving however is not only about money. Where my father’s true giving spirit showed up was through his participation in The Shriners. The Shriners run a chain of hospitals dedicated to the care of children. Most of their fundraising activities were in support of those hospitals. My Dad loved raising money for that cause. He would participate in parades as part of the “Clown Patrol.” He would get up early to help prepare the food for fund raising picnics. Whatever the local Shriner’s mosque was doing for their charities, my Dad was all in. His enthusiasm for those events and the charities they supported and the joy he experienced was infectious and encouraged others to get involved.
My mother was also a giver. When I was very young she decided to learn braille – helping blind people read. She bought a braille machine, went to classes to learn how to do it and began translating various books and documents into braille. She didn’t get paid for translating written word into Braille. She volunteered her time because it gave her great joy to complete a book and give it to “The Braille Society.”
Fast forward a few decades. I was married at what today would be deemed, a really young age – 22. I had a good job and Terrie was employed as a teacher. We weren’t struggling financially, yet like most young married couples we had money challenges, mostly self imposed. We purchased our first home when I was 24. I was completely oblivious to the financial obligations that would present. I was 25 when our first son came into the world. Yikes! Now we had some deep financial concerns. Credit card debt crept up and up. We were in that vicious cycle many young families fall into. The furthest thing from my mind was “giving.” I totally missed the point and the joy of giving.
Like so many things my wife has done for me, Terrie set the example for giving. The summer we were engaged she worked at the Easter Seals “Handicamp” near Georgetown, Colorado. She didn’t work there for the money – as I recall she barely got paid. She worked there because her degree was going to be in Special Education and she loved working with disabled kids. That experience lead her to volunteer her time for an Easter Seals puppet program named “Kids on the Block.” She and another volunteer would travel to area elementary schools and put on a show with “Sesame Street” like puppets, each of them with a special disability. The idea was to show young children that kids with special needs were real people too. They weren’t to be feared or made fun of just because they were different from the rest of the crowd. She loved the puppet program and it brought her real joy to be able to donate her time and talent. It was her way to give. A few years later she volunteered to teach refugees from South Sudan to speak English. She quickly discovered that the barriers presented by language were extensive and permeated every part of their effort to assimilate into American culture. They had difficulties finding work because there simply aren’t many businesses that have translators who can convert Arabic to English and vice versa. She worked with several families but for all intents and purposes adopted one of them and it nearly became a full-time job. She helped them find housing through the governments section 8 program. She made sure the kids were registered for school and had the materials they needed to succeed. She took them to the doctor, to the dentist, and to the local food pantry. She found one of the mothers a job through a training program at Lowes Home Center. The only problem was, Terrie was required to work alongside the lady to help her learn how to fulfill her job responsibilities. She would go to Lowes, strap on her blue apron and go to work alongside Nagat, one of the Sudanese mothers. If there was a training class that day showing how to assemble a gas grill, then that is what she did. If the next class was about caring for a lawn mower, then there she was, learning about lawn mowers. I used to kid her that after all the training she received through the Lowes program she could take over my home duties of mowing the lawn, etc. She also filled out the forms needed to make sure the families maintained their legal status as religious refugees. These people were Christians and had been run out of South Sudan for their beliefs – some of their relatives and friends were murdered for those beliefs.
The local NBC affiliate used to have a program called “9 Who Care.” At the beginning of each new year they would accept nominations to recognize individuals who displayed exemplary volunteer work in the community. I was so impressed with what Terrie was doing with the Sudanese families that unbeknownst to her, I submitted her name for consideration for the reward. Well, she was named one of the “9 Who Care” winners. There was no personal gain to be achieved. Yes, the TV station made a donation to charities that Terrie was able to designate but that wasn’t the real reward. The point was to set an example to be followed by others. An example of how “giving” isn’t just monetary but can take many forms. Through the process the station asked me, as the one who nominated her, to do a 30 second interview on camera that would then be used to promote the “9 Who Care” program. The first thing the interviewer asked me was why Terrie did what she did with the families. My response was very simple. I explained that Terrie has the heart of a giver. And because of her, our sons also have givers hearts.
Despite all the examples that I had seen, I didn’t get what giving is really all about. It wasn’t until 1992, when I accepted Christ into my heart, that I started realizing what giving is all about. He changed my heart from a selfish, hard driving, “self made” man to a man who recognizes that everything I have comes from one source, God the Father, and while He wants me to lead an abundant life He also wants me to use His provision to increase His kingdom. When the company I helped start with my Brother-in-law sold in 2003 I had no doubt that God was firmly in control of the whole transaction. I’m not going to bore you with all the details but His involvement was very apparent. After the sale had closed I was faced with the question – “what’s next for me?” The first decision Terrie and I made was to take a meaningful portion of the proceeds from the sale and create a family foundation. It would become the vehicle we would use to make contributions to Christian non-profits whose missions meshed with our beliefs and values. It would also become a galvanizing tool for our family – requiring earnest prayer and consideration from all of us every time we are presented with a grant request. When we formed the foundation we agreed that our commitment needed to go beyond finances. It would also include using our time and individual experience and passions to help the organizations we were drawn to. That in turn has lead each of us to serve as volunteers for those organizations. We have served on their Boards. We have participated in fund raising. We have shared our personal networks. We have encouraged our friends and other relatives to get involved. None of this is done out of obligation. We don’t want our name on buildings or any sort of recognition for what we do. In Matthew 6:2 the Bible says, “Thus when you give to the needy, sound no trumpet before you as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets that they may be praised by others.” Knowing that we are serving God is reward enough. For our family, giving has become part of our DNA and the resulting joy is indescribable. Embarking on this path has changed my life. It has enhanced my marriage, strengthened my relationships with my sons and their families and reshaped my circle of friends. I am constantly learning new things about giving as I watch examples set by others.
The John Lennon song, “So this is Christmas” begins with “So this is Christmas and what have you done, another year over, a new one just begun.” My prayer for you is that this Christmas and throughout the new year, “what you have done” is discover the joy that true giving is all about. The joy has nothing to do with the size of the gift or the form of the gift. It has everything to do with where the gift comes from. It will change your life.
I sometimes hear people refer to Thanksgiving as an “American” holiday and celebration. The reality is, cultures throughout history have held celebrations of thanksgiving. Just because their government didn’t declare a specific day for the celebration doesn’t exclude them. Countries such as Saint Lucia and Liberia have official thanksgiving days and even Brazil and Germany have unofficial celebrations. It’s a little odd to me that in a country that has been blessed the way the United States has, we need the government to declare a day of thanks. Non-the-less, in 1941 Congress designated a uniform date for celebrating “Thanksgiving.” The reality is, in our country designating a day for giving thanks dates back to 1579. Various accounts credit the actual beginning of the celebration as we now know it in locations as random as St. Augustine, Florida to Plymouth County Massachusetts to Jamestown, Virginia and points in between. Thinking back to first grade, the celebration of Thanksgiving was portrayed as a gathering of Pilgrims and Native Americans in Plymouth, Massachusetts. No matter where it started or who started it, Thanksgiving was a day of giving thanks to God for His providence and provision.
Growing up, Thanksgiving was the gateway to Christmas. Every red blooded kid knew, Christmas was usually 4 short weeks after Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving also presented the first holiday break of the fall. We didn’t have “fall break” like schools now have. Once school started, usually the Tuesday after Labor Day, it continued without break until the four day Thanksgiving weekend. It made fall seem really long and both the teachers and kids were getting a little antsy by the time Thanksgiving came around. In the week before the holiday we would start putting up decorations – things like turkey pictures, pictures of Pilgrims with Native Americans and cornucopias. For some reason folks thought the cornucopia fit in with Thanksgiving Day. Schools would serve a “Thanksgiving lunch,” on Wednesday – the day before actual Thanksgiving Day. That lunch consisted of a slice of something that looked like turkey, had the flavor of a hockey puck and was drowned in a watery brown gravy. It was accompanied by powdered mashed potatoes, they had the consistency of wall paper paste and again no flavor and some peas. Hard to believe but the peas were the only thing that had flavor, even though they were mushy and pretty awful. The final piece of this celebratory lunch was a sliver or yellow pumpkin pie. It tasted more like month old Hummus than pumpkin. And now, people want their kids to have “free school lunches?” Anyone who had to choke down that Thanksgiving lunch surely wouldn’t, on purpose, force their kids to eat school lunches!
The first few Thanksgivings I remember started with a full breakfast. My Dad might have a bloody Mary or two while he made scrambled eggs, bacon and hash browns. He would dot his plate of scrambled eggs with Tabasco sauce. I thought if it was good for him it would be good for me and to this day I have a hard time eating scrambled eggs without a good sprinkling of Tabasco. After we finished eating and washing the dishes (my mom didn’t have a dishwasher until I was in high school) Dad would settle into his lounge chair and the rest of us would gather around the TV to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York City. We didn’t have a color TV. Ours was an old, cabinet style, semi-square screen, black and white. It was in a wood cabinet and since Dad wouldn’t spring for a new color TV my Mom got the idea that she should spruce up the old set by “antiquing” the wood. It turned out red with what looked to be black scratch marks through the paint. The thing was hideously ugly. It had “rabbit ears”, a top mounted antenna that was connected to the back of the TV with a brown wire. The rabbit ears had to be adjusted just right for the TV to get the best reception. Once those ears were set, heaven forbid anyone touch them lest the wrath of Dad would rein down on everyone.
Part of the ritual leading up to the big day involved my Dad taking all the vacuum tubes out of the TV and taking them to the local Rexall Drug Store where they had a “tube tester.” One by one he would fit the tubes into the matching socket on the tester and wait for it to warm up so the little meter could tell us its condition. If the meter showed it was getting weak, it was replaced with a new one that was fetched from a cabinet behind the drugstore counter. Heaven forbid a tube would go out during the parade broadcast or worse yet, during the Dallas Cowboys football game that was played in The Cotton Bowl after everyone had gorged themselves on the big Thanksgiving meal. Of course Dad would forget to make note of where each tube went on the board in the TV so things were always pretty tense until he experimented placing the tubes where he thought they should go and turning on the TV to see if it worked. If it didn’t, the trial and error game started all over again until finally the tubes were in the right place. It was the reason he would start the ritual a couple of days before the holiday because it might take that long to get the set working again. There were no YouTube “how to” videos to refer to!
Cooking a turkey back then became a little of a science project. One of the big turkey producers came up with this little device that was inserted in the birds breast and was supposed to pop up like a little red thermometer when the bird was done. Sometimes they worked, sometimes they didn’t. No one fried turkeys then, they were usually roasted in a device made just for roasting meat. Ours was a General Electric model and it was too large to get into a kitchen cabinet so it stayed in the garage for the majority of the year. Dad would pull it off the garage shelf, give it a quick buff up and get it ready to go. Mom would prepare the stuffing and Dad would get the bird ready. Everything was timed to be ready at a specific time – always before that Dallas Cowboys game. Most of the time everything would work out and the meal would come together at the prescribed time but once in a while the turkey wouldn’t get done on time and would throw the whole thing off. Our meal was pretty traditional with the turkey accompanied by mashed potatoes and brown turkey gravy, candied yams covered with a marshmallow crust and Little Green Giant mixed vegetables. There would be a relish plate with pickles, radishes, celery, green onions and black olives. If Mom went all out we would also have Waldorf Salad (whatever that was.) My Dad. having grown up on a farm, considered virtually every part of the turkey edible and was a particular fan of the “gizzard.” Desert always consisted of pumpkin pie made with canned pumpkin and something called “mince meat pie.” If you have not been subjected to mince meat consider yourself unfulfilled.
Thanksgiving was also a time of sharing and giving. Schools would run campaigns to fill Thanksgiving baskets with food items which were then delivered to families who couldn’t afford to have a big dinner. Our church would do something similar but they would ask for families to volunteer to put together the baskets and then draw the name of a needy family out of a hat. We would then get together a couple evenings before the day and fan out across the city delivering the baskets to the families whose names were drawn. It was always something I looked forward to and I know it helped form my thoughts about giving back. It was something we did as a family, including going to the store and shopping for the items we would put in the basket. In today’s world we are encouraged to make contributions to food banks and there is no doubt they are needed and do a great deal of good. The thing that is missing is the personal connection that was many times established through the delivery of the food baskets. Sometimes the recipients would share their story with you and always there were sincere expressions of gratitude. It also made me realize how fortunate our family was.
Thanksgiving is still an important day for our family. It is a time to share wonderful food – we got over the turkey thing several years ago so today it might be anything from a steaming pot of Posole’ to steak. Gone are the candied yams, and Waldorf salad – thankfully. It is also a time to reflect on all the blessings God has afforded our family. That is what Thanksgiving is truly about. Giving thanks for God’s gracious provision. For His love and most importantly for His gift of grace through the life and death of His son, Jesus Christ. There are numerous Bible verses about thanksgiving, both in the old and new testament. In Nehemiah 12:46 it says, For long ago in the days of David and Asaph there were directors of the singers, and there were songs of praise and thanksgiving to God. Psalm 92:2 says, Let us come into his presence with thanksgiving, let us make a joyful noise to him with songs of praise. 2 Corinthians 9:11 says, You will be enriched in every way to be generous in every way which through us will produce thanksgiving to God. And in 1 Timothy 4:4 it says, For everything created by God is good and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving.
It is not a cliche’ to say everyday should be Thanksgiving Day.
We learn about it in school – June 6, 1944. “D-Day,” Omaha Beach, the loss of 2,000 American forces and 4,000 Allied forces in total, the brilliance of the plan and the way it was executed. It was the beginning of the end of the German occupation of France. By the end of August German troops had been driven out of Paris and the following May Nazi Germany surrendered.
I recently had the opportunity to visit Normandy and the adjacent town of Arromanches. I have heard other people who have been there talk about the impact, the emotion they felt during their visit but I am not sure it fully prepared me.
Terrie and I were visiting Paris with close friends and decided it would be a good opportunity to make the journey to Normandy. Should you decide to do the same, be prepared because it is a 3 1/2 to 4 hour drive from Paris. You can do it one day but as you can imagine it is a long day. We left around 7:30 in the morning so getting through morning traffic in Paris is part of the challenge. When we finally arrived in the area we went straight to Arromanches. This was the site of one of two artificial harbors set up by the Allied forces after they liberated Normandy and Arromanches. The harbor was used to allow the landing of 400,000 soldiers, 4 million tons of equipment and untold numbers of vehicles, food and just about everything else needed for the war effort. It was a herculean effort and played a telling role in the liberation of France. After touring the museum dedicated to the landing at Arromanches we spent some time looking out at the bay where the harbor was built. There are still sections of it visible out in the water. If you have an opportunity, check out the history of the Arromanches harbor. It is another piece of history that we should not lose.
After a quick lunch we drove to Omaha Beach. Today, it looks like any other sand beach. It is adjacent to Utah Beach, another important piece in the Allied landings on D-Day. Once they reached the beach, providing they survived the first sections of the German defense, Allied troops were forced to climb a section of cliffs to confront German forces. It was a daunting challenge to say the least. Imagine trying to scale those cliffs while enemy soldiers fired down at you from above. It further proves the resolve of our troops, along with our allies, to liberate our friends, the French, from the grip of the Nazis.
The real wakeup call of the “Normandy” experience comes with a visit to the American cemetery. It is a short drive from Omaha Beach. The cemetery grounds are immaculate, as they should be, and the setting is beautiful. You enter through a museum and visitor center. Reaching the actual cemetery involves a short walk from the visitor center. The first view is breathtaking. Lying out in front of you are the graves of 9,389 of our military dead. Most of them were killed during the invasion and fighting that followed. In addition, there is the “Wall of the Missing,” inscribed with the names of 1557 servicemen who were never found. It is interesting that with this area, being largely agricultural, farmers still dig up bones from time to time and with modern technology they have actually been able to identify a few of the missing.
We were lucky with the timing of our visit to the cemetery. I had always heard one of the most emotional experiences was to be there when the flag of the United States is lowered for the evening. We watched as it slowly moved down the pole while Taps was played in the background. Standing with our hands over our hearts, all of us went through a series of emotions. I found myself praying to God with gratitude for what had taken place there and the sacrifices that were made so I can still call myself free and have the freedom to worship the one true, living God.
Normandy is not an experience to take lightly. It is a sobering reminder of the sacrifices other generations have made on our behalf. It is not a cliche to say the world would be significantly different without the resolve and heroism of our troops, not only in World War II but also in World War I. I try to put myself in the shoes of those young men, charging the beach on D-Day. Facing a hail storm of bullets, knowing the second the ramp on the amphibious vehicle they were in was dropped, they were sitting ducks.
I always marvel at the way God talks to me. Unlike some, I don’t always hear his voice. In fact, that has only happened a couple of times in my life. Rather, He does things to let me know He is there and is watching and listening. I was really struggling with where to take this post. I found my emotions resulting from the Normandy visit swinging from sadness – sadness for those who lost loved ones, sadness for those who lost their lives, to anger. Anger about those who forget or ignore the sacrifices made on their behalf. Sacrifices that insure their freedom. Sacrifices that removed the threat of tyranny and oppression from regimes that detested the idea of individual freedom with the ultimate goal of suppressing the right of self-expression, self-direction, self-improvement and self-control. People who subscribe to the idea of the need to suppress individual freedoms are still alive and among us today. All you need to do is look at what is going on in states like Colorado and California. Parents have lost the inalienable right to parent their children as they see fit. The truth that God created two and only two genders has been trampled by an ideology that leaves Satan smiling ear to ear. Democratic Socialists are poised to take away more and more of our freedom, especially our freedom to worship as Christians. And since most of our current politicians have never run a business or had to actually be responsible for making payroll, let alone made a positive contribution to our society, they act strictly from their own frame of reference which is almost always narcissistic.
I hope, like me, you are tired of standing on the sidelines while our freedoms are challenged by self-righteous, lost souls who only believe in themselves. They are convinced they need to take away the joy that we have because through their own stubborn, misdirected ideals they have been unable to find or experience that joy. Their failure is due to a lack of hope fueled by their fear of giving up their “freedom” to exert control over the rest of us. It is fueled by delusions that they and only they know what is right for the rest of us. However, we must admit, they have been energized and emboldened by our own laziness and unwillingness to interrupt our lives long enough to stand up for what we believe in and know is right.
It is time we rise up and declare we won’t compromise our faith in God. Our church has started a new series entitled “Be Free.” In Galatians 5:1 the Bible says, “For freedom Christ has set us FREE. Stand firm therefore and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery.” Those soldiers who died on the beaches of Normandy and elsewhere during both World War I and World War II died so we might have that freedom Christ has called us to. It is important to note that at the small museum at the American Cemetery there was an example of the equipment an Allied soldier had, including his clothing. Inside the jacket were several different items but the one that jumped out at me the most was a copy of the New Testament, attached to a pocket inside the left breast panel of the coat. Can you imagine the uproar if the military tried to do that today?
Freedom. It’s what those soldiers in two world wars fought for . Freedom, it is something never to be taken for granted. Freedom, it is what we need to return to defending on the beaches of our own cities, states and country. We must regain our freedom from those who are afraid of freedom. Freedom is what our faith in Christ gives us.
I am finding out that no matter how old you are, there is always room to discover new things about yourself. I am now 71. People ask me how I feel. Truthfully – I feel great and have no idea what being 71 is supposed to feel like. I’ve never been 71 before! I have friends who are younger than me and all they do is complain about their aches and pains and how it takes so much longer to heal from any sort of injury. I also have friends who are older than me and never complain about a thing even though some of them appear to have legitimate problems they could be whining about. I have a group of guys I hang out with when I am in Scottsdale. We get together once per month for dinner and as we have aged we have found it necessary to impose a strict time limit on any medical discussions! I have also discovered there are many, many positives that come along with getting older.
It’s interesting how we mark life events in terms of age. When we turn 18 we gain the right to vote. When I was growing up the voting age was 21 but during the Vietnam War there was a groundswell of support for lowering the voting age to 18. The thinking was, if men and women were old enough and mature enough to go to war for our country we were certainly mature enough to vote for the leaders of our country. 21 is also the age when drinking alcohol and gambling become legal. The next big step is reaching the ripe old age of 30. For many people simply changing the first numeral in their age from a 2 to a 3 is devastating. Women start looking for wrinkles. Men start checking to see if their hair is thinning. Then you hit the 40s and stuff really starts changing. For guys it seems like some of the hair that used to be on your head has now migrated to your ears. For women there is the threat of a few gray strands infiltrating previously pristine flowing locks. Men and women alike start looking for miracle cures for their aging physiques. Botox. Fillers. Miracle creams and potions. If you get to the half century mark, an entire new set of considerations come to light. Men start getting their PSA checked because the eventuality of prostate cancer becomes a reality. In my case I got that diagnosis shortly after turning 60. Women face the reality of menopause. If we have children it is sometime around our 50s when we become empty nesters. Most of us will also begin contemplating retirement and what that will look like. Reaching 60 is crossing a major threshold. Society tells us we just moved beyond a mid-life crisis into senior citizenship. We make attempts to downplay the “senior” existence by coming up with sayings like, “the 60s are the new 40s.” When I was 57 I won the “Senior Club Championship” at my golf club. I wasn’t sure if I should be happy about playing well or alarmed that I qualified under the club’s definition of “senior.” Your 60s are when you start getting “senior” discounts at various businesses. A free cup of coffee with your Egg McMuffin at McDonalds. Reduced ticket prices at the movies. At 65 reality sets in when you register for Medicare. You also start thinking about when you will start taking that social security you have been paying into all your working life. Physical exams become more stressful as you anxiously await results to tell you what has diminished since last year.
Having reached my 70s the changes and challenges but also the positive parts of getting older seem to be accelerating. I remember watching my father and how people interacted with him as he went through his 60s and 70s in particular. I noticed how other younger men referred to him as “sir.” I thought that was really cool because it was a sign of respect and an acknowledgment of his experience. When guys started calling me “sir,” I would react by telling them it wasn’t necessary and they should call me by my first name. Then I came to realize it was a sign of respect and should be a badge I wear proudly. My Bible study group has recently begun a study about the book of Hebrews. If you have not read it, Hebrews in a nut shell is a letter from an unknown writer directed at Jewish Christians who are falling away from their faith. Much of their inclination to return to Judaism is driven by fear of persecution for being followers of Christ. We too are encumbered throughout life with fear of persecution for our beliefs. There are always exceptions but most of us succumb to that fear and it impacts our daily existence as we refuse to put Christ out in front of us and allow Satan to render us silent. We crater under the fear that giving our lives to Jesus and displaying that to others will be a threat to our circle of friends, our career, maybe even impacting our children’s lives.
By now you are probably wondering where I am going with this and what are those lessons I have learned from aging? The older I get, the less I worry about what other people think creating a new found freedom to wear my faith on my sleeve. That is lesson 1. Lesson 2, along with the awakening is also sadness from the realization of all the opportunities to share the Gospel I have squandered because I cared more about what other people thought about me than what Jesus means to me. Instead of dwelling on the failure in a depressing sort of way, use what I have learned to be stronger and proactive in deflecting the lies Satan would have me believe about what others might think of me. The older I get, the less I care about how others might view the way I proclaim or represent my faith. I want to use my “senior” designation and hopefully the respect that goes along with it to share my faith, to display my faith and to encourage others to stop being closet Christians.
I have to admit, today, when younger men refer to me as “sir” I take some pride in that. When I walk into the mens grill at the golf club I don’t care if people look at me as a “Past Senior Club Champion” because I would much rather have them know me as one of those guys who is part of the Wednesday morning Bible study group. Finally, the next time you hear someone say getting old isn’t for the faint of heart, try to keep in mind the lessons I have learned and embrace the positives. Just don’t wait, like I did, to apply them at every age marker in your life.
The first Easter I can remember was when I was 3 years old. My parents owned a small three bedroom home. It was a ranch style, didn’t have a basement and there were 1 3/4 bathrooms – the 3/4 was off their bedroom and the full bath was in the hallway leading from the tiny living room to the bedrooms. I don’t really remember but I am guessing it was around 1200 square feet. Like most Christian families, Easter was a big deal for us. I don’t remember wearing that little suit, bowtie and hat in the photo but I have to admit, for a 3 year old I looked pretty doggone good.
The week before Easter Sunday would always start with coloring the hard boiled eggs. I can still remember the smell of the various liquid dies used to color the shell of the eggs. There was a certain amount of water and vinegar put in small bowls. Then you would drop small tablets in the mix. The tablets would dissolve into bright hues in the bowl and using a flimsy wire device the eggs were placed in the bowls where they would be rolled around until the desired color was achieved. There were a few tricks to help customize the finished product. A clear wax crayon could be used to draw designs on the eggshell. The wax prevented the shell from absorbing the die and if you had any skills you could actually write your name on the shell. Of course being 3, the best I could do was a few scribbles but they were beautiful to me. And of course there was a competition between me and my sister to claim the prize of best colored egg. After the decorating was complete the eggs were placed in a straw basket filled with fake grass and left in the kitchen to be found by the Easter Bunny. All of this increased the anticipation of the big hunt to come.
Easter Sunday was a little bit like Christmas. The idea that the Easter Bunny had showed up sometime early in the morning to take the eggs and hide them in mysterious places around the house and yard was enough to make me get up early and start snooping around. After-all, it was vitally important for me to find more eggs than my older sister. Somehow we always managed to miss one or two and the hope was my father, aka the Easter Bunny, would remember where he hid them so they wouldn’t lay around and stink up the house. After the egg hunt was over we would pile in the car and go to church. The Easter service was exciting as the black drape that had been placed on the cross behind the altar on Good Friday was removed and the good news of Christ resurrection was proclaimed. At age three I was too young to really understand the implications but I knew everyone there seemed to be really happy about they heard. After the service was over it was back in the car for a visit to see both sets of grandparents. That meant two more Easter egg hunts and best of all, a couple chocolate Easter bunnies. It also meant the traditional Easter meal with ham, sweet potatoes topped with marshmallows and a weird fruit salad, I think they called it “Waldorf Salad”, made with apples, oranges, grapes, strawberries and whipped cream.
Yes, for a three year old, Easter was all about the fun. The Easter Bunny was sort of the spring version of Santa Claus. Just like getting too old or too hip to sit on Santa’s lap, as I grew up I finally figured out the real story about that bunny and tired of the egg hunts, those marshmallow slathered sweet potatoes and the Waldorf salad – yuck. Yet I had this gnawing feeling in my gut that was telling me the real story of Easter had always been more than chocolate bunnies, Peeps or colored hard boiled eggs. Besides, who came up with the idea that bunnies wanted anything to do with hard boiled eggs?Despite regularly attending church, going through confirmation in the church and all the other things our family did relative to my Dad and Mom’s beliefs, I didn’t understand the real significance of Easter until much later in my life. I finally realized you cannot be trained into believing that God is real. It is far more about trusting what is written in The Bible and listening to our heart. I know that each of us who come to the realization of what happened on the cross do it in our own way and at a time no one else can predict or manipulate. For me, my first truly spiritual moment was when our first son was born. As I gazed upon this new life Terrie cradled in her arms I suddenly knew that God is real. There was no doubt in my mind. And yet, I still did not fully grasp the entire picture. It took several more years of gentle leading by Terrie, the examples set for me by both of our sons, and the testimonies of close friends before the complete message of the Gospel came alive for me with the realization of what Easter truly means. Even still I had a hard time accepting the fact that this God I had been told about, all of my life, would put himself through such misery because he truly loves me. But he did.
So, my encouragement to you is, enjoy the celebrations of Easter. Have fun with children searching for eggs hidden by a bunny and don’t get caught stealing their chocolate treats out their Easter baskets – of course I never did that! And if you are the one doing the hiding, make some kind of record of where you hide them so none are left behind to spoil and stink! Enjoy the family gatherings, ham, sweet potatoes, Waldorf salad and all, but always keep the real reason for celebrating Easter at the forefront of what you do, 365 days of the year. For those who believe, one word says it all, Easter.
I have a couple walls in my house where I have framed and hung vinyl record albums. For those of you who are too young to remember “records”, at one time they came in three variations, played at different speeds on record players, or as audiofiles like to refer to them, turntables. Early versions of records were 78 rpm, made of shellac and had one song on each side. To put it in perspective, at 78 rpm the 12″ disks had room for about 5 minutes of music on each side. In 1948 Columbia Records introduced the first “vinyl” 33 1/3 rpm records. It was a big step forward because at that speed each side of the record could hold around 20 – 21 minutes of music. They became known as “LPs” or long play albums. Around the same time RCA introduced the 45 rpm record. It was a short play record and usually had one or maybe two songs per side. They were the medium used in “juke boxes” which were popular in bars and entertainment venues. Put in a dime and select one song, put in a quarter and you got to pick three songs. Drop the coin in, push a couple buttons, the jukebox would select the 45s containing the songs you wanted to hear and play them through the speakers located on the front of the jukebox.
I remember my Dad having a small record collection – mostly “LPs” from artists like Nat King Cole, The Ink Spots, Harry Belafonte and some Italian tenors like Mario Lanza and Al Martino. He had a Magnavox console record player. It was as big as most desks and had “stereo” speakers (stereo was a new innovation in sound and a lot of records were still mono – single channel.) The record player had a tall spindle that allowed the user to stack several LPs on it. It had a device that would hold the LPs above the record that was on the turntable, automatically dropping the next album on top of the one that had just finished playing so the music would continue without needing to manually change records. It was very convenient but really bad for the vinyl records because the vinyl to vinyl friction would scratch and mar the records.
That old record player played a role in developing my love of music. I was probably only 7 or 8 years old when I became fascinated with how music went from the grooves on the vinyl record, through that vibrating needle, into a series of tubes (no transistors back then) and out though a couple round speakers. I was always really careful about placing the needle on the album itself because any wrong move would result in a scratch on the surface of the record that would created a distinct “popping” sound as the needle passed over the scratch. Believe me when I tell you, scratching any of my Dad’s LPs was worthy of corporal punishment.
Fast forward a few years, I had my first job as a paperboy, had been playing the electric organ for a while and joined my first rock group. We didn’t write our own music and were what today would be referred to as a garage cover band. The reality was, we were all in junior high school, really didn’t have a clue about what we were doing but shared a love for rock and roll and performing and of course had aspirations of fame and fortune. The only way we had to learn songs from our favorite bands was to sit around one of our Dad’s record players and listen to album tracks repeatedly until we could mimic the right cords, riffs, rhythms and lyrics. We didn’t care how long it took because we were having fun learning and playing the songs. Of course it necessitated being able to buy the albums produced by our favorite bands. That was how I began to build my collection. I never imagined those old albums and their covers would someday tell part of the story of my life and be so important in sharing that story with my wife and children and now with you.
One of the first albums in my collection was The Beatles Rubber Soul. Released in 1965 it is still one of my all-time favorites with songs like Norwegian Wood, You Won’t See Me, Nowhere Man and the classic Michelle. If you look closely at the photo above you will see Rubber Soul. It is the second album from the top of the second row on the right. Panning across the wall, from right to left, you will see albums from groups like The Doors, Little Feet, The Doobie Brothers, Steely Dan, The Temptations, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Jethro Tull, Earth Wind and Fire, Joanie Mitchell, Seals and Crofts, Chicago, Cream and even Michael Jackson. You will also see albums from more obscure groups like Blodwyn Pig, Spooky Tooth, Caravan and Steelers Wheel. Each of those albums hold music that somehow relates to some part of my life. Each of those covers is a work of art by itself and worthy of display. The covers are a creative and important part of the story of the music pressed into the vinyl.
Vinyl records started losing their appeal in the late 70s with the advent of cassette tapes and later, compact disks. The Apple invention of the iPod digital music player, the iTunes music store, today’s satellite and streaming services and other ways of delivering music to us made vinyl seem archaic. Interesting though, there has been a recent resurgence in interest in vinyl LPs. They have a richness in the way they deliver sound to the ear that cannot be matched digitally. Small record press companies are springing up in larger cities and record stores are appearing again. Artists are again crafting beautiful and meaningful covers for the albums.
I am so thankful Terrie allowed me to hold on to all those old albums. We have carted them around from house to house over the years of our marriage and until we built the house we are now in, they stayed stored in vinyl bins hidden in basement storage rooms. It wasn’t long after we moved into our current home when she came up with a great idea. Trying to decide what to do with a long, bare wall in our basement game area she suggested it might be a great place to display some of my old album covers. She had seen a frame made for displaying LPs and thought we should buy a few to see how they might look in a grouping on the wall. We had fun selecting which album covers we thought would look good and began expanding the display a little at a time. Today the display is made up of over 80 album covers (all containing the original records) and covering portions of three walls.
So what’s the point, what’s the lesson in all this stuff about records and album covers?The lesson for me is God gives each of us a unique history during our time on earth. He gives us the freedom to construct that history in our own way. He also lets us create that history as part of our testimony which we can use to help others avoid some of our failures and to build on the joys we experience. How we record and remember that history is also up to us. The free gift of God’s grace relates directly to the freedom He gives us to build our personal history. Sure, we stumble around, creating scratch after scratch on the album of our life but He is always there, ready to give our life new, clean sound without the distraction of the popping sound coming from those scratches. In my case an important part of remembering my history is contained in those album covers decorating our basement walls. Each of those works of art represent a date, a decision, a time with family or friends, a life altering event or a dream. Terrie and I often sit together at the bar in our basement over a meal and talk about the memories some of those album covers bring up. She has listened as I relate various moments in my life associated with specific albums. I told her stories about the first band I was in after we moved to Colorado. I can pick out albums on the wall and tell her stories about why I bought a particular record. I also relate specific records to the members of that band – what made each of them unique and how their stories impacted my story. Through my high school years and first year in college I played in several different bands, each comprised of a special group of characters. Memories of each of those guys are intertwined with one or more of the albums on my wall. It might be a single track on a record, the musical style of a certain member of the band that recorded the record, or even something in the artwork on the cover, but every person I ever performed with is on that wall somewhere. I knew Ed Sullivan was never going to invite us to be on his show and we would never play on The Midnight Special with Wolfman Jack, but I was having a blast. It was also very clear to me when the time came to give it up. The last band I was in was named Fresh Air and developed a good following in the 3.2 bar circuit in the Denver area. We also became known for being a good band to play at “Raves” around the area. There were six of us in the band and four of the six had developed a bad habit of doing various drugs before performances. I told them the first time their drug use impacted a performance I would be done. It wasn’t long after, while playing at a late night rave in eastern Colorado, with about 300 people in attendance, the incident that ended my band days happened. Our lead guitarist had dropped acid before we went on stage. About half way through our second set he fell head first off the stage. Fortunately he wasn’t seriously injured but could not continue to perform. That was it for me. I played as a fill in for other groups at a few gigs after that but really was done with that whole scene.
A couple weeks ago I made the decision to purchase a new turntable. I have not had one for well over 30 years. I was excited to hook it up and begin pulling some of those records off the wall and listen to them again for the first time in decades. As Terrie and I enjoyed the music of Loggins and Messina and Phil Collins the memories again came flooding back. She sat quietly, listening, as I recounted experiences, events, people and places in my life, each one related to one of those albums on the wall. Each of those memories gave her a deeper insight into how I have arrived at this place in our relationship and in our lives in general. I look forward to again spinning on the platter the first Doors album which contains the long version of “Light My Fire”, which features the first organ solo I learned to play. After that I will relive the rush of playing the solo from Santanas’ “Evil Ways” before reveling in the harmonic chords and rhythms of Steve Miller’s version of “I’m a Man.” Songs like the version of “Chest Fever” done by Three Dog Night and In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida by Iron Butterfly also have iconic organ solos that I can’t wait to hear again. And yes, they are all on the wall.
Your history is an important part of your testimony to Gods love for you. Despite our human failures, He wants us to experience a full and abundant life. A life where the popping sound of the scratches we create is replaced with beautiful, new vinyl – His forgiveness for our failure to be good stewards of the freedom He gave us through the birth of His son, Jesus. Our individual histories contain both highs and lows, successes and failures. Each one is important in telling our story to others and is an important opportunity to lift each other up through sharing our experiences. Those albums help tell my story. Maybe for you it is a book or collection of books. Photos are always important in remembering our history and the stories that made us who we are now. Whatever tool works for you, don’t hide your history in a bin in the basement. Embrace it, display it, learn from it, and let others learn from it. Be grateful for your history. It is a gift from a loving father who made you wholly unique from anyone else in history.
For those of you who have followed this blog for a while you have probably read one of my past posts about Christmas and our family traditions. There is one tradition I have not touched on but hey, there is no time like this time right?
A few decades back (I’m not counting them because it would probably scare me), the tradition of exchanging Christmas cards changed when “Christmas letters” started showing up along with the card. These letters contained all the details of the writer’s year. More information than you would ever ask for. Some writers even went down to a size 8 font so they could get everything they wanted you to know on a single page. The only problem was the font was so small you couldn’t read it without a magnifying glass. So guess what? I didn’t! Christmas letters can be worse than most peoples’ Facebook page and we all know how bad those can be.
Well, being the wise guy that I tend to be and seeing an opportunity to jump on the Christmas letter band wagon, I made up my mind that it was time for me to start writing a Christmas letter. Only my letter was going to have a little twist to it, and those who have ever read one probably say the letter is just plain twisted. As a result, some 20 plus years ago, “The Dreaded Ideker Family Christmas Letter” was born and to the chagrin of those who are on the mailing list it still arrives, just like the flu, every year.
I am going to give you a few examples of the opening paragraph because it will give you an idea about the flow of the my writing and the intent of the letter. For example the letter in 2010 began: When FDR uttered those famous words – “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself,” he obviously had never been exposed to the idea of the annual Christmas letter. Yes friends, you should be very afraid because believe it or not it is once again time for that most frightening of Christmas traditions, the arrival of “The Dreaded Ideker Family Christmas Letter.” So round up the grand kids (your kids are probably grown by now and know better than to listen to this dribble), kick the dog out in the snow (last year you brought him in, it’s time to let him out again), pour yourself a nice toddy and prepare to read everything you don’t want to know and certainly wouldn’t ask about 2010 at The Idekers. In 2012 the world had given me new fodder so the letter started out as: Ho, Ho, Ho, Hey, Hey, Hey, Santa’s on his way and oh by the way, so is Obamacare and higher taxes. Oh well, there are worse things in life and you are about to experience one of them. That’s right, it is time for the most self-serving and despised Christmas tradition – “The Dreaded Ideker Family Christmas Letter.” So gather up the family, mix yourself a nice strong holiday libation, fire up your magic Amish heater and get ready to read everything you don’t want to know and certainly wouldn’t ask about 2012 at the Ideker household. Then in 2020, as we were dealing with the global pandemic, I wrote the following introduction: Ho, Ho, Ho, Hey, Hey, Hey, I can’t wait to get 2020 out of the way, but there are a few good things that came out of it. First, you don’t have to go to your in-law’s house for their annual Christmas party because with everyone wearing masks they will never know if you are there. Next, you don’t have to fret about what to get everyone this year, just buy them a box of disposable masks and if they are really Covid paranoid you might throw in some Clorox wipes. They will never again talk about how insensitive and out of touch you are. Finally, the pandemic gives you the ultimate tool to avoid annoying people. Simply carry around one of those digital thermometers. When you are in the company of someone who really drives you crazy, pull it out, insist on taking their temperature, announce it is 103 (they will be so concerned they won’t ask to see it) and send them on their way to the nearest testing site. Wow, this Covid thing isn’t so bad. However, despite the challenges 2020 has presented, no matter how bad you think the election and the pandemic have been, there is still one unrelenting threat to life that is worse than the Spanish Flu, the Bird Flu, the Swine Flu or even the Flu Flu. There is no vaccine, no known cure, no real hope for control of this threat. Yes friends, I am speaking of the greatest threat to life as we know it, “The Dreaded Ideker Family Christmas Letter” and you are now holding it in your over-washed, dried up hands. So use a little of that hand sanitizer you stole from the 7-11 bathroom, put Tiger King on pause, pour yourself a good strong drink, have the family gather around (socially distanced with masks on of course) and get ready to read everything you don’t want to know and certainly wouldn’t ask about The Ideker Family in 2020.
By now you are probably thinking, “this guy has totally lost it and why am I wasting my time reading this?” Well, as I have said, Christmas is about traditions and believe it or not, many of the recipients now consider “The Dreaded Ideker Family Christmas Letter” a tradition. If I don’t get it in the mail early enough and it doesn’t arrive by the second week of December, I start getting emails wondering where it is and why I didn’t get it out sooner? It’s almost like hate mail only for some reason these people actually look forward to getting my letter. I’ve created a monster so to speak. I am not suggesting my letter carries the importance of time honored family Christmas traditions such as going to candle light service on Christmas Eve, or serving green chile and tamales along with oyster stew for Christmas Eve supper. I would never compare the tradition of a reading a somewhat irreverent Christmas letter to gathering the family together to read the Christmas story in Luke 2 in the Bible or lying in bed on Christmas Eve, reading The Night Before Christmas to your child. Those are all things that really make Christmas the special time of year it is. And yes, I do really care about what took place in your life during the year – births, deaths, moves, promotions, lost teeth, lost jobs, children, grandchildren, vacations, health issues, etc. All of those things are part of the cycle of life God created for us. A cycle that was forever changed on a dark night in Bethlehem where in a manger a virgin gave birth to the one who changed traditions forever.
So if you are one of those traditional Christmas letter writers and I have offended you, get over it and keep writing your letter. Just don’t try to copy mine because the world can’t take more than one.
In past posts I have talked about my love for Western culture and everything that goes along with it. Faith, morals, integrity, respect, courage, conviction, ethics – you can go on and on with words that describe the beauty and fullness of the Western lifestyle.
Growing up in New Mexico, there was a term for people who were white collar during the week but when the rodeo came to town they were all about their wrangler jeans and cowboy boots. Real cowboys called them “Dime Store Cowboys.” If needed, these want-to-bes would go to the local “Five and Dime” store to buy a cheap cowboy hat and a paisley bandana to complete their look. After their one visit to the rodeo their “cowboy stuff” would go back in the closet until the next time the rodeo came back.
I guess, in my own way, I have always been one of those “Dime Store Cowboys.” Even when I was a little boy I loved the idea of being a cowboy.
1959 – on the way to the New Mexico State Fair
If my parents would have let me, I would have worn my hat, boots and jeans, with of course the requisite pearl handled, six shooter cap guns with dual holsters, to everything, including church. But, as I grew up and I had to start dealing with reality I dropped the idea of being like Gene Autrey, Roy Rogers or Marshall Dillon in Gunsmoke. Truthfully, it never really left me, it was always there right under the surface.
I went years without owning a pair of cowboy boots. There is a store in Vail, Colorado called Axel’s. I had never shopped there because it is crazy expensive but they have very high quality, beautiful things, some of which reflects traditional western designs. Terrie and I were walking around Vail village one day and decided to go into Axel’s and take a look. Toward the center of the store, on a back wall, was a display of hand-crafted cowboy boots. Just seeing them gave me a little rush so I wondered back to the shelves and began examining them. Before I knew what had happened I was walking out of the store after purchasing a pair of beautifully crafted, hand-tooled, buckskin boots, a pair of boot-leg blue jeans and a cowhide shell jacket. Uh oh, that old cowboy desire was starting to creep back up into my consciousness again. There was one big problem though, no hat.
Fast forward a couple of years, we are driving from the Denver area to Phoenix, Arizona with a stop in Santa Fe, New Mexico along the way. We spent some time walking the beautiful, quaint, back streets of the old section of Santa Fe and ended up in the square which was in the middle of town. Santa Fe, and the square in particular, have a distinct, tangible vibe and aroma. Chile ristras hang in the windows and from the soffits covering the sidewalks. Their fragrance combined with the smell of burning piñon wood permeates everything and creates a warm, comforting atmosphere that is like none other.
The Santa Fe square is well known for its open street market comprised of native Americans with their hand-made jewelry and accessories laid out on colorful hand woven wool blankets. Tourists are free to browse the goods displayed by the artists and then to negotiate a price that works for everyone. As we made our way around the square, we went into various small boutiques and a couple of the larger stores like “Ortega’s” which is a New Mexico institution. Then all of a sudden, I realized I was staring straight into a Lucchese boot store. Lucchese started in the late 1800s in Texas and is well known for producing beautiful hand-crafted western style boots made from various exotic skins and hides. Terrie helped me pick out a basic pair made of goat skin died chocolate brown with beautifully stitched uppers and traditional heels. Then it was back to Ortega’s to find a belt strap and a large belt buckle. It didn’t take long before I was leaving the store with a hand-tooled strap and a sensational silver Zuni belt buckle. You see, I also had an affinity for native American art and jewelry, turquoise in particular. One thing was still missing – the hat.
Over the next few years there were a couple more stops at the Santa Fe Lucchese store. As I continued to build my boot collection I added a pair of Ostrich leg and a pair of Black Caiman. Terrie liked my boots but every time I would mention the missing piece, the hat, she would simply chuckle and quickly brush the thought away.
No good cowboy goes without a great hat but there I was with a really nice boot collection, several western style shirts, proper boot leg jeans, a beautiful silver belt buckle complete with a hand tooled strap and a gorgeous hand stitched cow hide jacket. Still no hat.
2020 – the pandemic, binge watching streamed TV shows, Yellowstone. The best collection of hat wearing cowboys since Ben Cartwright, Little Joe, Hoss, Adam and the hired hands on The Ponderosa Ranch and the TV show, Bonanza. Terrie enjoyed watching the episodes of Yellowstone with me. I saw it as an opportunity and tried to convince her I might look like John Dutton (Kevin Costner) if only I had a good cowboy hat. Despite my best efforts, she again laughed off the suggestion, but she did at least finally tell me to get one if I really wanted one. Of course, in wife language that means fill your silly desire if you want just don’t make any comments the next time I walk out of a boutique with a bag full of new clothes. After 48 years of marriage, I have become pretty adept at deciphering spousal morse code and even though the verbal message was to go get my hat the unspoken message was, don’t be silly, its time for you to grow up.
Then, there was what could only be divine intervention. For our birthdays our sons and their families had arranged for me and Terrie to have custom cowboy hats made! This was simply too good to be true. Through their business, Brandon and Tyler had met Fred and Coleen Orr. Coleen is a well-known and highly skilled hat maker with clients from all over the world – literally. All we had to do was set up an appointment to visit Coleen at her shop and the rest would be taken care of. You think I wasted any time? No! This was like a dream come true.
Entering Coleen’s shop, Cowboy Up, completely changed my perspective on “the hat.” Her workshop is an amazing display of finished hats, work in progress and tools of the trade that date back well over 100 years. Behind the counter is a beautifully cast, push button cash register. The stools in front of the counter have six shooters attached to the armrests and a cowboy figure as a back rest. There is a cowhide couch accompanied by a hair-on-hide footrest. Behind a half wall is the area where all the magic happens. Counters strewn with various hat making materials and tools. Hats in various stages of completion. Then there is Coleen, adorned in her own flat brim, custom hat. A beautiful woman, gentle in spirit but with strong convictions and faith, rooted in the “western” way of life. A person who has found and followed her God given passion. A true artist. Her medium being Beaver felt, woven straw and various other materials she shapes into works of art designed to not only adorn heads but to make a statement about the history and lifestyle the hats represent.
The process started with Coleen mapping the shape of our heads using an amazing tool that is over 100 years old. She uses the measurements to determine the size and inner shape of the hat. Coleen then had us put on several different styles of hats. She carefully explained the differences in the size of the brim, the height and shape of the crown, and the quality of the felt. Of course, there is also a choice of colors ranging from Silver belly to Brown or Black for men and any one of a number of colors for women. Once size, shape and color are selected the final step is selecting the band to wear with the hat. Custom bands like the ones Coleen sells are interchangeable so changing the band can change the appearance of the hat. With all the selections made, the six-to-eight week process of making and customizing our hats began.
I have to admit, I was a little like a kid anticipating Christmas or a birthday and waiting for the hat delivery day was not easy. Finally, I received a text from Coleen asking us to set up a time to come by the shop for the final fitting and delivery of our new hats. Terrie had selected a blue/grey color accompanied by a complimentary decorative band. Mine is a little darker than “silver belly” with a woven leather brown and black band. Coleen would put the hats on our heads, use her fingers to sense how they sat, where there might be unwanted gaps or pinch points and then go to work with her steam machine perfecting the final fit. I watched as her hands firmly but gracefully worked with the felt. Each tweak she made was like an artist completing a painting of a beautiful and compelling subject. I never thought I would see Terrie wear a cowboy hat but at the end of the process she loved it and she looks great in it. Like me she was inspired by what Coleen does, the history, the importance, the passion she has for her art and her customers. Each of us was overwhelmed by the quality of the finished hats, complete with labels on the inside band showing the hat is custom made for us individually.
I am so glad I never succumbed to the desire to go buy an off the shelf hat that really would have carried very little meaning or any real sense of the lifestyle and history that I now understand a little better. When I put on my Cowboy Up hat my first thought is of Coleen and the way she has claimed and pursued her Ephesians 2:10 calling. As I start to wear the hat more, I am getting used to comments like, “since when did you become a cowboy?” What those people don’t understand is how that hat on my head connects me to so many memories, life experiences and long time aspirations. The hat takes me back to the western way of life, the heritage I always wanted to claim as my own.
Although I am sure most real working cowboys would differ with me, I do not consider myself a “Dime Store Cowboy.” True, I have never lived or worked on a ranch. I have never owned a horse, roped a steer or slept in a bunkhouse. But the western lifestyle is embedded in my heart. It is not a fleeting infatuation produced by a TV show set in Montana. Nor is it a “to be ignored” fantasy. True, at my age and stage of life I will never be a real Cowboy but when that hat goes on my head I am connected to a culture of faith, morals, integrity, respect, courage, conviction, ethics and all of the good things that are synonymous with the western lifestyle. I am also connected to an artist named Coleen Orr. Some people have Picassos, Rembrandts, or Monets. Others own sculptures, carvings or other cherished pieces of art. I own a Coleen Orr Cowboy Up hat, and it is so much more than a hat.
I am now awaiting the delivery of my second hat. This one will be black, shaped like the one in the picture. And yes, I am that little boy again, still anticipating a day that will hold the intrigue and excitement of Christmas or a birthday. The day the next hat will be delivered, shaped and finished into another work of art.
A little over three years ago I wrote a post about my wife titled, “Does Her Voice Smile?” It was based on her love for hiking and for the group of ladies she has hiked with for the past 20+ years. I made the point that every time she comes home from a day with her friends I can tell because her voice smiles. Over the past couple of days I came to realize that she smiles in other ways.
The photo above is of the “Crystal Mill” which is located on a road that can be hiked or driven in a capable four wheel drive vehicle. The road starts just outside the town of Marble, Colorado and runs through the hamlet of Crystal, Colorado before beginning the climb to perilous Schofield Pass which ends in Crested Butte. The “Mill” is the second most photographed spot in the state of Colorado. It isn’t actually a mill but was constructed in the late 1800s and used a horizontal water wheel propelled by the flow of The Crystal River to turn a device that pumped clean air through pipes running to the mines close to the area, allowing the miners to breathe fresh air. It was later converted into a compressor which delivered compressed air to drive pneumatic tools used in the mines. We have been to the mill multiple times and never tire of the surrounding beauty. It really is not easy to describe and I highly recommend you set aside a day to enjoy the adventure.
We recently made another trip into the mill and even though we own a very capable jeep we chose to use Crystal Mill Jeep Tours to take us. The company is owned by the Smith family and we have come to know Sam who runs it. She is full of life and is a big part of the experience. It is not that the road is extremely difficult to drive, we just prefer to be able to enjoy the scenery rather than concentrating on navigating over the rocks and alongside the steep drop-offs. Sam employs great drivers and guides so why not take advantage of what they have to offer.
On this particular trip we were accompanied by another couple who are close friends and had never been into the mill so we also wanted to make sure they got the history lesson that goes along with the guided tour. Our driver, Colton, is a young guy from Texas who has been in Colorado for only a few years but has embraced the outdoor lifestyle in a big way. In addition to driving jeeps, and hauling tourists around the mountains, he is a backcountry snowboarder, first responder mountain rescuer, knows everyone in that part of Gunnsion County and is generally just a good dude. I knew I liked the guy when he stopped at one point to take a photo and exclaimed, “look at what God did here. He gave us this incredible place to enjoy.” He went on to say, “how can anyone look at this and deny there is a creator?” Really perceptive, really refreshing.
As we got closer to the mill the weather started to change and rain started to fall. Normally I would expect Terrie to express a little displeasure but not today. She was in her element. She put on another layer of clothes and kept smiling as we proceeded up the road. Each of us was mesmerized by the beauty of the changing aspens, the gentle sound of the Crystal River as it flowed alongside the trail, the surprise of occasional water falls cascading down the mountainside fed by unseen mountain springs and the majesty of the surrounding 13 and 14 thousand foot peaks. Colton kept us informed about past avalanches and rock slides that annually change the hillsides and even the road. He was skilled to point out late season wild flowers and tell how the people who were indigenous to the area used various plants for food and medicine. I could tell how passionate he is about the area by how often he would pause to take a photo – he told me he now has over 21,000 of them. The entire experience has a spiritual quality about it. You can feel the amazing artistry of God in this place. As Colton said, it is undeniable.
The entire trip is about 3 hours from start to finish and includes a very short stop in Crystal (elevation 8950′). The village used to have a “general store” but it was closed a couple of years ago because the county decided the building didn’t meet code. I’m not sure what difference that makes in a town of 16 but it is now closed and has a sign in the window with a QR code in case you want to shop on line! The gentleman who owns the entire place, including the mill, lives in Crystal year around. I’m not sure how he does that but after several decades I am sure he knows what he is going to face with each change of season. After the short stop in Crystal we returned to the mill where Colton gave us the history and we had a chance to take some photographs. The last time we visited the mill the owner allowed professional photographers to scale the hillside going down to the river to take pictures of the mill from below. He had several attendants monitoring who was allowed to go down to the river and collect the $20.00 fee he charged them. As those things go, people started figuring out ways to get around the attendants and get across the river to the mill building and of course there was vandalism and damage done to the property. The story goes that one imbecile even tied a rope to the mill shaft, connected it to his jeep and tried to tear the shaft away from the building. So as usual a few ruined it for everyone else and they have completely shut down any access to the area below and surrounding the mill. You can still take photographs from a couple good vantage points adjacent to the road.
The ride back to Marble is as stunning as the ride up to the mill. Sure, it’s the exact same road but traveling in the reverse direction the sites are new and different. It was almost as if in the short time since we had passed through the first time, more Aspen trees had begun their annual transition to gold and more of the brush along the road had changed to red. The light rain that had fallen intensified the colors of the brush and the contrasting green of the spruce trees. Because it was a Monday there were very few vehicles making the drive which added to the tranquility and beauty of our surroundings. The light wind blowing through the trees sounded like the whispers of angels and caused you to dismiss the sound of the jeep tires crunching over the dirt and gravel on the road. All too soon we were back at Beaver Lake and the town of Marble.
After thanking Colton for the wonderful three hour journey we headed for Slow Groove Barbecue, a must stop when you are in Marble. For a Monday the place was packed. It is amazing to me that this restaurant exists in a town of around 130 full time residents and it is not like Marble is located on a major highway. Marble is a destination, not somewhere you randomly drive through. And yet, here is this fantastic barbecue restaurant serving savory beef brisket, chicken, ribs, pulled pork, mac and cheese and all the other goodies you would expect at a good “cue” place.
We enjoyed a filling lunch comprised of beef brisket, baked beans, and creamy mac and cheese, accompanied by Slow Groove’s sweet and spicy sauces. Each of us descended into a meat coma brought on by not wanting to waste a single bite of the tender and flavorful beef.
After lunch we drove our guests to the marble quarry viewing area. The quarry is still active and despite the many years of cutting huge blocks of the white stone out of the hillside, we were told there is enough Marble left in the vein to last 1,000 years. We took time to read some of the history of the quarry written on signs posted around the area of the quarry office parking lot. In the lot were trailers, some holding Marble blocks weighing up to 60,000 pounds. They were staged, ready to be transported to their next destination.
It was getting late in the afternoon and we had a couple hour drive to get back to our accommodations for the evening. We made a short stop at the Redstone Inn, an iconic Colorado hotel, complete with a castle and its own little town. Then it was back on the road. The contrast of the busy, noisy, interstate highway and the quiet beauty of Crystal was a shock to our systems. Each of us spent time, in our own way, reflecting on the experience of the day. We all know we should slow down and enjoy the amazing artistry of God more. Of course, easier said than done.
For me, this was a day to share Terrie’s love for the mountains and for adventure. I could tell she was in her element and even though she had been to the mill several times, this trip was just as special and invigorating as the previous ones. When we got home that evening it was evident her entire countenance had changed. Now, keep in mind Terrie rarely shows extreme emotion in her facial expressions. Her smile is beautiful and is a reflection of her loving and gracious heart. But this night was somehow different. There is a saying, “the eyes are a window to the soul. Terrie’s eyes were smiling. The delights of the day were reflected in the expression of her eyes and there was no doubt about the joy I saw in her. And yes, her voice smiled too.
Men, this is what we should always choose for our spouses. To do something that will show them we do choose them every day. We choose them to help guide our own journey. We choose them because God had chosen them for us long before we were born. We choose them because being together with them fills our hearts and calms our spirit. We choose them over everything else in our lives except God. And because we choose them in so many ways we should also choose to do whatever we can to insure their eyes smile.
Doug's Journey 