—– As many [...]]]> Following is the talk given by my son Barrett at his mother’s funeral. I post it again for Mother’s Day as a reminder of just how quickly our time with our mothers, wives and daughters can slip away from us. There are other Mother’s Day posts under the Holidays category on the right-hand side.

—–
As many of you know, my mother had a great love for literature, especially children’s literature. And there was one book that she got years ago that’s entitled Love You Forever. It’s a story about a mother who sang to her baby son, “I’ll love you forever; I’ll love you for always; As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.” She continued this throughout his life.

Eventually, however, their roles reversed. The mother got sick, and her son took care of her. Then he went home to his son, held him in his arms and sang, “I’ll love you forever; I’ll love you for always; As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.” Mom and I read that book countless times–and always cried.

This book was much on my mind as I wrote this letter to my mom after seeing her in the emergency room. I was badly shaken, and there were so many things I wanted to tell her. I read this letter to her the following evening in the hospital.
—–
Dear Mom,

I have so many things I’d like to say to you, but I’m not sure if I can get the words out of my head onto the paper. So this might ramble a little bit.

When Brandi and I walked into the ER, we were taken aback. You and Dad hadn’t exactly told us how sick you really were. Seeing you made me realize how short life is and how so many memories come to mind at such times. Memories like…..

“Mommy, rock me in the red rocker.” This is probably my first real memory.

Caffeine-free Diet Coke. I didn’t know there was anything else to drink.

Putting war paint on Wesley and me and sneaking in crosses so we would be Christian Indians.

Lunch at Pizza Inn. We played games, and you attempted to make me do some homework.

Shaving my head before BMA camp. What a haircut!

Scrapbooks for every year of my life. I still love to look at them, and I’m sure that your grandson Jackson will as well.

The detailed journals you kept. Do you remember that when we were having fights you would pull out the journals and read them to me? Hearing how much love you had for me always seemed to shape me up.

You always took me to soccer and baseball practices and to baseball and Tae Kwon Do as well.

Countless costumes for dress up.

Playing dodge ball in the hall. Playing Pente, Aggravation, Sorry, dominoes, and 42. Trying to teach me to play the piano.

Tricking me into believing that Grandpa was giving me a hoe for Christmas–and it was really a microscope.

Encouraging me to go and do without being afraid of the world.

Standing by the convictions God had given you and Dad without caring whether others agreed.

Producing amazing productions for Christmas, Thanksgiving, Presidents’ Day–and anything else than could be used for a learning opportunity.

Crazy birthday parades and banners that found their way into the newspaper.

Never showing different amounts of love to Jenny and me. You loved us both the same.

Giving up a career to stay home and teach me even though you had never even heard of such a thing.

Summer reading programs. Reading to Dad, Jenny and me. Instilling in me a love for literature.

Mom, I regret that I have wasted so many years in not loving and appreciating you and Dad in the way that the two of you deserve. But I want you to know that the things that you tried to instill in me were not wasted. I look forward to instilling them in Jackson. Your legacy will live on. I also want you to know that you and Dad are my heroes. I hope that Brandi and I can be the parents that you have been.

I love you, Mom, and I treasure the time that we have left together. And whether that be one more day or twenty years, I want you to remember one thing: I’ll love you forever; I’ll love you for always; As long as I’m living, my mommy you’ll be.
—–
Barrett was able to spend eight more days with his mom. You can listen to his talk at www.james-mc.com.

Copyright 2007 James McAlister

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Still, a subtle exchange is underway as “first times” are seamlessly displaced by “last [...]]]> Childhood is incredibly fragile and fleeting. And though its passage can be gauged in finite increments of months and years, parents easily identify with the “first times” which punctuate their memories. Some, such as first words and first steps, are rarely forgotten.

Still, a subtle exchange is underway as “first times” are seamlessly displaced by “last times.” The last ride on the merry-go-round and the last story book and the last tuck into bed all seem to make their escapes without any of the fanfare of the “first times.” We don’t even notice their absence until someone says, “When was the last time….”

But all the while, childhood–with its wonder and hope–has been slipping through our fingers. It once seemed to have substance, even an intense presence, but like the morning mist, it dispersed before our eyes. In its place we found something else: obstacles and challenges that we couldn’t see before because of the mist. It was then that a new set of perhaps-not-so-thrilling “first times” emerged, and some of them weren’t much fun.

Parents have told me some painful stories about their children in recent weeks. They simply don’t understand how such magical, enjoyable childhoods could have turned into horrifying nightmares.

The stories vary, or course, but there is a common thread: adult children are making some terrible choices. One has moved out because he doesn’t like being told what to do; he’s joining the Marines. Another has fallen into gross immorality inconsistent with her upbringing. A thirty-year-old can’t keep steady work. Another’s drug use has caused her to abandon her children. And these aren’t the only ones.

Why have such horrendous difficulties crept in when childhood seemed so pleasant? I don’t have any pat answers, but I will share one thing that surfaces far too frequently. Deal with it, and you solve a lot of the problems.

One father told me that his son was doing fine… until he fell in with bad friends. They partied so much that the boy had to drop out of college. Another young man was indignant when his father tried to control the company he was keeping; it was too late for intervention. Friends are so influential that parents and children need to learn how to spot and avoid the bad apples early on.

Though one’s physical companions are extremely important, the issue of “friends” is far broader. It extends to the music we listen to, the movies we watch, and the books we read. In such activities, relationships and bonds develop, and bonds are hard to break.

“My best friend,” said tycoon Henry Ford, “is the one who brings out the best in me.” And that’s a good test. If a friendship–physical or otherwise–does not inspire one’s best, perhaps it should be avoided. Otherwise, the morning mist of childhood may suddenly swell into an angry storm from which there is no relief.

THE MORNING MIST

When morning mist is heavy and
It thickly blankets all,
It mutes the harshness of the world,
And problems seem so small.

It’s then that dreams can reach the sky
With future looming bright,
For nothing is impossible
When morning mist is right.

But as the day begins to dawn,
And vapors dissipate,
The challenges we see unveiled
Can cause our hearts to faint.

And though we cannot ever hold
The mist with tightened grip,
`Twill be so sad if when it’s gone
We’ve let its wonder slip.

For childhood is just such a mist
So quickly come to naught
And often taking with it all
The magic that it brought.

Copyright 1999 James McAlister

Fathers go to work when they don’t want to, [...]]]> I write this on the eve of Father’s Day–my first as a grandfather and my son’s first as a father. Thus I evaluate fatherhood by my own experience, both failure and success, and offer a few characteristics of the ideal father I wish I had better exhibited:

Fathers go to work when they don’t want to, listen when they need to, and sacrifice when they ought to.

Fathers love their families without responding to unlovely attitudes or actions. And they endeavor to live in such a way that they don’t have to regret their own words and deeds.

Fathers cry tenderly over sick pets, bury them when they die–and comfort their grieving children. And fathers who have suffered the loss of a child or a mate struggle to rebuild normal lives despite the overwhelming emptiness and seeming unfairness.

Fathers laugh at children’s jokes that aren’t funny–and sputter to keep a straight face when children’s serious efforts go humorously awry. They embrace a child’s crude, handmade Valentine as if it were a Rembrandt.

Quick to hear, slow to speak and slow to anger, father’s discipline in love but never ridicule or embarrass.

Fathers say “I was wrong” more often than “You were wrong.” They easily confess their own mistakes and give their best efforts to straighten them out. Fathers generously sprinkle “I love you” and I’m proud of you” into their conversations.

Fathers readily tear down their own dreams to build up their children’s. And they remain faithful to their flock despite the lure of “greener pastures.”

Fathers learn to do important stuff like toss balls, dash through sprinklers and lie on the driveway to gaze at the stars. They bend low to kiss away hurts and wipe away tears. They weep at graduations and weddings, realizing how quickly their children have grown up and away.

Rather than “stuff,” fathers give better gifts to their children: patience, humility, honor, truth and duty. And they understand that respect must be earned, not demanded.

Fathers know that they may be the only visible earthly example their families will every see of an invisible heavenly Father. And they eventually realize that their greatest battles will be won on their knees, not by their bank accounts.

Fathers grow into the men their mothers dreamed they’d be.

And when results just don’t seem to come and discouragement sets in, I offer this letter from my son. A reminder of how the seeds a father sows early on may unexpectedly bloom in a different season, he graciously overlooks failure but overstates success:

“I considered what I should get you for Father’s Day but couldn’t think of anything that you would really want or need. Then I thought of something I have never given you: the respect and gratitude that you deserve. So let me thank you for all the things I have never said ‘thank you’ for:

“For being the man who took me to the hardware store on Saturday mornings to buy gum. For being the man who never missed one of my ball games, made the most of the practices and even helped coach.

“For being the man who took off work every summer to take me to BMA Camp. For being the man who was on camping trips even when no other father was.

“For being the man who every day before work was on his knees in prayer for me.

“For being the man who is always willing to offer but never forcing wisdom. “For being the man who never said, “I told you so” when I didn’t take the advice I should have.

“For being the man who freely gave me all that you had, even when I didn’t thank you.

“For being the man who is the most constant example of a Christian I have ever known. For being the man who made decisions that Mom or I never had to worry about being right or wrong.

“Thank you, Dad, for being a father who had always gone above and beyond the call of duty and never complained. You are the best role model that I could hope for, and I hope that one day I can be half the man you didn’t have to be.

“Thank you for being my dad.”

Fatherhood is more of a possession to be won than a position bestowed, an honor tempered by its share of setbacks and disappointments, a crown unfit for the fainthearted or unwilling.

Copyright 2007 James McAlister

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In bygone years, whenever I’d yell, “Let’s go to the lumber company,” Barrett’s response [...]]]> “Now you know that Saturday morning is when we go to the lumber company, don’t you? They have gum and candy machines, so we’ll need to take our money.” Thus spoke the young man to his tiny three-day-old son–and our first grandchild.

In bygone years, whenever I’d yell, “Let’s go to the lumber company,” Barrett’s response was predictable. Rustling, scuffling and scratching sounds would emanate from his room, and he’d eventually emerge with a pocket of loose change. Though we tried to moderate his sugar intake, trips to the lumber company fell under a different dispensation. When men go to the lumber company together, ordinary rules of conduct are temporarily set aside.

Regrettably, the day inevitably came–somewhere between ages 10 and 12, I believe–that he no longer wanted to go with me. Instead of telling me outright, however, he complained to Mary. “Why does Dad keep talking about the lumber company? I really don’t want to go.”

Mary broke the news to me as gently as she could, initiating me into a new phase of fatherhood. I passed into another phase this past Friday as I heard Barrett tenderly introduce his new son, Jackson Barrett, to the once-familiar but long-dormant lumber company mantra.

He shared another revelation as well. “Brandi and I were wondering last night how our parents could have kept loving us even when we talked back. Now we understand that you were remembering this.” And as if I didn’t understand already, he held up little Jackson so I could see his face. But what he doesn’t yet realize is that countless other precious memories spawned over the next few years will eventually swell into a tsunami.

Jackson Barrett entered the world with a unique heritage few babies enjoy: to be brought into the light by the same skilled hands that had delivered his father. I well remember that anxious evening 26 years ago when Dr. Orman Simmons sat on the end of Mary’s hospital bed just prior to Barrett’s birth. Though terribly busy, he spent an hour comforting and encouraging, providing assurances that this new baby would not suffer with brain damage as his sister older Jenny had. He said, “You have prayed for me, haven’t you? You’d better.”

But a more compelling thought grips me today. Teaching is not so much what we say, but how we live out the ordinary moments of our brief times with our children. And in time the day comes when they begin to replay the tapes of episodes, both good and bad, we may have considered insignificant.

Saturday morning is when we go to the lumber company. And I trust that before many years expire, we three men, pockets stuffed with loose change, will journey to one together. The older two will watch with wonder as the little one excitedly plunks his coins into the slot, tugs at the lever–and gapes as goodies clatter down the chute. And we’ll have witnessed the rebirth of heritage.

MY CHILDREN

I watch the golden grains of sand
Now sifting slowly through my hand:
They are my times with my children.

And as they each fall into place,
Upon the ground their patterns trace,
I see the lives of my children.

Thus one by one they mold and make
The shape and course young lives will take
In my few days with my children.

Eventually the grains are gone
And leave behind a haunting song:
Have I been true to my children?

So while I hold them in my hand,
Those precious golden grains of sand,
I’ll give my all for my children.

(James McAlister © 2000)

Copyright 2006 James McAlister

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—– The building [...]]]> At the recent rehearsal dinner for our son and his fiancée, a few of us older folk injected one of their last hours of singleness with bits of wisdom learned gleaned through our own struggles in life. If you’ll indulge me, I’ll pass along a few personal musings that time didn’t allow that evening.

—–
The building blocks of life are laid down rough and squared up later.

You need not seek conflicts; they find you soon enough. But the whisper from the created universe is one of hope: “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.” Listen and learn.

Having our lives flexed by the opposing forces of joy and sorrow–even triumph and failure–builds strength and unity that come in no other way.

The spoken word, an arrow shot, will find a mark if aimed or not.

What you can’t see doesn’t diminish its reality, and what you don’t understand doesn’t negate its power.

No tears are more bitter than those shed over having failed to do what you should have and could have done but didn’t.

Embrace three unchangeables and succeed; shun them and flounder. They are these: limitations of time and opportunity are inescapable, restrictions others impose upon us are unavoidable, and benefits from moral restraint are undeniable.

True prayer is not so much what we say, but what God hears.

Those with the power to hurt us sometimes exercise their ability to blot the light from our lives. But the dawn may be more dramatic than the sunset–if we can hang on through the seemingly interminable midnight hours.

Time is the currency of our physical lives, a coin of inestimable worth whose two faces–advance and retreat–seem to turn up randomly. But with its value resting in the integrity of the Giver, we can spend the coin of life with joy, no matter which face we see.

Duty is what we do while waiting for deliverance to come.

There’s a corollary to the Golden Rule: If you knew for certain that what you did unto others would swiftly be done unto you, behavior modification would be instant and effective.

If you would like to leave a lasting influence, draw along side those who are struggling. Babysit. Go to the store. Run errands. Write a note. Cook a meal. It’s often easier to endure the cloudburst of crisis than the persistent drip-drip-drip of routine that slowly erodes strength and hope.

Rules indiscriminately applied don’t replace thinking; being right is no substitute for compassion.

The cares of this world and the urgency of the moment have an irresistible way of spoiling the important, which is seldom in a hurry.

The details you immerse yourself into are the brushstrokes of destiny. And if those details–your decisions, companions, aspirations, observations, meditations, activities–be good, so will be the picture of what you’re becoming.

The trophies of parenthood come when our children return to us in like kind–hour for hour, laugh for laugh, tear for tear–the costly treasure we poured into childhood.
—–
May God bless Barrett and Brandi as they embark on this new adventure together!

Copyright 2006 James McAlister

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Sources of quotations

Our son, Barrett, had come home unexpectedly, jostling a large sack. Had he been younger, I might have expected him to extract a kitten or other wayward animal.

"What's in the sack?" I suspiciously inquired. "You'll see," came his mysteriously reply.

His [...]]]> Just before midnight, the whistling outside put me on alert. Then the front door swung opened.

Our son, Barrett, had come home unexpectedly, jostling a large sack. Had he been younger, I might have expected him to extract a kitten or other wayward animal.

"What's in the sack?" I suspiciously inquired. "You'll see," came his mysteriously reply.

His hand withdrew a hefty book. Knowing my affinity for Father Brown and Sherlock Holmes, he had purchased a collection of detective stories for me. No special occasion.

"Is Mom asleep? I've got some things for her, too." Sensing the poignancy of the instant, I hastened to awaken her.

For her the sack produced THE LITTLE HOUSE, a special children's picture book. "I remember how you read this to me when I was little, and I wanted to buy it for you." Then out came another picture book. "Remember MAKE WAY FOR DUCKLINGS, Mom? It reminds me of my childhood."

What stirred the slumbering past I know not, but such moments of pleasant remembrance are one of parents' greatest rewards. Seeking a glimpse into those halcyon days, I browsed an old journal this morning, picking random entries from when Barrett was six. And recalling the particular incidents my scribbles represented, I squeezed my eyes close to see them better.

"I took Barrett to the army surplus store in Little Rock. We also went to my office, the Territorial Restoration and McDonald's. He had a good time and thanked me for surprising him. He also told me that he was glad that I didn't have to work on Saturdays. So am I, for these chances will not come our way again."

"Barrett and I went to Zellner's to get some refrigerator boxes. We cut windows and doors into them to make a clubhouse to play in. This took a lot of time, but he is little only once, and the opportunity to do such things will be gone all too soon."

"Yesterday morning we went to buy valentines. He picked out a card and a bookmark as well as some note cards and envelopes. Then we went to Pinnacle Mountain to a watch a presentation on birds of prey, especially eagles."

"Barrett and I went to fly one of his kites. We let out all of our 500 feet of string, and the kite was nearly out of sight. As we rode our bicycles to Gatlin Park, he was singing, 'It's a good day to fly a kite!' I hope he will remember the time I have taken with him."

"Barrett went with me to see Jenny. We played hide-and-seek, had pine cone fights, looked at the Little Dipper, ran, and bought a candy bar. I hope that Barrett remembers our times with Jenny as pleasant."

"Barrett is taking a nap in the tent he bought with his own money. He is so excited."

"We ate out today and then ran through the sprinklers in the front yard. He thought that was great fun!"

"Barrett made such a fine Mother's Day present for Mary. He drew pictures and fixed up a box with a bow. He did it all by himself."

"As Barrett grows, I pray that we will always be good friends. My confidence is in the fact that we reap what we sow, and I have tried to sow the right things into his life."

The trophies of parenthood come when our children return to us in like kind–time for time, laugh for laugh, tear for tear–the costly treasure we labored to invest in them in childhood.

Copyright 2004 James McAlister

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And to that I add a few journal snippets from Father’s Days past. —– On Friday we made another expedition to Deal Cemetery in Ladelle to [...]]]> Regular readers know our daughter Jenny, who died unexpectedly in October 1995. So in honor of Father’s Day, I share this brief essay about her that I prepared for a writing contest.

And to that I add a few journal snippets from Father’s Days past.
—–
On Friday we made another expedition to Deal Cemetery in Ladelle to decorate Jenny’s grave.

I miss Jenny and often feel sadness because I’ll never see her again in this life. She was, after all, one-third of my small flock, and I sometimes feel wronged over what seems to be her untimely death. Instead of being discouraged, however, I must learn to thank God for the 22 memorable years He gave us together.

Blind and profoundly retarded from birth, Jenny could see only with the eyes of her heart. But the future holds a particular hope, one expressed in the epitaph (from the Bible’s book of John) we had inscribed on her tombstone. When we finally stand face to face in heaven, I fully expect her to lovingly repeat those same words back to me.

But this time they will be more than mere symbols carved in cold, lifeless granite. Coming from the lips of one who never spoke a single word in her entire 22 years, I expect them to ring with the warm sweetness of all that heaven holds: “I once was blind, but now I see.” I anticipate that day and the healing it will bring.

And soon after the echoes of joy over newfound sight have died away, I expect–and even hope for–the pleasure of one word thus far denied me despite my desires and prayers to hear it. For with Jenny’s sight will come recognition of an intent face, one perceived but until then unseen. And then will come the one word fathers long to hear: “Daddy!”
—–
(1987) I received many nice presents for Father’s Day: swim suit, shorts and shirt, cap, framed picture that Barrett (age 6) had drawn, book, three tapes of music and some money from Jen. To be loved is a great reward, and I’m grateful.

(1993) I’ve had a wonderful Father’s Day breakfast. Mary and Jen gave me two missionary books to read to Barrett (age 12), and he gave me a knife just like his. I am so blessed.

(1995) I had a wonderful surprise present for Father’s Day–a Super Leatherman Tool. Because of the cost, I wouldn’t have bought one for myself, but Mary and Barrett (age 14) got one for me. And Barrett said in church that I was flexible, spending time with him and Jenny. So much here goes undone, but my time of opportunity with my children is rapidly vanishing.
—–
Times change. Diapers and infant seats quickly give way to jeans and training wheels and cars and college and independence…. and beyond.

But Father’s Day reminds me that the sometimes-rocky transition from breadwinner and trainer to counselor and friend is both necessary and non-optional.

Copyright 2004 James McAlister

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Bulletin Insert

As creatures of routine, cats develop habits that may seem peculiar to us. Proper training demands that we identify those habits and exploit them to our advantage.

Let me illustrate with a [...]]]> Whoever says you can’t train cats just doesn’t know. Training involves establishing strong ties between cause and effect, and cats learn quickly. Training brings results.

As creatures of routine, cats develop habits that may seem peculiar to us. Proper training demands that we identify those habits and exploit them to our advantage.

Let me illustrate with a case study on Maudie Nell’s training.

Consider the routine of feeding. When Maudie Nell is hungry, she invariably pulls at my legs with sharp little claws until she has my attention. Effective training has taught her that I will immediately stop whatever important activity has me occupied and open the kitty food.

Following breakfast, the routine continues. She flings herself onto the blue throw rug and flips around until she has my attention. Then I stop whatever important activity has me occupied, locate the kitty brush and give her a good brushing.

Then it’s time to go outside, so she runs to the door and waits for me to open it. If I don’t come quickly, she rattles the blinds until she has my attention. Then I stop whatever important activity has me occupied and open the door.

Since Maudie Nell doesn’t meow like normal kitties, she’s learned to rip at the rubber weather stripping (what’s left of it) when it’s time to come back in. Then once she has my attention, I stop whatever important activity has me occupied and open the door.

Having closely observed her habits, though, I’ve learned to leave the door slightly ajar so she can nudge it open herself with a strong thrust of the nose. That way I don’t have to be interrupted from my important activities to let her out a dozen times every morning. Eventually I’ll figure out an easier way to get the door closed, too.

At night, Maudie Nell heretofore has snoozed on her kitty bed until around 2:00 a.m. Then the rattling of blinds would awake me to let her out, and the popping of weather stripping would awaken me again to let her in.

Desiring to break this objectionable habit, I now put her into the large kitty cage in the garage so we can both get a good night’s rest. Maudie Nell has learned my routine, however. When bedtime draws near, she stealthily slinks off to some inaccessible recess under a piece of furniture. Then I stop whatever important activity has me occupied, locate and extract her, give her some supper, speak kindly to her and put her in the big cage.

So training cats is almost like training humans. Just establish a strong cause-effect relationship between actions and consequences so that good habits are reinforced and bad habits are avoided.

Admittedly, I sometimes evaluate my shortcomings in getting life to work on my behalf. And I suspect that Maudie Nell has been a better student in her training than I have. Finesse? No. Persistence and results? Yes. Perhaps I should study her technique more closely.

Copyright 2004 James McAlister

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Our son was 19 months old when we moved here, and for a brief but pleasant span of years trains played [...]]]> Last week I heard the early morning wail of a train. Though trains are commonplace in our city, fleeting years and evolving circumstances have diminished their importance to me, and I seldom notice them anymore.

Our son was 19 months old when we moved here, and for a brief but pleasant span of years trains played a significant role in our family life.

Living no more than a half-mile from the tracks, we heard trains throughout both day and night. But the great thrill lay in getting close enough to the locomotives lumbering through town to embrace their mystique.

Our nightly route to the Conway Human Development Center traversed the Union Pacific tracks. And with each crossing we endeavored to decipher the signal light a quarter-mile distant while straining our ears for the faint sound of an approaching train.

With its clanging bells and flashing lights, the crossing signals at Tyler and Donaghey held special attraction. Their audio-visual fireworks would begin just before the long, striped arms lowered to halt oncoming traffic. That process, of course, instigated synchronized sounds and movements from a little boy mimicking all that he was seeing. “Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!” rang the shouts as he slowly lowered his own stiffened arms from vertical to horizontal.

Then as the train itself rumbled by, other sound effects competed with the blaring horn. “Choo-choo-choo-choo! W-o-o-o-o-o! W-o-o-o-o-o!” All the steam trains in his picture books made those kinds of noises.

If no train were near the crossing, a three-way chorus of “Let’s go find a train” would send us hunting. Moving stealthily westward where Tyler parallels the track, we would roll down the windows, the better to hear. Muscles tensed, an instant turn north into one of the neighborhoods bordering the railway berm would place us in view of one of the giant iron beasts should one materialize. The lack of signal arms never seemed to alter the clamor emanating from the car.

Trains wormed their way into bedtime stories, too. Great and memorable train sightings, complete with sound effects, lived on night by night.

Sadly, last times have a way of slowly slipping out of our lives. I can remember the last time we looked for trains no better than the last time we lay in bed reading–again–the tattered Picture Bible, the last walk with old Smiley, the last gallop on the mechanical horse at the old Safeway store.

On the other hand, I well remember the last time I saw our daughter; I just didn’t realize it would be the last time.

There’s truth in this proverb: “Know well the condition of your flocks, and pay attention to your herds. For riches are not forever, nor does a crown endure to all generations.” And the spontaneous moments when childhood adventures thrust themselves upon adults quickly fade as well.

The morning whistle instantly thumbed my memory to pages bookmarked by trains. But the wail slowly faded into the distance, irretrievable, much like the last two decades they poignantly signify.

Copyright 2004 James McAlister

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