Author: Merlin Erb

I began the first draft of this document precisely 10:15 PM January 23, 2019 and was finished in three hours, but I’ve spent multiples of that since in tweaking it to properly reflect my heart’s desire to communicate relevant truth from my life experience as I see it, to you in an encouraging manner. You may have noticed the subheading “Retooled & Thriving” above. Please realize I say that as a goal in process for my life, to be attained, certainly not as a present accomplishment or a “done deal.”

And yes, the title is a play on the State of the Union Address event in WDC that is not expected to happen now on Tuesday the 29th.  But my accident did in fact occur 4 months 5 days ago … and my bones are very much enjoying their re-union, as indeed, am I.

I did walk out to my outdoor wood-stove yesterday for the first time and helped shovel a path to wheelbarrow wood from the pile to the stove. I was very careful. It felt so good to be at least a little bit useful outdoors again. Loretta leaves for 16 days in Honduras February 16 and is so worried I’ll damage my legs possibly preventing her trip. Certainly understandable!

Many of you are wondering just how I’m doing since I have not posted any updates. I saw both surgeons the day after Christmas and both were very pleased with the progress. The surgeon for the R leg wants to see me once more March 5^th at which time he’ll likely release me. I have considerable stiffness in both ankles and irritating pain but nothing obnoxious. At least, when I sit down and put my feet up and get to either reading or writing, I’m not aware of it … much. However, Loretta tells me I have a very high threshold for pain but I must confess, I was never quite sure how she determined that. It’s not like she had me hooked up to monitors or meters while inflicting pain. She just informed me she learned that fact the hard way, by parenting both me and our youngest son Chris, through all our bone breaks because of our genetic bone disorder, osteogenesis imperfecta (OI). And who am I to dispute a mother’s instinct. Actually, Loretta informs me the pain tolerance is well documented medically; I guess God realized we OI people deserved a virtual reality “pain-break!”

Currently I’m on an antibiotic and ibuprofen that runs out Sunday. Last Thursday I went for an extended walk about our 10 acres checking out a few of the trees that had come down recently. I’d been getting better than a mile in each day prior and that day I clocked 1.4 miles. Early the next morning my left foot had a dark streak on the inside from the heel to the big toe and topside from the toes back several inches that was also dark and some swollen. Even the skin looked like an infection was imminently brewing.

I went to walk-in at 7:30 AM and they sent me the ER and took some X-rays that all came back fine. The day prior on my extended walk I had  remarkably experienced no pain whatsoever so I was totally surprised with the discoloration the next morning. At least the x-rays confirmed all my new metal was still properly placed; just in case since we the OI inflicted don’t feel pain “normally” and something might have gone terribly wrong. They wrote “Cellulitis” as being the diagnosis and prescribed a week of Keflex and Ibuprofen and to go home and keep my feet up. Five days later all looks great and I hope to soon be back walking on rough ground to loosen up my ankles … provided the weather cooperates; we do have more snow and cold weather in the forecast.

This whole fiasco has really aged me. I’ve preferred not to look in a full length mirror for some time but now the view is simply pathetic. I’ve been concentrating on the doctors instructions and certainly wanting to avoid any adverse situations, but now I need to start quizzing my therapists about how I can get my posture back, understanding though it was going south even prior the accident.

It’s most interesting how much my sense of my posture affects my positive mental image of myself. For example, several years ago before my posture went amiss, I could stand erect behind the podium at church shifting my weight from on my heels to the balls of my feet, scan the audience, speak my words and see by their eyes and facial expressions that I was connecting with their thought patterns. Now, without my internal sense of a sufficiently erect physical posture for what in my head is an attractive physical state, I so wonder how my verbal delivery and audience feedback monitoring will be impacted. Perhaps not as much as I might think, but I am quite removed yet from either skipping up or down those steps as I did a year or two ago.

I am really glad we are flying through January. Winters are increasingly more difficult for me, especially when I was not fully prepared as happened to us this year. Thankfully, the efforts of many friends made it much better but yet, it really took a toll on Loretta, and that needs to addressed, and we are now considering our options.

I’m reminded of Paul Stutzman’s Book One in the Wanderer series in chapter 62 when Johnny encountered Wandering Willie on a rock in the Pacific Ocean near L.A. and was immediately admonished to get rid of all that stuff on the front and back of his bicycle. “You’re too loaded down to contemplate. Most of what you carry with you is baggage, young man. Unburden yourself if you really want to see life.”

In that same vein, I also just finished today a book by Richard Rohr titled “Falling Upward” given me by an acquaintance who after browsing my blog sensed I was in need of Father Rohr’s Contemplation’s. What is stranger, less than a month prior the book’s arrival, a close friend of years ago and now  a most enjoyable acquaintance, emailed me the link to this Franciscan Rohr’s Center for Action and Contemplation, that I now receive each Saturday reviewing the weeks daily highlights. The book certainly stretched my “spiritual reading comfort zone” and judging from my first pass through and the names he drops and quotes from throughout the book, I have much to digest and contemplate before I begin the next trip through; not sure of any action yet either.

But it did affirm one sidebar step into action, and that is I’m way overdue in simplifying my life on so many fronts. My immediate future dictates I concentrate with a laser focus on what is important to my life’s passion for my next decade. Before I can fully engage selflessly and passionately though, I have two  barns (1800 sq. ft.  each) that need to be cleaned out of their trivial collectibles from our three sons, past businesses, inheritances, etc., so someday when we do downsize, we can be ready to move quick, if need be.

The above describes the physical clutter needing attention ASAP. However, much more significant than the barn trivia, is the contemplative mode (I do like that word “contemplative” that Johnny first introduced to Wandering Willie) I’ve undertaken the past 125 days preparing for the next decade of my life. Perhaps that’s why I’m drawn to Johnny in the Wanderer. So far in the book, as a lad he has struggled whether he would remain Amish, then he met Annie, a rebellious promiscuous Amish girl from Indiana, who had found Jesus the year prior to coming to Ohio to teach school, then he found Jesus, joined the church, married Annie, and in six months, she was taken from him to her heavenly home overnight.  Six months later he left his home in Ohio, got on a bus headed for L.A. to ride his bike across the southern states to Florida  “to contemplate life,” his answer in response to Wandering Willie’s question “what are you running from?”

Perhaps that is sort of where I am right now. Johnny had strong roots in Ohio and his whole life ahead of him. We have roots here too, but we could be transplanted if we were convinced that was the plan, and whereas Johnny has a lifetime, Loretta and I are actually running out of time! Truthfully, my biggest fear, much more than a geographical move, is that as a very recently recovering workaholic, I may again become consumed by whatever work or hobbies I choose for the next decade. And I personally know that many well intended Christ followers are self affirmed workaholics who have inflicted much pain and damage in their Kingdom assignments as I have in the past; certainly not being God’s plan but the continued result of man’s selfishness.

So for me after 125 days of absolute freedom to pursue God’s will, to return to that bondage would be most vexing. During this free time, I do believe God has revealed to me my heart’s desire; and that is to simply be what I’ll call a faith facilitator, or a spiritual life coach of sorts, and those are the only words I can really share with you just now. Except I want to do it more as a retirement hobby, so we can travel, visit family and friends, as well as read and write, and so Loretta and I can just savor our remaining time together. Now indeed is the time, or never!

I am reminded of a statement by Bill Plotkin, a wise guide according to Richard Rohr, who said many of us learn to do our “survival dance,” in life very well; however, too many of us never transition to our “sacred dance.” Falling Upward indicates this transition among cognizant Christians may occur as early as in ones mid-thirties, or perhaps never; but usually in ones fifties or sixties; I’m assuming as people normally transition into their pre-retirement years.

Actually, in my rear view mirror now, I believe I’ve been pursued to begin my “sacred dance” even before I lost my first wife, at twenty-two years of age. And here 47 years later, I’m still being called to begin my “sacred dance” Simply amazing that out loving God is so relentless in his pursuits. In the past 30 months, I’ve been strongly summoned, once by health and twice by major trauma with life spared, to transition to my “sacred dance.”  So then, you can understand, why I am totally serious about transitioning with integrity into my “sacred dance” phase of my Going Until I Am Gone, a good read for those of us long over due to begin our transitioning away from our “survival dance.” 

I would be remiss by not saying I really do believe the “survival dance” is best discarded for the “sacred dance” while we are in our twenties or even earlier! Why waste all our prime years merely surviving when Jesus came that we may have an abundant and Holy Spirit empowered life when “called” and enjoy the “sacred dance” while raising our children and building our life’s infrastructure? Compare that earlier to waiting until much later when either an “updating”or a “remodel”, perhaps even a “start from scratch,” is needed, to transition to the “sacred dance,” perhaps then with your “grandchildren” and too likely as happens to the best of us, with the use of a walker, false teeth, hearing aides, pills, pains, etc.? I think the term used earlier historically for this transitioning, revolved around “conversion” but that word, like “sin,” has virtually disappeared in this culture.

Although merely my perspective, what if it is actually our preferred Creator’s “imprinted timing” for our sacred dance activation to begin sooner rather than later?  My reading of the New Testament reminds me of passages such as I Timothy 4:7-13 and all of II Corinthians 6, especially verse 2. Some may suggest I just need more time to contemplate! If it is in the scripture, yes indeed!

I now know what I really need to do today … and that is to re-read Harold S Bender’s forty-four page booklet titled simply“The Anabaptist Vision” to review the scriptural foundation of my Anabaptist roots, as I do every several months to remind me of my moorings as I encounter the overpowering influence of our media driven culture, perhaps at times, even from within the church. This booklet script was actually his presidential address before the American Society of Church History in NYC in 1943. It is available on both Amazon and Kindle.

Perhaps no decision is indeed a decision, when transitioning at whatever age (or maturity) you are! That is just the way God wired us. And JOY does  actually evaporate spiritual boredom! And HOPE does create JOY. Whence HOPE? Your challenge! merlin.erb@gmail.com if you got questions.

Blessings as YOU GO Forth>>>>  Merlin

Today is Friday Nov 9, 2018 and I awoke to a melting snow at 7:30 am being done away with by a light rain. It was unusual for me to sleep that late but I had been writing thank you notes until nearly 2 am. That came about because I always checked our PO Box on Thursdays to get my weekly reimbursement for my efforts the week prior as an independent contractor, but since the accident, the checks stopped and we had no further interest in checking the box weekly.

So yesterday, we went to the post office and mailed my Sis two books,  One was “Stuck in the Weeds” by Paul Stutzman, who I have yet to meet, though I greatly admire his first three books. The other book entitled, “Sometimes I Sing” was the work of our first cousin, Mary Hershberger, who has resided in Syracuse NY where she retired as a public high school English teacher, at least sort of. But as the book attests, she early on with three young children, found herself divorced and in dire need of additional income. Being quite resourceful, she bought her first fixer upper home with a loan from her folks, who were also retired public school teachers, and since, has rehabbed nearly three dozen homes, only slowing down now in the past five years. Much should be said for Mary’s spunk, and fact is, she really did acquire some outstanding real estate over the years, and now approaching 80 years young, is finally letting go of several of her choice rentals near the Syracuse university campus.

So indeed, after a month the Dalton PO Box was crammed;  election flyers, three bills now past due and six get well cards, four with both street and PO Box, but two with only PO. My deduction is postal workers are lazy like the rest of us; they push everything they can thru the PO Boxes so they need not handle it again into our street mailbox, if given the choice at least!

And for some reason, after my accident September 18, I decided early on to acknowledge each get well card. A decision a bit strange perhaps, but I compare it to the decision I just made one day out of the blue as a teenager to stop eating candy. It wasn’t like I had agonized over this possibility for months, or that I had a health condition forcing the issue. Truth be told, it was likely instigated by my subconscious  economical inclinations to save loose pocket change back when  one quarter was worth more than a dollar bill today.

You might chuckle but to give this snap candy decision some credibility, you need to know that during  my high school senior year I also quit eating lunch in the cafeteria. Nothing against the food, I certainly was not protesting the environment or chemical agriculture, for the first Earth Day in 1970 was still 4 years in the making, but seriously, I really think it was all about the economics of my virtually non-existent cash flow, sub-consciously of course. Let me paint the picture. In March of my Junior year, I had purchased a motorcycle and weather permitting, or not, I frequently drove it to school but it only got 40 miles per gallon if that. Barely two round trips on a gallon of gas, and for sure not, if we raced, “dragged” main, etc.  Gas was less than 30 cents a gallon then and I soon figured out I’d rather forgo lunch and keep the two bucks mother gave me for lunch every other Monday morning.

Truth is, skipping lunch was many times more difficult than merely abstaining from candy. But really, writing about this now makes it all sound so bizarre! Why didn’t I make some really worthwhile decisions back then instead, such as perhaps safeguarding my morals or even more basic, consider whose path am I following anyway?  Rather, I focused on such trivial decisions involving only candy and pocket change. Oh I understand the argument could be made now fifty years later, that those resolutions served me well, but seriously, in the scheme of values affecting eternity, I really missed out!

This all reminds me of two teenagers years ago, now middle aged, well known and respected in many circles, at a time when the US interstate highway system was yet under construction. Their brush with disaster is revealed in a book I highly recommend titled “The Principle of the Path”, beginning so innocently with an auto chase in chapter one continually building our understanding  throughout the book, that “direction, not intention, determines our destination” until in the final chapter we experience the crescendo of free choice that God judiciously allows each of us, right up until our final breath. Loretta while visiting her mother’s church last summer heard her pastor describe this Path book as his “go-to” book for Jesus seekers. Within hours “Path” was on my phone, read, and processing in my subconscious for 7 months until I thought of it while writing about this skipping lunch and boycotting candy routine.

But now back to my story. In true derelict fashion, I went into Woolworths and purchased a bag of snack size Snickers or Milky Ways and indulged most of the bag that afternoon while sitting in the car waiting on Mom who was shopping while I was listening to the AM radio play such songs as Downtown, This Diamond Ring, Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter, Help Me Rhonda, etc. We didn’t even have a FM car radio then. I do recall you could special order a turntable to play records in a 1961 Desoto because a bachelor neighbor had one and he lived 2 miles off the highway on a MN township road with very little gravel, mostly clay and rutty! Maybe he only played it while parking! You youngsters have no idea how technology has changed everything!

So at home later with my candy bag nearly three quarters empty, I chucked the remaining bars into my chore jacket pockets and went off to feed the animals and milk the cows. And that was it. A done deal. I do remember at a valentines party a few months later, I accidentally put some of those tiny peppermint heart candies in my mouth and promptly flushed them down the commode. Decades later, I would enjoy a candy bar (Loretta loves Snickers and sometimes I’d buy her one and she’d share) but never again did candy hold much appeal to me.

Actually now, ice cream is my drug of choice and I could write much about my struggles with ice cream, from a child years before the candy swear off right up to this week on Tuesday when I saw my SmithFoods retail dock was simply removed to make room for greater dock capacity at the expense of assuredly, my future retirement happiness. After all, once again, it is all about the money! I can no longer purchase my favorite flavors for six quarters a box and I too will have to visit Buehlers and pay retail which I have not done for nearly two decades; imagine paying $4 a box!  

So back to the thank you notes. In similar spur of the moment fashion, I made this rather strange decision to acknowledge everyone who sent me a get well card. Last night after watching a movie with Loretta, I returned to writing more, two down, four to go. Now understand, my average word count on these cards, is likely at least 100 words, sometimes even like 200-300. I really do enjoy engaging with these get well card writers, and that comes as no big surprise to you, since most of you already know I seldom ever meet a stranger.

Actually, I should do a word count on the 50-60 cards sent me but I bet twenty words of encouragement would be close to average! I know all these people, except the three preschoolers whom are Susan Murray’s granddaughters. And many of them have more health challenges than I have now. I mean serious health concerns, not just if they’ll ever have a good jogging gait again, never mind any marathons. And so, if I’m going to invest in a stamp, I’m going to make this encounter hopefully positively memorable in their minds and worth their time. After all, they were willing to step out of their boat and send me a card. And so I try to comfort them, reminding them of happier past events, as well as encourage them to envision their future joys by looking forward. Seriously, you all really do need to read this “Path” book I mentioned earlier. It could be key to your survival actually, and greatly enhance you just flourishing for now .

And so I wrote notes last night; way past my normal bedtime until 2AM nearly! Totally disrupted my normal wind down activities and days reflections, not to mention my rebooting and start up this morning. But I really do think God understands our need at times go with the flow. One note actually got way out of hand in length! Since I mailed it I can’t count the words, but likely 800 or more. Lately, I have found, life indeed is a journey of “in the moment adventures!” And sometimes, it’s just good to communicate.. when it’s on your heart, when it flows, because too often the stream is dry or the opportunity forced if you postpone your “obedient action.”

I’ve certainly enjoyed sharing and traveling with you this Christmas Eve 2018 as I finish up what I started weeks ago. Perhaps we’ll pick up one of the two books I sent my Sis next time and see where that leads. Merry Christmas to each of you and blessings as you GO FORTH>>>> soon into 2019. I suggest you go to Amazon and check out Andy Stanley’s The Principal of the Path I mentioned above. The introduction and at least through chapter one and the car chase are free. Remember, it’s direction, not intention, that determines destination. Might just be a good first read for you in 2019! And then you can bless someone else. And that “obedient action” may even enhance your “path” to greater fulfillment! Commit to  investing well in 2019!

The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald recalls the Nov 10, 1975 disaster on Lake Superior as popularized by Gordon Lightfoot and others. This has been a favorite song of mine and it has been on my mind of late, especially since we were recently in Duluth and so enjoyed Lake Superior and the harbor. 

My life began its chaotic November 2016 tailspin innocently enough amidst one of the most beautiful autumns ever in Wayne County OH, far away from any threatening waves. It was a week before the anniversary date of the Lake Superior tragedy on Thursday Nov 3^rd, around 6 am that I was collecting milk samples in a tie stall barn walking in between these 45“gentle” cows,  much as I did as a teen back in MN with my father. In fact, that was why I ever even agreed to visit this herd every month, as I just enjoy reliving my childhood days from the early sixties.

 And as it also happened back home as a kid, that day for whatever reason, cow #25 got spooked.  We did make eye contact ever so quickly and having been around cattle, I recognize sheer terror in their eyes as she did no doubt in mine, and the battle commenced. I was looking for “wings to fly away with” rather than a mere “fox hole” but my only apparent option was moving forward  maybe another 10-12 inches in an attempt to escape her machine gun rear hoof .. but not before she solidly connected once on my right knee. In the ensuing seconds she repeatedly attempted to hit several more home runs and I was concentrating all my strength on mere survival. When she finally exhausted her “bullets” and the dust cleared (seemed like forever but was likely only 5-7 seconds) I was simply exuberant; I could stand on my right leg! Absolutely unbelievable! Actually, I learned later the knee indeed had been damaged, although no bones were broken, but we did not figure that out for another two weeks when I unexpectantly experienced the biggest drop ever in my life on concrete, resulting in yet another spinal compression fracture.

Historically, my last encounter with a heifer resulted in a leg cast way back in 1951 at the age of nearly three, I had crawled thru the steps over a fence to frolic with the calves and while in true cowboy pursuit, I got too close and one of them nailed my left leg and I enjoyed a hot MN summer in a cast… none of which I remember of course, except it was the summer Mom was pregnant with Verla.  And yes, even then, it seems I worked overtime at complicating other people’s already stressed out lives with my fiascoes!

Back to my current reality, and in my momentary exuberance while assessing the collateral damages, I suddenly realized the tip of my ring finger on my right hand was half tore off with at least a quarter inch gap between the top portion ( nail, bone, and some flesh) and the bottom larger portion, I presume, of just flesh. I did not feel much pain, being a bit in shock you know, but at least I was not nauseous which always signals a bone break, at least in my body. So extracting myself from the battle zone and walking in circles assessing the damages but mostly just praising God that I was still standing, never mind the goofy ring finger dripping blood all over the white limed floor. And  strange as it sounds, I was absolutely clueless as to what happened to that finger … and it still remains a mystery.

Many of you in Sugarcreek township area have visited this farm frequently if you purchased your cheese and meat at the E & B Bulk Food Store that started up in the ‘70’s on S Wenger. The store has moved twice and is now known as Shady Lawn on the corner of Zuercher and Hackett. Enough history!

So what do we do now? This excitement is not the usual morning occurrence and I am still doing a low grade rendition of hyperventilating while I keep repeating in low monotones between breaths, “oh my, oh my”. Finally focusing, I gave instructions to the Steiners to continue the testing, taking off my sample belt, provided some instructions, wishing them well, telling them I’d return to finish after the ER visit, and walked out to my Prius, my sanctuary away from home, sort of sliding into the seat nursing a very sore right leg into the space provided. Again thanking God for his mercy between breaths, I proceeded to drive the 12 minutes north on Wenger  Rd toward home.

Walking in the garage, Sir O Riley welcomed me warmly offering to lick my bloody finger and apply his healing salve! No, I did not offer him the option, but it has been known to work well in the “wild.”  It was then I realized the “oh my’s” and my weird breathing pattern had finally ceased and I was actually feeling rather well. So instead of unlocking the door and going into the house and waking up Loretta, I took off my coveralls, bade Riley farewell, climbed back into my Prius, and drove off to the ER to have this finger fixed. And that was all quite routine, at least until the stitching was to begin. Yes, we better have a tetanus booster too. I knew my last tetanus would have been done at Dunlap, now Aultman Orville, but they could not locate any such evidence, so considering the current dilemma of my flesh, I deemed a booster was likely advisable.

My ER Doc was fun, having grown up on  dairy farm near Sterling, though he seemed a trifle perplexed about how he was going to stitch this unique wound, not resembling a typical inner city knife slice and dice adventure. I told the Doc after showing him my left hand’s ring finger, whose third digit has been visibly absent from me since several days before first grade, that perhaps we should just now with this opportunity, match the fingers up and simplify this visit for both of us, with a quick slice of his knife to the bloody digit. Apparently that was not an option in this ER’s protocols, though I still think he secretly agreed with me, you know, with him being such a practical farm boy and likely thinking,“you know, this old guy is nearly 70, why not? It would save everyone much time and money this morning. And it really is going to be difficult to get that nail bed repaired properly with surgery later, so the fingernail grows out right!”

I also need to tell you earlier while waiting for the x rays, I had sufficient presence of mind, to pull out my phone and click off several really awesome bloody pictures in the event someone desires proof. Maybe someday when I learn how, I’ll include pics with the post! Concerned about my comfort, he did inject enough novacaine at three sites that I never took anything more for pain for 18 hours. Soon enough, he quickly installed seven stitches and neatly trimmed away the extra flesh, that just did not want to fit back in, which reminded me of my brother Dan’s budding mechanical abilities as a kid, when taking an alarm clock apart and ending up with extra parts after re-assembling, but never mind, it didn’t work either. The difference here hopefully, is that we are dealing with living tissue that does heal. Simply amazing how much healing I’ve witnessed in this body thus far in my life!

Now one of the negative sidebars on all this third digit repair was that even I, who is known to take too many chances, was thoroughly convinced that I had better “go on” an antibiotic this time. Realizing how damaging such prescriptions are even for a week to my intestinal flora and my continued general well-being, (google the Brain – Gut Connection for more info) I knew this time that this prescription was not an option and Loretta concurred later. So I basically quit taking all of my “daily additives”that Loretta has researched over the years to be beneficial for me … but when combined with an antibiotic,  the effect of the combination is unknown and we certainly did not want any complications. And we are happy to report that the finger did heal quite nicely having the stitches removed Nov 14^th and now looks normal. But even before I had resumed Loretta’s “daily additives” for a week, another shoe dropped on Nov 16th as I alluded to above, making the heifer event seem like a Sunday School picnic. That event needs to be told too, but not just now.

I just listened to the song one more time. Purposeful Melancholy. Unique Harmonics. Gripping Experience. Ice-water Mansion? Does anyone know where the love of God goes, when the waves turn the minutes to hours? (stanza 5) At some point, perhaps you’ll catch the underlying theme to all these stories? Or not? 

Blessings to you on your adventure road!

So, can I presume you all have gone to sleep at least once while driving? I really doubt if any of you have struggled with staying awake while driving more than I. There were periods of my existence when I literally fell asleep weekly if not daily while driving.

The first instance I can recall now of such an all out struggle to stay awake occurred on my ‘62 Honda Dream 300 when I was 18. I was driving through the early morning hours from York NB to make an 8 am Botany exam at Hesston College. For now, never mind why I was out there in the middle of the night in the first place as that indeed may be another story.

Driving conditions that early morning on the infamous TX to Canada US Rt 81 were simply superb; wind still, 55 degrees, and a glistening heavy dew that had fallen much earlier though shining brightly now in the bright moonlight. I had passed over the Kansas line, guessing it to be around 2 am since I didn’t wear a watch back then. By then, I’d been up 20 hours after pretty much pulling an all-nighter the night prior, waxing floors on campus translating into less than three hours in the last 48. Exhaustion was really taking its toll as I headed next for Salina. Truck traffic was light that morning on that old two lane concrete ribbon stretching south through the patches of fog in the lower areas that were predictably several degrees cooler, and easily detectable as I was without either a windshield or a fairing for protection.

It was indeed a beautiful early morning to be traveling under the stars, but now I was really tired, and could only think of getting back to campus, a shower and a few hours of sleep before the exam. Fortunately for me ,I was riding without a backrest to lean against, such as a backpack, so I was not able to relax and get comfortable or likely my struggle to stay awake,would have been far more difficult. You would think just fighting the wind resistance in your face at the bikes cruising speed of 62-65 MPH would have provided the necessary impetus to stay awake.

I kept thinking of warmer and more restful experiences in my younger days as a teen in Becker County MN, such as coming in from working in the woods with Dad on a Saturday afternoon when the temp was thirty below zero with a 15-20 mph NW wind and you began shedding all those ice crusted layers to sit on a kitchen chair that I had moved to the center of the 36 inch square floor register ducted from big wood stove in the basement immediately below. Basking in that 80 plus temp, I soon warmed up and then slid over to a nearby couch for a luxurious nap before being rudely wakened and reminded it was time to begin the afternoon chores. At least the barn was insulated from above, by a mow still half filled with sweet smelling alfalfa hay and the 8 inch sidewalls were filled with wood shavings mixed with lime to discourage the mice from seeking warmth ‘there and performing their usual mischief. Exhaust fans kept the barn’s temp around 38-40 degrees and removed some of the offensive humidity and odors. Understand being raised on a MN dairy farm surrounded by more rocks than rich soil and where cold and physical exhaustion are literally your mortal enemies, I early in life learned outdoor work, whether caring for the cattle or in the woods, provided me an intense appreciation for warmth and naps, and preferably, simultaneously!

Considering my great disdain for cold, I wonder now how I ever developed such a passion for motorcycles as a teen, especially considering my cycle was my only purchased mode of transportation the last 17 months in MN before leaving for college in KS. I have many memories of being very cold traveling on my three Honda’s during my younger days. In that fact, I’m sure I’m not alone, considering the US motorcycle craze that began in the mid-sixties with the widespread marketing of the extremely reliable and affordable Japanese bikes. Strange how those Japanese bikes in the sixties evidently replaced the dime store toys from Japan I had found as a child in stores such as Woolworth’s where my Aunt Ruby worked during the fifties. Carry that a step further into the seventies and Honda very successfully broadened their US manufacturing presence into automobiles, especially with the introduction of the Civic early on so popularized by such as Rick Case Honda in NE OH in the early seventies. By ’77, Honda introduced the Accord loaded with options for a mere $3995 soon joined by if not even led by Toyota, Datsun, Mazda, etc. Who would have ever thought the cheap toys of the fifties would be replaced by quality cycles and then cars? Quite unlike the quick demise of the Yugo from eastern Europe! I wonder why? An interesting topic indeed for another day since I have a little experience in the economies of four of the former Yugoslavian countries since 2008 having traveled there on business eight times.

But exposure to the elements five decades later are no longer necessary and certainly not as trendy. US sales of motorcycles continue to plummet each decade as the younger generation now is attracted to the  abundance of creature comforts including heating AND cooling (even available in the seats), not to mention the sounds (satellite radio, elaborate stereo sound, phones, bluetooth), the sights (video players, cameras), safety features( (airbags & warnings galore!). The gas mileage available today is phenomenal; hybrids such as my Prius, can comfortably transport four larger passenger and get nearly 50 MPG whereas my two passenger Honda 300 was lucky to see 40 MPG and much less with a head wind, especially if the passengers weight equaled 300 pounds.

Sales of motorcycles today are primarily only to the hardcore enthusiasts, or the weekend warrior, who only takes his cherished bike out of the garage if the weather is ideal; dry and warm! Indeed, our culture has changed! Consider how dragging main in the sixties has been replaced now by cruising the internet on smart phones and tablets. Indeed, today creature comforts are nearly considered a right, not merely a luxury!

By now you are indeed wondering if I really did make Dan Troyers 8 am Botany test? I certainly could not have envisioned what I just shared above since I was not into science fiction during high school at all! But you must realize, diminishing your mental and visual acuity on a motorcycle at 65 MPH can be much harder to correct than when up and moving on 4 wheels with a steering wheel. Also, being warm and dry really helps. The exception to that scenario is if your only escape route is dead ahead and only 36 inches wide!

Perhaps you don’t physically nod off or snap your neck, as during class, at church, or while at the in-laws after Sunday dinner, but whether on a bike or in a car, your eyes may glaze over and presto, you drift out of your lane. And all the while, hearing the engine, feeling the air in your face, the vibrations both in your hands and feet, never forgetting the ever present bladder that needed emptying 50 miles ago. Now being so painfully full you are thinking that the discomfort may just help keep you awake …  when actually, if you were scared sufficiently, you will then become BOTH wet AND cold!

Understand, I do not fully equate falling asleep (whether nodding off or snapping your neck) while driving, in the same realm as having your eyes glaze over though their outcomes can be equally tragic. Hopefully for both your longevity and your family, you do not have a clue of what I just described in the above paragraph. I maintain the “glazing over of the eyes” condition provides you a fighting chance depending on your millisecond response to abnormal stimuli such as a change in pavement texture providing you both touch and sound variation that a trained “glazer” will aptly assimilate and respond to both timely and appropriately. Fortunately, the rumble strips now found frequently on interstate roads as well as on some two lane state routes, not only on the sides but also on the center lines, will undoubtedly prevent many future accidents by both “glazers” and “nodders”

Secretly, I hope I never have to depend on a computer driven car, though everyone who knows my driving record of late, is apt to quip that such would be an improvement! I remember so vividly a full page magazine advertisement (but not in the smaller Readers Digest format) in either ’59 or ’60 displaying two couples in a convertible going down the highway ( I think 4 lane) with the top down and the seats facing each other surrounding a little table in the center, with, I believe a board game in process. No one was steering and the traffic was flowing around them. It was a pencil drawing, and the car resembled a full size ’59 Buick, with its unique fins. I do not remember the ad’s intent or even who sponsored it….but since the only magazines I recall in our home in that era were either Successful Farming or the Farm Journal, I am totally confused as to why it may have even appeared in a farming magazine. I remember viewing that sketch frequently in that time frame of my life and thinking how unlikely that was ever to occur… but no longer! I even recall the ladies had scarves to keep their hair in check from the turbulence.

Isn’t it ironic now that the bigger problems remaining to be solved in this 60 year old glimpse into the future, has not really changed much since the Renaissance? We have yet to overcome or fully explain the effects of gravity on the board game and the drinks in the open air of the convertible at 60 MPH not to mention keeping inertia or the air turbulence in check. Maintaining safe passage in intestate traffic at 60 MPH in a driver-less car I understand now has been virtually accomplished though not yet affordable or even desirable by or for the masses.

Back to our original reality of getting back to campus for that 8 am Botany test. Yes, I was “glazing” big time. Yes, I was simply exhausted, totally spent. And I knew I was weaving in my lane that was only 11 or 12 feet wide max. I tried to concentrate on the Botany test; vocab words, photosynthesis, chlorophyll etc. No avail! I tried thinking about how it was going to be without a cycle for the immediate future as I was taking it back to sell it to Emil Yoder’s son Royce who was best friends with our campus pastor’s  eldest son, who was killed several months later during the summer of ’67 in a freak one car accident coming home for lunch on a Harvey county dirt/gravel road.

You would presume a cycle enthusiast like me even thinking about selling my bike to help pay next year’s tuition, would waken me up a bit but not so! Even recalling my good high school friend Butch slamming his new Honda CB 160 into the side of a Chevy Corvair with a canoe on top, that suddenly turned in front of him killing him instantly that Sunday evening in early May of ’65, didn’t help. I did begin thinking though how hard Butch’s death was on my folks that spring, since I had just gotten my cycle 5 weeks earlier. But now it was two years later, three AM on May 5 of 1967, and I am here in northern Kansas struggling big time for my very survival, just to merely stay awake, not fully comprehending at all in my youthfulness then, just how quickly my life could be cut so tragically short by merely drifting inches to either the left, and get clipped by a tractor trailer rig bumper like a bug on its windshield; or by drifting inches to the right, to clip one of those concrete bridges Old Rt 81 was so famous for, and in those days, of course, there were no guard rails before the bridge to guide a lane wanderer like me away from a fatal impact. 

My guess is though, at whatever age we find ourselves just now, that we all have experienced the intricacies, “fragilities”, and the “finalities” of life, whether by our actions or by those of others. It especially evident now as we look into the rear view mirror of our lives, and at my age now of 69, we seldom if ever cannot say we were very blessed to have enjoyed our years to date; mercy in the fact we didn’t get from life what we really deserved, and grace in the fact we did actually receive far more from life than we ever deserved!

And yes, I did drive onto campus soon after 5 am rejuvenated by the night’s ride and the brilliant sunrise on my left over the slightly wavering glistening maturing wheat fields, and lastly over the rows of Hesston Corp’s newly manufactured cotton pickers in the storage lo on my left, ready for transport. After a luxurious shower and a quick nap to recharge my system, I took the test and even got an A in the course. Later that day I delivered the cycle to Royce, and even better, the next day paid down my next year’s college bill with the $300 leaving only $1230 yet to pay!

Truth be told, I had bought the bike from a Delvin Schlabaugh of Wolford ND who purchased it in Sarasota FL and I rather doubt if he drove it all the way to ND. It had 3000 miles when I purchased it for $350. and had nearly 18000 miles on it when I sold it to Royce for I believe $300. Cheap miles back then certainly, but now as a parent, when I consider the risks, I was most fortunate to have endured my teenage follies.

Several weeks later after my math final, at 2:30 pm and a sizzling temp of nearly 100 degrees, I walked off campus up to the pharmacy at the intersection of Rt 81 and Main. Would you believe I was dressed in a shirt and tie, with a sign marked “Fargo ND”, ready to hitch hike back up north on the very same road I had so struggled to stay awake on only three weeks prior. Would you believe that with two short rides and one lasting thru the night requiring me to do most of the driving, I arrived in Fargo by 8 AM. the next morning! And actually, I had even a harder time staying awake that night! And those three rides during that 17 hour span, dear reader, will perhaps provide the foundation of another real life encounter, for as I recall….

Blessings!

Hi Merlin

I wonder if you knew that your paternal Grandmother Lena was a writer and that she had at least one of those writings published in the Gospel Herald.She also wrote poetry and I am including one of those poems here that touches me. I read it as we sat down to our Thanksgiving meal last week …. Remembering Elaine.

The Absent One    by Lena Oswald Erb  (9/24/1890 — 3/2/1980)

As we gather at the table

                And watch each smiling face,

Our hearts fill with emotion

                To see the vacant place.

We may strive to hide our longing

                In the midst of mirth and fun,

But we’re thinking, thinking, thinking

                Of our loved but absent one.

When we gather round the fireside

                With merry laugh and jest,

How we wish the absent dear one

                Were here with all the rest:

Still we join in all the frolics

                But we wish the day were done,

For we’re thinking, thinking, thinking

                Of our loved but absent one.

Yet when the day is over

                And we all have gone to rest,

We feel the heavenly Father

                Does all things for the best;

So we cheer our drooping spirits

                With the rising of the sun,

But we can’t help thinking, thinking, thinking

                Of our loved but absent one.

Perhaps you are familiar with this writing of Grandmas. I don’t know of the loss she writes of here, but she really strikes a cord with me. I do love the rhythm. How sweet it would be to talk with her but her words allow me to relate to her today. What a gift!

Cousin Loretta

 No, Loretta, I had never heard of this prior. And to think, Grandmother Lena lived in 2 rooms of our home my last several years of high school and even beyond. I now am deeply sadden how my self-centeredness back then, prevented me from sitting down with her and discovering this creative avenue in her full life. I do wonder if she could have written “The Absent One” after the unexpected death on 10/29/1919, of their fourth child, Mona, age 17 months, while yet on the share cropper farm near Beemer NB, prior to moving to their own their farm near Detroit Lakes MN in 1943. Thank You Loretta for sharing.

Merlin