Category Archives: Family
Notes on a Kayak — August 3, 2015
I have moored myself between the cypress knees on the shady east side of Big Cypress Bayou. I am about seven and one-half miles downstream from Jefferson, Texas, and maybe a half-mile from where I entered the bayou at my Dad’s property. Again, “Dad’s property.” He has been deceased almost three years, and I continue to have difficulty saying “my property.”
The dragonflies are buzzing around, hovering inches over the glass surface of the murky, brown water. Brown water that is somewhat out of the ordinary for water that is usually a clearer dark green. I assume that the water has not cleared up after the torrential spring rains and flooding. The water level is continuing to fall – thus, the dirty brown water filled with mud and sil
t.
Anyway, back to the dragonflies, which I assume are responsible for the fish jumping just off my bow. I wonder if the fish will actually ever catch the darting dragonflies. Ahh! Could that be why the fisherman’s artificial lure is called a “fly?” Now, that just occurred to me as a new thought; however, as I think about it, I know I have known that or had that thought before. A brain blip, I suppose??
The stillness and the quiet are palpable. The cachophony of sound is delightful. Now is that not a paradoxical observation – or, more accurately, an auditory sensation! In addition to the aforementioned jumping and flopping back into the water and the dragonflies buzzing, I hear the cardinal singing, the woodpecker pecking, the squirrel chattering, a crow cawing, and the cicada’s chorus. Either bank is robed in towering bald cypress and decorated with hundreds of beautiful, yet grotesque looking, cypress knees bent in homage to the life giving trees. Oh, no! Can’t be! Yes, it is—an electric power line is running through the branches of the trees. Oh, well! So much for getting away from civilization.
Scupper plugs! Yes, I did buy and install some scupper plugs, yet I am still sitting in a bit of water. Albeit, not nearly as much as I was before. I’ll still have to work on that I suppose. I also know I have to go. I could stay in this place, in these waters, along these banks for hours on end. I suspect that’s Dad’s place and space still, and forever, in my heart.
Honestly, honesty!
It has been over three months since I posted anything on this blog! I could say I have been awfully busy and I have with lots of things – hosting a baby shower for friends, babysitting the grandkids, lots of planning, preparing, and partying in anticipation of my son’s wedding, and making this DVD for their homecoming wedding reception. He and his bride were married July 4th in a beautiful ceremony on the beach in Cabo San Lucas, Baja, Mexico. Yes, busy with some of the really real stuff of life—relationships, children, love, marriage, and babies. I wish them all immense happiness.
But, honestly, I think these would be just excuses. I cannot say how many times I have thought about this blog and cringed that I had not posted. If you read the random things about PS, remember the #1 item was “I am a procrastinator. Start strong and sometimes struggle to finish.” Well, I have done it again! As I have thought about getting back to posting, I remembered what some of my friends who attend AA meetings have told me about relapsing, not attending meetings, and then the sense of shame and embarrassment they have to overcome to get back to the meetings and program — something they know they need/want to do. I’ve had some feelings like that! Why go back? It has been so long! What will people think of me? Ouch! That’s some of the old negative self-talk. It still rears its ugly head from time to time.
So instead of shaming myself, not returning to the blog, or making lame excuses I opt for honesty – with myself and any readers out there. And, surely, I am not the only person/blogger who has had these struggles. Or, maybe I am?
It is my experience that occasionally (no navel gazing), taking a good honest look at oneself and one’s actions is essential in our spiritual journeys. Our level of personal and spiritual growth is evidenced in what we do after that honest look. Honestly, do we move forward with new vision, insight, hope, and resolve. Or, do we remain in the shadows of excuses and old patterns of behavior. The choice is ours and ours alone!
Surely, hopefully, the next post will not be such a long time in coming!
PSHeretic
Serendipity, Coincidence, Karma, Spirit??
Go Rest High on That Mountain
Serendipity, Coincidence, Karma, Spirit?
Earlier this afternoon I was walking on the treadmill as the temperature outside was/is much too cold to be enjoyable. I was clipping along at a mere three mile an hour pace and not my usual three and half per hour as I was reading from the iPad perched atop the trusty clear plastic book holder resting on the treadmill dash. The clear plastic book holder is essential as it allows me to see just how fast and how many calories I am burning as I continue my lightening speed walk. I was reading a review copy of The Gospel According to Facebook: Social Media and the Good News. I was having a bit of difficulty reading the book, none of which has anything to do with the content of the book – the PDF format and my ineptness with the iPad. Apparently, I have yet to adequately refine my tap, touch, scroll, swish, and flip skills. Touch anything anywhere and everything moves or disappears!
I found myself repeatedly having to start over and scroll through pages of content to locate where I was in my reading. Suddenly the screen again went black and I could not retrieve the book. With somewhat of a bit of frustration – not extreme because I was beginning to tire from walking – I stepped off the treadmill. However, as I did I began to hear music and was confused as to its origins – TV off, radio off, stereo off. I then realized the music was coming from the iPad, turned around, took it off the treadmill, and turned the volume up. The music was familiar. The screen was still black. As I continued to listen, I recognized the tune as “Go Rest High on That Mountain” by Vince Gill. I recognized it because it was the one song my Dad had requested to be played at his funeral. And it was played at his funeral service on October 31, 2012. It is a song that has become very special to me over the last fifteen months.
With a few more random touches and taps on the black screen the iTunes Radio app appeared and revealed an image of Vince Gill and his When Love Finds You album cover while the song continued to play. But, how did it get there? I have never used the music button on the iPad, and the only time I have used the iTunes app is to purchase a couple of kid’s games for the granddaughter. I’m still scratching my head on that one! I continued to listen to the song, thinking about Dad, and asking how and why that song. Whoa! Out of the blue, “What day is it?” Today is January 28, 2014. Dad died, passed away, transitioned – however we choose to express it – on the 28th day of the month, October 28, 2012, to be exact. Dad’s song inexplicably starts playing on my iPad fifteen months to the day after his death. Now what is going on there?? I must admit it feels just a little weird!
I really have no idea. I do know that in this pilgrim’s journey I have learned to view such unusual occurrences as more spiritual events as opposed to mere serendipity or coincidence. Whether that be true or not, the mere perception of a spiritual moment cultivates and enriches the discernment of the Spirit within me, the Spirit outside of me, and the Spirit surrounding my life. And for today, the spirit of my Dad spoke to me in a very special, unique way. For all these things I am thankful.
Now, if I can just get the book to come back up – a small thing indeed!
Tag, You’re It! A Lesson in Communicating!
A Bone-Jarring Experience and the Importance of REALLY Communicating!
Yesterday we took our six-year-old granddaughter out to a nearby parking lot to let her show us how she has mastered her new Razor Scooter. Her description of the scooter, “It goes eight miles an hour, Granny!” My description – a high tech, electric motor version of the old Red Radio Flyer scooter. She has mastered it quite well and made several trips up and down the plains and hills of the parking lot. In the course of our conversation prior to the riding excursion, she explained that she had learned to “just jump off of it.” This was later clarified as a last resort maneuver that she and her mother had agreed upon in the event she felt “it was out of control and destined for a crash.” Considering eight miles an hour is the top speed, “jumping off of it” does seem the safer option to a full on crash.
At a critical point in our outing yesterday, she exclaimed, “Let’s play Tag You’re It, Granny!” My reply, “Sure,” as I take off at a leisurely trot. Shortly, I hear the scooter approaching, and I make a slight veer to the right so as to allow her plenty of room to go between curb and me. In my mind “Tag, You’re It” on a scooter means she will come up even with me and exclaim, “You’re It, Granny!” Not so in the language and understanding of a six year old!
It seemed to occur nanoseconds after my slight veer. I was going down and landed sprawled, face down on the parking lot pavement. Ouch! Really big! I lay there motionless. My wrap around sunglasses were off and on the ground. Luckily, my real glasses remained on my head and in tact! Was anything broken? Could I move? The most obvious sources of pain in the immediate aftermath were the palms of my hands and the sense that every bone in my body had received a resounding “Thud!” No, I was not wearing the protective helmet, knee and elbow pads that she was wearing. Both she and her grandmother, who was also with us on the outing, came to my rescue. She had taken a bit of a tumble off the scooter, but was totally focused on me sprawled on the pavement and obviously hurt. That’s not a sight six-year-olds are accustomed to seeing.
I simply lay there for a few moments assessing my condition and not wanting to move. I gradually moved and turned over to my back and lay there a bit more getting my bearings before getting up. I proclaimed my, “I’m okay,” (actually, I wasn’t – pain and waves of nausea) loaded the scooter back in the car, and headed home to clean up and tend my wounds – gouges (from the pavement gravel) in both palms, bloody, scraped elbows (even though I had on a long sleeve shirt that was not torn!), and later a bulge and pain in my right thigh muscle that has responded fairly well to ice – lots of it!
After wound treatment and while resting on the sofa, I had an interesting and enlightening conversation with the scooter rider. Who, by the way, was quite compassionate and solicitous in attending to my care. At one point, she pulled a random book off the shelf and said, “Here, Granny, you can read this.” After assuring her that I was okay, I asked her what had happened. Her response was that she was trying to get close enough to touch me and say, “Tag, you’re It!” We, then, had the discussion about how to play “Tag, you’re It,” when one is on a scooter and the other is not. We decided the best method would be for the scooter rider to come along side the runner, make eye contact (at which point we “eyeballed” each other with big bulging eyes), and say, “Tag, you’re It!” It never occurred to me to have that conversation before we played!
And that brings me to the point of communication. How often do we think we are communicating, when actually we are not? Communication definitely involves attending and listening, but it also requires that those communicating share common meanings and concepts for the words and ideas used and similar understandings for what is reasonable and logical in the given situation. My granddaughter and I were not communicating effectively prior to the “Tag, you’re It,” game. Or, to be more accurate, I, as the adult, was not communicating to a six-year-old what was reasonable and logical in our “Tag, you’re It” game between scooter rider and runner. She was operating, as to be expected, fully out of her experience and understanding as a six-year-old. Me, the adult, well! Sometimes it takes a bone-jarring experience to make us think and communicate effectively!
Note from PSHeretic: At first I thought this writing probably had nothing to do with a spiritual journey — a.k.a. pilgrim, seeker, heretic. However, as I pondered on it I thought “Yep! It is surely a part of my journey.” Our pilgrimage is immersed in family, and I don’t know that there is anything more sacred than death (more about why I say that -later) and remembering, honoring, and carry the spirit of our loved ones with us as the journey continues. So, here it is!
Clyde E. Still
12/20/31 — 10/28/2012
My Dad’s Legacy
Big Cypress Bayou Paddle
October 21, 2013
I have wanted to do this paddle for probably the past two years — at least since I got the kayak. Dad is on my mind and in my heart as the bayou was certainly his sacred space, his Holy Ground, and I am one week away from the first anniversary of his death. He loved this land and these waters – the wetlands of Cypress Bayou. He knew the bayous –Black, Little and Big Cypress — like the back of his hand. Many times he has taken me up and down the channels and into their inner recesses. He could find the remotest areas for his trotlines. The last time we were out on the bayou before his death we were in Black Cypress. The water level was up, and we were out of the channel in a maze of Cypress trees. Some of them were so close that the boat occasionally got hung up as we weaved our way through. I had no idea how to get out of the swamps and back to the main channel, but he always knew where he was, where he was going, and how to get there. I always felt safe with my dad in the boat. I surely do miss him! I had told Dad numerous times that I wanted to do this paddle. His response was always, “Just don’t tell me when you do it. Just show up.” Dad was a worrier. I can understand Dad’s worry, as often, when I know what my sons are doing – car trip, airplane journey – I will worry a bit. Well, Dad, don’t worry today. I know you are watching.
Moving down the bayou I see evidence of times come and gone. The initial channel going east from Jefferson is wider than the channel back toward the west, a testament to more boat traffic today as well as in the past. The remains of a Civil War ordnance magazine are on the right about a third of a mile down the bayou. The channel becomes even wider at what is still known as the “turning basin.” This is where mid-nineteenth century stern-wheelers that made their way up the Mississippi into the Red River, through Caddo Lake, and up Big Cypress Bayou loaded and unloaded cargo and turned to head back to the Mississippi. The broad channel is a reminder of the days when Jefferson was a bustling port and known as the “Gateway to Texas.” Today, the bayou is quiet.
Quiet and flat best describe the water, as it is not moving at all. This is definitely a paddle trip, not a float trip in a steadily moving current. The Texas drought continues to take its toll on our waterways, and the Big Cypress is no exception. The water level is as low as I have seen it since 1986 – 26 years ago – when Dad and Mom made their home on the bayou. The Bald Cypress tree roots are sprawling and gaping where once they were covered and nourished by the waters. I see the collateral damage of the drought as well – lots of dead wood as trees have fallen. At one point a very large tree has fallen into and across the bayou making it difficult to maneuver. Not only is the bayou affected by the drought, but it is also impacted by both our conservation efforts and ultimately water usage.
In 1959 the Army Corps of Engineers completed the Ferrell’s Bridge Dam on Big Cypress Bayou. The dam is located eight and a half miles west of Jefferson, Texas. The dam, a project of the Flood Control Act of 1946, created Ferrell’s Creek Reservoir (now known as Lake O’the Pines). Additional purposes of wildlife conservation, recreation, and water supply were added during construction. The lake provides water supply storage for the Northeast Texas Municipal Water District serving six towns in the surrounding area and the city of Longview. The drought and the municipal water usage results in very little water, if any, being released from the lake. Approximately 14 miles east of Jefferson on Big Cypress is Caddo Lake State Park and the entrance to Caddo Lake, the largest natural lake in the South. Since the beginning of the current drought, anytime Dad saw the current running in the bayou, he assumed that “someone is pumping water out of Caddo.” I have no way of substantiating that, but Dad believed it, and it seems to be a likely assumption. As more water is held and used for municipal and industrial consumption, what will be its impact on Dad’s beloved Cypress Bayou?
As I continue to paddle one thing I do not see is people, not a living soul of the human kind. I have seen a small whitetail deer jump and scurry into the woods. Apparently it was lying on the ground and my passing disturbed it. A kayak is quiet, but not always quiet enough! There have been turtles on logs, most I could see, but some I only heard as they “plopped” into the water at my approach. When the kayak is still – for a drink or simply to take in my surroundings – I hear the mosquitos buzzing my head. Even with the drought, they are alive and well! I know the forest is home to a plethora of wildlife species – fox and gray squirrels, armadillos, cottontails, bobcats, cardinals, barred owl, snakes – for I have seen them, but not today. Heck, I have even eaten them. When I was a kid, venison steaks and squirrel stew were frequent fare. One time Dad prepared soft-shell turtle and armadillo just because he wanted us to try it. I didn’t like it!
Today my constant and only companion is the Great Blue Heron that stays slightly ahead of me. How many times my dad and I have watched this large bird picking his way along the shore, stalking and then suddenly grabbing his prey. He will walk in the shallow water along the shore for a bit and then he might go up the bank and seemingly walk around a large stump or protrusion in the water before returning to the shallows. In all my experience and as quiet as I can be, I have never been able to pass the bird on the shore. He will always fly across the water before me. Such is the case today as the bird has stayed just ahead of me on the water – my spirit guide for the day. Perhaps the presence of Dad!
I move through the water with a slow, steady paddle, but paddle I must in order to move. The water is clear and greener in color as opposed to the muddy reddish color it often acquires after a rain and the subsequent run off. My dad fished these waters for over sixty-five years. Again, he put food on the table – channel and flathead or Opelousas catfish (my favorite), bass, crappie, and the occasional buffalo or carp. These last two were my least favorite!
Most of the shoreline is higher banks with carved out bluffs being ample evidence of higher water levels in the past. The land supports a mixed pine and hardwood forest. Bald cypress, water tupelo, and river birch are predominant along the waterline with a variety of oak, sweetgum, and elm in the recesses. Occasionally I see an area that has been cleared. Logging and the timber industry pose another threat to the hardwood bottomlands in the Cypress Bayou. Dad hated it when loggers would come in and, as he called it, “rape the land” leaving a mangled area of dirt ruts and damaged smaller trees and vegetation. Although approached many times, he never allowed the timber on his property to be cut. I am particularly awed by the Bald Cypress. From their broad base they tower like cathedral spires surrounded by rows and clumps of shrouded pilgrims and worshipers – the abundant cypress knees — come to pay homage to their inspired beauty. I remember Dad often saying that he went to church on the bayou as he rarely attended a church service. I now know what he meant.
Along the banks I see the occasional river camp house or modern home complete with floating walks and docks. It is obvious that some of the dilapidated river houses with rusted and rotting docks have long been abandoned. A rusted out school bus that I would imagine was outfitted as a fishing or hunting camp house rests precariously on the bank. As I approach the area where Black Cypress flows into Big Cypress, approximately five and a half miles east of Jefferson, there is a distinct change in the water. It is now reddish and muddy, no doubt from the rains and run off further up the Black Cypress. The junction of Black and Big Cypress, known as Thompson’s Camp, is a popular launching area for boating and fishing. Also, there are some fish jumping in the area. From the sound of the “splash,” I would say rather large fish. But you never know, by the time you hear the splash the fish is back in the water.
The final mile to Dad’s house is a broad channel with lots of new development on the left bank. When Mom and Dad purchased their property here in 1986 there was only one other house on this stretch of the bayou. Now there are fourteen! The right bank, according to Dad, is part of a hunting club and is not developed. Dad’s house is at the very end of the road. As I said earlier, he could find the remotest places! It is 4:07 p.m. as I maneuver up to Dad’s dock. I have been in the water slightly over four hours. I launched at Jefferson around noon and have paddled 7.17 miles per the GPS. (Of course, I forgot to set the GPS trip feature until I had paddled an estimated quarter of a mile!) It has been a great paddle! The temperature, whatever it is, has been ideal with the sky overcast but no sprinkles. The company – my memories of Dad and the presence of the bayou that he loved – the best! I started to abort the whole trip when it began to sprinkle slightly at the launch. I am so glad I didn’t. Thanks, Dad, for the journey! And, for the legacy of your love for family, this land, and these waters – all sacred spaces, all Holy Ground!
Pilgrim Seeker Heretic 