Nov. 15, 2004 - 20:18 MST

THE WONDERING JEW

On Retreat

Things are happening, words are being said, my mind is battered and tattered as well as scattered and oh so weary.

So tonight I shall voyage back to times that were much more pleasant for me. Sometimes those periods were short lived and some times had to be grasped in between troubles. But even then, those were golden good experiences.

Stepping out of our house in the warmth of pre-noon, going on to the lawn barefoot, feeling the grass, green and lush between my toes.

Going to the store at night with my Mother, the errand not really of much importance, talking the talk of a young son to his Mother and asking questions to a person loved and respected knowing she would give answer as best she could and had the courage to admit she didn't know, "I don't know Douggie, ask your Dad when we get home." But a way of looking at life as through a glass, thinking and a philosophy seeped into my psyche, all of my Mother's doing. At that time of my life Dad had answers to any question I asked him.

Playing board games with my cousins at their house. There were no arguments, every one played fair without being forced to act civilized. That is the way it was.

A little older I would go with Mom and Dad to card parties. As a spectator, on my best behavior, partaking of the candies and goodies judiciously and having ears tuned to what was being said. Learned a bit there. Later on I would go as a participant.

Trips to the library, all through my life. Just like stepping into another world, and the steps repeated again and again as books came into my hands. Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Louis Stevenson, and so many other's stories I would read with joy. Being transported to their world and not sensing the passage of time. An only child's obsession probably, but it is still with me.

So many times, so many places, so many people and I experienced living among.

Joyful has my life been since I met Heather, we married and raised our family. I loved it all, except times of illness or lack of work.

After I was forty years old, one great thrill of my life was my first ride in an airplane, then came my trips overseas as a tech rep. Soon valuing trips in small aircraft that flew low and slow, sight seeing all the way. Becoming acquainted with natives of several different lands and finding out that although leaders might have different philosophies commen men such as I seem to be alike. Decent survival, family, home, children and love. A few times I could afford a guide while in Thailand the sights were amazing and deeply interesting to me. And usually there would be supper at the guides house. Sitting on the equivalent of a front porch watching the kids play and bouncing a little one on my knee. Didn't seem to need any language at all, just being with people like me only of a different nationality.

Spent time working on a mesa at a test track in Southern Utah. The work was a thrill in itself, and riding through the countryside with my friend and a man native to that area in his Jeep was something money couldn't buy. I had the privilege of seeing things that no tourist would ever see. Spent alone time too, on voyages of personal discovery. One place I would stop and meditate was by a petroglyph at a shallow cave by the road. Other times when the crew had all gone to Las Vegas I would have the Mesa all to myself. Packing a brownbag lunch, carrying a thermos of coffee and toting binoculars I would roam to my heart's content. Quietly roaming, alert with eyes and ears open wide I would catch glimpses of wild life that ordinarily would not be there when the whole crew was working. Poking around in the history of the area, going to some of the places mentioned therein. I was transported to the days that the Mormon's settled into St. George.

Tonight I am on that Mesa, which is still and pretty deserted now I suppose. At least I can go back and make the mesa retreat to some years ago, or many if I wish. Making it summer time, and in my mind and heart watch Indians make camp, look over the shoulders of people who are making arrowheads, etc. Riffle through the areas where shards of that process remain to this day. There is still petrified wood of a low grade around here and there. Sometimes roaming the desert and sometimes the mountains nearby. Seeing the natural wonders existing there.

Tonight I sit out from my imaginary cabin, "The Outlook," on the edge of the mesa looking far below to the north-south highway, feeling the warm breeze on my brow, bathed in the moon glow and marveling at the peace and quiet existing there.

Sigh, when I wake up in the morn my eyes will open in the Denver area and the consequent hubris of life in this age. But in my dreams I will still be On Retreat . . . . . .

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