Reflections on a stormy, early spring day along the Jordan River Parkway

OK. I have no idea what this is.

A poem? Prose?

A cawing of a crow in its poor impersonation of a songbird?

Whatever. You tell me.

Here it is, from a stormy early spring afternoon, thoughts written down from my outdoor patio, two dogs at my feet as rain drenched the Jordan River Parkway.

           ______________

Too Early

Spring is newborn

Rain falls, but winter's breath lingers

Cottonwood bloomed

Too early

Not hail, unconvinced slush

Gray raindrops end on new grass

Days-old white blossoms

Stripped

A sigh, a silent wet landing

Ivory perfection one breath, then

pedals decapitated, slowly interred

Mud unmarked

But not forgotten

Life, so brief, fragile, beautiful

I saw your advent, your decay

Remembered

Of old bicycles, old cars, old(er) guys

Old bicycles. Old cars.

Old(er) guys.

I guess I'm the latter one. Going to turn 66 in another few months. Been "retired" for almost a year.
Thing is, I don't feel old(er). 

Well, I don't feel older in mind or soul, at least.

I wake up with that eternal youth still welcoming the day . . . until he looks through old(er) eyes into the mirror.

The gray, thinning hair. The silvery stubble not quite in need of a shave. (Or is it, and I just could care less?) The jowls, the wrinkles, and the bags under the eyes.

Fire in the furnace, snow on top. Yada yada yada.

But enough about me. More than enough; makes me tired to think of it.

Let's discuss the old bicycle. Gears caked with dust and grease from winter storage, brake pads brittle with years heat and cold and use. Tires worn, but still in fair shape.

At least, on the latter, that's what Taylor's Bike Shop tells me. Cleanup, tweaking, greasing and making those tires all-but-puncture proof will be just shy a couple days and $130 to realize.

Then, the young soul in the old(er) body will be safe to ride the winding reaches of the Jordan River Parkway, thumb at the ready to ring the bike bell on approach to mindless walkers and roller-bladers drifting into my path.

And, maybe in the process of pedaling and huffing down the paths,  I'll improve the cardio, making the artificial aortic heart valve and pacemaker worth the effort . . . and lose some weight.

So, there's the bicycle part of this story, a rubber, aluminum and steel metaphor for senior citizenry if I ever heard one.

The car. The 1999 Honda Civic sedan, four door, 4-on-the-floor manual transmission, rescued from salvage by mechanical/sales genius Michael Westley, is once more cleared for travel in the "Life Elevated" state of Utah. (That's the slogan, having replaced the ill-advised "Utah: A pretty, great state" theme of a few years ago).

The Honda, victim of an unevenly applied repaint job mixing aqua marine with sea green, is near 135k miles and still running fine. The door locks even work, if one is patient with the keyring remote and adept at finding just the right angle to click.

About 40 degrees and within 5 feet seems best so far.

Thursday, April 4, 2019. Remember this date. It was a day when things old, stubborn and still with some good wear in 'em triumphed.

Well, at a cost, to be sure.

But victory, baby.


Dylan Thomas knew about it:

"Youth calls to age across the tired years: 'What have you found,' he cries, 'what have you sought?" 'What have you found,' age answers through his tears, 'What have you sought.'"

A walk with my grandson: Of Faith, Love, Integrity . . . ducks, geese and sunlight

My grandson, Gabriel, and I had a nice conversation as we walked along the Jordan River Parkway after I got home from work yesterday afternoon.

A perfect autumn day, the river placid, the soft, golden glow of a retreating sun backlighting the cattails and illuminating the canopies of aspen, willow, cottonwood and oak trees overhead. On the water, geese and ducks foraged and engaged in halfhearted territorial disputes, generally at peace with each other and the season.

In the trees, juniper and sage, Meadowlarks, swallows, mourning doves and the occasional magpie darted through the branches or took short flight as we approached, grandpa and stroller-borne grandchild, in conversation perhaps as nonsensical to each other as human speech is to the river's denizens.

As the miles passed beneath foot and wheel, I told Gabriel how blessed he was, in this age of family unit breakdown and eroding moral and ethical values, to have two parents who loved God, him and each other.

I promised, for as long as I live, to be there for him; to do my best to live Faith, Love and Integrity . . . in prayerful hope that he, too, will embrace those.

I told him I would always pray that he will have the fortitude to live those values, even when the mass of humanity chooses to chase the lies.

The Lies? That happiness depends on temporal possessions, self-gratification, and lifestyles that worships materialism and greed, rather than seeking eternal values, and the eternal destiny that comes only with trust in the God of Love.

He occasionally responded: Enthusiastic imitations of the ducks in the river, geese honking overhead in their "V" formations, the occasional dog that would pass with its jogging human."Quack," "Honk," Woof." Excited yowls and giggles came with a scurrying squirrel or a bird landing briefly on a nearby branch.

 It was a fine conversation, perfect for our last time together for, probably, quite a while, as he and his mother fly home back East this weekend.

Yes, eloquent, my grandson.

We understood each other, perfectly.