Sites that I cite that you should sight

Love means sharing. And it is because I love you, dear reader (notice the lack of an "s" there), that I offer the best I have. Well, other than my car and my Johnny Cash LP collection--but do you really think I'm gonna part with that? Come on.

These are three or four websites I've discovered recently that are worth passing on. Finding each was like discovering a diamond in the middle of an endless dewdrop-covered web. That metaphor needs some work, but in the meantime I present:

RhymeZone... Where has this site been all my life? (Oh yeah, Al hadn't invented the internet yet when I was a child.) Type in a word, hit "Search" and boom, you've got a list as long as Santa's of every word and phrase that rhymes with it. The drawback is no weird proper nouns... I tried "Karisa" and the search rejected it. "Clark," on the other hand, brought forth such results as "spark," "remark," "Yellowstone National Park," and the ever-useful "cabbage bark". I don't know about you, but I feel a whole new inspiration to write limericks. Stay tuned.

FolkAlley is a site devoted to folk music in all its forms, bluegrass to blues, Woody Guthrie to Nickel Creek. Not that I endorse all the political innuendo-laden music, but if you're willing to take it with a grain of salt, this site is a gem. Here you can find a page offering hours of free music from scads of musicians of most every genre, recorded live.

Tokens is something to keep an eye on. It's a fresh and freshly-conceived approach to a broadcast performance. Perhaps it could be described as Garrison Keillor meets C.S. Lewis. The host describes it as "part theology lecture, part cultural analysis, part old-time radio show, part good conversation, part good music; all of it serious, and all of it, for us at least, fun, and we trust it will be fun for you, too." The jury is still out, but what I've heard I like. A lot.

And since it is quite possible that you, the one long suffering reader of my blog, have as much interest in music or poetry as in the textile exports of Slovakia, I offer you www.isitchristmas.com

Camp!

What a great week at Pioneer Bible Camp, perched on a mountain overlooking Eden, UT! Fifty-one girls attended, and several trusted the Lord Jesus as their Savior. I had a blast with these ladies! The girl in the first picture is named Olivia. She always had the memory verses down and showed a lot of interest during each chapel time. Olivia told me she had trusted Christ when she was 3 years old...in her church's bathroom.

I was the camp speaker--an overwhelming task, but God is good! He gave me the energy and creativity when I felt totally dry. Most of the girls were great listeners, answering questions and getting involved in the stories and topics. I think their favorite thing was during my telling of the story of Ruth, I asked them to say, "Oo-la-la!" every time I said the name of Boaz. A number of girls commented on the morning chapel stories about one of my missionary heroes, Mary Slessor. She was a 19th century Scottish missionary to Nigeria. They loved the crazy adventures Mary got into, like fighting an aggressive hippo with a frying pan. My prayer is that some of these girls give their lives to the Lord's service, like Mary did. It truly is the life of no regrets.

Of course, I also took it upon myself to teach the girls how to make a respectable shadow bunny...

VBS (Very Busy Schedule?)

Last week, my home church hosted a vacation Bible school. It made for busy days, but I'm glad I was home to be a part of it. I taught the youngest group, ages 4-6, during the Bible lesson time, and also helped with crafts.

I was also The Missionary--meaning I told the kids a little about my ministry in Utah every day. They had a contest, girls against boys, to raise money for my gas back to Provo. It was a weight contest; every day the girls would put their money in a bucket on one side of a scale and the boys in the other. On the last day of VBS, one boy brought a grocery bag full of pennies! Altogether, the kids contributed about $220! So I'll have plenty of gas money for my trip west next month, and even some left over to hit every Wendy's between Hoisington and Provo. Love those Frostys!

A Keeper, for sure

In my e-mail inbox, I have a folder labeled "Keep What is Worth Keeping." (It's a line from a poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik...but that's a whole other post.) The folder is for non-personal-correspondence that I consider worthy of hanging onto and even referencing in the future. Once in a blue polka-dot moon, an e-mail makes it into that folder that was forwarded from my mom. She likes to send me e-mails with subject lines like "Fwd: 10 More Uses for Vinegar!" and "Fwd: Hints to Protect your Credit Card Account." Most get deleted with hardly a glance (no hard feelings, Mums, if you're reading this), but like I said, the rare informative and legitimate message is worth keeping.

Otherwise, approximately 95% of my "keeper" e-mails is comprised of messages I've received through a gem of an e-mail subscription. It's called "In the Nick of Time," and it's sent by Dr. Kevin T. Bauder, president of Central Baptist Theological Seminary in Minneapolis, MN.

Dr. Bauder's premise for "In the Nick of Time" is this: "American Christianity needs leaders. American Christianity needs Christian leaders. Christian leaders explain the Scriptures, bringing them to bear upon life's urgent questions. Christian leaders exemplify the life of faith, finding their ultimate satisfaction in God alone. They unite intellectual discipline with ordinate affection, turning their entire being toward the love of God."

To the noble end of developing such leaders, Dr. Bauder (and the occasional guest contributor) pens essays examining relevant and often controversial topics. Past subject matter includes Christians and theater, Christians and scholarship, Christians and educational choices, observing the Sabbath, church organization, and church planting.

I'm no philosopher or theologian--but I do want my faith to comprise more than just a set of Sunday school lessons. In the last two years especially, I have gotten to know scads of folks who blindly believe what they've been taught, with little or no real thought. I shudder to think of my faith resembling that in any way. That's why I started subscribing to "In the Nick of Time" about a year ago. I truly desire to "unite intellectual discipline with ordinate affection, turning my entire being toward the love of God." I hope you do, too.

Of course, I must reference the other splendid element of these e-mails: poetry! Dr. Bauder dusts off a short sampling of classic Christian verse for the close of each e-mail. What depths of wisdom (and entertaining spellings!) lie in the poems of John Bunyan, William Cowper and the like! Worth reading...worth keeping.

You can subscribe to "In the Nick of Time" or check out the archives here (copy and paste into your browser's address bar): http://www.centralseminary.edu/index.asp?m=674

Red Green would be proud

My Sheltie, Trixie, had surgery on Friday to remove a softball-sized tumor from her shoulder. There is a whole lot of stitches and bare skin under all that bandaging. There's also the bare spot on her front leg... I'm not sure what the vet was thinking; maybe he wanted to give her a poodle 'do? The careful observer will also notice Trixie is sticking out her tongue. It's as if she's daring us to mock her goofy looks. After all, it is a far cry more dignified than the previous version:
The duct tape was Dad's idea, after Trixie started chewing on the bandages. Do not try this at home, kids. Duct tape, as it turns out, is merciless when it comes into contact with hair. When we went to the vet's to get Trixie's dressing changed yesterday, he had to cut a good bit more of her hair off. Vets have nightmares about pet owners like us, I'm sure. Pets have nightmares about pet owners like us. But at least Red Green would be proud.

The Case of the Enigmatic Doctor

[Editor's note: Here's a story I wrote for the newspaper. Cheyenne Bottoms is the nearby wildlife refuge and wetlands.]

A few days ago, I didn't know the difference between the calls of a speckle belly goose and the snow goose. I had no idea Barton County is plagued by out-of-state poachers. I never realized one of the downtown pole art features a pair of greyhounds. And I certainly didn't know what went into a Redneck Tour of Cheyenne Bottoms.

Thanks to some great local activities last weekend, I have been enlightened.

This was my first Wetlanders Festival and I was impressed. From the Waterfowl Calling Championship to the demonstration by Game Warden Brian Hanzlick and his dog Alley to the pole art hunt to the Redneck Tours—everything was well done and well-attended.

I appreciated the educational bent of the Festival and I certainly increased my knowledge of Cheyenne Bottoms, hunting, local talent, and all things redneck.

But I'm still in the dark on one thing: who is Doc Payne?

His was the first stop for the Redneck Tour Bus (a pontoon boat on a trailer, towed by a very un-redneckish sleek Chevy truck) I rode, along with five other tourists and our worthy tour guide, Bubba. Doc Payne was manning an antique cannon on the side of the road. There was a sign propped up against it advertising the doctor's medical services—all three of them.

Apparently, Doc Payne specializes in the fine art of pulling teeth. As we watched, he brandished a pair of 14-inch rusty pincers and generously offered to take care of any toothaches. From the looks of Bubba's “redneck teeth” (or lack thereof), Doc Payne had made a profitable career choice.

I think we upset Doc Payne by turning down his tooth-pulling services, because he kept mumbling and waving a cannon ball at us. He seemed to think he would find comfort in the dirty glass bottle he pulled out, however. He pointed to the one lens of his glasses painted red—which, through Bubba's interpretation, we were made to understand was a result of the “red-eye” in his whiskey bottle.

Finally, Doc Payne was left waving and muttering in the road, as the tour bus carried us across the Bottoms to more redneck adventures.

That was Saturday. On Monday I uploaded my photos from the digital camera and began sorting through the pictures I had snapped during the Festival. I came across a good portrait of Doc Payne...and that's when the mystery deepened.

I e-mailed the photo to Rod Harms, who had signed me up for the Redneck Tours, asking him to identify Doc Payne. Shortly after that, I received a call from Gene Manweiler, owner of Hoisington's Manweiler Chevrolet dealership. Rod had forwarded my e-mail to him.

Gene had done much of the work coordinating the Redneck Tours (hence the sleek Chevy truck) and had called to help answer my question. Except he couldn't. Turns out, Gene didn't know who was underneath Doc Payne's wig. The character's appearance alongside the Bottoms backroad had been a surprise to him, too. He had played along with the Doc, though, for the sake of us tourists—but he does admit he couldn't understand half of what the man had mumbled through his fake beard.

When the last tour bus left, the Redneck Tours staff shed their plastic teeth, tore down the misspelled signs along the trail, and met back at Gene's home overlooking Cheyenne Bottoms—all except Doc Payne. No one knew who he was or where he had gone, Gene said.

Later on Monday, another e-mail appeared in my Inbox, indicating Gene had discovered the identity of the mysterious Doc Payne. However, he said the Doc didn't want to reveal who he is—a request Gene was honoring. Those rednecks stick together like honey on a biscuit. The only hint I have is that Doc Payne is “a prominent local citizen.”

The man was so well-disguised—even his voice was altered—that it could have been anyone. I went home and took a hard look at my own dad, scrutinizing his face for the tell-tale marks of a tie-on beard. Not that I'm good at seeing through a disguise... It had taken me a while to realize Bubba was Gene Manweiler himself, underneath an unkempt Willie Nelson-esque hairpiece.

So I'm left with a mystery. And since I've failed at my journalistic duty of uncovering the truth, I turn to my meager skills as a poet:

There once was a man in disguise
With beard on his face and shades on his eyes
He won't tell his name;
He thinks it's a game!
If so, it's the kind I despise.

This doc has me out on a limb.
Is he Bob? Is he John? Is he Jim?
He makes my job hard
(I'm reporter, not bard!)
A Payne in the Bottoms--that's him!

I Can't Believe I Work Here: A Photo Essay

The newspaper office where I work part-time is...um...interesting. Some things about the place crack me up. Other details would horrify me if I stopped to think about them, but I try to do that as little as possible. Anyway, here's a glimpse into the building where I spend about 20 hours each week...

1. This is the office where I work. To avoid looking at the unbearable clutter, I sometimes close my eyes and curl up in a fetal position on the 40-year old vinyl desk chair.
(Yes, the wall is purple. The former owner was a huge K-State fan.)



2. We have this great filing system for our back issues. Patent pending.




3. At some point in the building's long and grim history, an individual (I'm guessing a pre-pubescent girl, from the looks of the exclamation point) cheerfully set out to bring order to the chaos. Just one box into the process, she was apparently overcome by the hopelessness of the situation. I can't blame her. Her efforts are preserved and stand as an enduring monument to the frailty of the human spirit.

4. Something tells me that even if the bathroom sink were to give forth water with any sort of regularity, it would not be the sort of water one would want to wash one's hands in.

5. This is the ceiling directly above the toilet. The ceiling panels are being held up by the light fixture--none too secure itself. It does lend a sense of urgency when doing one's business.

6. I should have laid a coin beside this rat trap to give size perspective. It's massive. For months, I had vaguely wondered the dark reason for its existence. Today, a lady who used to work here told me the story. One day 5 years ago, she heard noises in the bathroom; this led to the capture of what she claims was "a cat-sized rodent." Since no others of this size have shown up, she thinks it probably wasn't a rat; her guess is a renegade prairie dog. At any rate, the trap has stayed since that day.

7. This is a yellowed document nailed to the wall, titled "Safety and Health Protection on the Job." One line reads, "The Williams-Steiger act requires that each employer furnish his employees a place of employment free from recognized hazards that might cause serious injury or death." I can't help but wonder if Mr. Williams and Mr. Steiger didn't mean to imply caving ceilings and gargantuan rat traps as forms of "recognized hazards." Actually, I think the constant, insurmountable clutter is more hazardous to my mental health.

8. Oh the irony of it. The irony! This sign hangs high on a wall--faded, smeared with dirt, splattered with paint--but still boldly proclaiming its long-forgotten message: Neatness Counts!