Missing

“…I’m lost without your love.
Life without you isn’t worth the trouble of.
And I’m as helpless as a ship without a wheel.
A touch without a feel.
I can’t believe it’s real.
But someday soon I’ll wake,
And find my heart won’t have to break.” (1976) “Lost Without Your Love” Recorded By: Bread Composer: David Gates

“LOST”…Webster’s Dictionary breaks the definition down in all its various forms. One of which is, “Not made use of.” Another usage, “No longer possessed.” Yet another description, “Taken away, or beyond reach, or unattainable.”

Have you ever felt that way? Let’s present it in another camera angle. Have you ever known a loss?

It was excruciating. The year was 1982, when Tickey, the beloved dog I grew up with, escaped my mom’s apartment while she was at work. He was almost 15 years old at the time. I was married, living across town from where my mom lived. Unfortunately, a neglectful maintenance man entered the apartment unannounced, and Tickey saw his opportunity to dash out the door for a great adventure. He had no idea the dangers he would face while outside of my mom’s protection and shelter.

Photo: Tickey at a year old, may of 1968. Part dachshund/corgi.

Hours and hours passed before my mom came home from work to discover our little pal was gone. I was working during the day as well, chained to the office. I felt so hopeless and helpless to search for him. He was gone for several days. I spent the early mornings and evenings combing the streets and alleys calling out his name in hopes he would hear me and come running. Lots of fear, and loads of falling tears. Of course, I admit to watching for a little lifeless body along our busy streets.

My mom and I both had contacted the local pound with Tickey’s description on a daily basis. Their answer was always the same. “Sorry, you can always call us tomorrow to see if we’ve caught him.” An old friend, who lived in another section of the apartments, told us she had seen a little dog resembling Tickey, dodging cars as he crossed one of the busy streets nearby. Even that episode was a couple of days prior.

A friend of mine at work told me I should spend my lunch hour driving to the city pound and look at the dogs behind bars. After I had mentioned how we call each day, she told me to ignore it and go look for myself. Feeling depressed and a bit defeated, I didn’t go to the pound until after work that day. I drove up to a parking space in the parking lot of the pound and noticed their fenced-in communal dog-run was just about 15 feet from the parking space. The pound was closed already, and the sun was rapidly going down in the west. But there, among 7-10 dogs looking in my direction, was a little brown dog with his pointy ears standing straight up like a rabbit. I could hardly believe my eyes. Getting out of the car, I ran toward the fence thinking it would be too good to be true, only to find Tickey standing on his hind legs, stretching out his little front legs as high as he could get them, as if wanting me to reach through the chain-link fence and pick him up. He licked my fingers through the steel mesh and cried with a sad whine. My words of comfort didn’t seem to sooth his little heart, but I told him I would be back first thing in the morning right after the pound opened its doors. Walking away in a sense of victory, he barked at me over and over again. If I had a set of major wire cutters, I might have done the deed. It broke my heart. Crying gobs of tears, I left to find the nearest phone booth.

The next morning I was overjoyed, yet furious. As it turned out, the pound had him in doggy jail for several days, and would have put him down within a couple of days later. Someone either lied to us on the phone all those days, or they honestly didn’t care enough to do some dog inventory. When I had to bail him out, I realized the longer they had him, the more money they deposited. I was outraged. But, wow. The reunion was fabulous. We hugged, licked and drooled, hugged, licked and and drooled some more. (He licked and drooled, not me.) What a joy to have my old pal back in my arms of safety and love. I will never forget it.

Photo: Tickey, safe back home. I had a hard time letting go of him.

I was reminded of that chapter in my life when a friend of mine posted the picture below on her Facebook page.

Photo: Facebook. Her dog was stolen. After quitting her job, and following several leads, she recovered him. This was the moment they reunited.

Look at her face. She is overcome in a swell of joy and inexpressible relief. The dog also seems beside himself to be back in his mom’s arms again after being away in the unknown. Amazing, isn’t it? She loved him so much that she quit her job to free up the clock and personal energy to search for him. Risking her own provisions, future, and income to find her dearly beloved pal, it paid off. Unsure if she was able to get her job back or not, I know she was rewarded by her diligent work in searching for her stolen buddy. Another happy ending.

This isn’t the first time a story like this has been told. Someone who greatly understood this kindred love described a shepherd who loved so expressly, that he left his job to seek out a single lost sheep. He left a flock of 99 sheep, went out into the unknown, the dark unfamiliar areas, in hopes of finding his lost one. No doubt he called out to the little lamb many times, maybe through the night, through storms, and through rugged terrain. When he did find him, he rejoiced bigtime, held him, and carried him back to the flock where he belonged, where the food, water, and safety resided.

Jesus understood the life of a good, responsible shepherd of his day. He gave this parable in order for us to identify with God’s longing to protect, serve, and nurture, not just a flock of 100, but a single one who strayed from the care of the shepherd.

About 30 years ago, during my radio days, a kind, loyal listener sketched this precious scene, from an original piece of art, depicting the moment the good shepherd found his lost little lamb. If you compare this sketch with the photo of the lady who found her dog, you can see they are very similar in response of the heart.

Photo: Artist, Carmen Appleby

I know what it is to be lost. Full transparency here. I have felt the anxiety, the emptiness of not having a clue of where I was during a horrible blinding lake effect Western New York blizzard while driving through an Indian reservation deep in the night. A night without street lights or signs, encased in frozen fog, along with zero visibility by horizontal blowing sheets of snow, is a desperate place to find yourself. With that said, it is much like times in my life when I was morally lost, spiritually lost, and emotionally lost. When the compass is invisible, it is a very lonely place. The only remedy is guidance by someone who seeks the lost who can direct the way back to where one needs to be.

Today, our world is very, very lost. It doesn’t take long for a generation to lose its way, running after self inflicted ideologies, diving deeper into depravity, and false promises. Utopia is always promised, but it never delivers. Self-serving stab wounds will eventually cause death, along with scars which will never be erased. Gone are the thoughts of returning to a righteous way, a lit path, a road of stability and safety, not to mention true love. Instead, today we call evil good, and good evil. We see bitterness and call it sweet, and sweet whatever is bitter. Our society, our culture is so far removed from where we were just a few years ago.

Still, no matter how far off the narrow road of righteousness, there is a shepherd who seeks to save, one who searches for the lost among the ledges of the thicket. This is one who leaves his comfort zone, his familiar surroundings, his job, to locate the small one who has no clue they are lost, or even stolen, and what most would believe is, beyond unattainability.

The long, loving arms of a rescuer is found only in fuel for the race.

“What do you think? If a man has a hundred sheep, and one of them has gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine on the mountains and go in search of the one that went astray? And if he finds it, truly, I say to you, he rejoices over it more than over the ninety-nine that never went astray. So it is not the will of my Father who is in heaven that one of these little ones should perish.” – Jesus – Found in Matthew 18:12-14 (ESV)

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Life Is…

“In the circle of life,
It’s the wheel of fortune.
It’s the leap of faith.
It’s the band of hope,
‘Til we find our place.
On the path unwinding, yeah.
In the circle, the circle of life.” (1994) “Circle Of Life” From Disney’s, The Lion King. Recorded By: Elton John Written By: Elton John & Tim Rice

Look around. We see the results everywhere. Our culture tends to scream it out. Childhood abuse, in various forms, can cause even the brightest souls to spin off course, or knocked into another orbit than intended. Early trauma in a child’s life can deliver a lens through which the injured views the future by way of a fogged scrim. Often this skewed vision can last until death, or to the doorstep of an intervention of some kind giving opportunity for an adjustment.

A brilliant young man, Reginald Kenneth Dwight was such an injured person. His childhood experiences drove him headlong into a life of debauchery, self-destruction, horrific tantrums, and hopelessness. Reginald became a severe addict. His addictive behavior was manifested in numerous ways. He became addicted to all things material, shopping, sexual addictions, sour relationships, abusive actions toward lovers, alcohol consumption, drug abuse (cocaine being the pet), out-of-control financial spending, gross hording of collectibles, eating disorders, and so much more. When it came to substance abuse, he became so addicted that he was in the all-you-can-consume-buffet-line. If there was more cocaine in the building, his nose found found it until it was all gone. Once he started, he couldn’t stop.

Relationships, good relationships, were seemingly avoided as a young man. Although he found himself engaged to a young lady, a woman who was abusive in word, in deed, and violent at times, he was presented with a solution to his troubled relationship. He listened to a close friend who was gay, and decided that he himself might be gay. Although it went against all he was raised with, he made the decision to try the gay lifestyle as he continued to run away from his past. The next morning they came with a truck to take him home, while she went her own way. His decisive choice threw him into a never ending line of gay lovers, some of which he never knew their names.

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

Many years later, he fell in love with…a woman. Nobody close to him believed it could happen, but it did. For reasons a bit unclear, they married. However, his lifestyle, and all that goes with it, had become so amalgamized with his daily life, and the destructive choices he made, ended the marriage some four years later. He, and his wife, both truly loved one another. They both still honor one another to this very day. They vowed to never discuss publicly the intimate details of their marriage, however the fly in the ointment was fairly evident.

As hard as it is to wrap your head around the following, it still must be mentioned here. Always looking for love, and always looking to satisfy his sexual addictions, he would pick up men like some pick up stray dogs. He would use them sexually for a few days, weeks, or possibly up to six months, then drop them by way of a friend slipping the rejected man an airplane ticket home. In the end, he admits to having hundreds of these types of relationships.

He never contracted AIDS, but many of his lovers and friends did. In fact, Reginald lost numerous friends to AIDS, drugs, accidents and suicide. In fact, he attempted to end his life at least three times with intension. Other times, he almost lost his life without any attempts due to cancer and rare infections. Still, his non-stop raving appetite for drugs and alcohol could’ve been his demise at any time throughout the fuzzy decades of abuse.

In 1978, on a rainy, dreary Sunday morning in one of his homes in England, he rose from his bed in deep depression. Actually, he had been in depression for many years as he tried, but failed to self-medicate. But on this day, it seemed much darker to him. Once again, he morbidly felt he was on the edge of death, even visualizing floating away from his body toward space itself, burning up the fuse up there alone. His steps from the bed to the doorway competed heavily with a massive hangover from the night before. As he made his way through the spacious home, he left Reginald Kenneth Dwight behind like a cold bathrobe and , as he did each day, slipped into his Elton John character as he made his stumbling way to the piano bench.

Photo: From – Me: Elton John from, Macmillan Publishing. Photographed By: Terry O’Neill/Iconic Images.

It was a rare occasion when he would write a song without his co-writing partner, Bernie Taupin. Bernie was the lyricist, and Elton was the music composer. However, something often came over him to write a song on his own, without the lyrical assistance of Bernie. This particular, dark morning, was one of them. Still in a cloudy haze from what lingered in his bloodstream, a haunting melody reverberated in his mind. He began to plink it out note by note, chord by chord. As usual, it was beautiful to the ear. At first, he had no thought as to a lyric as he was only playing the instrumental bubbling up from within. The song itself came rather quickly to the keyboard, as was the norm for Elton’s gargantuan talent, but soon a line wormed its way through the notes and the fog of the morning. Like a tape loop, it rotated in his mind over and over again. Being in such a depressive, hungover state, with a sense of great loss, he wasn’t expecting a lyric to make its presence known. Yet, there it was, out of nowhere, loud and clear. Elton began to match it with the chord structure, repeating it verbally like a thick continual scroll. Unlike past lyrical adventures in the composition of songs, this line was the only line that displayed itself to him that morning. It was a short lyric, but a massive, hard-hitting domino of a line not to be lost or forgotten. It read like this…

“Life…isn’t everything.”

Now, say what you will about the validity, or the absurdity of such a line, but there are times when one can be inspired by something in the air? Something outside of one’s self? A spiritual connection? A spirit tested? A spirit not tested? Which ever way you believe it to be, this did happen while the melody was being formed in his music room that day. It’s a sad state of affairs when an individual, who is worth north of $500 million dollars, held such a lack of darkness and hope.

He loved the song so much that he wanted to release it. His intension was to title it, “Life isn’t Everything”. In studio, he simply sings the line very softly, repeating the line several times, toward the end of the instrumental. If you should bring it up on YouTube, you will find it to be a stirring, daunting piece, mixed with an edge of a feeling of floating away without care. Businesswise, the song did well on the UK charts, but poorly in the US. Still, if you heard it you might recognize the recording.

Guy Burchett was a 17 year old who ran messages and errands for Elton’s production company. He was a local lad who was always available, hard working, and dependable. Guy was a year younger than I. Knowing how I loved EJ’s music, I can see how eager he was to work for the musician. Elton was notified the following day of Guy’s unfortunate sudden death due to a motorcycle accident. As the information came down, as it turned out, the young man’s life had been snuffed out at the same time Elton was constructing the song on that Sunday morning. Grieved, he made the choice to honor his young friend by entitling the new song, “Song For Guy”.

I am not here to be Elton’s judge. I am not here to bash Elton’s lifestyle. I am not here to denounce Elton’s decisions in life. Because I view things through a biblical point of view, I know that for the grace of God go I. I know I have a tendency to feed on addictive trappings. God granted us freewill. I cannot blame my DNA heritage, or any particular generation in my bloodline, although it would seem easy to do so. Scripture makes it clear that I am responsible for my own decisions, whether to try for the bait in the traps, or not. In Elton’s autobiography, Me: Elton John, he admits falling hook, line, and sinker for cocaine at the very first snort. It can happen.

Still, the single line whispered into his brain on that drizzly Sunday morning in 1978 is so profound…and yet, so wrong. “Life isn’t everything”.

I will assume here that there was a Mr. and Mrs. Burchett who grieved painstakingly at the news of their son’s tragic death on the road. Although we don’t know them, I will assume they might have said, in their grief, “Oh, no!” Or maybe, “No, not my precious son!” Or possibly, “Our boy meant the world to us.” Grief is indeed the penalty of loving. More than likely, Guy’s life meant everything to his parents, in fact, to anyone who loved Guy.

Allowing for Sir Elton’s possible meaning, as he wrote the lyric which pounded into his head, the expression may have been a statement of eternal hope after this life is over. In that respect, it’s true. Life, in the here and now, isn’t everything. Life here is only temporary. Scripture aligns it like a puff of a vapor in the air, or a blade of grass that comes and goes with the seasons. Of course, in Elton’s state of loss, depression, while reeling from the aftermath of a night of debauchery, he might have been thinking death is more valuable. After all, it must be the relief of all that stains us, all that pains us, all that shakes us.

Here, I am pushed to disagree with one of my favorite musicians.

How valuable and distinctive is life?

Life isn’t just a four letter word on a board game by Hasbro. Life isn’t just a name on a Quaker Oats cereal box. Life is a gift, issued to each living thing. However, life for the human was issued in the most intimate way. Unlike the cow, the tree, the worm, humanity first took a breath when The great I Am, The Creator ordained the inhale by placing His own mouth over the nostrils and blew the breath of life into the first human. In other words, God Himself crouched down to the lifeless body of His creation and performed mouth-to-mouth, and that action caused life to occur in the new man. Life is issued. It is a gift. Just ask anyone who has had a near-death experience and lived to tell about it. Moreover, ask anyone who was lifeless due to an illness, or accident, and was reignited. I am one of those people. Life is a gift. Life is a stone thrown into a motionless pond, activating ripples upon impact. If you are alive, you have an impact on others around you. Yet, the One who gave life, also removes the breath.

Let us resolve to mention another truth concerning Elton’s lyric. As stated before, life isn’t everything, in that it is temporary. Just ask Guy Burchett. Oh, that’s right, you can’t ask him. Guy left his body at the age of 17 in 1978 during a tragic motorcycle crash. Guy, the person of Guy, left his body to enter eternity. Holy scripture is clear, there is more to this life. It may seem like a candle in the wind, but when the wick burns away, our flame carries on. Jesus spoke about the afterlife often, and the place(s) of the afterlife. God controls the final exits, and the doors entered. In scope, this life is only a blink of an eye compared to eternity. There is a second life, and a second death for some. I didn’t make that up, it’s spelled out in the ancient scrolls.

Although Elton is weird and wonderful, his book is brutally honest, so much so, it can be a very difficult read. Trust me, there were times at the end of a chapter I wanted to take a shower.

The man, the soul, Reginald, found himself removing his electric boots and entered a 12 step program. He learned much about his mistakes, his substance abuse, and even his old ruthless ways with those around him. He has gone back to many he has wronged to apologize for past behaviors. Sobriety has been his norm for many years now, and helps others who need to enter treatment. His view toward life softened much through the following years, even to the point of pouring himself into charities, and forming the Elton John AIDS Foundation, which has raised over $450 million in AIDS research and medical treatment around the world. Through his circumstances in life, he has been forced to a more pliable heart. Even at this elder stage of his life, who knows where it might direct him.

As for Elton’s 1978 view of a throw-away life, he has changed his camera angle. In his book, on the very last page, he writes something so vastly opposite of his 1978 lyric. After suffering from cancer, and a devastating infection he contracted while on tour in South America which almost took his life, he writes:

“In the hospital, alone at the dead of night, I’d prayed: ‘please don’t let me die, please let me see my kids again, please give me a little longer.’ In a strange way, it felt like the time I spent recuperating was the answer to my prayers…It was like being shown a different life.” – Elton John, Excerpt taken from, Me: Elton John, Macmillan Publishing

He knows you wouldn’t mind if he put it down into words, how wonderful life is.

The true circle of life, and life’s destination, is in black and white in fuel for the race.

“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only Son, so that everyone who believes in Him will not perish, but have eternal life. For God did not send the Son into the world to judge the world, but so that the world might be saved through Him.” – Jesus From John 3:16-17 (NAS)

Borders

“Now in my place.
There are so many others.
Standin’ in the line;
How long will they stand between us?” (1975) “Nights On Broadway” Recorded By: Bee Gees. Composers: Barry, Robin, and Maurice Gibb

My left turn took me down Pine St. which intersected Jones St. At that vantage point, you can clearly see the old house, the second lot to the right.

Photo: Google Earth shot, from many years ago, of my granddad on his front porch in Greenville, Texas.

My maternal grandparents, Martin and Opal Atherton of Greenville, Texas, bought the old house in 1955. Prior to their moving, they lived in the country on a farm south of Greenville. Because the new I-30 was being built straight through the property, they chose to move into town. My mom was only 11 years old when they settled into the house on Jones St. It was an old neighborhood, in fact the original house itself goes back to the late 1840’s. Driving down the street just a few years ago would remind you of the neighborhood in the movie, “To Kill A Mockingbird”. High ceilings, large porches and floor-to-ceiling windows. We still have the old skeleton keys which go to the three bedroom doors with crystal-like glass doorknobs. It’s the house I knew first as a newborn.

Photo: A rare snow on the lawn of my grandparents house taken from the west side of the property.

The couple who owned the place before my grandparents were excellent landscapers, and true green-thumbers. My mom described it as a garden showplace on the block, filled with fruit trees, a small orchard along the west side of the house, various flowers, holly hedges, and various items of produce in the backyard. I remember as a small child some of the lush cool Saint Augustine grass, and the trees and grapevines climbing the western kitchen window. However, my grandparents were not of the same fabric as the former owners. Over the years they didn’t nurture much of the plant life on the property. As it turned out, my granddad didn’t want to spend much money on the the water bill. Still, much of the trees, hedges, and perennials remain to this day.

Next door to them, on the west side lot, lived a wonderful middle aged couple. They lived on the corner lot in a simple white frame house. They became dear friends of my folks right away. They had children of their own, although I am unclear of how many. The neighbors shared meals, special dishes, after school snacks for my mom and her two brothers. The man there was a wiz at making homemade candies. He was well-known for bringing a plate of them over to the house for holidays, or special birthdays.

At the time, there was no backyard fence, or border fence. In fact, the former owners of the house had shared a small orchard with their neighbors next door as their gardens ran along the back border of the properties. A line of Bradford Pear Trees grew along the adjoining side yards beside the neighbor’s driveway. When I was a toddler, I actually recall running through the garden and into the neighbor’s backyard without realizing it was their property.

The year the couple moved out of their house, to a newer neighborhood across town, is uncertain. I believe it was around 1967-1968. From that time on, the house next door must have had a revolving door. More than likely, it became a rent house. Over the years, several tenants moved in and out. It seemed like each time I came to visit my grandparents, some new family lived next door. Sometime around 1969, or 1970, my granddad had a backyard fence put in. By that time, most all of the shared garden and orchard were no more. Sad but true. There was nothing to stand in the way of constructing a privacy fence for the backyard.

Photo: (1999) My grandmother with my Great Dane, Wolfgang with the privacy fence behind her.

Years later, maybe by 1977, the old house next door was torn down. If memory serves me right, there was a fire that destroyed a room in the house. After the house was demolished, only the unpaved driveway and front steps to where the porch once stood was left.

After my grandparents passed away, my mom inherited the family house. She lived alone there for several years until she developed mild dementia last year. It became necessary to move her out of the old place where she was no longer able to take care of the house, or herself very well. She has been living with my wife and I ever since November of last year (2021). As for the house, we plan to sell it soon. There’s so much work that must be done before I can even begin the process. The place is an old friend, filled with a lifetime of precious memories for my mom, and for me. Nobody ever said it would be easy to let go of an established family home.

About a month ago, I had made the hour long trip to Greenville to check on the house. I took that left turn onto Pine street, a left turn I have made a million times in my life, and drove to the stop sign where Jones St. intersects. I looked to the right to glance at the tired house from across the empty corner lot, and was absolutely stunned. So stunned, it took my breath away. There, in the vacant lot, construction work had been done to prep for the pouring of concrete for a new home. Even more surprising, our fence on the adjacent west side was missing, showing our backyard open and bare.

Photo: This WAS part of the backyard. Showing where the side fence was, about where the baseboards are fixed for the foundation. Also, missing, next to the white storage shed, was a brown storage shed. The stakes next to the white shed are the property stakes placed.

Furthermore, my granddad’s storage shed, which sat next to a second storage shed, filled with well-worn garden tools, old auto parts, and storage boxes, was also missing. As I pulled up in front of the house, I could see where property stakes were hammered into the ground marking what the contractor believed to be the property line from the curb to the back border fence.

Photo: From the curb to the back fence line. All the Bradford Pear Trees were uprooted and removed.

Albeit an astonishing view, as it was, what was more disturbing was the stakes were driven into the turf just about 5 feet from the wall of the house. There is also a garden water faucet which protrudes from the ground some 12″ or so, that has always been used to water the lawn. Now, it is on the property next door, and it’s from our water pipes.

Photo: Our wrapped water faucet just on the other side of the property stake. It’s our water bill.

The backyard fence once extended some 10-12 feet beyond where they staked out the borderline. Gone were the line of Bradford Pear Trees where the perceived property line was, just east of the neighbor’s driveway. The grounds look so naked without them.

A thousand emotions ran through my mind and heart. Honestly, I couldn’t think straight. My first recognizable emotion was outrage. I was angry! In fact, I was steaming. I am grateful there were no construction workers there at the time. I couldn’t believe my eyes. My granddad’s fence and his storage shed had vanished, as well as about 10 feet of the side yard. There was no mail in the mailbox. No note on the door. No phone calls from the contractor involved. Zero communication.

After I caught my breath, a deep, sickening sadness invaded my spirit. There was a mammoth gratitude overwhelming me as I thought what my grandparents would’ve done if they saw what had been done. They were long gone to their new eternal home, not to be bothered by earth’s troubles. Thank you, God for the delay of the purchase of this vacant lot until after my folks left.

Looking at the stakes in place I couldn’t help but tear-up as I thought of 62 years of my life knowing and playing on the encroached ground which suddenly was no longer owned by my family. My earliest memories of running through the trees, the strawberry bushes, and the clusters of red berries on the Holly shrubs were vivid in my mind. The dozens of times I mowed the thick Saint Augustine from the time I was in Jr. High raced through my mind. Mental videos of the mounds of enormous Sycamore leaves just waiting for my cousins and me to dive into the crunch were racing through my brain. And now, some unknown stranger took that strip of land for their own. At least that’s how I saw it.

I just knew there had been a mistake. Somehow, someway, this contractor got bad information, an incorrect survey, or maybe a zealous real estate agent decided to take advantage of an old vacant house. There had to be a solution to this issue before they started pouring the foundation. Immediately I took a snapshot of the contractor’s sign sticking up by the curb. I emailed them about my displeasure over the removal of the fence and the storage shed. I mentioned how we would get our own survey done without delay. I called the local county tax office about the matter. The clerk on the other end of the line was very helpful. They sent me the measurements of our lot, as well as a bird’s eye photo of our house. To my shock, the picture from above, looked as if the marker stakes were accurate, according to the deed of the property. I quickly called a cousin of mine who lives just 10 minutes away. He came out with a measuring tape and marked it off to the exact footage listed for the width of the property. You guessed it right, didn’t you? My cousin’s survey put it as exactly the footage published in the original deed. It came out right at the border stakes in the ground.

Photo: Hunt County tax Office: Skyview of our house. To the left is the troubled west side of the property. The turquois line shows the valid borders of our lot.

Don’t get me wrong. My anxiety hasn’t vanished from this stark revealing. Moreover, I am unable to discover just how this happened, and when it happened. Questions popped up right away. Was my granddad a land grabber? NO WAY! He was a righteous man from head to toe. He was a straight shooter with God, family and neighbor. Never would he ever take land that wasn’t his…knowingly. Of course, I wondered how far back this mistake goes. Was this property line blurred over 100 years ago for some reason? Could it have been a friendly agreement between neighbors who shared the lush gardenwork of the couple who lived in our house 70+ years ago? I keep thinking of that “over-the-border” garden facet. How old is it? Could the contractor, who built my granddad’s fence back in 1969, have made an eyeball judgement without a surveyor? Who knows? One thing is sure, everyone that would have the answers are long since dead. There’s no one alive to ask.

Even though the way our fence and storage shed, along with its contents, was uprooted and taken away was harsh, and frankly, rude and inconsiderate, I have been humbled by the experience of finding out the unfortunate truth. I have to be settled in my core about the facts, beyond the sweet lifelong memories I have of the grounds.

Here’s a truth that is marked out by the stakes in my heart. I will not sell to the broker who was involved with the lot next door. Someone else will get our property when the time arrives. Right or wrong, that’s how I feel.

Spiritually, there are deep reminders as I see the new borderline on the west side of our property. In scripture, God set out some stakes for healthy boundaries to be observed. From the Garden of Eden and onward, God set up boundaries we were not to cross. In doing so, peril was a surety. Very much like buoys marking the drop at the edge of the shallows. Stakes were firmly placed in the ground by ten commandments. Today we see them more as suggestions. Borders, boundaries, property lines mean something. It’s supposed to show the thief to be aware of trespassed ground. It’s turf to be honored. However, in today’s crime-gone-bonkers, boundaries are ignored. Borders, boundaries, stakes, property lines are there for a reason. It matters. Just ask the tax office.

You can see the deed of eternity with the Pro-Border Maker in fuel for the race.

“And I placed boundaries on it (the sea) and set a bolt and doors, and I said, ‘As far as this point you shall come, but no farther; And here your proud waves shall stop’?” Job 38:10-11 (NAS)

91 Years Of Love

“When you feel cold, I’ll warm you.
And when you feel you can’t go on, I’ll come and hold you.
It’s you and me forever…” (1975) “Sara Smile” Recorded By: Hall & Oates Composers: Daryl Hall & John Oates

He was raised on farmland. Born around 1869ish+/-. His family, and the children which came later, toiled as sharecroppers, working the crops of other landowners. They travelled from county to county, wherever the work was available. The Tapp family were not educated folk, but they were the salt of the earth, a redneck clan, who knew the backbreaking job of picking cotton, corn, potatoes, and okra from dawn to dusk. If he owned a suit, it was strictly for church on Sundays. His hands were rough and weathered, yet his handsome face endured the Texas sun. He would grow up knowing the horse and wagon days of travel, until he was well into his 30’s when he saw his first horseless carriage.

At some point, date unknown as the family didn’t tend to keep records, he married a girl named, Molly. Later they were blessed with at least five boys, and two daughters, a true gift for a farm-working family. He was my Great-Great Granddaddy Tapp.

One of the daughters was my Great Grandmother, Ella Tapp-Swindell. She was born in 1901. As expected, she learned the trade of farming, along with her many siblings. However, while she was 6, 7, or 8 years old, Molly grew ill and became an invalid. Ella had to quit school and help take care of household duties, raising her siblings, along with learning to be a caregiver to her disabled mother. She married a handsome man of all trades, and talented musician named, Cluade Swindell. Ella was a “Get-Up-And-Get-It-Done” gal who passed the same attitude on to her daughter and son. The siblings were a fine duo out in the sharecropping fields from the time they could start walking. That daughter was my grandmother, Opal Swindell-Atherton. If you are a regular reader of my blog, than you have been introduced well to Opal Atherton in past posts.

Opal was born in 1921. While in Jr. High School in Wolfe City, Texas, she met a wild auburn-headed country boy named, Martin “Lucky” Atherton. He was new to the area, having moved from Oklahoma. When their eyes met, it was love, real love. Blinded by love, they never dated others. They were married when she was 17 years old. The life of sharecropping was over for her, as Lucky, her new husband, was a sharp mechanic. They were blessed to add two boys and one girl to their home. Their daughter, the baby of the family, would be my mom, Carolyn Atherton-Brown. She was born in 1944.

Again, if you have read my story from my other posts, you already know the tragic details of how I arrived in 1960.

As soon as my mom and I were able to travel, we made a quick drive from Greenville, Texas to Cash, Texas, a tiny farming community just a few miles away from where I was born. There, we visited my G-G-Granddaddy Tapp, along with my G-Grandmother Swindell on the Tapp family farm. The camera was loaded and ready for the photo below. Five generations in one shot. As you can see I was very casual about the entire event.

Photo: Five Generation Picture – June 1960

Many have told me they have never seen a five generation photo. I guess a four generation shot is more common. To have a five generation shot is just simply a gift from God. So, as you can imagine, when the time arrived in my life to obtain yet another five generation shot, I couldn’t wait to get the camera ready. Below is my grandmother, Opal, my mom, Carolyn, me, my daughter, Tabitha, and my granddaughter, Skylar. I love the way my Grandmother Atherton is looking at Skylar here, with yet another 90 years between them.

Photo: Five year generation picture – June 2016

Beyond the rarity of such a photo, as treasured as it is, might be what it represents. For me, it’s a reminder of the love and care which took place from generation to generation. We choose to love because love is exactly that, a choice. Care is a natural by-product of authentic love. When I review the stories told, going back 91 years, I can see this chain of love, like links from one person to the next, holding them all together, weaving a fabric of common admiration, loyalty, and valor. For those who have such a legacy, it is priceless.

Photo by Joey Kyber on Pexels.com

Scripture tells us that there is One who is closer than a brother. At the same time, the Author of such a passage also has revealed Himself as Father, Brother, even Grandfather, in certain aspects. In fact, and I must be careful here, He is even described as Mother because of His tenderness, intimate care-giver, personal supplier, and nurturer, as in El Shaddai, meaning All Sufficient One, IE: “The God Who is more than enough”. He IS our great Relative from generations past.

There are links of generational love to discover in fuel for the race.

“Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands…” – Isaiah 49:15-16a (NIV)