Ice Out and Ice In on our Minnesota lake

This week was ice out time. If you don't live this far north it is something that wouldn't enter your thinking about the seasons. It's a big deal. There is a good feeling that comes from seeing open water after four or so months of cold. It doesn't mean the end of snow, or the frost on the windshield. It just means the end of ice on the lake. 

It came a little earlier than average, which is around April 9th. That is typical, it jumps around a lot from one year to the next. One day the lake is mainly covered in ice, the next day the ice is gone. The reverse happens in that fall. Our lake is not huge, around 250 acres or so. If you live on a really big one, the process is a little less straightforward. More fits and starts, one bay is open, another is not, depending on sunlight, wind and the like. 

March 25th was the ice-out for this year. In the last ten years the earliest was March 15, the latest was May 1. Dec 1 was the ice-in date last fall, ranging between November 12 and December 19 since 2012. 

The state government keeps track of this information. I am one of the hundreds of citizen volunteers who watch the ice and submit the numbers. I've been watching the ice for the past week, binoculars in hand from the warmth of my den. Whew. My work is done. Until November. 

March 21, 2021 was much like September 11, 2013

Very hard to describe, but almost the exact same feeling. 

March Hoops

 There is something about the basketball tournament that has a way of sticking in your head. From the drama of selection Sunday to the form, the structure, the dreams that rise and fall with each tip-off in the first round. 

The tournament is like much of our lives. With many big big things we get no second chance at all. You lose, you go home. 

You make the right impression on that first date, the rest of your life is changed. Make the wrong impression and there may be no second chance. Same way with job interviews. Sales presentations. Lottery tickets. Tryouts for the high school play. The curve on an icy road. 

The difference is, in life we often we don't realize the magnitude of the situation until years later. "If I had known then what I know now..." I would have done X instead of  Y, left instead of right, Yes instead of No. Also, we don't know if there is a second chance coming. In the tournament we know there is not. In life we often expect another shot, a chance a redemption, a mulligan, forgiveness or an apology or just a kindhearted second chance. 

I need the chance to correct mistakes and errors. It is hard to even imagine a life where every day and every decision was like the tournament. No look back, no second chances. But still, that tournament is mesmerizing. 

He was indeed heir to a great fortune

 On December 16, 1922, in the evening, a baby was placed in the back seat of the car of Dr. Frank Cullen in downtown Dallas, with a note: "This boy's name is J.D. Take good care of him as he is heir to a great large fortune. His mother is in great trouble and can't keep him now. You will be watched. Put him in a good orphan's house if you don't keep him. I am coming back after him when I can. I have your no. Anything you do for him you will be made rich." 

The baby was placed by his biological mother, an unwed girl of 19, named Josephine. The baby was my Dad. 

This note was the first thing I read when I opened the files of  case 4014 of Hope Cottage Orphanage in Dallas. I finally had in my hands the file my dad always wanted to see, but never did, the story of his adoption. It answered many questions about his birth and circumstances and of course created new ones. "Why this?" and "Who is that?" But that is a writing for another time. The intimate details of the circumstances that led Josephine to do what she did are lost to time and passed with her death in the late 1980's. 

My father was adopted by Thomas and Elizabeth Welch of Goliad, Tx.  Elizabeth told the story many years later of a long train ride to Dallas, and an appointment at Hope Cottage. All references and paperwork in order, she was escorted into a room with 28 babies in cribs. 

"Pick one", was the simple instruction that would change so many lives. And she did. She picked the one with the bluest eyes and the biggest smile, the one who cried when she walked away from his crib. He was named Thomas Benjamin Welch, Jr., after his new father. 

He grew up in small town Texas in the 1920's and 30's. Played football, was in the band. Had a little sister, Ada Sue, the long desired biological child of Tom and Elizabeth. In his youth he suspected he was adopted, which was confirmed when an aunt left him off a family tree. He wrote years later, "I was nonplussed - numb and rooted to the floor and couldn't have moved if I had tried." 

He left high school in 1941 before graduating. War was brewing. That spring he enlisted in the Navy and in the summer found himself on the USS Neosho headed for Pearl Harbor. By a twist of fate or fortune he was out of harm's way on December 7th. As he told it to me, he was not there, but "close by". 

He was in the Navy for six years. During this time he was drawn deeper to his Christian faith. In a hospital bed in Australia, he confided to a nurse that after the war he wanted most of all to be a minister, but didn't think he'd be a very good one. She thought the idea was wonderful and fitting and encouraged him during his weeks of recovery from an injury. Her name, like many others in this story, is lost, but to her lasting credit, she pushed him to hang on to this dream.   

After the war he spent his last months at the Navy Yard in Chicago. He was discharged and finished his high school diploma at the YMCA while working nights as a guard at Continental Illinois Bank. (He loved to relate that "that bank never got in any trouble as long as I was guarding the vault!'). 

He returned home to Texas where he graduated from the University of Corpus Christi and Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Fort Worth. He met my mom there and they were married during the time in Fort Worth. Josephine lived in Fort Worth then as well. After she was notified of his adoption, there is no record that she ever attempted to find him. Perhaps she pictured him lost in the war, as so many men were who were born in 1922. But I also imagine that as our family gathered around his birthday cake each year with smiles and laughs and goofy presents, there was a woman in Fort Worth who always shed a tear and wondered. 

He was a pastor, and a good one. He led churches in various locations across the South, mainly Florida and the Carolinas. Always small, always paying just enough salary for us to get by (when combined with mom's salary from teaching school and giving piano lessons). But for thousands and thousands of people it was from his lips that they heard the message of Christianity proclaimed clearly and lovingly, with a gift for expressing truth that came from his heavenly Father. He was a prolific writer and left behind dozens of articles in Christian publications and hundreds of pages of notes, essays, musings and outlines on faith that his descendants will cherish. 

He had three sons and though he left this earth much younger than we wanted, at 76, he lived long enough to know all of his four grandchildren very well. 

Elizabeth Welch was certainly pleased at the choice she made when called on to "pick one". Josephine must have always wondered, but never knew, of the man who grew from the baby she believed she had to let go. She would have been very proud. 

In the note she left behind, Josephine scratched out "great" and claimed the boy was heir to a "large" fortune. Like many things in the story, this is puzzling. What caused that little scratch of a line and a quick change. A passing thought, perhaps, "I have to be quick, but I want to get this note just right". Call it large, call it great, but one hundred years later it now rings so very true. It was a fortune indeed. One of faith, family and friendships. A legacy that I am heir to, as are all his offspring and everyone who ever felt the warmth of his smile and the shake of his hand. 

From a blanket in the back seat of a car, from the arms of a troubled teenager, from the arms of a kindly doctor, from the protection of an orphanage... to the arms of a new mother, to the call to arms of a nation, to the cuddly arms of grandchildren. What a life. And now he knows. 

 

I got my China (or is it UK) flu shot

Like you, I have been checking the availability of China flu shots. I have a list of governments, hospitals, pharmacies and sporting goods stores that claim access to the cure and browse their websites off and on during the day. 

430 am yesterday morning I checked the website of a pharmacy, in the outside chance that a vaccine would be available. To my surprise I found that 30 miles north of here there would be a vial of the magic juice waiting for me at 9:30 am. 

The process was simple. I gave one of the pharmacists my insurance card and took a seat.  My name was called and I was met with a nice smile by an attractive 40ish woman who was about to change my life. She introduced herself. I replied, "I have been waiting a year to meet you. I knew you were out there somewhere." She giggled. 

Now that she has altered my DNA and the microchip implanted, the government will be able to watch me even better. The tracking device installed in the Student Union of Southwest Baptist College in 1976, during the swine flu panic, has outlived its effectiveness. Oink. 

I hope the government does a better job of tracking me in the future than in the past. I made a lot of mistakes and had some crazy ventures that I would have expected a kind and loving government to prevent. Such as .... lottery tickets, hoarding incandescent light bulbs, changing planes in Atlanta, selling naked call options, getting mad at Rocko, my members only jacket, my teal phase, unfiltered Lucky Strikes, that Chevy Chevette, John Anderson for President, the death of Buster the hamster, and on and on. 

On the 57th anniversary of the birth of my brother.

I am doing some genealogy work. Ora Asa Butler, a minister in New York state, was my fifth great-grandfather and died in 1811. Like my youngest brother he died at a relatively early age. As I read his obituary I could not help but think of my brother. The author had a wonderful command of the English language that still holds beautiful meaning, 210 years after it was written. 

"...it pleased the Lord to call him, in the midst of his usefulness, to rest from his labors, to the great grief of the church, and of his numerous brethren and friends. 

...it has pleased a righteous God to call us to mourning. Our dear brother has been called from this militant state, to join, as we humbly trust, the saints in glory. 

He died of a painful disorder but his soul appeared full of glory. He left a striking proof of the power of Divine grace to comfort and support in a dying hour."  

Flowing through these four sentences is the idea that the pain and suffering of the righteous can bring glory to God. Not in a way that we understand, or like, or can ever figure out. Sometimes we get it, often we do not. But He can and does use it, of that we can be certain. He promises us a day when all of this will come crashing down and he will gather his followers and "wipe every tear from our eye".