It Matters.

Have you ever felt like a situation or place was so vast, that your presence was insignificant or meaningless?

It is easy to feel that way. 

Not noticed. 

Not counted. 

Not needed. 

But you're wrong. 

You're so wrong. 

A single drop of rain combines with others to produce a storm. 

And a storm can change lives. 

Hurricane Sandy, 2012

A single stone combines with others to pave an interstate. 

And I-80 connects San Francisco to New York City. 

A single kernel of corn combines with others to make bushels. 

And bushels feed the world. 

A single vote is counted with others to determine the future of an entire nation. 

And that nation is the most powerful on the planet. 

Voting in the presidential election next week is one of the 

last true freedoms we have have as Americans. 

Even more than sad, that fact is scary. 

Do your homework.

It matters. 

Oh, and happy halloween. 

Life Lessons Learned From The Remodeled Home

You can learn a lot in life. 

• Do not wash reds with whites. 
• If you don't want anyone to read it, you better not write it down. 
• If you step on a nail, go tell Momma. Fast. 

Two weeks ago I began telling the story of The House That Built Me. Today, I continue with a set of tried and true lessons learned from that home. 

Life Lessons Learned From The Remodeled Home

1. Goats don't like stair steps. 
2. Even if you clean the carpet well, Momma always knows when you were too lazy to take off your work boots before running upstairs to get a hair tie. 
3. Anything rolled under the stove or behind the washer has been sacrificed in the name of fun and will never been seen again. 
4. I have known no greater pain than when stepping on a Lego. 
5. Saw horses have deceiving names are not nearly as fun as real horses. 
6. Ask permission before laying duct tape across the carpet to simulate a balance beam for routine practices in your bedroom.
1. When laying duct tape on aged carpet, the carpet snags/tears quite easily when trying to remove said duct tape. 
7. Dust bunnies are not the most ideal kindergarten show-and-tell animals. 
8. During the remodeling process, when Dad instructs you to only step on the beams, do not step on the pretty, pink insulation "just once, to see how it feels on your feet".
9. Pretty, pink insulation does not taste anything like pretty, pink cotton candy. 
10. Whoever restores our home next will find approximately $17 in silver dollars that have fallen between the wall and the woodwork of the stairwell. Lucky ducks. 
11. When in doubt, check the junk drawer.
12. Playing 52 pick up with asbestus shingles will not kill you. 
13. I'm thankful porch swings can't talk. 
14. Just because your older siblings tell you to, does not mean you should.
15. Those who grew up with a Tupperware cupboard are identified early in school; they're always the winners of the match game. 
16. It is pertinent that you take the time to ensure the pillows have been properly placed on the landing before sliding head-first down the stairway in a nylon sleeping bag.
17. Registers are excellent conductors of sound. 
18. "A guy called for Dad" is not an acceptable phone message. 
19. The medicine cabinet has all you'll ever need for the basis of a successful science fair project. 
20. There is no place like home. 

Then, Daddy Gave Life To Momma's Dream

No introduction needed this week - 

just a very special thanks to Nate at www.natelogston.com. His creative abilities far exceed the plans I had for this video, which was given to Momma and Dad last week for their 34th wedding anniversary. 

"Linda wants me to get some pictures of 'This Old House'" - Dad

View larger on Youtube

Tune in next week - this story isn't over, yet. 

Song property of Miranda Lambert. 

Please Excuse The Dust IV: Destruction and Dreams

Where were we in this story I began last week?

Ah, yes - that young couple who bought Don C. Merchanthouse's home...

When first married, my parents rented a house in Hagerstown, Indiana. Conveniently for Dad, but not for Momma, the house was located exactly two blocks south of the Ron-de-Voo, the local bar. 

It didn't take either of them long to realize that the current location was less than ideal. Momma and Dad found a house for sale in the country two miles south of Greens Fork, and one Sunday they attended the open house. 

To Momma, it was perfect. Everything about it. 

The location. 

The land. 

The big old farmhouse: a perfect place to raise a family. 

It's been said (by Dad) that they didn't live there two years before there was nothing right about the house. What Momma had fallen in love with (shag carpet, drafty windows and asbestus shingles) she now wanted gone. 

So they started small. 

Wall-by-wall, tearing them down and getting rid of the horse hair plaster. 

But wall-by-wall only revealed more problems in the “perfect” home. 

And, more artifacts from generations of homesteaders before. 

They found a leather lace up baby boot. 

A calendar from 1918. 

A bottle of wine (yes, they opened it and it nearly killed them). 

The good news is that the frame of the home was steady and stable. The timbers crafted by the “local men of toil” in 1843 were still solid and fit together perfectly. But the walls and windows (and roof) we’re in great need of replacement. 

My parents soon realized that that in order to get the home they dreamt of, it was going to take a lot (like - a lot, a lot) more work. 

And money. 

And time. 

But they're a determined pair (and hard headed) and moved forward anyway. 

Along the way, Momma put her own artifacts within the new walls of the home. She left notes that told the story of our family, current events in the news and also the price of gas and groceries. I wish I could be around in 100 years when another family finds those treasures. 

Over time, they found more helpers. 

We always showed up on time and we didn't drink on the job. 

There is not a single wall in the home today that is the original. 

The chimneys and fireplaces are all there. 

The beams and frame remain the same. I like to think of it as a new home with an old heart. 

The left, vertical beam was actually brought in from a barn where Momma grew up. 

My parents sure made it their own. The details speak volumes of their love for this place. 

Dad cut down an oak tree along Washington Road when we were very little.

From that tree our bookcase, entertainment center and woodwork were made. 

The house is done now, by most standards.

 

There are still repairs to be made. Like in Luke's room. Where he hung his glory days football helmet stickers and Momma has tried (for years) to find a non-destructive way to peel them off. 

The house isn't perfect - it never will be. 

But it is like this old friend that doesn't judge; 

it quietly sits back, painfully waiting for us to come visit. 

Home always does. 

Don C. Merchanthouse

My story begins with a man named Mr. Don C. Merchanthouse. 

I don't remember much of the man; he rarely came to our Greens Fork homestead. 

I do remember that when Merchanthouse came to our home, he showed up unexpectedly. Dad would usually take him for a walk around the yard and Momma and us three kids would play 52 (more like 5,200) pick-up around our lived-in house. Momma wanted it "spotless - and  fast!!" 

We were little soldiers around Mr. Don C. Merchanthouse.

Ironically, Mr. Don C. Merchanthouse used to live outside Greens Fork, Indiana, also. Two miles south of town, to be exact. He raised his family in one of the old Hoover Mill homesteads. Jesse Hoover's place, to again be precise. 

He was known as the "Bard of Washington Road" - the man who told the story of the land and the people. I'd love to talk to him now and have the opportunity to ask him so many questions about living in this area decades ago. 

But I can't. 

While Mr. Don C. Merchanthouse is still around the Greens Fork area, he died many years ago. His ashes are spread around our homestead. 

You see, Mr. Don C. Merchanthouse was the man who sold his home  - the one he raised his family in - to a young couple in 1978. 

That young couple went on to raise three children there. 

And I am the youngest of the three. 

Before he passed, Merchanthouse wrote a book. Within the pages of the book is a poem entitled, This Old House, written about the house the built me. 

Until next week, enjoy words from the man who sold us his home 

and without even knowing, helped me write my own life story. 

This Old House

Don C. Merchanthouse

I wander through these spacious rooms 

And wipe away a tear, 

For all the memories I have

Have taken place right here. 

To this old house I brought my bride

Of young and tender years, 

A strong young son and then a girl,

To grace our later years. 

The nights we spent in quiet bliss,

The days so warm and bright.

These walls were witness to our love, 

And held our secrets tight. 

We never changed its decor much, 

Or altered its proud face, 

For modern hardware never fit, 

And seemed so out of place. 

Through bitter storms and darkest nights

It kept us warm and dry, 

Although it creaked and groaned and moaned

As though it meant to die. 

The timbers for its mighty frame

Were grown on native soil.

Were cut and hewed and fitted tight

By local men of toil. 

They must have had an artist's eye

And love for tedious work, 

For harmony is everywhere

And nothing did they shirk. 

The walnut in the window sills, 

Bright poplar in the floors.

The wind still howls in stifled rage

Against the oaken doors. 

This place has stood a hundred years, 

A landmark proud and tall.

And it will be a part of us

Till we're beyond recall.

And now to put it on the block

Seems like an unjust fate,

But this old house just sits and smiles

It seems content to wait. 

Of course, the story doesn't end here. Come back next week for more - 

Little Dishrag

Hebrews 13:2 

Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, 

for by so doing some people have 

shown hospitality to angels with out knowing it. 

I was on a late flight from Ft. Worth to Oklahoma City last Friday night. We sat on the dark runway awaiting some maintenance on our plane - never a good feeling. I looked across the aisle and saw a woman, maybe 55, knitting feverishly. I've never seen hands move so quickly. She looked up from her work and gave me a gentle smile, catching me watch her. 

"What are you knitting?" I asked.
"Shrags," she responded softly, never looking away from her work.
"Shrags?" I asked for clarification.
"Rags," she said again. "Like a dishrag you use to do dishes."
"Ohhhh, gotcha," I responded, feeling a little better about the conversation. I had no idea what a shrag was. 

While still waiting on maintenance I dozed in a out of sleep for an hour before our plane even moved. In between tiger snoozes the lady got my attention. 

"Because you asked what I was making, I want you to have one," she said as she passed me a plastic bag full of hand-knitted dishrags, every color imaginable. I did notice there were a lot of red ones. I wasn't about to stash one of those away in my suitcase - I've learned my lesson there. 

I chose a brown and white rag and handed the bag back to her. In turn, she handed me a piece of paper and gave me a smile. Before I could even ask her what it was, the woman was back to work. 

I decided against bothering the stranger again. I unfolded the half-sheet and turned on my reading light. It was a poem.

I'm a little dishrag all pretty and new, 

created in love to be used by you.

Don't put me on a shelf just to be viewed,

Or under a glass to sop up the dew.

Or even on a hot pot to protect from the heat, 

I'm a little dishrag - and at that - I can't be beat. 

On the shelf, I'll just gather dust, 

Under a glass I'll make a spot, 

On the hot pot, I'll hurt you a lot, 

But as a dish rag I'll clean with the best. 

I'm cotton and small and really quite bumpy,

My cotton absorbs and I squeeze quite easily, 

My bumps help me scour and scrub so completely, 

I'm made for just one job, and one job only. 

I will get stained and torn and ragged, 

But that is the plan, it's what is intended, 

When I get dirty just wash me and dry me, 

How water and spin cycle will do the job nicely. 

If I am not perfect or just the right hue, 

That doens't mean I'm worthless or just will not do. 

When we're working together those things won't matter, 

We'll get the the job done, along with some laughter. 

So, if you're not perfect - and none of are, 

Remember me (dishrag) and what we accomplished. 

God can use all things in Heaven and Earth, 

If you're open to hear Him and put His will first.

I was created with love and with care, 

to do one great thing that we both can share, 

As we do your dishes and general cleaning, 

Remember this prayer to the Father I'm sending. 

I pray that our Father will show you your purpose, 

To show you how lovingly, carefully He formed you, 

To show you the work He intended for you, 

And for you to find joy in all that you do. 

And if you get stained, or ragged or torn,

He is there with you to wash you all clean, 

He'll heal up your hurts and mend your heart, 

He'll be there with you from morning to dark. 

Look deep inside you and see how you're made, 

What are you here for? What is your trade?

What brings you joy? Where is your heart?

Rest in His mercy and let His work start. 

I'm a little dishrag all pretty and new, 

Created in love to be used by you. 

Pattern:
Lilly's sugar and cream or peaches and cream cotton yarn
Number 10 needles
Cast on and knit 4 stitches
Knit 4
Knit 2, yarn over, knit 2
Knit 2, yarn over, knit to end
Continue until 40 stitches are on the needle
Knit 1, knit 2 together, yarn over, knit 2 together, knit to end
Continue until 4 stitches remain
Knit 4
Bind off

"What a kind note to give a complete stranger," I thought to myself. I looked over and the woman, knitting project in her lap, was asleep. I didn't have the opportunity to thank her. I shut of my light and followed her lead and tried to get some rest on the late flight. 

I thought her note was one worth passing on. I don't know the woman's name, or why she was flying to Oklahoma in the dark or even where she was from. But I do know I appreciate the soft rag that now rests in my linen closet and the half sheet of paper that hangs on my inspiration board. 

My way of thanking her is paying it forward to you. 

Someone I Wish I Knew

I think Josh Johnson was the first person to give me the feeling. 

He didn't know he gave it to me; it was never Josh's intention. 

It is fair to say nothing that happened on July 14, 2002 was. 
His untimely death riveted our small Indiana town. 
Nevermore would we see his smile or experience his kind heart. 
After his funeral I remember driving back to our county fair thinking, "I wish I knew Josh better..."

I suppose while Josh was the first person that I recognized the feeling with, as I matured - and life happened - others have died and planted the same, dreadful thought in my mind:

I wish I would have known them better. 

Lost opportunity. Lost conversations. Lost lessons. Lost life. 

Last evening Cody called and told me that Ray Sims, said to be the greatest livestock auctioneer in history, passed away in Kansas City. He is the latest addition the exclusive list of people lost whom I wish I knew. I was supposed to interview Ray for this blog in less than a month: Friday, October 5th. 

Before we go on, watch a bit of Ray's incredible story:

We just enjoyed visiting with Ray in July at the National Junior Angus Show.

             

When I met Ray I knew little about his life's story. This only filled my head with 1,000 questions I wanted to ask - about the things he had seen after traveling North America for decades, the livestock he witnessed move through the ring as an auctioneer for 46 years and the United States Presidents he called friends over the duration of his 90-year life. 

 Ray auctioneering as President John F. Kennedy evaluates to the left

Ray reminded me a lot of my Granddad Shafer. 

If it involved cattle, neither thought twice about cruising across the country, logging hundreds of miles in one day. 

They both had the same age spots on their hands the last time I saw them. 

While I wasn't around Ray nearly as much as my soul desired, I was still able to ask him a bit about his life's journey. 

Ray grew up on a stock farm in Missouri but went to autioneer school in Indiana. While a college degree was his intention, his unique ability to auctioneer was quickly noticed and Ray's schedule soon filled with chanting obligations, rather than college courses. 

Ray was known as a game changer in the livestock marketing industry. His approach to selling stock was simple: develop a quick paced chant that encouraged bidders to make decisions. These exciting, quicker auctions brought more buyers to the sale, more money to the table and moved more cattle than ever before. No longer were the days of long, sermon-like sale experiences. 

Ray went on sell cattle from coast to coast, border to border. 

In 1967 the movie "What Am I Bid" featured Leroy Van Dyke's hit single, "Auctioneer."
Said auctioneer, whom the song was about, was Ray Sims. 

Watch him chant here in the white hat -  

Ray was inducted into the Angus Heritage Foundation in 1989 and the National Auctioneers Association Hall of Fame in 1990. 

At the 2010 North American International Livestock Exposition Ray was inducted into Saddle and Sirloin Club - the first auctioneer to ever receive that life honor. Induction into the Saddle and Sirloin Club is the highest honor given in the American livestock industry. 

Finally, just two months ago at the 2012 National Junior Angus Show Ray was finally able to see his Saddle and Sirloin Portrait hanging amongst other legends. Founded in 1903, the Saddle and Sirloin Portrait Collection is an incredible collection of oil paintings that honor outstanding leaders in the livestock world over the past 300 years. The oil portraits hang in the West Wing of the exposition hall in Louisville. Check them out this November. 

I think about Ray and get that knot in my stomach, realizing the missed opportunity to know him - his story - better. What an incredible resource of production agriculture history. 

Image from 1965 Angus Journal

I've always believed that when an old man dies, 

it is as if a library burns to the ground. 

Well, as of last night a whole lot of Angus Journals rest in ash. 

So long, Mr. Sims - Enjoy that auction block in the sky