Leaves Love


Something new, inspired by and dedicated to a very good friend. However, it will no doubt speak to anyone who has been there.p1015-19b

Leaves Love

Some day’s a wake; we reminisce.
So much at stake; to love like this.

Our sadness climbs; relentlessly.
From joyful times; oh, family tree.

A photograph; of rings gone by.
A tortured laugh; as we ask why.

The dinner’s set; an empty chair.
Our tears though wet; cannot repair.

This fucking life; it seems so wrong.
Where dirge is rite; and love the song.

If one could take such pain away.
Though hearts will break, we choose to stay.

In pain right now; intensely felt.
To honor bow; we tensely knelt.

Today our grief must own the day.
As fallen leaf returns to clay.

The one who leaves, knows only joy.
To love we cleave; learned as a boy.

Yea, one who’s gone knows perfect peace.
Who’s heart beats on; let love increase.
Whose heart beats on, let love increase.

Eulogy or Effigy, that is the Question


His sanitized obituary might read as follows:

Alan Booth, 77, died September 17, 2010, at Oneida Extended Care Facility of congestive heart failure.

Mr. Booth was born May 5, 1933, in Brooklyn, NY, to Harold and Hilda (Squires) Booth. He graduated from Oneonta High School, served in the Unites States Navy during the Korean War, and then attended and graduated college at Syracuse. He moved to Annapolis, Maryland to work for Arinc. He retired in 1993 at age 60, moving back to his upstate NY home in Erieville, NY.

Mr. Booth was a member of and trained lay-speaker for the Methodist church. He enjoyed hunting, camping, hiking and reading.  He loved poetry, especially the chiefly Scottish dialect of Robert Burns. He was an avid member of the Robert Burns Society of Annapolis and recited many of Burns poems from memory at their annual meetings. He was a member of the Fenner Conservation Club and the local Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW)  Club in Cazenovia, New York. He is survived by 3 children and 10 grandchildren.

Cue the dragging-of-the-stylus-across-the-vinyl-record sound. The scathing obit might read as follows:

Alan Booth, 77, died September 17, 2010, at Oneida Extended Care Facility of congestive heart failure brought on by years of indulgent excess and gluttony. He loved his cholesterol-rich diet with a slathering of sugar and hard liquor. Well aware of his weight problems, Mr. Booth bought all the weight-loss programs advertised on TV over the past 50 years, including but not limited to: DVDs, Nutrisystem, ellipticals, cassette tapes, 8-track tapes, and a vinyl 78 rpm 3-record set claiming a Guaranteed Reduce Plan. All of these items may be found unused and, in many cases, unopened, in his home in Erieville.

Mr. Booth’s first 2 wives left him because he abused them. Information on his 3rd wife is sparse, although, she did abandon him as well. Mr. Booth had 3 children from his first marriage and deserted them when the divorce was final. During this time, he turned his brilliant mind to the realm of divorce and custody law, successfully minimizing the financial burden of being a father. Mr. Booth’s career never miss a beat through all this turmoil. He served in intelligence in the US Navy aboard the USS Witek during the Korean War. He went on to college, earning a bachelor’s degree in Electrical Engineering.

Mr. Booth loved dead poets more than his living children. And his poet of choice was Robert Burns, the 18th century Scottish Bard. Booth spent much of his time and money learning, reading, and memorizing Burns’ poetry and life.  On any given month, he would send the court ordered fifty dollars of child support and zero dollars in alimony while spending hundreds of dollars and multiple weekends on collecting antique poetry books and traveling to the latest Burns society gathering on various continents.

Mr. Booth would be remembered best as one who served his country; loved reading; valued education and learning; appreciated good poetry; enjoyed hunting, fishing, and camping;  and ate, drank, and made merry on every occasion possible. He will not be remembered as a devoted husband or loving father. As such, there are some in this world who will remember him as an abusive husband, who traumatized and abandoned his children.

Cue the dragging-of-the-stylus-across-the-vinyl-record sound.

Not because this is untrue but, rather, because it is unfinished. As with most things in this world, the truth of who we are lies somewhere beyond the sanitized and the scathing.

Yes, it is true, the two most organized areas of my father’s home were his library, where he attempted to quell his insatiable appetite for knowledge, and his liquor cabinet, where he attempted to quell the screams of his daemons.

Between these two rooms he would stop to rest in his living room. There he would take part in daily devotionals with a televised bible study leader. When both knowledge and alcohol failed to bring peace, Al, like many before him, turned to God. He did not arrive at the Christian God lightly, as his library boasted books from many, if not all, religions, including witchcraft and occult. Al arrived at the cross. Jesus met Al bearing much needed grace.

Al suffered sexual abuse as a child at the hands of his mother. Although he never called it sexual abuse. In this way, Al became stuck in grade school. Stuck is a word therapists and psychologists use to describe a psychological and emotional response to trauma (a.k.a, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder). Moving past such trauma is like voluntarily walking across a bed of hot coals. Children are especially susceptible to becoming comfortable with being stuck in a state of disorder for long periods of time. In Al’s case, that period lasted for the remainder of his life.

Becoming a functional, emotionally-balanced adult meant walking across that bed of coals. Becoming a loving husband and parent meant acknowledging and experiencing searing pain. Trusting anyone again, especially women, meant the impossible. Freedom lies on the other side of the bed of coals. Of course, the bed of hot coals works both ways, that is, anyone attempting to get too close to Al will inevitably experience the same pain.

It is on the dark side of this bed of hot coals, where I found Al — a cowering, weak, trapped, and traumatized boy who was too ashamed, too afraid, and too emotionally immature to show himself but for an few fleeting glimpses in his living room.

For example, there was the time, when we were talking about Christian theology in his living room, and he abruptly got up went into his library to retrieve one of the 14 different bible translations from his shelf. Opening it, he began reading aloud:

There is no difference, for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus.

(Al’s emphasis, not mine.)  After flipping some pages, he continued.

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

As he read, tears filled his eyes. Jesus brought Al grace.

Then there was the time I wrote a poem for him for Father’s Day in 2005. As he silently read, what is probably his first home-made Father’s day card in over 40 years (and quite possibly the only one ever), he began trembling. Then crying. Then sobbing. He hugged me and then opened the card again and read the repeating verse aloud while sobbing: I was walkin’ in the dark in broad daylight.

Then there were the two times he insisted on me watching a taped episode of JAG with him. The episode, Second Sight, explores forgiveness. In Second Sight, Sarah MacKenzie’s father is dying and she must deal with the forgiveness of her abusive, alcoholic father. This worn VHS tape had obviously been played numerous times in Al’s living room. Here is a poignant clip from that episode.

But for these fleeting glances of the scared, insecure, little boy, Al’s life remained safely hidden in the dark while walkin’ in broad daylight. However, he was not cowering alone. It appears Jesus did the same thing for Al that he does for us all. He left his throne, walked across the hot coals, away from freedom and into darkness, to meet Al where he hid from the rest of the world.

Did my father, Al Booth, deserve such kingly treatment? Absolutely not. But then, this story is not about Al Booth. This story is about his rescuer, Jesus, who, in the early morning hours of Friday, September 17th, 2010, picked up a cowering, lonely child and carried him out of his dark world, across the hot coals, and into freedom.

Rescue Me


The Boy Who Put the World on Wheels

The Boy Who Put the World on Wheels — by Norman Rockwell

i crave, a normal Rockwell
to cover, up the smell
my mind, is on a mission
dec-orating hell

he is, so quite convincing
so easily, he fools
my heart, so numb from wincing
I am, his chosen tool

a child, he learns pretending
the truth, he dare not risk
the pain-less pain he’s sending
the lie, hides on a  kiss

i lost, my heart a normal
the nicest, place to be
like death, draped in floral
I am, who rescues me

What if this it?


A well-meaning friend who is walking stumbling through my current storm with me said to me, “I can’t wait to hear the victory part of your story.”

I desire victory too… but what is victory?

What if all the broken relationships I now suffer enjoy, remain broken for the remainder of my time in this world?

What if the only broken relationship restored in this world is my relationship with God through Christ?

Would that be enough? I have given IT to God but He, for His own reasons, is not accepting. Not now. So my thorn remains.

Some implore me to focus not on the past but on the future. I find this focus-shift does not work well at all. At least, not for me. My future is either a fantasy I will never see in this world or a continuance of broken relationships. The former is denial. The later is a mirror. Neither is joy.

What if where I am right now, present time, in this pit, covered with this world’s mud and another world’s love…

What if this is it?

Harriet R. Law, In Loving Memory


This is where I found myself and my bride sitting last Saturday. My Great-Aunt Harriet left this world at the ripe old age of 92. (well, 91.9 would be more accurate).

Aunt Harriet's Memorial Service

Aunt Harriet's Memorial Service

When I think of Aunt Harriet (& Uncle Walter who died in ’94) I think of dope, cows, snowmobiles, hay forts, ponds, kittens, maple syrup, silage, barn clothes, ice cream, tractors, Sunday worship, and manure spreaders.

These are a few of my memories with my Aunt Harriet and Uncle Walter. I would visit during summer and winter breaks from school. In the summertime, we would be involved with haying-it or picking-stone. In the winter, I would help gather sap and go to the sap house with either my uncle or aunt.

I will write more about these amazing people in the coming weeks.

BTW, dope is what Aunt Harriet called her pancake topping of fresh-real-homemade whipped cream with brown sugar gently folded in. In the 60s, the American culture changed the meaning of the word dope. Aunt Harriet never changed from the 30’s forward.

BTW, part 2: The 4 empty rows in front of us were reserved for her immediate family of 6 married children, (22 mostly married)  grandchildren, 44 great-grandchildren, and 4 great-great grandchildren! About 100 fold…

Aunt Harriet’s obituary:
http://www.bennettfh.com/sitemaker/sites/Bennet1/obit.cgi?user=116537Law

In a Forest, No one Walks Alone


alone with himin a forest, no one walks alone
in a flood, no one is dying of thirst
in a church, no one wonders why
in a family, no one opens the closet
in a mirror, no one sees himself
in a dungeon, no one longs for punishment
in a forest, no one walks alone

in a crowd, no one knows his name
in a sitcom, no one finds distraction
in a tragedy, no one joins the laugh track
in a bedroom, no one sees and hears
in a child, no one hides himself
in a coma, no one is quite comfortable
in a forest, no one walks alone

in a crash, no one survives the impact
in a family, no one opens the closet
in a mirror, no one sees … the child
in a dungeon, no one longs for rescue
in an instant, no one remembers
. . . everything

in a forest, no one walks alone

Twas the Very First Christmas


‘Twas the Very First Christmas
by ric booth

‘Twas the very first Christmas, when all o’er the earth
Not a creature took notice when a virgin gave birth.
She wrapped Him up in swaddling clothes,
Nursed Him; held Him; Still, nobody knows.

The sheep were sleeping in flocks where they lie;
While shepherds stood watch under His sky.
With the Son in a manger and mama close by;
listening close, would we hear God cry?

Then all of a sudden angels appeared in the skies;
And the shepherds fell back, afraid for their lives.
The angels sang out, “A Savior is Born!”
Still no one knew; the curtain was torn.

The darkness trembled in the still of that night;
New hope was dawning with this baby of light.
“He is Christ the Lord!” the angels did sing.
How could it be, heaven had sent the king?

In hundreds an’ thousands in numbers they came;
some poor an’ some rich; all lost just the same.
A light in the sky would guide them they thought;
what little they knew of this child they sought.

All weary and broken and tired they came;
His father in Heaven calls each by name.
They’re seeking a child and an answer to “Why?”
For them God became man, to suffer and die.

Magi carried gifts to a far away town;
Gold, frankincense, myrrh they laid down.
Humbled before Him; God had come near;
How could they know, the gift was right here.

He left golden streets and His crystal sea;
choosing instead, the hill of calvary.
He went about His mission, beginning to end;
A message of love, determined to send.

Nobles and peasants, their lives He would lead;
Still no one knew; for us He would bleed.
In a barn they knelt down where the child did lay;
No one knew death would die the third day.

Like a whisper He came from Heaven above;
to finish His work; to show us His love.
People would wonder, still most do not know;
what happened in Bethlehem so long ago.

Many rulers and kings and powers that be;
have plotted to stop Him from setting us free.
Yet, centuries have come an’ centuries have gone;
their kingdoms are dust; the Christ child lives on!

© 2003-2008

First posted: What IS Christmas all about?
Read about: The First Christmas Tree

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