Beautiful Wife |
Beautiful Wife |
Lightning On The Hill
As kids we loved to hear my mother tell the story, over and over again, a story that happened in the 30’s or 40’s, well before any of us were born. My father worked for the railroad and did not like the way that some of the employees were being treated. It was on an afternoon that heavy thunderclouds filled the air that three horsemen arrived with shotguns and torches and put fire to our humble two-story home. As the fire burned, the horsemen rode off across the valley toward town, laughing and whooping it up, and my father raced upstairs and started throwing furniture, clothing, and everything that was priceless at that moment, out the window.
My mother had dropped to her knees and started to pray. It was at that very moment that God warranted rain from those heavy-laden clouds; in fact, the fire was de-incinerated within minutes. The horsemen had stopped on the horizon and looked back at the rain clouds and the cracking of thunder; and one of them was struck by lightning. He wasn’t killed, but no one ever bothered my mother and father anymore. When we heard the story, us kids would roll with excitement, and throw in some gestures of our own, of what might have been going through the horsemen’s minds at that very moment.
My folks did rebuild that humble home and my father continued to work for the railroad. He would be gone for sometimes days at a time, traveling across America, and bring home tales of snow and grand sites. Sites that he shared with us many times in our childhood. It was on one of those return trips that father brought home a young boy, about my age. His name was Jack. Father had found Jack stowed away inside one of the train cars and had invited him home for supper and a warm place to sleep. Jack was a little sheepish at first, but quickly molded into our warm family atmosphere. He even had some stories of his own that made mother squirm a little in her seat.
The next morning father asked Jack if he would like to stay and help out with the woodpile and some other chores around the house until he returned. Jack and I quickly became good friends and before we knew it a month had gone by and my father had made several adventurous trips. On one memorable evening, after hearing the lightning story again, father handed myself and Jack, both of us 10, gifts encased in little wooden boxes. When we open them we were as surprised as my mother, who grimaced at the site of two bone handled jackknifes. These weren’t the kind of knifes you’d see at the Five-and-Dime Store, no sir, these knifes were real 3-bladed Chicago Cutlery bladed, with bone-handles from a huge five point buck caught last year up in the Montana Wilderness.
It was right after the buck story that my father turned and asked Jack if he would like to stay with us forever, with some rules, of course. I elbowed Jack and encouraged him to accept the offer. Shucks, he was already part of the family; why not make it official. Jack looked over at me and then stiffened as he faced my mother, “Can I call you mom, I ain’t never had a mom afore.” After exchanging tears and some hugs and handshakes, Jack and I hurriedly raced outside to carve our very first pyrite ship. Those were good days then, we weren’t troubled by anyone, since we were sure the lightning story still held oats in those parts of the country.
Jack had become the very best friend, and brother, any young man could dream of. Our sister, Betty (Beth for short), would sometimes join in on our adventures, but mostly she was involved with cooking and sewing lessons from our mother. It was always fun to have Beth along, though. We would pretend she was the maiden that we were saving from the dragons, or rescuing from mystical places of lore. Beth was a really good reader and she would read stories to us about magical places; and sometimes we were even offered some of her peanut-butter cookies with milk. Mmmm! They were the best.
Later, Beth married one of the Crocker boys in town and they opened up a little Shoppe called “Cooking with Beth.” Jack and I were just finishing high school about then and there was talk of our father having to leave the valley for work in the Northwest. I still remember the day we were driving away, pulling a large trailer behind our car. When we got to the top of the hill and looked back at the valley, for one last look, we noticed our house had caught fire. We have often speculated whether it was faulty wiring or God’s way of saying farewell. Funny thing, my mother and father sold the property to a young family that built a church there; a church that I am sure has served the valley well past my lifetime.
Jack and I finished high school and went on to college to become community pillars that made our mother and father proud. Jack founded a company that made jack-knifes with real bone inlays. The three-bladed 4-inch model was always my favorite. Mounted in a frame over Jack’s work-desk was the knife that father had given him at age 10. With a note, inlayed in real gold, saying, “God gives to those who give.” Jack went on to celebrate stories with his family, each evening after supper. Their favorite, of course, was the one about the three horsemen in the lightning storm.
For me, life is lived at it’s fullest. Each Sunday I tell stories to many people. Stories that are real and livid in my mind and encourage many to do what is right. I know that are a blessed family; from the very time my mother knelt on her knees and prayed for God’s intervention.
I keep my three-bladed, bone inlayed jackknife in my pocket still today, at age 60, and I often tell the tale of the three horsemen. I often, still today, speculate the thoughts of the horsemen and the stories that they told. I have heard they included some grand intercession from God. I believe they could be right.
~Amen
