Oreo, a black and white cat, has become our hero thanks to his loud voice warning of my daughter faced danger.

Thursday, July 23, I picked up my daughter, 8, and son, 11, from their summer daycamp and drove them to their mother’s home.

My son went right to sleep.

Alyssa began to play.

I began to clean up after frenzied cats that had scattered hot chocolate mix and a bag of catnip around the third-story apartment the children’s mother recently moved to.

Alyssa went out to play on the balcony. Since my attention was needed toward cleaning, I told her to come in.

I went into the living room that features a wall of windows looking out onto the balcony. I turned to the television.

About a minute later, Oreo began screaming. The noise the cat made could not be described as anything else.

It was loud enough to wake my sleeping son.

It was loud enough to draw my attention to the cat.

It was loud enough to draw everyone’s attention to the cat. Then I saw why the cat was screaming.

Oreo was against the window screaming at my daughter. My daughter was climbing over the balcony railing, stretching out, reaching her hand toward a small tree limb and risking a 35-foot fall to a sidewalk below.

My yell of “No!” froze my daughter, then she climbed down.

Oreo saved the day and probably my daughter.

My daughter explained she had been trying to grab a leaf off the tree and didn’t realize she might fall.

I explained to my junior botanist that there are safer ways to collect leaves.

We all gathered around Oreo and smothered him with affection.

He looked a bit puzzled before he reclined and purred with gratitude.

On Sabbatical.

Not sure if I’ll make it back to where I am now.

I like this definition:

http://world.std.com/~jegan/def.htmlSabbatical year

1. among the ancient Jews, every seventh year, in which, according to Mosaic law, the land and vineyards were to remain fallow and debtors were to be released

 2. a year or half year of absence for study, rest, or travel, given at intervals, originally every seven years, to teachers, in some colleges and universities. – Webster’s New World Dictionary

Won’t take that long to write, I suppose.

But self-editing may limit my prose.

Distance measured by rock songs of the 1960s and 1970s.

On a normal traffic day, the time it takes to play “Time” off Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon” album coupled with the running time of ”Do You Feel Like We Do?” off the album “Frampton Comes Alive!” equals a total drive time from my children’s home to my own basement abode.

Sitting through a long traffic signal on Northern Virginia’s Harry Byrd Highway will eat up most of The Cars’ “Candy-O.”

Pumping gas, playing “Highway Chile” by The Jimi Hendrix Experience will fill the time unless you go inside the station to pay. In that event, “Give a Little Bit” by Supertramp usually covers that timeframe unless there’s a rush-hour line. That line in turn means “Life’s Been Good” by Joe Walsh should be played.

Should you be listening to news radio and there’s a report on what the president or his cabinet might be doing during these grim economic times, instead switch to the CD player and “Mr. President (Have Pity on the Working Man)” by Randy Newman.

The telephone rang and the male voice on the other end asked cheerfully “is my daughter Alana there?”

That left little doubt who was calling – her father Alan Keith Cook whose memory and military service we honor today.

There was also little doubt as to the pride and love Mr. Cook felt for his daughter. After more than 30 years they were working to re-knit a relationship unraveled by time, distance and struggles to survive.

On the telephone, you could hear in Mr. Cook’s voice an exuberance that their ties were renewed and his daughter had done well in life despite their separation.

We can only speculate that his life was improving as well with God’s peace and love touching his soul.

What makes great art is its reflection of life.

In that theme, Mr. Cook’s life had parallels with a musical titled “Carousel” where a man named Billy fathers a daughter days before dying. He is sent back to earth 15 years later and the plot unfolds as he helps a daughter struggling with unfair stereotypes and life.

At the musical’s end, Billy, whispers to his daughter, telling her to have confidence in herself as she and others sing the song “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

I can imagine Mr. Cook, in his way, echoing this song:

When you walk through a storm
Hold your head up high
And don’t be afraid of the dark.
At the end of a storm
Is a golden sky
And the sweet, silver song of a lark.

Walk on, through the wind,
Walk on, through the rain,
Though your dreams be tossed and blown.
Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart,
And you’ll never walk alone,
You’ll never walk alone.

(Play Johnny Cash version)

Oh why did you leave?

You celebrants,

Infants,

to America sailing,

Leaving dread in your wake

and my dead ancestors

resting in a County Tyrone churchyard.

Oh what did you find?

You Pattons found feast after famine,

food on the table,

rangeland and oil in

the Indian Territories.

You begat and begat,

Until along I came,

To wear a green derby,

Lift a green beer

and trivialize your travails,

at some pretentious pretend pub.

Oh were your children dutiful?

Lá Fhéile Pádraig

You arrived with no mention

of St. Patrick’s mission

Buried by some secular Celtic undertaker

Like my kin

Forbidden to keen.

During the weekend, my children’s maternal grandfather died.

I broke the news to my son Sunday morning as we drove to church.

The death came at a time my soon-to-be ex-wife Alana had been reconciling and growing closer to her father by telephone. She said he’d been pleased at his daughter’s life and the lives of her children.

There was to be an introduction to the children via telephone.

“Mom said I could talk to him next time he called,” my son, 11, said.

There will be no next time.

My son is sorting this out as his mother tries to make arrangements from a distance. She works in Washington D.C.  Her father died at his home in Deweyville, Texas.

Sunday, a church elder asked me if the newly-deceased was a believer, as in John 3:16 and “that whoever believes in him (Jesus) shall not perish but have eternal life.”

We don’t know. I’d never met Alana’s father and Alana can’t say.

This morning I played “Oh Death” sung by Ralph Stanley off the “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?” soundtrack and contemplated the two different eternal paths death opens the door to.

O, Death
O, Death
Won’t you spare me over ’til another year
Well what is this that I can’t see
With ice cold hands takin’ hold of me
Well I am death, none can excel
I’ll open the door to heaven or hell
Whoa, death someone would pray
Could you wait to call me another day
The children prayed, the preacher preached
Time and mercy is out of your reach
I’ll fix your feet ’til you can’t walk
I’ll lock your jaw ’til you can’t talk
I’ll close your eyes so you can’t see
This very air, come and go with me
I’m death I come to take the soul
Leave the body and leave it cold
To draw up the flesh off of the frame
Dirt and worm both have a claim
O, Death
O, Death
Won’t you spare me over ’til another year
My mother came to my bed
Placed a cold towel upon my head
My head is warm my feet are cold
Death is a-movin upon my soul
Oh, death how you’re treatin’ me
You’ve closed my eyes so I can’t see
Well you’re hurtin’ my body
You make me cold
You run my life right outta’ my soul
Oh death please consider my age
Please don’t take me at this stage
My wealth is all at your command
If you will move your icy hand
Oh the young, the rich or poor
Hunger like me you know
No wealth, no ruin, no silver no gold
Nothing satisfies me but your soul
O, death
O, death
Won’t you spare me over ’til another year
Won’t you spare me over ’til another year
Won’t you spare me over ’til another year

She Walks In Beauty like the night
by Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

“The Peace of the Lord be With Ya’ll”

Wazzuh buzzin’ on my chess…
Cell phone trembling stillness lose
Sleep ‘n Sleepin’ not muh best
Sweetest call from angel/muse

 Lady/woman whispers sane
 Straight comfort, clearing cloudy mind
 World-weary walker finds his fane
 Peaceful sighs of restful kind

 Rosy arbor gardens grow
 Spreading fragrant aural scent
 Care-hushed caller bans sleep’s foe
 Tranquil words of love are spent

Normally, my workday warm-up tune is the Muppet Show theme.

Seriously, the “It’s time to play the music….”

But today needed a kick so “Three Strange Days” by School of Fish currently plays while I look for the lyrics to a long-lost folk song.

The album is detailed in this Wikipedia entry. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/index.html?curid=8327805 

The song:

“I Saw a Stranger With Your Hair” by John Gorka

I saw another with your eyes
The flash just turned my head
I went to try them on for size
But they looked the other way
And they wouldn’t listen

Chorus: But you’re never hard to find in a crowd
The people around you smiling out loud
Their feet don’t touch the ground
No, their feet don’t touch the ground
No, their feet don’t touch the ground

I heard a stranger with your voice
It took me by surprise
Again I found it wasn’t you
Just an angel in disguise
In for a visit

By the way how is my heart?
I haven’t seen it since you left
I’m almost sure it followed you
Could you sometime send it back
I’ll buy the ticket

(Chorus)

I saw a stranger with your hair
I saw another with your eyes
I heard an angel with your voice
By the way how is my heart?
By the way how is my heart?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/index.html?curid=8327805

Humorist John Shore takes commentators Charlie Gibson’s and George Stephanopoulos’ analysis of President Barack Obama’s speech and imagines how the pair would comment on Jesus Christ’s “Sermon on the Mount” here:

http://johnshore.com/2009/02/25/jesus-sermon-on-the-mount-quite-the-crowd-pleaser-charlie/ 

Great way to change up the morning “quiet time” laughing with God.