The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name sake.
(Psalm 23:1-3)
(Psalm 23:1-3)
COLD, DARK clouds skidded across the sky over the garage as I pulled up on Sunday afternoon. I’d deliberately picked a great time to visit. Well… almost. By leaving home I’d avoided a TV hand controller fight with my wife. She had insisted on watching her TV shows… so I did the wisest thing. I went to visit Mike in his garage.
Mike’s garage is a warm and welcome place. Located in the back yard of his house, the garage used to be a barn that housed a small dairy herd. Mike inherited the farm, and the tasks of his dairy farming father. The trouble was… though he loved the farm, Mike didn’t like cows. So he sold the cows, raised hay and started a business selling car parts and tools. And, as the years went by, he collected and sold car parts for old cars… hence the passion struck him. It came on fully when he retired and bought the old Packard.
A “light in the darkness” so to speak, the Packard resides in the barn. The car is warmed by a wood stove, attended to by an ample tool bench, and those gathering are comforted by neighboring bar stools. A visitor can settle in the barn alongside the Packard, for a sweet afternoon.
After entering the shop, I saw that a couple of safety stands held the old car’s rear axle up high enough so that Mike could crawl under the right running board. I peered back into the garage from the doorway and could see two work boots pointed heavenward.
I said, “Mike, is that you under there?”.
I waited for an answer coming from beneath the old car. I waited… and no words came. I took a couple more steps up alongside the graceful fender, noting the detailed paint accent on the edge of the slope down to the spare tire well. From there I peered down at the well-worn workman’s boots.
“Mike, are you okay?”
I listened quietly; then I heard the sound. The low rumble echoed out like a Harley V-twin backing down the long hill into the valley, next a few snorts occurred like the bike had the muffler baffles blown out.
I got down on my knees and peeked beneath the car’s running board. The shop light was on. It glowed a yellowish tinge that only heavy duty bulbs can emit. The creeper headrest was up. And Mike was laying there… sound asleep.
He looked restful there, snoring with his reading glasses perched between his nose and his white mustache. He had a hand-written wiring diagram on his chest. In his right hand there was an electrical test light, with its probe end hung around a black wire that routed toward the rear of the old car. It was like he’d naturally fell asleep amid a voltage test. His arm rested gently on a bracket and his finger was on the trigger ready to insert the tip and probe the wire, but he’d not pulled the tester’s trigger. So here they were resting together.., an old white car and its wizened caretaker, born in the same year of Our Lord.
I thought about kicking his boot sole to wake him, but decided against it. That’d been done to him before, and he’d gotten a band-aid on the top of his bald head each time that he’d snorted awake.
So I nosed quietly around the shop… waiting for him to awaken. I checked out the new wide whitewall tires he’d had shipped in from Corky’s warehouse in Tennessee. He’d been waiting for them so he’d be ready for the upcoming car show.
Mike sputtered slightly from beneath the Packard, but he was still backing the bike down the hill, so I thought I’d just leave and come back another time. I walked out to my car and saw that the approaching darkness brought the onset of cold and snow. A few flakes rested on the hood of my old Chevy. Then I smelled them.
I knew what they were. There was no mistaking the smell… Welsh cookies!
Mike’s wife Betty was in the kitchen making my favorite dessert of all time! Having less shame than a street rodder caught in a classics car show, I went to the back porch of the house and looked into the kitchen.
Betty stood over a hot griddle on the stove. In the soft light shed from over the old sink, this tall and graceful woman held a spatula up alongside her gray hair. She was singing a long forgotten hymn that I thought had died with my grandmother. “I walk in the garden alone…” went the tune. Betty held the key much better than my grandmother, but I knew their recipe for Welsh cookies was identical… at least they tasted as much.
Unashamedly, I knocked on the door… though I had been often told that a knock wasn’t needed.
“Come on in!” she piped between stanzas. “And he walks with me and he talks with me, and tells me I am his own.” she continued.
I came in and she smiled and without missing a note, then flipped some cookies on the griddle.
“How’ve ya been?” she asked after stopping her song.
“Good”, I returned. “I was just out in the shop and smelled the cookies.”
“Mike is snoozing, ain’t he?” she chuckled.
“Yes, he is.” I said.
She smiled a little, and said… “He’ll be coming in shortly, it’s almost four o’clock and the last cookies are just about done.”
A rumble of a Mercury and its side lake pipes rattled the window above the sink. I heard the car pull up outside. Betty peered out the window, saying… “That’s Jessie, she brought that Mercury home before any snow gets on the road. It’s a bit too low for country roads, let alone any snowfall. Why Mike dropped the convertible down that low for her, I’ll never figure.”
Jessie pulled her car up to the barn door bay next to the old Packard, waking Mike with a cold blast of air when the door lifted in answer to her push button control. Soon, with tools put away and lights put out, the two… both father and daughter came through the darkening light to the kitchen door.
“Take those greasy coveralls off!” Betty barked curtly.
Mike complied, as I would… given the reward of Welsh cookies hanging sweetly in the air.
Betty sat us down at the table, and dished out some home-made chicken soup. She said to me, “If ya wants the cookies.., eat the soup.”
We said thanks to God, and ate. Each spoonful of soup, though tasty indeed… was torture. Home-made chicken soup was only given at our house when we had a cold. I thought... “I really stopped in for the cookies.” It was like I had to think about the foretaste, before the good was offered up.
Finally they came. A small porcelain plate with a picture of a church in the center, held the near perfect Welsh cookies.., near perfect because instead of lard, margarine and butter made them a bit healthier as they cooked with the right kind of currants. Three cookies were given to each person. They were done just the way I liked them. We ate, and drank coffee that you could cut with a knife. We laughed.., and we talked cars. I worried a bit about the strong drip coffee I’d just used to wash the cookies down. “Would it keep me awake all night?” I thought. “Was it decaf?” Somehow it didn’t matter.
Betty left.., then reappeared in the kitchen with her coat and hat secured. She said, “Let’s go, we’re going to be late.”
Mike looked at me. “You’re comin, right?”
“Where?” I asked.
“To the hymn sing, silly.” Jessie said. “Mom is leading the gospel choir tonight.”
It’s amazing what good friends and good cookies will cause. A change of plans formed in my mind. We loaded into Mike’s Nomad and motored over to the Christ Chapel. We sat in the glow of the flame shaped bulbs nestled in candleabras. Then beneath those trinity lights in the chapel we heard stories from the bible about Jesus telling of the light of God’s love. And we sang music that rooted me to the pace of a foot pedal organ and some old time religion. I listened intently to the sweet voices of the small choir accompanied by the organ, a flute, and a flattop Gibson guitar.
Mike’s garage is a warm and welcome place. Located in the back yard of his house, the garage used to be a barn that housed a small dairy herd. Mike inherited the farm, and the tasks of his dairy farming father. The trouble was… though he loved the farm, Mike didn’t like cows. So he sold the cows, raised hay and started a business selling car parts and tools. And, as the years went by, he collected and sold car parts for old cars… hence the passion struck him. It came on fully when he retired and bought the old Packard.
A “light in the darkness” so to speak, the Packard resides in the barn. The car is warmed by a wood stove, attended to by an ample tool bench, and those gathering are comforted by neighboring bar stools. A visitor can settle in the barn alongside the Packard, for a sweet afternoon.
After entering the shop, I saw that a couple of safety stands held the old car’s rear axle up high enough so that Mike could crawl under the right running board. I peered back into the garage from the doorway and could see two work boots pointed heavenward.
I said, “Mike, is that you under there?”.
I waited for an answer coming from beneath the old car. I waited… and no words came. I took a couple more steps up alongside the graceful fender, noting the detailed paint accent on the edge of the slope down to the spare tire well. From there I peered down at the well-worn workman’s boots.
“Mike, are you okay?”
I listened quietly; then I heard the sound. The low rumble echoed out like a Harley V-twin backing down the long hill into the valley, next a few snorts occurred like the bike had the muffler baffles blown out.
I got down on my knees and peeked beneath the car’s running board. The shop light was on. It glowed a yellowish tinge that only heavy duty bulbs can emit. The creeper headrest was up. And Mike was laying there… sound asleep.
He looked restful there, snoring with his reading glasses perched between his nose and his white mustache. He had a hand-written wiring diagram on his chest. In his right hand there was an electrical test light, with its probe end hung around a black wire that routed toward the rear of the old car. It was like he’d naturally fell asleep amid a voltage test. His arm rested gently on a bracket and his finger was on the trigger ready to insert the tip and probe the wire, but he’d not pulled the tester’s trigger. So here they were resting together.., an old white car and its wizened caretaker, born in the same year of Our Lord.
I thought about kicking his boot sole to wake him, but decided against it. That’d been done to him before, and he’d gotten a band-aid on the top of his bald head each time that he’d snorted awake.
So I nosed quietly around the shop… waiting for him to awaken. I checked out the new wide whitewall tires he’d had shipped in from Corky’s warehouse in Tennessee. He’d been waiting for them so he’d be ready for the upcoming car show.
Mike sputtered slightly from beneath the Packard, but he was still backing the bike down the hill, so I thought I’d just leave and come back another time. I walked out to my car and saw that the approaching darkness brought the onset of cold and snow. A few flakes rested on the hood of my old Chevy. Then I smelled them.
I knew what they were. There was no mistaking the smell… Welsh cookies!
Mike’s wife Betty was in the kitchen making my favorite dessert of all time! Having less shame than a street rodder caught in a classics car show, I went to the back porch of the house and looked into the kitchen.
Betty stood over a hot griddle on the stove. In the soft light shed from over the old sink, this tall and graceful woman held a spatula up alongside her gray hair. She was singing a long forgotten hymn that I thought had died with my grandmother. “I walk in the garden alone…” went the tune. Betty held the key much better than my grandmother, but I knew their recipe for Welsh cookies was identical… at least they tasted as much.
Unashamedly, I knocked on the door… though I had been often told that a knock wasn’t needed.
“Come on in!” she piped between stanzas. “And he walks with me and he talks with me, and tells me I am his own.” she continued.
I came in and she smiled and without missing a note, then flipped some cookies on the griddle.
“How’ve ya been?” she asked after stopping her song.
“Good”, I returned. “I was just out in the shop and smelled the cookies.”
“Mike is snoozing, ain’t he?” she chuckled.
“Yes, he is.” I said.
She smiled a little, and said… “He’ll be coming in shortly, it’s almost four o’clock and the last cookies are just about done.”
A rumble of a Mercury and its side lake pipes rattled the window above the sink. I heard the car pull up outside. Betty peered out the window, saying… “That’s Jessie, she brought that Mercury home before any snow gets on the road. It’s a bit too low for country roads, let alone any snowfall. Why Mike dropped the convertible down that low for her, I’ll never figure.”
Jessie pulled her car up to the barn door bay next to the old Packard, waking Mike with a cold blast of air when the door lifted in answer to her push button control. Soon, with tools put away and lights put out, the two… both father and daughter came through the darkening light to the kitchen door.
“Take those greasy coveralls off!” Betty barked curtly.
Mike complied, as I would… given the reward of Welsh cookies hanging sweetly in the air.
Betty sat us down at the table, and dished out some home-made chicken soup. She said to me, “If ya wants the cookies.., eat the soup.”
We said thanks to God, and ate. Each spoonful of soup, though tasty indeed… was torture. Home-made chicken soup was only given at our house when we had a cold. I thought... “I really stopped in for the cookies.” It was like I had to think about the foretaste, before the good was offered up.
Finally they came. A small porcelain plate with a picture of a church in the center, held the near perfect Welsh cookies.., near perfect because instead of lard, margarine and butter made them a bit healthier as they cooked with the right kind of currants. Three cookies were given to each person. They were done just the way I liked them. We ate, and drank coffee that you could cut with a knife. We laughed.., and we talked cars. I worried a bit about the strong drip coffee I’d just used to wash the cookies down. “Would it keep me awake all night?” I thought. “Was it decaf?” Somehow it didn’t matter.
Betty left.., then reappeared in the kitchen with her coat and hat secured. She said, “Let’s go, we’re going to be late.”
Mike looked at me. “You’re comin, right?”
“Where?” I asked.
“To the hymn sing, silly.” Jessie said. “Mom is leading the gospel choir tonight.”
It’s amazing what good friends and good cookies will cause. A change of plans formed in my mind. We loaded into Mike’s Nomad and motored over to the Christ Chapel. We sat in the glow of the flame shaped bulbs nestled in candleabras. Then beneath those trinity lights in the chapel we heard stories from the bible about Jesus telling of the light of God’s love. And we sang music that rooted me to the pace of a foot pedal organ and some old time religion. I listened intently to the sweet voices of the small choir accompanied by the organ, a flute, and a flattop Gibson guitar.
I remembered those words that Betty sang with the choir as I drove my old Chevy home. I caught myself humming them over the rhythm of the small block V-8. I’d heard them before from my beloved Grandma Jacobs as she washed dishes. With a faded soprano she’d sing… “And the joy we shared, as we tarried there, none other... has ever... known.” For some reason which I’ve just begun to understand, she’d then wipe tears from her eyes using her apron.
The words came as those of Mary Magdalene meeting Jesus in the garden after his Resurrection. As I think of it now in my mind’s eye, I can see Mary standing there confused, for Jesus said “Do not hold onto me”. She was alone, like Grandma after Gramps had died, looking for a sure and certain hope, when she finally saw Jesus. She didn’t recognize him at first… for no one had died and ever came back. But there Jesus stood. Even though not understanding, she surely felt shocked, loved... and reassured. She must have felt grateful, just as I did when after the dishes were done and I’d helped Grandma put them away, Gram would say... “Child, it’s time to read scripture before bedtime. Would you like some Welsh cookies and milk?”
You know, when I consider the taste.., I guess those cookies were a heavenly communion of sorts.
The words came as those of Mary Magdalene meeting Jesus in the garden after his Resurrection. As I think of it now in my mind’s eye, I can see Mary standing there confused, for Jesus said “Do not hold onto me”. She was alone, like Grandma after Gramps had died, looking for a sure and certain hope, when she finally saw Jesus. She didn’t recognize him at first… for no one had died and ever came back. But there Jesus stood. Even though not understanding, she surely felt shocked, loved... and reassured. She must have felt grateful, just as I did when after the dishes were done and I’d helped Grandma put them away, Gram would say... “Child, it’s time to read scripture before bedtime. Would you like some Welsh cookies and milk?”
You know, when I consider the taste.., I guess those cookies were a heavenly communion of sorts.
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