Tag Archives: peace

She Was Our Daughter too… Ella era nuestra hija también …

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First in Spanish and then in English (Google translate)

Un joven, bella estadounidense se sentó con una taza de la noche de café con amigos en uno de los maravillosos café en la acera de en París.

París. El nombre de la ciudad es uno que no importa donde una persona está en este planeta, ellos saben exactamente donde está. Incluso sin haber caminaba por esas calles, una joven de California hizo.

Ella era una estudiante. Nada más que eso.

La niña iba a la cama por la noche en un lugar llamado “La Ciudad de las Luces”. Por la mañana se levantó de su cama en la misma ciudad, por lo que muchas millas de su abrazo.

Siento que tengo que pedir disculpas que ella no va a volver a casa con usted.

Sentado aquí en Missouri rural, estoy a salvo con mi esposa. Mi hija y su familia son sólo un pequeño paseo en automóvil donde están a salvo. Mi hijo y su familia son un poco más lejos aún que son seguros.

Creo que sé lo que debe estar sintiendo. Un completo vacío. Pronto habrá ira. A su vez que la ira en algo positivo.

Yo no sabía que su hija, pero tengo una … como lo hizo tantas familias que también perdieron a sus seres queridos Francés (así como de otros países del mundo).

Nunca he tenido el placer de conocer y conocer a su hija. Yo no te conozco, pero por favor saber mis oraciones están con ustedes.

Ella ya está en los cielos es como lo son todas las víctimas de otros / héroes de aquella trágica noche de viernes.

Orar es todo lo que puedo hacer más.

Soy demasiado viejo para ir de caza.

Que Dios llevar a su familia en sus brazos.

♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

A young, beautiful American sat having an evening cup of coffee with friends at one of the wonderful sidewalk cafe’s in Paris.

Paris.  The name of that city is one that no matter where a person is on this planet, they know exactly where it is.  Even never having walked those streets, one young lady from California did.

She was a student. Nothing more than that.

The girl would go to bed at night in a place called, “The City of Lights”.  In the morning she rose from her bed in the same city, so many miles from your embrace.

I feel that I need to apologize that she is not going to come home to you.

Sitting here in rural Missouri, I am safe with my wife.  My daughter and her family are only a small automobile ride where they are safe.  My son and his family are a bit farther away yet they are safe.

I think I know what you must be feeling.  A complete emptiness.  Soon there will be anger.  Turn that anger into something positive.

I did not know your daughter but I do have one…as did so many French (as well as other world countries) families who also lost their loved ones.

I never had the pleasure of meeting and knowing your daughter. I don’t know you, but please know my prayers are with you.

She is already in heaven as are all the other victims/heroes of that tragic Friday night.

Praying is all I can do anymore.

I am too old to go hunting.

May God take your family into His arms.

The Place I Call Home: The Missouri Ozark Mountains

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The Ozark Mountains Missouri

I now live in the Ozarks.  It’s a great house in a great area of Missouri.

In past blogs I wrote on the people here that I am proud and honored to be allowed to call my friends and neighbors.

This blog, though, is about my cabin even further into the mountains.

The Cabin in the Woods Salem Missouri

It is a log cabin set on a hill looking down into a glade which is part of Pine Hollow.  On most any morning, as the sun rises, one can watch wildlife wake from their slumber.

Ground squirrels scamper about under foliage and leaf cover looking for a morning meal.  Birds start singing, then flying the skies by picking up the winds to glide among the wistful clouds.

Embers in the wood burning stove caused fresh logs to blaze and cooked coffee in an old, blue metal pot.  The aroma forces a person to pour some of the black liquid into a matching blue metal cup.

Sitting on the steps, blowing on the coffee as if that would cool the hot beverage, your attention is again drawn down the hill.

Deer in the Woods

One by one, the deer enter the valley to graze.  They see me sitting and drinking my coffee but know from my disposition they can continue their eating in safety.

By the time the cup is empty, the bacon in the cast iron skillet is crisp and the grease is ready for the eggs.

Inside the Cabin in Salem Missouri

The log structure is small and even smaller inside.  There is enough room for one, cozy for two.  Light comes from two windows during the day and kerosene lamps in the evening.  Water is in five gallon containers stacked in the corner.

After breakfast, there is wood to be cut from down wood.  Some to be stacked inside the cabin, some outside under a cover, the rest just stacked by the fire pit.

When my son and daughter were small, they carried all the rock to line the bottom and sides of that fire pit.  That was thirty years ago and the rocks are still in place.

By the time I finish all the chores, the sun is below the treetops and it’s time for supper, consisting of a steak and veggies.

While eating supper, I listen to “The Radio Reader” on the local PBS station.  Every evening during the week a chapter of a book is read over the radio.

The coffee is hot again and there is the sound of a truck pulling up the hill to the door of the cabin.  It’s a friend and neighbor.  His name is Dan and the coal black hair is grey now.  He still walks with a small limp.  He lost his leg to a landmine but unless you knew that fact, you’d think he just had a rough day.  Dan has never been bitter about the loss of his leg.  He always has a smile and a good word.

Over a couple cups of coffee and a few cigarettes we talk about his family and then mine.

Original The Wolf's Moon Book Cover

The night gets late and under a clear sky the full moon lights the road for Dan to drive home.

After I’m sure Dan is safely down the hill and onto the gravel road headed home, I sit with the last cup of coffee in the pot and make notes on paper and on the neat little voice recorder my wife, Sandy, gave me.

I know that it’s time for bed when the coyotes start yapping, calling to their young.

With the stove full of wood and coffee set up for the next day, I pull my wool military blankets over me.  I know peace.

Tomorrow, I’ll write.

Copyright © 2013 Patrick Jones All Rights Reserved

The Ozark Mountains

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Patrick Jones

I now live in the Ozarks.  It’s a great house in a great area of Missouri.

In past blogs I wrote on the people here that I am proud and honored to be allowed to call my friends and neighbors.

This blog, though, is about my cabin even further into the mountains.

It is a log cabin set on a hill looking down into a glade which is part of Pine Hollow.  On most any morning, as the sun rises, one can watch wildlife wake from their slumber.

Ground squirrels scamper about under foliage and leaf cover looking for a morning meal.  Birds start singing, then flying the skies by picking up the winds to glide among the wistful clouds.

Embers in the wood burning stove caused fresh logs to blaze and cooked coffee in an old, blue metal pot.  The aroma forces a person to pour some of the black liquid into a matching blue metal cup.

Sitting on the steps, blowing on the coffee as if that would cool the hot beverage, your attention is again drawn down the hill.

One by one, the deer enter the valley to graze.  They see me sitting and drinking my coffee but know from my disposition they can continue their eating in safety.

By the time the cup is empty, the bacon in the cast iron skillet is crisp and the grease is ready for the eggs.

The log structure is small and even smaller inside.  There is enough room for one, cozy for two.  Light comes from two windows during the day and kerosene lamps in the evening.  Water is in five gallon containers stacked in the corner.

After breakfast, there is wood to be cut from down wood.  Some to be stacked inside the cabin, some outside under a cover, the rest just stacked by the fire pit.

When my son and daughter were small, they carried all the rock to line the bottom and sides of that fire pit.  That was thirty years ago and the rocks are still in place.

By the time I finish all the chores, the sun is below the treetops and it’s time for supper, consisting of a steak and veggies.

While eating supper, I listen to “The Radio Reader” on the local PBS station.  Every evening during the week a chapter of a book is read over the radio.

The coffee is hot again and there is the sound of a truck pulling up the hill to the door of the cabin.  It’s a friend and neighbor.  His name is Dan and the coal black hair is grey now.  He still walks with a small limp.  He lost his leg to a landmine but unless you knew that fact, you’d think he just had a rough day.  Dan has never been bitter about the loss of his leg.  He always has a smile and a good word.

Over a couple cups of coffee and a few cigarettes we talk about his family and then mine.

The night gets late and under a clear sky the full moon lights the road for Dan to drive home.

After I’m sure Dan is safely down the hill and onto the gravel road headed home, I sit with the last cup of coffee in the pot and make notes on paper and on the neat little voice recorder my wife, Sandy, gave me.

I know that it’s time for bed when the coyotes start yapping, calling to their young.

With the stove full of wood and coffee set up for the next day, I pull my wool military blankets over me.  I know peace.

Tomorrow, I’ll write.

Copyright © 2013 Patrick Jones All Rights Reserved