Posted in tourism, Travel

Fall? Yes. Festival? Not so much.

Posted on by William Douthwaite
How to Visit Brown County State Park, Indiana's 'Little Smokies'

A fall festival in Brown County State Park? Yes! Images of vendor booths, local music, apple cider, and pumpkin-flavored donuts filled my mind. After hiking a trail or two to enjoy the near-peak yellow and orange foliage, we’d stop by to enjoy the tastes, smells, and sights of southern Indiana in the fall.

Upon entering the park, we saw no signs directing us to the festival. Uh-oh. Was this the wrong weekend? I double-checked. This was the right day. Where were the lines of people waiting to get in? Where was the parking lot teeming with cars?

I had to ask Google. It was centered at the Nature Center, in the heart of the park. I headed down the road, certain I’d hear and smell it long before I arrived.

The park features a wonderful nature center, featuring displays about county history, what plants and animals to see, and geological formations. A few turtles posed for pictures.

Where were the booths? Where was the food? I didn’t hear any music.

Everything must be around back. I wandered around the path only to encounter a wedding on a back deck. A chilly wedding party was posing for pictures above a scenic overlook.

But no festival.

I headed the other way and discovered a marker board listing fall festival activities. They included a birds of prey presentation at the pavilion, pumpkin carving judging, and an evening flashlight hike and campfire. Twelve pumpkins sat on a table competing for the prize.

That was it.

No food trucks. No music. No vendors. No crafts. No photo spots. No people. Nothing. Just a sign proclaiming “Fall Festival.”

In Florida, we import all the makings of a fall festival. From pumpkins to leaves to apples to cider, it’s all from out of state. I expected to find all that and more in a place where fall happens full force with the onset of shorter days and cooler weather.

I have to admit the park was beautiful and the weather autumnal. Just no hot cider. Or apples. Or hay rides. Boo.

Posted in fraud

Almost scammed

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Since we scaled back our home-based cookie business, I’ve been trying to sell our Eddie edible ink printer. It’s an investment, but it prints amazing images on royal iced sugar cookies.

I listed it on a dedicated message board as well as a local online marketplace. I’ve sold lots of items there, just nothing this expensive.

Over the next few weeks, I got lowball offers which I rejected. I was offering a great price, so I wasn’t coming down much.

Then we got a phone call from a woman in Boise, Idaho. She asked if we had recently sold an edible ink printer. She saw our business information in a picture the equipment and tracked us down. A person in Eau Claire, Wisconsin had copied my photos and created a fake listing on Craigslist. If she had sent the money, it would be gone and she’d have no printer. She was wise to check it out.

Everything I sell is for local pickup. And it’s been working well. I list items, someone stops by with cash or sends money via Venmo and takes it home. But I hadn’t tried to sell any high priced items. Ten to twenty bucks at the most.

I wouldn’t try and box up the printer for shipping. I hadn’t kept any of the original packaging. Plus, it would be expensive.

I found the listing on Craigslist and reported the fraud. It was creepy. I felt violated. Craigslist is like the wild west of online shopping, rife with scams and lies. I wasn’t surprised that it showed up here. I was just surprised to find my item here.

No one is going to mess with a ten dollar bin of baby toys or Mr. Potato Head parts. But you get into the thousands of dollars and you better watch your back.

Posted in Through the Bible Devotions

A little help here?

Posted on by William Douthwaite

As we’ve scaled back our custom iced cookie business, I’ve listed some items for sale on a local marketplace site. So far, I’ve been able to make a few bucks finding a good home for baking paraphernalia.

I got an interesting response to one listing. An interested party asked if I’d consider donating some items to their non-profit that benefited foster families.

I checked out the website and everything seemed legitimate. So I responded, “Yes. We would love to support your efforts. Where can I drop off the items?”

They were only fifteen minutes away. I set up a delivery time and headed out. I knew where the recently constructed community was, but hadn’t yet been there. As I pulled in, I knew this would be interesting. A large sign announced, “Homes from $800,000.” I drove through the front gate, not yet operational.

I passed many beautiful new homes. Beautiful isn’t the right word. Gorgeous and expansive would be more appropriate. GPS led me to the drop-off address.

I pulled into the driveway and walked around to the front door. I thought to myself, “This is a million-dollar home.”

I rang the doorbell. The owner immediately answered and greeted me. She was friendly, gracious, and appreciative. She also added that she was selling lots of crafting supplies if I was interested. I said, “I’ll check and let you know.”

As I walked back to my car, I felt guilty for thinking, “You live in a million-dollar home, and you won’t buy $20 worth of supplies?”

That’s unfair. I don’t know these people. I don’t know anything about this home. I don’t know much about the charitable organization. I should more charitable. I shouldn’t rush to judgment.

But when I got home I checked Zillow. Yep, one million twenty-three thousand. 3,400 square feet. Wow. Just wow.

Okay, so if I had a mortgage on a million dollar home, I might be soliciting extra bucks for my charity, too. Equity on paper doesn’t necessarily translate into cash.

On my way out, the owner said, “I’m selling some craft supplies. Di-cuts and stamps. Real cheap. Let me know if you’re interested.”

You never know. You never know someone’s financial situation. Or their 501(c)3 organization. I know. I’m overanalyzing.

Charity is hard. It doesn’t make sense. It’s the right thing to do. It never quite feels right. Yet it feels right.

Not gonna worry about it. I think whatever I donate will help someone, so it is what it is.

Posted in teaching, pastor

Cultural exchange

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Each month, our church reaches out to local college students and other young adults with a “Food for Thought” event. When they asked me to fill in for the first week of the fall, I asked, “What did they talk about last time?”

The out-of-town leader said, “Oh, whatever comes to mind.”

Not much help.

“Well, how many attend?”

“Sometimes a few; sometimes just one. We never know.”

Not much help.

I gave it my best shot. Prepared a discussion based on minimalism, based the parable of the soils in Luke 4 and some good stuff from Joshua Becker’s book Uncluttered Faith.

While none of the college students showed up, a woman from the church brought two cultural exchange students, one from China and the other from Mongolia, each traveling and working here for the summer.

I realized that this wasn’t the right audience for a discussion of typical American materialism and consumerism, so I asked, “What has surprised you most about being in the United States?”

I anticipated hearing about wealth or abundance. However, the thing that surprised them was the willingness of Americans to engage in small talk with strangers. In Asian culture, that only happens with people you know well. It had taken them a while to get used to this dynamic.

While each came from families with enough wealth to pay for their education and travel, neither was consumed with accumulating possessions. Mongolian culture is nomadic, where a yurt and all your belongings can be seasonally moved on a camel and a horse. Rather than paying to check another large suitcase, they would return home with only a few gifts for close friends.

I said, “You could ship stuff back.”

They laughed, ” It would take months to get there!”

They were already on a minimalist track.

I asked a few obvious questions. Like, “Have you had Chinese takeout?” and “Is that what barbecue is like in Mongolia?”

Both laughed and assured me that while the American version of those are delicious, it’s not what you’ll find in their home countries. Mongolian barbecue has lots of sauces in the United States. Nothing but salt in Mongolia. And the portions are not as large where they come from.

Both wanted to work in their home country. One in journalism, the other in finance. But before that, internships and post-graduate education.

I enjoyed getting to know these two young ladies. They were brave enough to travel alone, explore the world, and pursue their passions.

Posted in pastor, prayer

Summer preaching season

Posted on by William Douthwaite

I’ve preached six times this summer, filling in for vacationing pastors at two different churches. It’s the most I’ve stepped into the pulpit since retiring from full-time ministry four years ago. In some ways, it’s like riding a bike. Preaching has muscle-memory that kicks in when it’s time for the sermon. In other ways, though, it’s very different.

The first time at a church I had never been to before, all but one person in the congregation were strangers. In my last parish, I knew every face in the room. I knew their story. I knew who wasn’t there, absent from their usual spot. I knew who was visiting for the first time. I knew all the volunteers, musicians, and the sound board folks.

In a new place, though, there’s none of that. I knew no names, stories, joys or sorrows. All I knew is that they were there. Did I say something meaningful? Reassuring? Troublesome? Difficult to understand? I searched their faces for a sign, a clue, a reaction.

It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just different. Unfamiliar.

The second Sunday in that church was different. I recognized faces. I knew names. I had gotten to know some of them in Bible class. I was still a guest, not a stranger.

Third Sunday? Felt like home. I recognized over half the people. Remembered a lot of names. Got smiles, chuckles, and verbal responses from many. I was comfortable speaking to them, engaged with them, and was blessed to be with a room full of worshipers.

Posted in prayer

Every minute counts

Posted on by William Douthwaite
Photo by Gowtham AGM on Unsplash

We both looked up. Me and the big dog at the end of a morning walk. I heard the approaching helicopter before I saw it. It was loud, but not Blackhawk loud. It was fast, but not Blackhawk fast.

It was the medical helicopter moving quickly in a straight line right above us. Coming from the north, it must have been headed for the ER just a few miles south. I know it’s serious when someone gets an airlift to the hospital.

It’s a sobering moment. Someone’s life is on the line. Someone is working hard to save that life. Someone studied hard to be able to fly the helicopter, start the IV, stop the bleeding, and fully care for that woman, man, or child. Every minute before — and every minute now — counts.

I always send up a little “prayer “Lord ,have mercy” for both patients, pilots, and EMTs.

Posted in trash

Four – and no more

Posted on by William Douthwaite

The morning of trash day, I walked by a home that routinely leaves overflowing cans for weekly collection. The garbage truck had already been by, so all the cans were empty but one. It looked like a small slip of paper was hanging out of the lid. That’s usually no big deal. Bits and pieces of trash are often left behind.

This slip of paper piqued my curiosity. I doubled back and bent over to read, “Four (4) container maximum.”

Really? That’s a new one on me. I’ve seen way more trash on the curb in front of someone’s house. And it wasn’t all in cans. I’ve seen a pile of at least 15 bags of trash. Sometimes it’s not even in bags. It’s just piles of junk that someone has cleaned out of a closet. The edge of the road is filled with old furniture and belly-up appliances, broken toys and electronics, wooden pallets and rusty metal chairs, flower pots and old mop handles, used pool pump filters and abandoned cat towers.

Five containers of trash? I would think the collectors would welcome that sight, not cite someone for it!

We’re kind of spoiled. The city contracts with a firm that hauls away everything except tires, paint, and used motor oil. Those you have to leave at the landfill yourself. Everything else ends up on the curb. The amount of packaging, disposable (rather than reusable) everything, junk that doesn’t last, and wasted food litters the streets twice a week. Piles of yard waste are picked up on a third day. Think about it: people put stuff out the night before, so five to six days a week there’s refuse and recycling waiting to be collected.

Speaking of recycling, most homes do it. But for some reason that hasn’t reduced the amount of trash.

Four or five cans of trash twice a week? How in the world does one household generate that much?

On my early morning walk: only one trash can!
Posted in people

A basket and a bike

Posted on by William Douthwaite

A few weeks ago I was guest preaching at a church about an hour up the interstate from my home. It was an easy drive. There’s not much traffic at dawn on a Sunday morning.

As I headed down the last stretch of road towards the church, I noticed a man riding a bicycle equipped with backpack and a milk crate attached to the front handlebars.

I didn’t think too much of it.

A minute later, I saw two more riding in the other direction. Then a fourth. By the time I reached the church, I had passed a half dozen. Bikes, backpacks, and homemade baskets. Homeless? Had to leave a shelter? On their way to work?

Who knows? It doesn’t matter. For many, I’m sure they were just part of the landscape. But I noticed them. On their way to somewhere. Coming from somewhere. Headed for something.

I often think of how infrequently my life intersects these lives. A whole world that I never see, never think of.

But that morning, they were there. In sight. I couldn’t ignore them.

And maybe that’s the point.

I shouldn’t ignore them. Drive by them. Look past them. Pretend they aren’t there. Live in my own little world.

I need to see them. Think about them. Think about who they are. Think about how they go to this moment. Think about how close I am to being one of them.

One bad decision. One disaster. One injury. One accident.

Life changes. And you are borrowing a bike. All your belongings in a backpack. No where to call home except the spot where you are.

I was driving a car. I have education. I had a job. I have a pension. I have a gig.

I have a bicycle. That’s my point of commonality. A milk crate. I had one. But not for a bike basket. Backpack. Yep. But not every day, with all my belongings.

You know what? I really wanted to stop and talk to one of these guys.

“Where are you coming from?”

“Where are you going?”

I need to get to know these guys and gals.

Posted in neighbor, neighborhood

You’re not going anywhere

Posted on by William Douthwaite

I did a double-take when I walked past this home during today’s morning walk. Whoever delivered the thirty or so bags of mulch also dropped off a yard of small rocks right in back of the car.

I know this neighbor, and she’s not one for doing her own yard maintenance. I guess she won’t be going anywhere until someone gets to work on that pile of gravel.

It was dawn, and the temperatures were still cool. Surely a couple of landscapers would be around to finish up before the heat of the day.

Or did some stone delivery guy just not care where he dumped the load. When I got some rock a number of years ago, the driver told me to put down some tarps so all the dust and rocks didn’t go all over the place.

Follow up: a large crew was there when I drove by. They had ripped out all the old landscaping, and replaced it with mulch and stone. What a difference!