Madeline was only three at the time, eating out after a shopping trip with her grandmother.

The waiter asked her name. And after she answered, she volunteered more information.

"I'm a song writer." The waiter shook his head, and said, "Only in Nashville."

Actually, she comes from a long line of song writers. We made up songs as a family activity as we travelled down the road.

Some of us were better at it than others.

Now, if I had only learned how to play that guitar so long ago... I would truly be genuine Nashville.

I love railroads.

I have tickets (to be used) for train rides in North Carolina and two different ones here in Tennessee. My grandfather worked on the railroad. For years, I had a model railroad. I have this connection to trains. It started when I was very young. My mother would take me to watch the trains at the crossing near our home. I had a scrapbook when I was a kid that I filled with pictures of trains that I cut out from the newspaper and magazines. Most of the time, I still enjoy waiting and watching the train pass by on the track.

One evening, when I was a high school senior in Effingham, Illinois I was in a hurry. The lights were flashing, the crossing arm was down. I could see the lights of the engine waaaaay down the track. And so I just weaved in and around the crossing gates. There was a police car on the other side. Funny how I hadn't noticed that before I had made my slalom run.

He flashed his lights. And began his inquiry. I had an Indiana drivers' license. The car had Missouri license plates. And I lived in Illinois. It took a little while to get it all sorted out, because obviously I needn't be in a hurry anymore. I got a warning (printed and signed), a lecture about going around crossing gates, and some advice.  "Next time could be your last short trip." 

No thanks, sir. I want this to be a long ride. I'm not done yet.

Today is the Fifth Sunday in Lent. It used to be called Passion Sunday in the liturgical calendar when I was a young pastor, which I admit seemed odd to me as it came before Palm Sunday and Holy Week. I guess I wasn't the only one who wondered as it suddenly disappeared from "official" calendars. I don't remember which year it was, so now it's the fifth Sunday in Lent. Next week, is the combination of Palms and Passion or your choice of emphasis. So it's possible to go from a Parade to a Resurrection without passion or pain or suffering. We make it so easy and nice.

Sounds like a "success" motif. It just happens to the lucky, or the privileged, or the connected. How disappointing.

There is a heart to passion, of giving one's all, of commitment to a greater cause, surrendering self for the benefit of others.

Sometimes it even appears to be defeat and death. Passion promises more. Hope. Life.

Today is the first game of a new season!

The grass is green. My neighbor has already mowed his lawn twice. Basketball is over, with dribbling and shooting. Now it's time to kick the ball! And we get to take our lawnchairs out this morning and watch our granddaughter and her friends play a little soccer. It's great to live close enough that this is part of the joy of living in Nashville! Go, Maddy!

My friend, Dan Dietrich, is one of the most talented men I know.

I think he can do about anything, fix everything. He loves the outdoors, carves decoys, built his own boat. And he taught me to cook for a large crowd (so I cooked for district Christmas parties and mother-daughter banquets), but I cannot fry fish like Dan. I was stunned when I watched him recently as he exercised his two retrievers. Dan trains dogs (and their owners), and I haven't witnessed more disciplined dogs, responding to commands from his whistle and the extension of his arms.

He almost makes me want to have a dog.

I just don't know if I'm trainable.

One of my favorite places to go when I visit my mother is the Auburn-Cord-Duesenburg Museum in Auburn, Indiana. I take my camera and spend the afternoon admiring these amazing automobiles.

One of the volunteers said, "I've seen you before. You can never get enough pictures of these cars." No, I told him, as I searched for the right words, "they're works of art." I heard him tell another volunteer that I was taking pictures of art. The photo above is the lower portion of a Duesenburg radiator grille. Now I know that the art above is different from the art below, from the Ringling Museum of Art in Sarasota, Florida.

But the creators were no less proud, no less inspired, no less dedicated to their craft. They took their time to design not only an efficient, powerful automobile, but stylized machines that caused anyone who saw them to pause and wonder. It looks like art to me. Or maybe, it's my camera and me that creates art. Sometimes it might just jump that hurdle.

Obviously, I am no expert. I did have to take Art Appreciation twice in college, in order to pass it once, but that's another story. I still think it's art.

No one builds a barn without help from someone else. At least, I don't think it's possible. No, the more I consider this structure, I am convinced that it can't be done alone.

This barn comes from a different era. Buildings were community and family projects with few being compensated for their efforts. All worked together and shared the labor to complete the job. A friend once told me about a contrary neighbor that got his tractor stuck in the field. His dad, even though he didn't like the neighbor, went over to help. His son couldn't understand why his dad would work to get the tractor free for the contrary man. His dad replied that next time he might be the one who needed help.

The barn, that represented a different era, burned down last week. I trust that cooperation and community effort are not disappearing as well.

In a recent post I claimed that I was a fun guy. A friend agreed. I think she did. April fool?

When I was a kid, I loved the jokes and tricks of April Fools' Day. One of my customers on my newspaper route helped me make a finger bandage out of gauze, a chewing gum package, and a nail that was bent to go around my finger. When you put all the parts together, it looked like I had a nail piercing my bandaged finger. Of course, I'm a fun guy, and put on my best act to convince others I was wounded. And then we would all laugh together.

About the same time, Terry Noland had a song "There Was a Fungus Among Us" that I remember hearing on WLS, Chicago. You can find it on YouTube. It's not great music, but stuck in my mind, along with other non sequitur phrases like "static in the attic". Sometimes I wish I had more noble memories stuck in my brain.

This image of fungus caught my attention and of those walking with me. I do not know what it is. Do you know that there are 1.5 to 5 million species of fungi with only 5% identified? More than I knew, there is fungus among us. Really. And that's no April Fool.