As my dad aged, the challenges of caring for him magnified for my mother. Navigating him between the porch and her car in the driveway exhausted her. Winters were awful. Parking in the garage was out of the question. For decades. Over the years my father, an Okie dust bowl farm boy, turned his garage into pharaoh’s tomb, cramming it full with everything imaginable. Because I might need it, he said.
Few motion picture scenes are more horrifying than the large raptor dinosaur ransacking a commercial kitchen to devour two children. I remember clearly my terror watching that episode in “Jurassic Park” (1993). The idea that a reptile can hunt down and consume mammals is abhorrent but alas, I can’t say no to Komodo Dragon nature videos...
Years ago I offered Mass regularly in Spring Branch at a decades-old residential facility designed like a wagon wheel. Its pretentious name meant nothing. Everyone branded it a nursing home. Quite a few called it the Linoleum Club. Of course it looked seedy and reeked. Most residents there were poor and struggled with pain and serious cognitive problems. The kitchen clatter and weekly hairstyling made Wednesday Mass in the small dining room very difficult. Everybody screamed. A homily was out of the question. We couldn’t bear it. I remember vividly a woman named Mary, 92 years old. She wore a blousy Hawaiian sack dress, lugging her glossy black handbag on her right arm. Mary spoke with a heavy accent, and for the longest time I thought she was Spanish. She wasn't. She was Hungarian. Everyone called her the Duchess of Spring Branch.
I loved to fish on my dad’s ranch in the San Luis Valley a few miles south of Del Norte, Colorado. Working a fast-flowing snow-fed Colorado stream was my joy. The ranch meant chores, cattle and hay work, lots of it, and a teenage boy like me ached to slip away in the afternoons to stalk Frisco Creek’s banks. Sweet mountain meadows perfumed by alfalfa and timothy hay and clover. Crisp mountain air. Crystal clear, cold mountain water. Fresh-caught slippery rainbow trout.
As my dad aged, the challenges of caring for him magnified for my mother. Navigating him between the porch and her car in the driveway exhausted her. Winters were awful. Parking in the garage was out of the question. For decades. Over the years my father, an Okie dust bowl farm boy, turned his garage into pharaoh’s tomb, cramming it full with everything imaginable. Because I might need it, he said.Read More
Sunday, May 15, our parish children participated in the May Crowning. Mary was presented with beautiful flowers from these sweet kids.Read More
Few motion picture scenes are more horrifying than the large raptor dinosaur ransacking a commercial kitchen to devour two children. I remember clearly my terror watching that episode in “Jurassic Park” (1993). The idea that a reptile can hunt down and consume mammals is abhorrent but alas, I can’t say no to Komodo Dragon nature videos...Read More
Father Barker invites you to join him for burgers and fellowship, in appreciation for your dedicated service!Read More
Years ago I offered Mass regularly in Spring Branch at a decades-old residential facility designed like a wagon wheel. Its pretentious name meant nothing. Everyone branded it a nursing home. Quite a few called it the Linoleum Club. Of course it looked seedy and reeked. Most residents there were poor and struggled with pain and serious cognitive problems. The kitchen clatter and weekly hairstyling made Wednesday Mass in the small dining room very difficult. Everybody screamed. A homily was out of the question. We couldn’t bear it. I remember vividly a woman named Mary, 92 years old. She wore a blousy Hawaiian sack dress, lugging her glossy black handbag on her right arm. Mary spoke with a heavy accent, and for the longest time I thought she was Spanish. She wasn't. She was Hungarian. Everyone called her the Duchess of Spring Branch.Read More
I loved to fish on my dad’s ranch in the San Luis Valley a few miles south of Del Norte, Colorado. Working a fast-flowing snow-fed Colorado stream was my joy. The ranch meant chores, cattle and hay work, lots of it, and a teenage boy like me ached to slip away in the afternoons to stalk Frisco Creek’s banks. Sweet mountain meadows perfumed by alfalfa and timothy hay and clover. Crisp mountain air. Crystal clear, cold mountain water. Fresh-caught slippery rainbow trout.Read More
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