Life Matters - February 18, 2026
When I, many moons ago, was at the young age of 11 or 12, (1972) my dad and mom with Dad’s brother, Uncle John and his wife, Aunt Barbara, the younger cousins, my younger siblings, and I went on a rare mid-summer outing to—The Zoo! The Zoo, being in the western outskirts of Philadelphia, PA, was approximately 70 miles from the cornucopia farm of my fortunate upbringing. That fruitful farm was a busy efficiency year round so getting away for a day was, well…special.
We goggle-eyed ostriches and elephants, stretched our necks at giraffes, padded past lion’s dens—actually, we got there at noon feeding time and watched the lions tear into (literally) slabs of meat big enough to feed all of us many times over. And we’re glad we weren’t turned over to the lions for lion food. We weren’t confident of being delivered like Daniel was when thrown into the den of lions like so much meat and God protected him then brought him out without so much as a scratch.
I distinctly remember my introduction to chlorine-laced water at the zoo-ish water fountains that day as we hadn’t brought enough to drink from the lever-handled pump gushing freshly cold water out of the subterranean cold depths below the farmhouse porch. Whereon the pump was a permanent fixture as far back as my memory went, which admittedly, wasn’t all that far. Though back then it did seem as if the green pump, with its green-painted handle that when pumped up and down pumped cool fresh water out of the pump spout, had just always been there. And the cool fresh well water was, well…just how drinking water should be…cool, fresh, putting one in mind of a cool summer breeze under the tall, spread-out canopy of the shade tree in the front lawn. (Maple) In comparison, the not cool chlorine water coming out of those ‘cool’ water fountains at the zoo wasn’t fit to drink. Not to this farm boy’s fine-tuned palate. It was almost more than I could stomach. On a positive note; at least it was wet. So I drank it. But I wished for the cool drinking water of home.
We swung over, well, chattered our way to the monkey-house where an outside enclosure kept us entertained by monkeys swinging hither and yon, effortlessly it seemed, as their fluid movements fascinated us until we had to move on ourselves in order to keep up with the ‘oldsters’. We learned a thing or two about monkeys that day, not the least of which was that even youngster monkeys are expected to be subject to the oldsters. We even observed one such wayward youngster getting spanked by the hand of an oldster which we presumed to be its mama! Coming from an animal their human-like actions felt something like ‘unverschtendich’ at times. (beyond understanding!)
And then there was the gorilla house with its outside enclosure of checkered welded wire. One look at the huge dark (Silverback) male gorilla had me wondering if the wire could even hold back the muscular guy if he got mad or even frustrated at us. I was to be educated on his way of relating to a crowd he found disagreeable to his dialogue-less brain. There was a low single, painted, steel pipe rail with posts in the ground to keep visitors back from the wire beyond which Mr. Gorilla was showing some signs of aggression. As I pressed against the rail, fascinated, I noted an approximately 6 ft. deep concrete chasm around the inside edge of the enclosure which made sense to me as the wire by itself certainly looked weak when viewing the burly brute through it. It also made sense why he stayed about 30 feet beyond the wire even while he became more noticeably agitated at a few low-key teenage hecklers among the small crowd pressed against the low pipe rail. (don’t look at me – remember, I’se not a teenager yet)
About the time I noted the rest of our group had moved on, Mr. Gorilla suddenly squatted and did his business, in plain sight of all of us still at the rail. The heckling increased but I again stayed silent, fascinated by the size and length of the stool as it curled into a neat pile. Finished, Mr. Gorilla reached a long muscular arm behind himself and with a continued fluidly smooth movement stood upright. A woman screamed. A man yelled. The crowd retreated about the time Mr. Gorilla’s huge hand came forward full of gorilla feces that he flung at us with a huge muscular arm. (I saw that over my shoulder) The gooey pile hit the wire with such velocity that it sprayed out much like hitting the fan. (I saw that over my shoulder as well) I stopped a safe distance away and eyed Mr. Gorilla strutting about with a gorilla grin for all the world like he was the winner of whatever the argument was in his gorilla-brain. (I have learned since that a gorilla’s grin is a sign of aggression)
Somehow Mr. Gorilla reminds me of a certain political party these days as it lost the ability to coherently dialogue about, or to debate, any current issue with common sense realism. Which now is being replaced with all manner of Sodomite manners. Or lack of manners as it resorts to flinging…well, you get the picture.
Which makes me wish for the cool, clean, drinking water of home.
And gives me an overwhelming desire to see our fellow countrymen, and women, drink of the water of Life freely and daily. It is cool, clean, and refreshing.
Current events in said political party is also a warning to not ‘pitch our tents toward Sodom’. Even if by small increments, direction matters. Distance matters.
Life Matters!