Catalina's Milky Way Dreams(c) Re- Written 2024 - By The Depressed Poet, Doc Dalton
Shooting Stars and fast moving CarsRumble through the roads of my mindTick-e-ty Tock, the old sounds of the clockSay's it's almost a quarter past nine
The moons surely rising, the stars are a glidingAnd Mr. Sandman is ready to roamHurry off to bed and put your pillow under your headHe might just be visiting you tonight at homeDrifting off to sleep is such a wonderful featAdventures you'll enjoy on your ownMaking new friends on a journey to no endA secrete life that is yours all aloneDon't be afraid of those gobble lee goo'sOr those pirates drifting to sea on their boatsThere's no need to worry there just in your dreamsLike rainbow clouds and cotton candy floatsOh that sky's full of colors of make believe wondersExciting every step of the wayCan't you let me stay for just a little bit longerPlease, don't take my Dreams a wayTo see this through a child's eyesOn the path to where stars brightly beamThrough a different world of twist and twirlsWon't you come to my Milky Way DreamsWe could have so much funUnder an ice cream sun and laugh our time awaySing some M & M songs the whole day longUntil we awake to brand new day
Pluto say's hey kiddo don't get out of bedAs Snakel Puss laughs and says, ah it's OKKKKKKKKPopeye yell's, were gone in a minute after I eat me spinachPoo say's all aboard my Banana Split SleighOh that Sky's full of colors of make believe wondersExciting every step of the wayCan't you let me stay for just a little bit longerWorry not Catalina, we won't take your Dreams a way
To see this through a child's eyesOn the path to where stars brightly beamThrough a different world of twist and twirlsWon't you come to my Milky Way Dreams
Catalina say's, please come join me, on my Milky Way Dreams
The old pickup wasn't worth much anymore. The faded green paint had surrendered years ago to the sun, leaving behind patches of rust that looked more like old scars than damage. One headlight always seemed a little dimmer than the other, the driver's seat had a tear held together with duct tape, and the heater worked only when it decided life was worth the effort. The odometer had long ago stopped counting somewhere past three hundred thousand miles, but nobody really knew how many roads that old truck had traveled. Truth be told, it had probably forgotten more highways than most people had ever seen.
To anyone passing by, it was just another worn-out pickup waiting for its final trip to the junkyard. But to Samuel, it was family. He had bought it when he was twenty-three years old with money he could barely afford to spend. It hauled lumber while he built his first home. It carried diapers, bicycles, fishing poles, Christmas trees, and once even a frightened little calf that somehow found its way into the back seat. It drove his children to school, his wife to church every Sunday, and his old dog to the veterinarian more times than he cared to remember.
Every dent had a story. Every scratch had a memory. Now at seventy-four, Samuel found himself sitting behind the wheel more often than driving it. Sometimes he simply parked beneath the old oak tree overlooking Miller's Creek with a cup of coffee in his hands. The silence suited him these days. Life had slowed down. Friends had passed on. His children had families of their own, and the little farmhouse felt much bigger than it used to.
He wasn't lonely exactly.Just quieter. One chilly autumn afternoon, he pulled the pickup onto a gravel road that hadn't changed much in fifty years. The trees had begun showing off their brilliant shades of orange and gold, and the breeze carried the smell of wood smoke from distant chimneys. He rolled the window down and smiled as the cool air filled the cab. There was something about old roads that reminded him God never seemed to be in a hurry. Samuel eventually found himself stopping in front of the tiny white country church where he and his wife, Mary, had been married fifty-one years earlier. The building hadn't grown any larger, but somehow it had grown more beautiful. Fresh white paint covered the wooden siding, and someone had planted flowers near the front steps.
He climbed out slowly, his knees protesting every movement. Inside, the church was empty. The old wooden pews creaked just as they always had. Sunlight slipped through stained-glass windows, painting colors across the worn floorboards. Samuel removed his old cowboy hat and quietly sat in the same pew where he and Mary had spent so many Sunday mornings together. For several minutes he said nothing. Sometimes silence is the greatest prayer.
Then he heard it. At first it was barely more than a whisper. Someone in another room had begun playing the piano. The first few notes floated gently through the sanctuary. Amazing Grace... Samuel closed his eyes. Every memory he had spent years trying not to think about suddenly returned. His father's rough hands. His mother's gentle smile. His children laughing in the backyard. Mary singing beside him with that beautiful voice that always seemed a little louder than everyone else's.
He hadn't cried in years. Not when he buried friends. Not when the doctors told him life would never quite be the same. Not even after Mary went home to be with the Lord. But there, in that tiny country church, while an unseen pianist played Amazing Grace, the tears finally came. Not tears of sorrow. Tears of gratitude. He realized something that afternoon. The pickup outside had grown old. So had he. Neither one looked like they once did. Neither one moved quite as smoothly. Both carried dents from difficult roads. But neither had been abandoned. God wasn't finished with old things. The old pickup still carried him where he needed to go. And God was still carrying him.
When the music ended, Samuel whispered a prayer. "Lord...thank You for every mile. Even the rough ones." As he stepped back outside, the setting sun reflected off the faded hood of the truck. For the first time in a long while, he didn't see rust. He saw memories. He saw blessings. He saw grace. He climbed back behind the wheel, turned the key twice before the engine finally came to life, and laughed out loud. "Come on, old friend," he said, patting the cracked dashboard. "We've still got a little road left."
The pickup eased onto the gravel road, leaving a small cloud of dust behind as it disappeared toward home. And somewhere between the sound of that old engine and the fading light of evening, Samuel could almost hear the words again. "I once was lost... but now am found... was blind... but now I see." Maybe that was the miracle after all. Not that the truck still ran. Not that life had suddenly become easy. But that after all the miles, all the heartaches, all the funerals, all the disappointments, and all the questions, God's amazing grace had never once run out of road. Sometimes the greatest miracles don't happen in brand-new cars on busy highways. Sometimes they happen in an old pickup truck on a dusty country road... where a weathered soul discovers that God's grace has been riding beside him the whole time.
To anyone passing by, it was just another worn-out pickup waiting for its final trip to the junkyard. But to Samuel, it was family. He had bought it when he was twenty-three years old with money he could barely afford to spend. It hauled lumber while he built his first home. It carried diapers, bicycles, fishing poles, Christmas trees, and once even a frightened little calf that somehow found its way into the back seat. It drove his children to school, his wife to church every Sunday, and his old dog to the veterinarian more times than he cared to remember.
Every dent had a story. Every scratch had a memory. Now at seventy-four, Samuel found himself sitting behind the wheel more often than driving it. Sometimes he simply parked beneath the old oak tree overlooking Miller's Creek with a cup of coffee in his hands. The silence suited him these days. Life had slowed down. Friends had passed on. His children had families of their own, and the little farmhouse felt much bigger than it used to.
He wasn't lonely exactly.Just quieter. One chilly autumn afternoon, he pulled the pickup onto a gravel road that hadn't changed much in fifty years. The trees had begun showing off their brilliant shades of orange and gold, and the breeze carried the smell of wood smoke from distant chimneys. He rolled the window down and smiled as the cool air filled the cab. There was something about old roads that reminded him God never seemed to be in a hurry. Samuel eventually found himself stopping in front of the tiny white country church where he and his wife, Mary, had been married fifty-one years earlier. The building hadn't grown any larger, but somehow it had grown more beautiful. Fresh white paint covered the wooden siding, and someone had planted flowers near the front steps.
He climbed out slowly, his knees protesting every movement. Inside, the church was empty. The old wooden pews creaked just as they always had. Sunlight slipped through stained-glass windows, painting colors across the worn floorboards. Samuel removed his old cowboy hat and quietly sat in the same pew where he and Mary had spent so many Sunday mornings together. For several minutes he said nothing. Sometimes silence is the greatest prayer.
Then he heard it. At first it was barely more than a whisper. Someone in another room had begun playing the piano. The first few notes floated gently through the sanctuary. Amazing Grace... Samuel closed his eyes. Every memory he had spent years trying not to think about suddenly returned. His father's rough hands. His mother's gentle smile. His children laughing in the backyard. Mary singing beside him with that beautiful voice that always seemed a little louder than everyone else's.
He hadn't cried in years. Not when he buried friends. Not when the doctors told him life would never quite be the same. Not even after Mary went home to be with the Lord. But there, in that tiny country church, while an unseen pianist played Amazing Grace, the tears finally came. Not tears of sorrow. Tears of gratitude. He realized something that afternoon. The pickup outside had grown old. So had he. Neither one looked like they once did. Neither one moved quite as smoothly. Both carried dents from difficult roads. But neither had been abandoned. God wasn't finished with old things. The old pickup still carried him where he needed to go. And God was still carrying him.
When the music ended, Samuel whispered a prayer. "Lord...thank You for every mile. Even the rough ones." As he stepped back outside, the setting sun reflected off the faded hood of the truck. For the first time in a long while, he didn't see rust. He saw memories. He saw blessings. He saw grace. He climbed back behind the wheel, turned the key twice before the engine finally came to life, and laughed out loud. "Come on, old friend," he said, patting the cracked dashboard. "We've still got a little road left."
The pickup eased onto the gravel road, leaving a small cloud of dust behind as it disappeared toward home. And somewhere between the sound of that old engine and the fading light of evening, Samuel could almost hear the words again. "I once was lost... but now am found... was blind... but now I see." Maybe that was the miracle after all. Not that the truck still ran. Not that life had suddenly become easy. But that after all the miles, all the heartaches, all the funerals, all the disappointments, and all the questions, God's amazing grace had never once run out of road. Sometimes the greatest miracles don't happen in brand-new cars on busy highways. Sometimes they happen in an old pickup truck on a dusty country road... where a weathered soul discovers that God's grace has been riding beside him the whole time.
