Little Heroes

Last evening we gathered in Layton, Utah for a wonderful Family Reunion, I found little Megs and her big brother Jeff standing at the fence to a neighboring pasture.  Joining them, I discovered that they were chumming llamas.  They were tossing carrots over the fence and wondering what llamas say.  I told them they spit, so we were making our best spitting sounds, "pouittt, spouitttt. spouitt" to no effect.  We couldn't toss the carrots far enough to capture their attention.  They were surprised and little bit skeptical when I told them that llamas are cousins to camels.  I'd like for them to have had a better look.

It was about then that Megan drew my attention to a calf she took to be stuck between a fence and a shed.  It took me quite some time to even make it out a hundred yards across the pasture.  Sure enough, a little black calf seemed sandwiched between corral poles and the shed wall.  Jeff suggested we go tell the farmer so the calf could be rescued.  Sounded like a good idea to me.

We informed their parents and headed over there.  Out on Gentile Road there was some question as to which house in the row, connected to the farm.  I chose, using some deductive reasoning, the third house.  The kids were a bit concerned and then relieved when a sign beneath the house number read, "The Farm."

I asked them what they were going to tell the farmer?  "We're not going to tell him anything, you are!" was their desperate reply.  We knocked on the door and heard a neighborly, "Come in!" shouted back to us.

"Grandpa!  We can't just go in!"

"Sure we can, didn't you hear the invitation?"

Over riding protests we went in.  We found a couple of old fellows chatting in the drawing room.  The elder of the two asked our business and I explained the situation.  He had a difficult time making out what I was trying to tell him.  Megan and Jeff pitched in their two bits and finally we made him understand that his calf was in trouble.  The farmer didn't look well and we found out later he was suffering from cancer.  His companion informed us that he would help the farmer rescue the calf.  They seemed a bit skeptical as they thanked us and saw us to the door.  I'd secretly hoped they'd invite us out back to assist in the rescue.

Megan ran all the way back to the park so she'd be sure to be back to the fence in time to witness the goings on.  The rest of us went to the fence too, in plenty of time.  Those two old fellows weren't in much of a rush and were just making it to the barnyard gate.  The fiddled with the wire tying the gate shut for a couple of minutes.  When the finally did get to the calf, it was plain that they were in agreement with us.  The calf was in trouble.  The tried in vain to get him free so the kid's Dad, John, who'd joined us and I went back over to offer our assistance.  In the end we weren't needed, the took a saw to the pole trapping the calf and had it out about the time we arrived.  The calf hobbled over to the trough and drank and drank and drank.

This time the farmer seemed much more appreciative.  He gratefully told us that he doubted the calf would have lived until morning had he not been released from his trap.  I could tell he was about give out, but he wanted to chat, perhaps to make up for nearly blowing us off before.

As he lived on Gentile Road I asked if he knew my Uncle Don who lives another couple of miles West.  "Sure do!" he replied.  "We used to be in the same Ward, years and years ago.  Then the Ward was divided and then the Stake.  Now we don't even live in the same Stake!"  He remembered Uncle Don well enough to remember that he was from Star Valley.

John who thinks I must know everybody.  Had his suspicions confirmed and razzed me a bit about it on the way back to the Reunion.  There, we made a big deal out of Megan and Jeff saving the calf from certain death.  Nice to be in the company of heroes.  Big or small.

Patron Aint

I've sort of been on a Saint bent latterly.  So today I thought I'd introduce you to an Aint.  That's right this guy aint no Saint.  He's the legendary Doc Holliday.

Doc was a Dentist.  Though he claimed to have only practiced Dentistry for five years.  He lived in Georgia principally, until he contracted tuberculosis.  To ease the symptoms and prolong his life he moved west.  In Texas he met Wyatt Earp.  Later in Dodge City, Kansas he came to Earp's aid against some gunslingers and Earp acknowledged that Doc had saved his life.  They became fast friends.

Constantly moving, avoiding the westward crawl of civilization and respectability the Earps and Doc Holliday wound up in Tombstone, Arizona where they fought in the famous gunfight at the OK Corral.  Some time after the gun fight, Morgan Earp was murdered.  Doc jointed the Earps on a vendetta ride seeking revenge on those responsible.

They were law men, gamblers, and now out laws.  They went to Colorado and finally Doc settled in Glenwood Springs, hoping for healing from the curative waters of the warm springs there.  He died there November 8, 1887.  He was 36.  They buried him in a cemetery on a hill overlooking the city.

On August 5, 2002, I climbed that hill.  It is a steep trail and I wondered how elderly mourners made it up there, let alone the hearse.  Aside from its poor accessibility, it is the second most breath taking cemetery setting I've ever seen.  They don't know exactly where John Henry Holliday is buried but a marker has been placed with a wrought iron fence around his possible plot.

This photo is from a Geocache I established in Doc's honor.  I created the Cache to help others locate this tidbit of old west history.  When I first went there I was taken by the fact that folks had left tokens at his monument.  A shot glass of whiskey and an ace of spades lay there on that day.  It amused me.  It was as if Doc had become the patron saint of sinners, gamblers, drunks and outlaws.  Pilgrims from far and wide come here, pay homage and leave a remembrance.

I set it up as a Virtual Cache.  Typical caches have a hidden container with a log and some trinkets.  Virtual Caches just lead to a place such as this and finders must email the owner with some detail to verify that they had actually been there.  My request for this one is that cachers report what mementos they find left at the monument.  In the eight years since then there have been 374 logged visits cataloging the persistent tributes of supplicants and revelers from who knows where.  They've posted 178 photos recording this amazing, heart warming, mysterious, anonymous practice.

In their anal retentive way Geocaching.com no longer allows Virtual Caches.  Interesting since so many logs thank me for placing and maintaining the Virtual Caches I have.  I'm grateful I did because I, with the help of all my caching friends, have chronicled the on going devotion we seem to hold for our heroes from the Wild Wild West.  You can visit Patron Aint and read the logs and view the pictures.  You'll notice that some time in 2004 a new monument was placed at the site.  I liked the old one better.  Seemed more authentic.

You know I don't go in for drinking, gambling and so many of Doc's vices, still there is something about this man who died 123 years ago that appeals to me.  None of us are perfect, but most of us are forgotten.  Hold on, I'm not advocating a crime spree either, so don't go out and try to be the next D. B. Cooper.  What I am advocating is that we remember.  If these guys can faithfully climb that strenuous hill to Linwood Cemetery in all kinds of weather, what can we do?  Can we drop a note to a lonely grandmother?  Can we make a visit to a shut in.  Can we record our memories of ones we've loved and lost?  Wyatt Earp did:

"There was something very peculiar about Doc. He was gentlemanly, a good dentist, a friendly man and yet, outside of us boys, I don't think he had a friend in the Territory. Tales were told that he had murdered men in different parts of the country; that he had robbed and committed all manner of crimes, and yet, when persons were asked how they knew it, they could only admit it was hearsay, and that nothing of the kind could really be traced to Doc's account. He was a slender, sickly fellow, but whenever a stage was robbed or a row started, and help was needed, Doc was one of the first to saddle his horse and report for duty." 

He also said

 "Doc was a dentist not a lawman or an assassin, whom necessity had made a gambler; a gentleman whom disease had made a frontier vagabond; a philosopher whom life had made a caustic wit; a long lean ash-blond fellow nearly dead with consumption, and at the same time the most skillful gambler and the nerviest, speediest, deadliest man with a six-gun that I ever knew."   "I found him a loyal friend and good company."

If Wyatt Earp could so kindly remember Doc Holliday, what might we do?

What's In Your Wallet?

I was fumbling in my overstuffed wallet this morning and decided it was high time I cleaned it out.  I used to clean it quite regularly when I carried it in my hip pocket.  Of necessity I had to keep it thin.  Back then I had fairly chronic back pain and a constantly sore hip joint.  At a family reunion we went for a hike and a cousin who is a physical therapist noticed a limp in my gait.  He suggested I start taking two steps at a time, when climbing stairs, for the sake of my hip and to quit sitting on my wallet as a remedy for my back.  Miracle of miracles, I was cured!  I am so grateful he wasn't I quacktopractor or I might not have taken his suggestion seriously.  Of course a quacktopractor would have overlooked the cause and required ongoing appointments to adjust my spine and the thickness of my wallet.

I can adjust the thickness of my wallet just fine on my own.  Thank you very much.

This was going to be a treat so I grabbed tall glass of milk and a bag of cookies to sustain me through this trip down memory lane.   I really like my wallet.  I've carried it for years.  I bought it from Day-Timer.  Originally, it came with a spiral bound calendar/planner that fit snuggly between the folds. It has a nice loop that perfectly fits my favorite Zebra Gel pen.  There's a pouch for credit cards and a four or five others of various sizes.  You'd think I could keep things well organized, but haven't seen what's in most of the pouches for several years.  I don't carry the calendar any more.  What little I have to keep track of I put on Google Calendar who sends me email reminders.  I like that.  I used to put things on my calendar and then forget to look at it.

Here's what I've been carting around:

• A fishing license receipt from 1999.  I suppose I kept it as a back up in case I lost the license.  I wonder how many times I went fishing that year?  The receipt says I bought it in late June, right after Free Fishing Day.  My Dad was sick and I spent a lot of time in Wyoming for the balance of the summer.  He died in late September.  I wonder if I ever used it.  In those days fishing licenses expired on December 31st.  I probably didn't get my money's worth.  These days the license is good for a year from whenever it was purchased.  Much better deal!
• A Lowe's receipt for a bundle of shims from October 2008.  There's no way I'd consider returning shims to the store.   I wonder why I put it in my wallet?  There's a phone number on the back.  Maybe that's why I kept the receipt.  I looked up the number up in the reverse directory, wondering who I was supposed to call.  It wasn't listed.  I wonder if I ever called it.  Did I miss out on something, or forget an important assignment?
• My Temple Recommend.  I'm pleased to report that it is current and good for another 22 months.  Looking at the signatures I remember the evening and following morning that I met with the Brethren to have it renewed.  They don't keep the same schedules they used to and being gone to the Detention Center for so long, I'm pretty out of touch with regular church routines these days.
• A 1998 penny.  There's no explaining that one.  I've never kept coins in my wallet and that certainly wasn't a rare collectible or anything.
• A stack of family photos from a visit to a photographer from around Christmas 2001, maybe a little after the first of the year.  Our grandson Jeff looks to be around 4 to 6 months old and is as cute as a button.  There's one of him alone,  one of Sweetie and I, one of the four girls, one of Jeff's parents and one of the whole clan.  There's another from a year or two earlier of the entire family. My we all look young!  Megan thinks I need an update in the wallet photo department because at age 6, she ought to be in grandpa's wallet too.  So do I.
• Three quad-fold reminder cards of the larger For The Strength of Youth.  I suppose I thought I was going to have them to hand out to at risk young people at some point.  I don't think I ever had occasion to do that, or a least forgot I had them when they were needed
• A tri-fold reminder card of the Young Women Values.  Like the others, it is worn, faded and tearing at the hinges.  And since they fairly recently added Virtue, it is out of date.  It sounds rather funny to think that Virtue wasn't always a Young Women Value.  Of course it was, just a bit more implied than it is today.
• A 2007 Vernal Temple schedule.  Which makes me sad.  Until recently, it still would be accurate as to the day to day operation.  Only the closing dates would be different.  Now though, the Temple is closed on Mondays and the 6:00 AM sessions no longer exist.  That was my favorite time to visit the Temple.  I am sympathetic to the concerns they had for sweet older workers who had to drive all the way from Tabiona, Duchesne and Altamont needing to be dressed and ready for a 5:30 prayer meeting.  Folks were getting up at 2:00 AM to make it on time.
• A Teamster's Health Insurance Card.  What a blessing, to have the same benefits we had before retirement for the balance of our lives!  And to think I never joined the Union.  You might think me ungrateful.  I looked into it once and when I read the oath of allegiance and then considered the Teamsters' track record I thought I might as well join the Gadianton Robbers.
• Two books of First Class Forever Postage Stamps.  I think these have been in there for two rate changes.  Thanks to email, and online bill payments I don't use stamps all that often.  I think I have about ten more books in my desk too.  At the rate I'm using them I may never suffer a postal rate change again!  Don't tell Kristi.
• Two twenty dollar bills.  One from 2006 and one from 2008.  No they haven't been there that long; that's when they were printed.  I wonder if they have cocaine residue on them?  Filthy lucre!  I once read that it's a real confidence booster to keep a $100.00 bill in your wallet.  I tried it, but then I realized how frequently my wife and daughters asked for the exact amount that happened to be in my wallet at the time.  Fearing that they did this by Zen rather than more conventional methods of inventory, I didn't even dare hide it in an obscure pouch in the back.  It didn't boost my confidence at all.
• A debit card.  It's from Mt. America Credit Union who has lately had the customer service culture of a Bank.  What a disappointment.
• A credit card.
• My driver's license.  Holy Cow!  It doesn't expire until 2013!  It says I'm a donor, which I take to refer to my organs rather than taxes.  I guess I give taxes more freely than organs, which I'll only give up over my dead body.  No, that isn't right either.  My body can't be dead, only my brain.  Hey, they probably can start harvesting any time now.  It lies about my weight.  Hopefully, that will be more correct in 2013 so I don't have to lie again.
• A Smith's Rewards Card, so they can charge me more, then make me think they're so generous by giving some of my money back.
• A GNC discount card.  It expires in 5 months and I haven't even been back since the initial visit in which I paid for it.
• A Cafe Rio Diner's Card.  Two more meals and I get one free.  I have been back there.
• An American Red Cross First Aid Certification Card.
• An American Red Cross CPR Certification Card.  Hope I never need to use what I've learned.
• A Staples Rewards Card.  This one is free.
• A National Park Service Annual Pass.  I buy one almost every year.  I've never wasted the money.  On this pass I've been to Arches twice, Canyonlands three times, Zions, Dinosaur, Bryce Canyon and Capitol Reef!  It expires in a week.
• A Library Card.  Mostly I piggy back on Sweeties, though since she hooked up with Book Mooch, we don't borrow from the library all that often.
• A Blockbuster Membership Card.  Don't use it much either since DVR and Netflix.
• An Ace Rewards Card.  This one gets used a lot.  Plus they often send a discount card with I gum* to the Rewards Card so I don't forget to use it.  It come's gummed* to the flier.  (*Gummy glue that resembles a booger and is equally hard to flip off your finger.)  Better prices, service and products than Lowe's.
• My DOT Medical Examiner's Certificate.  This is expired as is my need to carry it.
• An Address Book.  This one is very portable.  The size of a credit card it is accordion folded between two magnetic covers.  Really handy but way out of date.  When I put it in my wallet Kristi lived in Hall's Crossing, John and Jen in Glenwood Springs, Lee Ann and Gary in Anderson, Eric and Annie in Goose Creek, and Alyson in England.  We're about the only ones still in the same place.
• A Movie Gallery Card.  They're out of business.  Netflix?  Red Box?  Boom gone bust?  All of the above.
• USAA Auto Insurance Card.
• A Uniform Donor Card.  Is this redundant?  I think I'll keep it anyway.  I've tossed so much stuff that the card pouch is no longer snug and I'm likely to lose something if I don't have at least some filler.
• Steve Cowan's Business Card.  He's no longer with Gulf Stream and I'm no longer with Sundance.  My back is aching just thinking about all the energy I've wasted toting this around.
• Pastor Kirk's Business Card.  We each walked alone into the 711 Cafe one lunch time and wound up sitting together.  We had a great visit and enjoyed getting acquainted.  He's Pastor of the Kingsbury Community United Church of Christ.  He pointed out that his was a church of sinners as opposed to Saints.  I pointed out that he needed a less Catholic definition of the term Saint.  
• The Business Card of J. Gordon O'Brien of O'Brien's Music Store.  O'Brien's is the oldest store on the oldest street in the oldest city in North America, or so they claim.  When we were in St. John's, Newfoundland we stopped in there.  I was hoping to find a concertina or small accordion.  Gordon talked me out of it fearing it would be out of tune before I got it home.  The reeds are set in wax and the summer heat in the car could melt it.  So instead, I bought a Bodhran which I've yet to learn to play as the tipper is pretty tricky to operate.  Having spent the money I owed Sweetie, so she got a terrific tea set in Cape Breton that has so totally justified the dust on the Bodhran that neither of us feel bad.
• A Voter Registration Card from 2006.  It lists me as unaffiliated, a situation I still celebrate as I bolted from the Republican Party for abandoning me.  The intervening four years have only affirmed my decision.  Plus, I have a great answer when the call asking for money.

Well, if you're an archaeologist, scrounging through the strata of today's dig, you might have a better understanding of this old fossil.  As, for me, it was quite a trip down memory lane.  I'm a bit sad to have a much thinner wallet.  Not because I'm poorer but because it is no longer thick enough to stay put in the nice little slot in the dash of the Yukon, where I've parked it for the past 100,000 miles.

Another Story from Growing Up in Himni, Utah

# 25 – Me Tarzan, You Nuts?

December 28, 2006 by jinxparker | Edit

Down behind the house, across a hay field, past a large pond and into some Cottonwood trees (on somebody else’s property) we found a a tremendous Tarzan swing.  Todd and I had been down that way before trying to sneak up on ducks (skill we never developed) when we stumbled onto the swing and finding no one around to stop us, decided to give’r a try.  Holy Cow!  It was good!  We spent the whole afternoon arching into that deep green shady chamber of glory.  Vines covered the ground and a thick canopy of leaves concealed the heavens.  I’ve seen a lot of  rope swings in my life, but never one to beat that one.  I’ll bet it had a 30 foot rope and a good 50 foot arc.  It’s quite a trick to find the perfect tree, the perfect branch and of course the perfect hollow space to swing through.  The rope was 2 inch hemp with a great knot tied at the end.  Leaning against the tree was a pole with a hook affixed to the end for retrieving the rope when it dangled.  The bank stood nearly as high as the branch the rope was tied to.  The gulch beneath fell a way quickly leaving all the room in the world to swing into space.  And swing we did!  Extravagantly!

It was the Summer before I went to work.  We had plenty of time for horseback riding, hiking, building forts and various other potential mayhem.  We had our freedom most afternoons and never ran out of great things to do.  Then Uncle Dan accepted a TDY assignment for the Air Force, in Denver and Aunt Olive decided to go with him.  She called Mom, her big sister, and asked if she could take the kids for a couple of weeks.  Todd and I gathered what was happening and with pleading looks on our desperate faces mouthed the word NO!!!!

Mom, didn’t seem to notice and happily said, “Yes.”

“Aw Mom!”  we lamented as she hung up the phone.  ”We can’t be baby-sitting Durrant all summer?”

“Not all summer, just five weeks.”

“Five weeks!”

It was worse than we thought.  My stomach turned green just thinking about it.  Durrant had to be the most pesky, obnoxious little kid on the planet and not only were we going to be charged with keeping tack of him, it would have to be done outside – all day long.  Three weeks of the summer had already flown by and now another five weeks had been yanked from under us.  Why couldn’t we be Aunt Wanda’s kids, she’d have said no.  Probably already had.  Todd and I had thought we were free of Durrant after the Geronimo incident.  We were sure his parents would prevent him from ever seeing us again, especially after it took Dad and  Uncle Dan 45 minutes of howl accompanied peril to rescue him from the top of Grandpa’s biggest apple tree.

We both sank into a deep dark gloom.  We retreated to the cool basement to await our doom and to hide as many treasures as we could find hiding places for.

They arrived the next morning at nine.  Durrant has two sisters who are just about the sweetest kids you’d ever want to meet.  The same age as our sisters, we’d hardly see hide nor hair of them.  The girls would be allowed to play inside.  Barely, out of their car, Durrant kicked Todd in the chins so hard he yelped, then headed for me.  I swatted him like a mosquito and as suddenly, Mom cuffed me up the back of the head.  Then she gave Durrant a big squeeze and peenched his wosy wosy cheeks; like he was some kind of adorable little angel or something.  Amazed.  Shocked.  Worried.  We just stood there.  There was no way we were gonna get out of this unscathed.  We were either going to be lined up and shot for killing Durrant or we were going to die trying to save him.  The former being our preference as it was  quick, humane and worth it.

“Why don’t you boys saddle up the horses and give these sweet kids a ride,” Mom told us.  No I didn’t get the punctuation wrong.  It most certainly was worded as a question, but there definitely wasn’t a question mark at the end.  I saddled up Chico, while Todd rubbed his shin.

Chico’s a great horse.  Remind me to tell you how we got him some time.  Anyway, with an adult in the saddle, Chico is a spirited eager mount.  But with the children he’s a doting old nanny.  We took him into the pasture and put Carrie on board.  Chico took her for a nice stroll around the perimeter and brought her back, joyful; where we helped her down and Emily up.  Chico strolled around the same course, carefully, casually and then dutifully returned.  Durrant was next and Chico walked him over to the clothesline and scraped him off on the wires and then faithfully returned to give Carrie a second turn.  While Todd and I helped a howling Durrant down from the line Chico sweetly took Carrie  around the field on his usual course.  Once again he was nice to Emily as well.  But Durrant’s turn was as brief as the last having once again been gently, but definitely, left hanging out to dry.

In Durrant’s mind it couldn’t possibly have been Chico’s fault.  Todd and I had trained him.  I think Mom thought the same thing.  Todd and I were just delighted.  Exonerated by a horse!  Of course a horse is a horse, unless of course….  Chico really was special and now there was no denying it.  We were not surprised that Chico took the initiative, that was his nature, but we’re were amazed that he took the liberty.  Perhaps, Dad, the horse whisperer in the family, had compassionately given him permission.

The next day, the pressure that was Durrant became too great and just after lunch we ditched him.  We’d made it across the canal when we heard the dinner bell ring.  We were on a long leash, but there was no quarter for disregarding the dinner bell, even if it wasn’t dinner time.  We dragged our butts back home.  After a Scotch Blessing from a lass whose ancestors are entirely Swiss, we headed back out with Durrant in tow.  We’d resolved to return to the Tarzan Swing.

At first our little nemesis wanted nothing to do with the swing.  He just sat on the grass and moped while we flew back and forth across the gulch.  Eventually though, he began to see how much fun we were having.  We told him it was too dangerous, but he’d seen us come to no harm and dared to venture.  Durrant’s health and safety were no concern of ours.  We sat him on the knot, instructed him to hold on and gave him a mighty shove into space.  He went out in terror and came back in ecstasy!  Durrant isn’t one to share.  We gave him a few more rides and then, literally had to peel him from the rope.  Promises to take turns didn’t appease his howling protests, so we quit and took him home.

The next morning it was, ”Can we go to the swing?”

“No.”

“Can we go to the swing?”

“No!”

“Can we go to the swing?”

“NO!”

“I’ll take turns.”

“No.”

“I’ll take turns, I’m promise.”

No!

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Us too, but the answer is no!”

“Aunt Mable…?”

We.  Went.  To.  The.  Swing.  And, wonder of wonders Durrant took turns.

Todd gets bored more quickly than most people.  After awhile, just plain swinging wasn’t keeping his interest.  Next came upside down swinging, spinning swinging, climbing on a stump for higher swinging and eventually sky diving.  At least that’s what he called it.  On the opposite side of the gulch was a mat of vines about 12 feet deep.  Todd calculated that landing laid out flat on those vines one would bounce like on a bed, something he was expert at.  Now the surface of the vines wasn’t horizontal, more like 45 degrees.  Todd would have to swing out, kick his feet above his head, let go of the rope and somehow land at that angle in order maximize the striking surface and minimize the concussion.  A matter of pounds per square inch; if you get my drift.  He took a deep breath and flew.  And with the grace and finesse of a circus performer dismounting from a trapeze to the net below, Todd landed on that mat of vines.  He rolled off the vines and scrambled to my side in mere seconds eager for another try!  It was a beautiful thing to behold and I, after Todd accomplished the feat three times without difficulty, finally dared to try.

I am no where near the athlete Todd is.  Nor am I in anyway a dare devil.  Still, I can recognize a good thing when I see it and after a few nervous moments and one false start I too, pulled skydiving off without a hitch.  It was every bit as fun as it looked.  Even more fun than swinging out and dropping into a pond, I later found out.  We sky dived to our hearts content, still taking turns with Durrant.  He hadn’t seemed the least bit interested in sky diving, just sitting on the knot.  When we were ready to go home we gave our little cousin one last swing during which he apparently mustered the courage to emulate his elders and much to our surprise, let go of the rope.  His timing was impeccable and he sailed majestically off toward the vines where he stuck the landing.  Literally.  Instead of his back, he landed on his feet and in an instant vanished from sight.  There was dread silence for a few moments and then this eerie awful howl that went on for the better part of the next two hours, for that is how long it took us to extract him.  We had to return to the house three times for more equipment, so dense were the vines and so deep was Durrant.

That afternoon Mom went to town.  She came back with materials for a butterfly net and  a box, some pins and some formaldehyde.  The next morning she set Durrant to catching bugs and we hardly saw him for the balance of his stay.  Aunt Wanda has nothing on our Mom.

Saints

While reading this morning from Change of Heart by Jodi Picoult, I came upon these words:

"There was a time when I prayed to saints.  What I liked about them were their humble beginnings:  they were human, once, and so you knew that they just got it in a way Jesus never would.  They understood what it meant to have your hopes dashed or your promises broken or your feelings hurt."

My first reaction was shock, but then thinking it over, the statement brought answers to questions long held.  On my mission to the Philippines I often wondered at a land steeped in Catholicism.  One of my earliest experiences was a visit to the Quiapo Church in down town Manila.  There were life sized statues of every saint imaginable.  All of the Jeepneys had a statuette of St. Christopher, the patron saint of athletes, mariners, ferrymen and travelers, glued to the dash.  Idolatry aside, I couldn't understand why folks would pray to a saint or Mary rather than Heavenly Father.  I couldn't get my mind around choosing some other Mediator besides Jesus Christ.

The book I was reading yesterday, Bachelor Brothers' Bedside Companion by Bill Richardson, devoted a good deal of time ridiculing the invocation of blessings from the Saints.  Richardson made some lighthearted fun of various, sometimes, obscure saints whose patronage was both interesting and amusing:  Saint Gertrude of Nivelles is patron of cats and is invoked against mice.  St. Agatha is the patron of bell makers and wet nurses and is invoked against volcanoes.  St. Agabus is patron of fortunetellers, which seems a bit oxymoronic to me.  More familiar to most of us is St. Nicholas who is the patron saint of children (obviously), sailors, unmarried girls, merchants, perfumers, opothecaries and pawnbrokers.  St. Nick seems to have a conflict of interest on a couple of counts.  Richardson's character Caedmon was making a few bucks making bread dough saints, which he sold with an accompanying prayer.  Medal pedaling is a long held Catholic tradition.  Quite lucrative I'm sure.  Before I share Caedmon's prayer to St. Nicholas with you, you need to understand that Nicholas seemed to like the number three.  He is purported to have saved three girls from prostitution by giving each a bag of gold.  This spawned the practice of hanging three gold balls outside a pawn shop so the broker might invoke his patron's favor.  He also restored life to three boys slaughtered by a butcher, saved three sailors off the Turkish coast and rescued three men who were condemned to die.  If Nicholas is your patron you might consider hanging out with a couple of friends.  Anyway, here's Caedmon's prayer:

Yuletide comes, the bills mount up, the stores sell off their stock, 

Let us pray St. Nicholas will keep us out of hock.  

As he plucked the butchered boys from out the salty brine, 

May he always help us tow the sacred credit line; 

Otherwise we'll be compelled to leave the tinselled halls 

And swap our Christmas loot for cash beneath three hanging balls.

Please forgive my levity.  I commenced this essay in all seriousness.  As I said, I've found it difficult to understand the Catholic obsession with saintly intermediaries.  That is until now.  Picoult's observation cleared the entire thing up for me.  Clearly Catholics do not understand what we are taught in Alma 7:10-12

And behold, he shall be born of Mary, at Jerusalem which is the land of our forefathers, she being a virgin, a precious and chosen vessel, who shall be overshadowed and conceive by the power of the Holy Ghost, and bring forth a son, yea, even the Son of God.

And he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and this that the word might be fulfilled which saith he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people.

And he will take upon him death, that he may loose the bands of death which bind his people; and he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities.  

Contrary to the supposition in Picoult's book, Jesus does get it.  He gets it better and more entirely than anyone else.

He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows:  (Isaiah 5:3-4)

Apparently, Catholics are taught that Jesus was above sorrow and pain and because of His otherly nature cannot understand the vicissitudes of mortality.  My experience is just the opposite.  Jesus, more than anyone else can relate to our sorrow, pain and grief.  He experienced my own suffering on an intimate and personal level, known to no other besides myself.  And so it is for every single individual who has or will ever abide on this planet.  He is the only one qualified to mediate between us and the Father.  It breaks my heart to know that millions out there are not aware of the breadth and depth of His compassion.  Compassion available to us  for the very reason that He most certainly does GET IT.