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.

Going With The Current

I go for a walk or a bike ride every morning.  What ever suits my fancy.  Today, I preferred to walk.  Quite often I encounter a friend and we walk together.  I get better exercise on those days.  I don't walk with anyone who doesn't out walk me, speed-wise.  Many of these people are older than I, and still they push my endurance to keep up with them.  We can scarcely have a conversation I'm puffing so hard.  I've thought a lot about this phenomena.  One friend even told me I was going to have to pick up the pace or she flat out wouldn't deign to join me.  I suggested she might slow down to accommodate an old man, but she refused saying, "That would defeat the purpose."  That settled it for me.  I let her go on without me; for indeed it would defeat the purpose.  Mine.

Of course I hope for some aerobic and muscle development when I walk, but that is not the entirety of my purpose as it seems to be for the others.  There is some health benefit to strolling as well and speed walking.  I stroll for the benefit of my heart as well as my heart.  It strengthen's my core as well as my core.  It is as much a spiritual exercise as it is a physical one.  I may never be able to run a marathon.  Unless you think enduring to the end is a race.  I don't like races.  Who am I trying to beat?  What am I trying to prove?

Today on my walk I went by the ball parks on my way to stroll along the Kid's Canal.  There, I found an abandoned softball.  It was plastic, including plastic vacu-formed laces in stead of real ones.  It appeared to be regulation size, but much too light.  I picked it up and amused myself tossing it from hand to hand as I walked up the highway.  Part way up the road I was joined by a turkey who walked along with me for a stretch.  I gobbled, but he didn't.  I nodded, "You're welcome!"  To a passer-by who seemed amused to see two turkeys strolling up the road together.  At least our necks match.

At the canal, I tossed the ball into the stream and watched it float with the current.  My heart rate dropped as I waited for it to meander through the slow spots.  So did my blood pressure.  The ball took a loop or two through an eddy but persisted on its journey after a short delay.  A fly hitched a ride for several hundred feet.  I imagined I knew what the fly was thinking and that he was having a splendid time!  He rode the ball right to the edge of a waterfall and flew away at the last moment.  I envied him.  In my imagination I was he and the falls were Iguazu.  I wonder if anyone ever rafted over the edge carrying a hang-glider.  Wouldn't that be a rush.

I know, I sound like an adrenalin junkie.  I'm not.  Remember, I'm a stroller, not a walker, jogger or runner.  Watching a ball float down a canal is plenty of excitement for me.

At the bottom of the falls, a pile of trash had accumulated.  I worried that the ball would get hung up.  Not to worry.  He rolled with the punches and found his way through.  He'd transformed in my mind from an it to a he.  And I began to think about my life.  I too am floating along in the stream of life.  Occasionally, I've drifted into an eddy and stopped making progress.  Now and then I've got myself tangled up in the brush along the bank.  There have been scary moments as I've plunged into the depths of uncertainty.  I've even set my heart on something upstream and fought the current only to exhaust myself in fruitless effort.

I thought about retrieving the ball as I departed the canal, but felt like I was interfering with its destiny.  Maybe he will float down a ditch and wind up in someone's garden.  And maybe someone tired of weeding will have a little fun playing catch.  Or maybe he will get buried in the mud and be discovered in some archaeological dig 12,000 years from now.  Remind me to watch for him in the great movie in the sky at the end of the world.  I really would like to know, after all, what really does become of my little well rounded friend.

The stream of life is bound for a Celestial destination, it is a plan of salvation after all.  Every time I bail out on the bank, tread water in an eddy (a metaphor shared by a 12 Stepping friend) or fight the current, I become exhausted and frustrated.  But when I accept the will of the Lord and go with the flow of His intention for me, I seem to relax and enjoy the ride.

I friend of mine, just re-entered the flow and this morning reported on Facebook:  Good day.  Good content day.

Maybe, she's discovered Jesus' sweet invitation:

Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.  (Matthew 11:28-30)

Perhaps there is a place for earnest, high intensity walking.  But there seems to be an anxious desperation in it and I prefer the relaxed, peaceful, fulfilling flow of a stroll.

Book Review - Bachelor Brothers' Bedside Companion by Bill Richardson

Bachelor Brothers' Bedside Companion is third in a series.  Bill Richardson might have quit at two.  I found it dull and cerebral and largely lacking in the pleasure of the first and to some extent the second.  These books are written on a premise that is sheer genius.  They focus on twin brothers who operate a B&B in British Columbia.  This eclectic collection of stories, poetry and  falderal are variously written as though, by host, guest, or neighbor.  Some are gathered from the wind, while others, from a plethora of books cluttering the shelves of the Inn.

While the format enabled Richardson free rein as to the content collected between the covers (an enviable opportunity to publish everything he ever wrote); the books successively lost my interest as his stuff became ever more distant from my imagination.  There is one exception.  Hector:  In Came the Lady with the Alligator Purse may well be Richardson's finest piece, or rather masterpiece.  This is Bill Richardson (not to be confused with the Governor of New Mexico) at his very best!  I'll keep the book if for no other reason; well, that and to possess the whole set.

Hector and Virgil are great, enjoyable characters, as are Mrs. Rochester the parrot, Altona, the girl friend, Caedmon the hired hand and several others.  And there's the rub.  This volume largely abandoned the characters for other obscure and dusty detritus.  You'll love the first book, like the second and if you're like me, tolerate the third, with the afore mentioned exception which, standing alone, may just be worth the price of the volume. 

This one gets two stars.

Did You Know They've Removed The Word Gullible From The Dictionary?

My Conservative friend, Craig, frequently forwards emails to me that are meant to rally people to the Conservative cause.  An alarming number of them are bald faced lies!  Take the one I got today for example.  It's headline read:  VERY QUIETLY OBAMA'S CITIZENSHIP REACHES THE SUPREME COURT.

This email made claims that seemed to prove that President Barak Obama was not a natural born citizen of the United States and therefore, does not qualify to be President of the United States.  It claims to have proof and claims a suit to that effect has reached the Supreme Court.  My research shows that these allegations and supposed events are pure fabrication meant to inflame and divide.

I don't receive forwards from any Liberal friends, so I cannot judge if this dishonest practice is taking place among them as well, but if I were a betting man, I'd put money on it's likelihood.

This dishonest, divisive, egregious practice has soured my stomach.  Who can actually suppose that lies will actually advance their position.  One such email included a threatening in quote from the Koran in an effort to stir anti-Islamic sentiment.  I looked it up in my own copy of the Koran and found it to be complete fiction, no such verse existed.  I think whoever invented that lie is indeed an infidel.  Who could blame a Muslim for despising him and his dishonesty.  Who could blame me for despising him too!  He is an enemy to all of us.  By his action, and my discovery of its prevarication, he placed me on the side of the Muslim and in opposition to him.  The dishonest, Conservative does the same thing.  To maintain my personal integrity, I must stand with the Liberals and oppose him.

Would that he were just a lone fool with tin foil on his head, living by himself in an attic somewhere.  But, alas I fear he is not.  He is legion and inspired by the devil.  He's spreading lies, hate and discontent in every issue.  Recently, The Deseret News had a whole feature designed to get to the bottom of all the allegations regarding the Illegal Immigration issues.  It was utterly sickening to discover that most of the negatively slanted accusations against illegal immigrants were grossly distorted and meant to mislead and enrage us.

With the internet, he has become almost impossible to find, stop, or punish for his deceit.  But he is only half of the problem.  P. T. Barnum once said, "There's a sucker born every minute."  I'm beginning to think the ring master grossly underestimated that figure.  The wide spread gullibility of the American population scares me to death!  More and more, we'll believe anything.  And we're being taken for ride by conspiring con-men who are hell bent on destroying us.  He's in every camp, on both sides of every issue and if we sucker for his lies, we'll all go down in flames.

Propaganda used to be a dirty word attributed to the Soviet Communists.  Make no mistake, propaganda is alive and well in America today.  It's time we woke up, cultivated a bit of skepticism and directed it not at the Conservatives, or Liberals, or Muslims, or Illegal Aliens, or Democrats or Republicans but at the liars.  It's time for zero tolerance for dishonesty.  The calculated lie is the foremost cause of the polarization of America today and it must be stopped.  So come on Americans, all of you, even you Craig; united we stand, divided we fall.

I Love A Parade! Really?

I actually think I do love a parade.  I watch and enjoy just about every one that happens around here.  But if you ask my regular companions you'll quickly learn that I often ask, "Why do we do this?"  I mean we fight crowds, bake in the sun, wait and wait; all to be deafened by sirens and jet engines.  We watch a bunch of half baked floats and every politician from here to Heber.  The vendors who drag their coaster wagons behind four-wheelers don't ever vend anything that appeals to me.  I always bring money just in case, but the last time I bought anything was 1994.  I quite often get angry when people don't stand for the flag or show respect for the Veterans. And then I worry about the American Legion.  They're all getting way old and no body my age, AKA Vietnam Vets, seems to be picking up the baton. Who will present flags from a grateful nation to these guy's widows?

I was in a parade once.  Sweetie and I were headed for Blanding and found ourselves driving down Main Street in Moab.  We hadn't gone far when we discovered the street lined with spectators, even some crowded bleachers.  Then we began to notice a number of hot rods in the traffic.  At a stop light we found ourselves next to a particularly obnoxious rod with a giant air scoop on the hood and flames painted on it side.  He was lettin' her rumble.  There was a baby asleep in his back seat.  How'd he do that?  We couldn't even run the dishwasher without waking ours up.  Sweetie rolled down the window, risking permanent ear damage and asked the fellow what was going on.

"You're in a parade lady." was his answer.

We found out later that there'd been a big car show in town and at it's conclusion everyone would drag main in their show cars for one last hoorah!  It had become such a tradition that the whole town showed up for the spectacle.

Sweetie began to enjoy the parade from this perspective and got out the video camera to record the crowd as we passed by.  Back home when we were viewing the video the scene passed a fellow standing on the back row of a grand stand holding a sign which read, "Show us your boobs."  Sweetie gasped and asked why I hadn't warned her about it.

"Well, why would I?  I didn't want you to show him your boobs?"  Fortunately, I was out of swat range for that one.

We both remarked that being in the parade was every bit as fascinating as watching one.  There's the whole town on display, sitting in lawn chairs, marinating in their own sweat and reacting in various ways to the spectacle parading by.

So it was today, as I pulled the Ward float in the Pioneer Day Parade.  They'd asked for a volunteer driver during Priesthood Meeting on Sunday and I had gladly raised my hand.  Had I known how pathetic our float was, I'd have realized why the Bishop, a truck driver, had opted to delegate this one to someone else.  Our float's theme, of provident living, featured a huge pink piggy bank.  It so scarcely resembled a pig though, that it's creators had put a sign on it's side indicating what it was supposed to be.  At it's best it couldn't have been too impressive, but shortly after its creation it suffered a cloud burst in the church parking lot that did something to the crepe paper that resembling a Mary Kay Cosmetics factory after a hurricane.

My son-in-law, whose daughter rode on the float, refused to accompany me.  He has a reputation to uphold I guess.  Hey, aside from the pig and scribbled poster paper signs along the edge, with nothing else to doll it up, the float was adorned with gorgeous children and a beautiful newly-wed couple and it turned out to be a masterpiece in a barn wood frame.  It definitely looked like it was built on a shoe string.  Even the trailer was homemade and rusty.  We should have posted a sign to read the old adage of thrift:   Use it up. Wear it out.  Make it do.  Or do without.  In that light we nailed it.

This year marks 100 years of Scouting in America.  The Scouts turned out en mass to march in their uniforms.  My grandson, a Cub Scout rode his bike.  He circled our rig the whole length of the parade.  What a kick to see him showing of his newly developed tricks.

Once again I loved watching the crowd as we made our leisurely way down Main Street.  Still, I missed the Drill Team on unicycles, the Model T carrying the Grand Marshall and the herds of little red faced dancers following Miss Barbara's Dance Class' promo float.  I missed standing for the Stars and Stripes and I missed applauding those resolute old Veterans who defeated Germany and Japan.  I missed the candy tossers and the squirt gun squirters.  Though, there was a new feature this year.  Someone had wheeled a huge trash can full of water to their viewing location and, with their own squirt guns, fought back.

On the way, it dawned on me why I love this business so much.  Our main street is also US Highway 40.  It is busy with lots of truck and tourist travel this time of year.  I relish the fact that five or six times a year we claim Main Street as our own.  Traffic is diverted somewhere else for a moment and we get our little piece of Heaven to ourselves.  And then we take a little time to celebrate who we are.  To show appreciation for the cops, firemen, National Guard, Vets, Representatives and distinguished citizens.  We take a little time to celebrate our children, their talents and beauty.  We pause in the middle of life's rat race and declare.  "This is us, such as we are!  And it tickles us to death to flaunt it in broad day light!

A Kind, Thoughtful and Able God

I've heard some remarkable stories this week that have made me pause to be grateful.

Herbert Klopfer and his parents escaped East Germany when he was fourteen.  Later as a young man he was called on a proselyting Mission to Switzerland.  Out of the blue he was called for a season to labor at the Swiss Temple, not as a proselyting Elder but to do administrative work.  During that short stint his three remaining Grandparents were granted permission to leave East Germany for a visit to the Temple.  Herbert was able to spend some precious time with them.  It was the only time he ever saw them again in mortality.

I spoke with a young man this week who I will not name.  During a time of struggle, rejection and loneliness, he changed schools and struck up a acquaintance with someone who freely gave him the new and blessed gift of friendship.  Some time later they discovered that they were full brothers; one having been given up for adoption when their shared parents were young and unwed.

During High Priest's Group Meeting on Sunday we were talking about the duties of a Teacher.  To quote from the 20th Section of the Doctrine and Covenants:

53  The teacher's duty is to watch over the church always, and be with and strengthen them;  54  And see that there is no iniquity in the church, neither hardness with each other, neither lying, backbiting, nor evil speaking;  55  And see that the church meet together often, and also see that the members do their duty.  56  And he is to take the lead of meetings in the absense of the elder or priest.

There was some angst expressed about such heavy responsibility being placed upon 14 and 15 year old boys.  I expressed opposing concern that we lacked significant faith if we failed to entrust such, Heaven decreed responsibilities upon them.  My comment spawned some agreement and some dismay.  One fellow declared that even High Priests don't shine in those prescribed areas, how could we expect boys to do so.

The time was late and I didn't want to further annoy some obviously agitated brethren, so I let the matter drop.  I will, however, respond here.

In my opinion, we tend to shoulder too much of the burden and to take too much of the credit in matters as here described.  I will give first a negative example, followed by a positive one.

Example A:  I have a couple of friends who have been cohabitating for some time.  They have a faithful Home Teacher whose visits they dread.  He's a nice enough man, but he feels it his duty to censure them each time he visits their home.  He clearly takes the admonition of Section 20 very seriously.  During their most recent visit this couple mentioned that they are moving to separate apartments while they decide if they should get married or not.  They took a pretty uncomfortable lecture on marriage and morals replete with unwelcome advice about how they should proceed with their lives.  This couple grows less and less amenable to the church and it's representative with every encounter.

Example B:  I once taught a wonderful widow lady who refused to come to church.  She hadn't been for over 50 years.  I like the home teacher in example A, did my best to persuade her to repent and come partake of the blessings church activity affords.  Always she resisted.  Always she showed signs of the discomfort my friends from the other example expressed.  I had a 14 year old companion and one month I decided it was his turn to teach the lesson.  He accepted and showed up prepared to teach our little less-active sister.  My young companion began his lesson by telling us that he hadn't known what to do for the lesson and that his mother had found a poem for him to share.  I don't remember the poem, or that it had any special meaning.  I most certainly did not have anything to do with whether the sister ought to be attending church or not.  I do remember though, that the young man was moved by the message of the poetry.  When he finished, his eyes misted up and looking directly at the little lady and said, "I sure love my mother."

The next Sunday Sister Wilson showed up to church.  She spoke with the Bishop.  Eventually, she received a Temple Recommend and spent the balance of her life active in the church and serving in the Temple.  Later, she told a mutual friend that she never needed to be told what to do, in her heart she already knew that.  "What I needed," she said, "was to feel the Spirit of the Lord and when that young man helped me feel it, I knew in an instant that I must have more."

Now, you can't tell me that my junior companion didn't fulfill, completely, the duties of a Teacher.  Whereas, I most assuredly had not.  The primary duty of any Priesthood holder is to bring the Spirit of the Lord into the meetings as associations he's involved in.  And here are two examples of High Priests failing to do that and one of a Teacher succeeding.

What does this have to do with the earlier two stories?  Everything.  God is good and kind and deliberately involved in our lives.  He is able to do His own work.  We take too much upon ourselves when we undertake to do God's work for Him.  Our assignment is to help those we serve to make their own connection with God, not to presume to be that connection.  Hence, "if ye receive not the Spirit, ye shall not teach!"  (D&C 42:14).

Precious Rain

I love the rain.  I love it in the Northwest where it falls so gently and so frequently that everything is green and verdant.  I love it in the Philippines where it drenches in an instant but is so warm and friendly.  I love it in the Midwest, where it is so dangerous and rowdy.  But, most of all I love it here in the desert where it is so rare.

Yesterday's rain was so long coming.  It fell in torrents that sounded like applause and then returned a couple of hours later for an encore.  All over town the audience rejoiced.  The reviews were rave.

"Wasn't that a wonderful rain!"

"Look how fresh and clean everything looks!"

"That rain sure cooled things off nicely."

"My lawn and garden sure needed that!"

"Wasn't that thunder thrilling!"

Gutters and hearts overflowed.  Smiles all around.  Even farmers with their hay down couldn't help but stand under the porch and watch with pleasure.  Desert rain puts a grin in chagrin.  The Indians used to say that this was good weather and so it is.  A reminder that God still loves us.  All of us.  And from the windows of His heaven blessings still flow, in abundance.

The timing was perfect.  The coolness shut off air conditioners and opened closed doors and windows as we reached from our confinement into the freshness.  Then at gloaming, the freshened world wafted upon us like the breath of Heaven.  Celestial aroma to bless our sleep and fertilize our dreams.

Stepping Off Cliffs

I've got friend coming out of addiction.  I was up way into the night helping with it.  He clearly wants my help.  But he also struggles with fear and often resists that help.  It is a terrifying thing to consider giving up the things that have, however falsely, comforted you for all these years.

I think he believes there will be other, more healthy, ways to deal with the pain and that eventually, Christ will actually heal the wound.  But it's still a little intimidating.

I remember the first time I rappelled off a cliff.  I saw others do it successfully.  I'd been trained in the technique.  I was on belay and promised that if anything went wrong my belayer would catch me.  I was armored with helmet, gloves and adequate clothing.  I knew that all I had to do is pull my braking arm, the one holding the slack side of the rope, across my chest and my slide down the rope would stop.  This is because the friction on the rope would increase to a point at which it would no longer slide through the apparatus that attached me to the rope. It all made sense and I'd seen it work.  What I lacked was experience.  I had no idea how hard it would be to pull my arm across my chest.

I think my friend is experiencing something similar.  He's seen others go into recovery and it looks real good.  He's learned the methods of doing so and is a rigged for success.  I promise him that God has him on belay and will catch him if he faints or gets hung up.  Still he doesn't know how it feels and how hard it will be so actually backing off the cliff is quite a challenge.  He's gone to the edge before and chickened out.  I encourage him all I can.  I try to get him to make a commitment to just do it this time, but he chokes.  He thinks I'm bullying him when he's not ready.

It's hard to be patient.  On this side of addiction its hard to imagine what he's going through, even though I once stood right where he is.  The memory of that fear is fading and I stop a second and smile, gratefully, at the realization.  It's hard to see him missing out on all the fun.  Its hard to see him suffering so; wanting it so bad, but afraid to take it.

This morning I pray he'll just do it.  If not, maybe next time.  I know he wants it.  I can see it in his eyes.  One day he'll want it bad enough to trust the means and methods and step over the edge.  As in rappelling, it's all down hill from there.  That is in easiness.  The first step back's the hardest, because it's all about choice.  Once he decides he's going to do it, no matter what, I'll breathe a heavy sigh of relief.  And once he has faith enough and steps over the edge and then senses what is transpiring in his new exhilarating life, so will he.

Note:  Technology and methods have greatly changed since the rappelling method I described.

The Kid's Canal

Less than a mile from our home, practically right in town, is an irrigation canal that flows along a moderately busy street.  It is affectionately known as The Kid's Canal.  I suppose it's the oldest canal in the valley.  It is lined with trees, with grassy banks here and there.  Some years ago the City developed a nice paved walkway along much of it.  There are three bridges to funnel walking traffic back to the street side where private homes occupy the bank.  There is no side walk along the street side.  Hardly room for one as the bank plunges steeply into the stream from the curb.  So, its nice to have the walkway, for safety's sake.

My grandkids, Jeff, 8 and Megan 6, live right through my back gate and are getting old enough for some high adventure.  They both are accomplished swimmers and, with a membership, spend a lot of time at the Recreation Center.  It is a nice indoor facility with state of the art pools, exercise equipment and even a rock climbing wall.  This summer though, we've been spending our time at the Kid's canal.

One day they asked where I went swimming when I was a boy.  "In the canal," I told them.  That captured their imaginations, so we grabbed a couple of inner tubes and headed down there.  The stream averages two and half feet deep and is about 12 feet wide.  They loved sailing down the stream, sometimes capsizing and screaming as they surfaced from the cold, exhilarating water.  Well, kind of screaming, in that breathless sort of way you do, when the shock of cold hasn't quite relinquished it's grip on you.  Funny how it's not quite so bad the next time around and pretty quick you're in there for good, letting the cool refreshing liquid cancel the effects of a long hot summer day.

Last week while floating the canal we stumbled upon one of their five year old cousins fishing there with his grandpa.  Jaren had caught a nice one and was so proud to show it to us.  He was also fascinated with the prospect of sailing down the canal so Megan offered him a ride in exchange for a good look at his fish.  We two grandfathers exchanged contented glances, for it doesn't get any better than this.

Last year Megan's kindergarten class was visited by a representative of the Fish and Game department.  He brought some trout eggs and set them up in a tank in their room.  They watched the eggs hatch, become tiny fish and grow to about an inch in length.  They loved learning about Rainbow Trout.  At the end of the year they walked the quarter mile from the school to the canal and released them into the stream.  This captured their imaginations too.  Part of the charm of the Kids Canal is that it has long been reserved for the fishing pleasure of children.  They can fish there without a license, with a limit of one fish each per trip.  Jeff and Megan's Dad bought them a couple of nice, small, manageable poles and for a few of weeks now we've gone to the canal to just to fish.  The first time we got skunked.  My favorite lure in for fishing Jones Hole didn't get a single bite.
Then one day while swimming there we noticed a young fellow using a different lure.  He was quite successful.    So the next time we used that and Jeff caught two!  Megs, the competitive one, hasn't rested since.  So last night we went down after supper to fish.  She thought, though, that we should take a tube just in case the fish weren't biting.  I guess she wanted to make sure there was some consolation fun built into the excursion.

This time it was Megan's turn and she caught her first Rainbow Trout.  I'd like to capture her excitement and enthusiasm in a bottle.  It'd make me a fortune!  We floated and fished and floated some more.  When Jeff caught his fish last week he was content to Catch and Release; having no interest in eating such a thing and raising hopes of catching them again when they're bigger.  Not so with his sister.  She was intent on casting, tempting, hooking, landing, keeping, examining, adoring, surprising, showing off, photographing, cleaning, dissecting, filleting, seasoning, frying, eating and sharing hers!  Which she did with gusto!  She wanted the complete experience and relished every step of the process.  I couldn't help admiring her.  For her, her first fish must have the quintessential celebration, nothing less would do.  Do I enjoy life at that level?  Not normally.  But today I did.  Thanks to a six year old child whose sense of wonder and joy knows no bounds!

As I sit here remembering a sweet evening I can't express enough, my gratitude for a simple little canal so convenient and close, and for a community that loves its children and grandpas enough to make it safe and shady and stock it with fish and memories, summer after precious summer.

Book Review - Orthodoxy by G. K. Chesterton

Booklogged introduced me to G. K. Chesterton while she was reading a Dean Koontz novel.  Dean has become a fan of Chesterton and many of his novels contain some pretty cool G. K. quotes.  Sweetie told me that he was C. S. Lewis' spiritual father and that he was a funny, frumpy philosopher.  Sounded good to me.

So, I thought I'd be smart and sophisticated and read his book, Orthodoxy.  Way over my head.  There were some fun stories, great quotes and good ideas and then the introduction by Philip Yancey ended and the book began.

I think I'd have to have a Master's Degree in philosophy to even begin to understand where Chesterton was going with half of this stuff.  Mostly I don't have a frame of reference for his examples, so I'd have to have a degree in late 19th Century England as well.  When I occasionally thought I actually understood what he was getting at I came down on his side only about half the time.  That's better than H. G. Wells and T. S. Elliot who I hardly ever agree with.  But not like C. S. Lewis, who I can actually understand and would give about 80% ratification.  What's up with all the initials?  Anyway, half way, I'm pulling the Book Darts and book mark and taking my brain some where else, thanks.

I suggest that if you want to understand G. K. Chesterton, read Philip Yancey.  He seems to understand him far better than Chesterton understands himself.  Chesterton wrote some novels as well.  I'll probably take a look at one of them and give him another chance.  I've always felt that novelists were better observers of the human condition than scholars are so maybe that'll work.

I will end on a positive note by including a cute little Chesterton poem.

Here dies another day

During which I have had eyes, ears, hands,

And the great world around me;

And with tomorrow begins another.

Why am I allowed two?

If Chesterton is anything he is grateful.

This book gets two stars.

Fear Not!

A fundamental feature of fear is control..  It is quite natural to want to control the outcomes in our lives, the circumstances in our lives even the people in our lives.  Why do we do this?  I think its because of fear.

The mother who fears for her children may make all of their decisions for them and hover over them and smother their free will.  She's afraid they may choose wrongly.  She fears the embarrassment that may come of errant children.  She fears for their safety.  She fears for their Eternal well being.  And in the end she often creates what she fears, as her inexperienced children lay claim to their rightful agency, but haven't had the chance to learn how to make choices.  She has purchased Satan's Plan and, hopefully not too late, discovered that it is wrong.

It is human nature to seek control of the variables in our lives.  The trouble is, God made this to be a world of constants and variables, of blessings and calamities, of joys and sorrows; of opposites.  Why did He do this?  He wants us to learn to rely on Him and not the arm of the flesh.  We get so excited about investments for our futures, and insurance policies and locks and deadbolts; all to help us feel secure in a world that was designed to be insecure so we would develop faith in Jesus Christ.

We get it in our heads that to get what we want we have be be in control of the process.  Satan again.  To get what he wanted he felt he had to control the plan and all of its participants.  All predators are control freaks.  They want life on their own terms and they will go to any lengths to have things their way.  Obviously, they could care less about anybody but themselves.  Satan is the ultimate predator.

The folks who built the Tower of Babel were control freaks too!  They wanted control of the means by which they could ascend into Heaven.  Apparently, they had rejected Jehovah's plan.  Probably due to fear.  They had to put their trust in Christ, but were afraid to relinquish control to Him, which is requisite to the Plan of Salvation.  They were afraid to give control to another, however benevolent, preferring to work their guts out instead.

Why do we seek control?  Because we can't bring ourselves to trust.  We essentially say, "If God is driving how will I get to my destination?  Sounds silly when you put it that way doesn't it?  That is unless you have other plans along the way.  We all say we want to go to Heaven but we're certain we need to go by way of Babylon and we fear God will take us by way of Enoch.  Somehow Satan has got out hearts set on Babylon with glitzy brochures and alluring TV spots.  We're pretty sure our lives won't be worth living if we haven't had the chance to check it out.  The lights, the glamor, the tastes and sounds and smells have great hold on us.  We live in fear that we might miss out on them.  Or,

We think Jesus might be a great teacher, a sweet counselor, but he can't possibly drive a car.  He walked everywhere he went.  We'll surely wreck shy of our destination.  We'd rather be behind the wheel ourselves and make sure we make it.  We fear letting our salvation be up to someone else.  Or,

We think we live on the wrong side of the tracks.  We think there's no way He'll drive over to the seedy part of town to pick us up and take us.  We're going to have to make our own way in the world and when we finally buy that house in the hill, then He'll swing by to give us a ride.  We fear our own inadequacy and then, ironically, turn around a depend on it.

The way to overcome fear is to relinquish control.  Our objective is not to get control of  our lives but rather, to surrender it to Christ.

Here again, Jesus is the ultimate, perfect example.  He declared that He never did anything except the will of the Father.  If you attend the Temple you will see how literally, He means that.  His desire is that we do the same thing.  Surrender our will to the Father.  Elder Neal A. Maxwell has told us that our will is the only thing we own outright, therefore it is the only gift we truly have to offer God.

How did the Jaredites change from Tower Builders to people who would willingly climb inside of a windowless, rudderless, sail-less, helm-less box and let God deliver them across the ocean?  They chose to give up personal agendas,  to relinquish control, to trust God, to be obedient and to have faith.  It took them a long time and a fair amount of practice to get to that state of mind.  And God patiently let them grow to that capacity.  But, and here's the clincher, they started with a commitment.  "I'll go where you want me to go dear Lord, over mountain or plain or sea, I'll say what you want me to say dear Lord.  I'll be what you want me to be."

The Tower of Babel was built on fear.  The Jaredites Barges were built on trust and love.  Their account says that as they traveled in those barges for 344 day, they never did cease to sing praises to their God.

To the control freak, shutting one's self up in a Jaredite Barge is inconceivable; as inconceivable as it is to trust Christ to redeem him.  But don't give up on him.  God will confound him.  God will knock down his towers.  God will allow him to suffer the consequences of his pride until, in the end he his humble enough to "let go and let God."
 

Find Me On Mormon.org

The LDS Church has added a wonderful new feature to their website Mormon.org.  They've invited members to post their profiles to their site so visitors and get acquainted with real members of the Church.  I was fortunate to be approved among the first 2000 profiles.  There are presently 13,000 profiles awaiting approval.

You can view my profile there and also post a profile of your own.  I think this is a great new opportunity to share the blessings of the gospel with interested people from around the globe.

I read yesterday that a Mission in New York is experimenting with Social Networking.  They have several missionaries who have set up pages on Facebook, MySpace and others in order to connect with and teach the gospel to an even more wonderful people.  Sounds, like fun.  Easier than knocking on doors.  But hey, I loved knocking on doors.  Those were such good times going around meeting people.  Of course in the Philippines it was easy.  Everyone was hospitable and kind.  I never had a single door slammed in my face in the entire two years I was there.

I think it is wonderful that technology is being developed and embraced by the Church and that it is becoming ever more effective in sharing the truths and joy that so richly bless our lives.

Book Review - Letters To My Sons by Stephen Merrill Weber

It's not fair to review this book because it isn't available for sale and you're not likely to get a chance to read it.  I'd like to see it published and would change the name to:

A Most Excellent Life


The book is written by my cousin.  Steve is 4 years younger than I and in our childhood, we never connected much. He lived with my folks the year I returned from my mission and we were in the house together for a few weeks.  I'm hesitant to admit that I thought he was just a pesky teenager and once he even pushed my buttons effectively enough that I decked him.


Letters To My Sons is a memoir of his remarkable life.  I only have space or time to hit the highlights, but I'd feel like I cheated you if I didn't at least try to introduce you to such a remarkable person.


Steve mostly grew up in the San Diego, California area.  His parents built a house there and Steve was able to be involved.  He came to love building, became a licensed General Contractor, built several homes of his own and a few for other people.  In High School he built a fine 19 foot travel trailer for his second semester project.  He worked in construction to put himself through school.  He served a full time Mission in Texas. He was called on a mission two consecutive summers as a finish carpenter for the Nauvoo Temple.  He was the principal builder of his parent's summer cabin in Wyoming, which he now owns and wants to operate as a Bed and Breakfast.


When Steve was 14 he checked out of school and sailed with friends in a 40 foot sailboat to Hawaii and spent months sailing around the islands.  Since, he has skippered a 70 foot private yacht in the waters between Seattle and Alaska.  He's been a competitive water skier and has spent days and days on the water.


Steve has traveled extensively at home and abroad and served as a tour guide on Church History tours.  He's been to Egypt, Jamaica, Israel, The Dominican Republic and Mexico and I'm sure I'm missing a few other foreign destinations.  He's a great fisherman, an avid cyclist, an expert skier, avid outdoors man and exceptional Scout Leader.


My cousin has served in several Bishoprics and was recently released at Bishop of a BYU Student Ward.  He has been a Stake Missionary, Scoutmaster and teacher in various capacities.  He is in high demand as a fireside speaker.

Steve has a lovely wife and six wonderful sons.  One of which is deceased, due to a tragic accident.

Now lets get to his career.  I'm not kidding, all this other stuff and much much more, he's done on the side!

He began as a Seminary Teacher and then moved to the CES Institute program.  He's taught at Institutes in Reno, Nevada, Seattle and Bellevue, Washington and Orem, Utah.  He's presently the director of the Institute at Yale University in New Haven, Connecticut.

We've been friends much of our adult lives, yet much of this prodigious resume' was a complete surprise to me.  This book is written with a rich measure of humility.  It's intended audience is his own immediate family so there is no way or reason to embellish anything presented.

I am a lover of biography.  I loved this one.  Here is a man who has lived large, fast and well.  I can't stress enough how much admire, his accomplishments and character.

The quantity, variety and excellence of his accomplishments are not the things that most impress me.  Steve is not a heartless robot marching hastily through life.  Meaning, purpose and faith permeates everything he does. When he built his house in Issaquah, Washington, he had inherited a set of hand tools from his deceased grandfather.  To connect with his grandfather and heritage, Steve reserved one room to build and finish during those moments when he was working on the house alone.  He built that room using only those precious hand tools his grandfather had used.

When he happened to finish the last window in the Nauvoo Temple he paused and asked his good friend and leader to ceremonially, set the last pane.  He was studying the biographies of Saints who'd attended the original Nauvoo Temple and received permission to emulate a prayer service that was once conducted in the baptistry where he was assigned to build.

Friends mean everything to Steve and the long lasting, reciprocally blessed relationships he has maintained over many decades are astounding.  That kind of connection is only maintained by earnest, thought, tireless effort.

I wept for joy repeatedly as I discovered the heart of this most excellent man.

Thank you Steve for being who you are and helping me believe I could be half as fine.

Help Me Write My Book!

Now that I'm a writer, albeit non published, I'm getting down to business.  My first book has begun and is named.  I will call it Help Me To Understand His Words.  It focuses on learning from God through the Scriptures.

I'm trying a new experiment.  I'm writing it out in the open, where you can read, critique, suggest and otherwise collaborate with me.  I think feed-back will be healthy and productive.

So, this is my invitation to you to go to Help Me To Understand His Words and get involved in the writing process.  Nobody stands alone in this world and I feel confident that with God's help and yours, we can make this not only a work of love, but one of substance and quality.

Happy Birthday To Me!

I don't ordinarily draw attention to my birthday.  Today, though, I've given myself such an extraordinary present that I just have to tell you about it.

Most of you know that I've been unemployed for quite some time.  I've sent out dozens of applications, had a few interviews and still haven't found a job.  The past couple of weeks I've really beat myself up over it.  I had decided that I had to find something if it was no more than cleaning motel rooms.  Hey, I'm not proud, I cleaned and delivered portable toilets for a while.  You don't go much lower on the desirable jobs list than that.

Yesterday, depressed and out of sorts with myself, I had resolved to get out there and take the first job I could find, no matter what it was.  I just couldn't make myself do it.  Somehow, deep inside I felt that if I did I would be letting myself down by settling for less than what God had in mind for me.  Even so, I had no idea what He intends for me.  I spent the entire day wrestling with it.  At dusk I went for a walk.  I do some of my best thinking while walking.  It didn't take long.  I came up with the same conclusion I have on other walks, but this time I had the details.

I remember coming home from such a walk a few months ago.  Sweetie asked what I'd found out.  I told her that I felt that I was focusing too much on the problem and not enough on the solution.  Quite frankly, I had no idea what that meant.  This time I came home understanding quite certainly.

Most of you know I have a flood-gutted basement that has been so for three years.  I've had that troublesome problem hanging over my head all that time.  I had set out the fix it myself.  I even added to the problem by moving the stairwell and rearranging the rooms down there.  Much of the stuff we had down there is still stacked in the carport, rendering it useless for its intended purpose.  We've been slowly going though all that intending to have a yard sale.  Every free moment I've had has been overshadowed by the monster down stairs.  Every decision seems based on recovering from that disaster.  Too often I've had to choose between good and best as I've tried to move on with my life.  Too often, rather than choose, I've caved in to the overwhelming volume of the task and done nothing.

As I pondered these situations and my less than stellar response to them, it occurred to me that I might be barking up the wrong tree.  I remember Stephen R. Covey suggesting that we sometimes climb the ladder of success only to find it leaning against the wrong wall.  I began to wonder if that was it.  Covey also says that energy comes from oxygen and interest.  I had to admit that I had neither.  I'd quit working out and worse, I had no passion for anything I was doing.  That is except my service at the Detention Center.  I dared to begin to ask myself if there was anything out there that I was passionate about.  I dared imagine doing something I could hardly avoid doing because it inspired and motivated me so much.  I began to think about writing.

I've dabbled in writing most of my life.  But, most of my life I've been busy with work and other demands and seldom found the time to really develop my craft and thoroughtly discover my voice.  That is where my passion lies, that is what will get me out of bed in the morning.  That it is something that could make me want a prolonged and productive life.  Money, even enough to pay the bills just doesn't motivate me any more.  Life has got to have more meaning than to just plod through mundane tasks for a paycheck.

I began to understand what I must do.  I talked it over with Sweetie and received the best Birthday gift she could have given me - Whole-Hearted Support.

So today, on my 60th Birthday I am no longer unemployed.  I am a writer!  That is my job!  This new job has some pretty stiff requirements and it won't be easy, but I am on fire!  I am absolutely going in the right direction!  I can feel it in the depths of my soul.  I have finally given myself permission to pursue my dream.  The basement can wait or be worked on after work and on the weekends.

 I have an investment I can liquidate which will sustain us for a couple of months.  After that we'll just have to see.  I wrote a couple of days ago about seeing with the eye of faith and then going forth and making that vision come to pass.  I am willing to do that.  It will require a lot of discipline, at lot of courage and a lot of faith.  I hardly slept last night for excitement.  Yet I knew that my new job requires me to show up on time and to labor with integrity.  So I got up at six and did my morning routine so I could be showered, shaved and dressed for work on time.  I've been self employed before and I'm pretty scared of my boss.  He's quite the evil task master.  It'll take some getting used to.  I'll need to recalibrate my daily patterns to fit my new obligation.  But hey, no more shift work.  No more working on the Sabbath.  I should work out just fine.

Now, I have a few of favors to ask.  First, I'm fully aware that pulling this off with require a miracle.  I also know that the miracle is not likely to come until after the trial of my faith.  If you believe in what I'm doing, encourage me, please!  If you don't, please try to keep quiet.  I know how foolish this may sound to some of you.  There will be days when it will sound foolish to me.

Second, when I succeed, please help me to stay humble.  I don't want to ever be found taking credit for a miracle only God can perform.

Third, eventually, and hopefully soon, I'm going to have make some money with my writing.  You can be of great help with that.  Please visit my blog and its peripherals often and when you find something that genuinely pleases or inspires you, would you just forward it to friends and family who might like it.  That little gift alone will likely make all the difference.  I'm not yet prepared to send anything to a publisher, but developing a reputation will most certainly enhance my possibilities and broaden my prospects.

Now, skeptic or fan, I've laid it out there.  You are free to judge me as a fool or a visionary.  All I know is that for the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm working on the solution instead of the problem.

Book Review - Fighting Ruben Wolfe by Markus Zusak

Markus Zusak is one of my favorite authors.  He's young, off the wall/Australian and very interesting to read.  I keep wondering where he gets his insight as much of his most important work was written in his late teens and early twenties.  Maybe I should read his biography......BRB.....Wikipedia didn't have that much to add.  Disappointment.  BTW, Zusak is a master of the one word sentence.  Emulation.

Since I spend a lot of time working with at-risk youth, this book was a prize for me.  It was a realistic chance to get inside the head of one of them and get a better understanding of how the wheels turn in there.  In fact I plan on including it in the library at the Detention Center because I think it would help many of them understand their own motivations and frustrations.

Conclusions:  People need a purpose.  I can relate, I need a purpose.  It was exhilarating to see the change in Ruben and Cameron, the two main characters, brothers, when they moved from hanging around with nothing to do, to having a sense of purpose, albeit a rather shady one.  Their motivation level went through the roof and the rate of personal discovery and maturity did too.

I was stunned to discover that assurance of winning took a second seat to the hunger and insecurity of mere fighting.  To learn that being a fighter with heart captivated the fans far more than being a dominant sure-fire victor.  It also captivated the fighters and in the end raised each, as well as their family to a higher, more courageous, more comfortable place.  It somehow becomes a whole new twist on enjoying the journey as well as - perhaps instead of - the destination.  It's about living life rather than achieving or dominating it.  A big part of the thrill and most of the reward in life lies in, not in spite of its intrinsic uncertainty.  I love that.  Success and satisfaction in life are far greater in an environment of opposition than in one of certainty and security.

I used to read a lot of self-help books but none of them teaches like a truly great novel.  Thanks to Booklogged, I hardly waste any time on less than great books anymore.  It is always such a serendipitous moment to discover priceless gems in quite unlikely places.  This little book was replete with them.  Thank you Markus and Booklogged.

Four stars.

Book Review - The Spyglass by Richard Paul Evans

This morning I taught a lesson at my church meetings at the Detention Center.  Again, as I often do, I read this book to them.  Its message is profound.

A visitor comes to an impoverished and run down Kingdom.  Everyone is depressed and discouraged with their little beat up corner of the world.  The visitor lets the King look through his Spyglass wherein everything he views looks as it could be.  What a marvelous kingdom he beholds through the glass.  The visitor allows the King to keep the Spyglass for a couple of years.  For those years he lets his subjects look through the glass and see what might be with a little elbow grease and determination.  The Kingdom is transformed.  When the traveler returns for the Spyglass the King is reluctant to give it up.  Only then, under the tutelage of the visitor, does he come to realize that all he really needs if faith.  Nothing starts without Faith.  The Spyglass helped them to have Faith that desirable results will  come of their efforts.  Now, they were ready to envision their own futures and go forward with Faith in promising results.

Years ago, when I found this great little book, I longed to have a spyglass of my own.  I searched and searched and one day I found one, on E-bay.  A Spyglass very nearly identical to the one on the cover of the book.  It isn't magic, though it is wonderful with 150 year old optics that amaze me.  I keep it on a shelf to remind me that I too can accomplish what I envision through Faith.  My own Kingdom has become run down and in disrepair, just as Evans' fictional Kingdom did.  This week I almost gave up on the vision of putting things right and coming back to the (unappreciated) splendor of the past.  I looked through my Spyglass for the first time in a long time and found it to be a lot more magical than I expected.  I am going to make it so.  I am going to repair the basement.  I am going to write my books.  I am going to go back to Newfoundland.  I am going to find a way to help our kids stay out of Detention.  I've never stopped dreaming of these things, I just lost faith in their accomplishment.  Today as I looked through the Spyglass I saw with the eye of Faith.

Book Review - Frankenstein - Lost Souls, Book 4, by Dean Koontz

Somehow I thought Dean Koontz's Frankenstein Series was a trilogy.  So, you can imagine my surprise when my daughter presented book four to me for Father's Day!  I was thunderstruck!  I guess that's better than Victor Frankenstein's monster who was lightningstruck.  Or is that the same thing?

Koontz's style becomes ever more breezy as he matures.  But the content remains full of depth and meaning.  As the legacy of Dr. Frankenstein remains, in the current time frame, Dean examines what it means to be human, to be flawed, to be influenced by love and fear.  It is easy for me to wish for perfection and power, until my favorite author explains the hideous ramifications of such a misbegotten dream.

Michael and Carson are still at it, as is Deucalion.  Heroes in the fight to stop Frankenstein's diabolical and ever more modern assault on humankind.  And, this book is but the beginning, the most recent battle has just begun.  I'm happy to report that there will be more Frankenstein in my future and hopefully yours.  Of course, while I am very excited to have made this discovery, I hope Dean is devoting at least a little time to more of Odd Thomas.  Though it wouldn't surprise me if Odd showed up and kicked the mad doctor's butt in his own humble way and showed Carson and Michael that there really is more than one way to skin a cat.

Book Review - Louise Penny's Chief Inspector Gamache Series

I suppose I'm cheating by reviewing these novels collectively.  I can't really help it.  They were so captivating that I couldn't stop to review them but had to hurry on to the next installment.

Booklogged has been working on me pretty hard to read these and I wonder why I ever resist her suggestions.  She and I traveled to Quebec three years ago this month.  I found the graves of some of my ancestors in a little town called Sutton near the Vermont border.  We fell in love with the place as well as nearby Knowlton.  These books are set in the same general vicinity and the charm of Penny's village of Three Pines and the wonderful people who live there take me back to that priceless journey.

Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, our main character finds himself visiting Three Pines all too frequently if you judge a village by the number of murders that take place there.  But, he (who resides in Montreal) and the locals are such a delightful combination I found myself disappointed that the fifth volume wasn't centered in Three Pines.  That is until I actually read it.

Penny artfully uses her mysteries to examine human nature.  Her insight is magnificent and delightful.  Great writers teach us about ourselves and so it is with Penny's work.  As she examines the hearts of her richly developed characters she gives me a view into my own heart and motivations.  Inspector Gamache is set up to be the bench mark of character and wholeness.  We measure the others and ourselves against his qualities we are all wont to emulate.  As they, and we spend time in his presence we grow in honesty, candor, integrity, peace and surety.

Here a couple of quotes that impressed and inspired me:

Our secrets make us sick because the separate us from other people.  Keep us alone.  Turn us into fearful, angry, bitter people.  Turn us against others and finally against ourselves.

Attachment masquerades as love, pity as compassion and indifference as equanimity.

She looked at him.  She often felt foolish, ill constructed, next to others. Beside Gamache she only ever felt whole.

I can't think of a thing I'd rather have said about me than that last quote.  It would be so grand to be so confident and comfortable with one's self that you only ever spent yourself lifting others.  It is interesting that while Armand Gamache spends his time catching murderers, he accomplishes much more by helping heal broken hearts and souls.  His chief weapon?  An attentive, listening ear.  I need to spend more time with Armand Gamache.

The next novel in Louise Penny's Chief Inspector Gamache series is set in Quebec City, another favorite place of mine.  There are hints that Three Pines, still plays a role, however.  It is called Bury Your Dead and is expected out in September.

I've often dissed on book series', but this time it occurred to me that it is a very efficient method considering that characters need not be introduced more than once.  In this case, I have such a fondness for several characters, I look forward to spending more time with them.

People say Quebec is not a very welcoming place and that they despise Anglo-phones.  Such was not our experience.  We spent a day and a half in eastern Quebec and never found anyone who spoke any English.  Still they treated us with kindness and were most pleasant in their efforts to assist us despite our language and cultural differences.  If others have a different experience my guess is they took the disharmony with them in their own luggage.  I suspect Louise Penny would say the same.

A joyous five stars!

Book Review - He Restoreth My Soul by Donald L. Hilton Jr. MD

There has long been a debate as to whether pornography is addictive.  Dr. Hilton's book clearly puts the debate to rest.  The book is replete with scientific evidence to back his claim.  As President Gordon B. Hinckley claimed many years ago, pornography is indeed addictive, pernicious and destructive.

The book focuses it's attention, however, on recovery.  Addiction is heinous in it's devastation and allure.  It is nice to visit the subject with such a positive, hopeful, realistic expectation of emancipation from the clutches of this horrible vice.

If you or a loved one has fallen into this horrible trap, I recommend this book as a great place to start toward leaving the devastation behind.  If you are a Church Leader may I suggest it as well.  It is important to realize that abstinence is not the same as recovery and such an assumption is a dangerous one.

Dr. Hilton makes it plain that this problem exists at epidemic proportions and must, though uncomfortable, be addressed broadly among the population.  The book was recommended to me by a General Authority in connection with the LDS Church's Addiction Recovery Program.  I in turn recommend it to you.

Me And Bobby McGee

Last night Sweetie was playing a selection of Roger Miller stuff on her iPod and up came his version of Me and Bobby McGee by Kris Kristofferson.  I've heard so many versions of it and supposed that Janis Joplin's was the first one recorded. Up until now, hers was my favorite.  I had always thought I was prejudiced by first recordings.  Nobody seems to do them justice after the original.  My supposition was that I have a resistance to change so every first recording, therefore, becomes my preference.

Much to my surprise, I discovered that Roger Miller was the first to record that much loved song!  And his rendition seems to be my favorite!

According to Wikipedia 55 major artists have recorded a rendition of Me And Bobby McGee.  I wonder if that is a record, no pun intended.  Janis Joplin's version took the song to the top of the charts, but not until after her death.  It was her only number one single.

Whose version is your favorite?  I'll compile the stats in a couple of weeks.

Book Review - Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett

Holy Cow!  This was a long time coming.  I've been busy in the "thick of thin things" and sure enjoyed getting back to more reading.

Gaiman and Pratchett were amazing in this collaboration!  A story of the end of the world featuring an angel and a devil who rather botch things, or do they.  You might say the Apocalypse comes off with a hitch.  Or was it a glitch, or several. We humans have a tendency to mess things up, but occasionally, we do things right as well. Blame it on Heaven or blame it on Hell eventually, the buck stops with us.

Good Omens is a glorious romp through the meadow of human nature.  We are so funny and these guys have made it their millennial mission to point that out.  I laughed out loud on page after page.  Mostly at myself.  There is a bit of me in every character in the book; all fodder for funny.  I learned to take myself and life a little less seriously and realized that humanity and the human experience is a joyous blessing to be celebrated!