MAD, SAD, GLAD, BAD

A very small degree of hope is sufficient to cause the birth of love.

Stendhal

Huckleberries!

Once a woman has forgiven her man, she must not reheat his sins for breakfast.

Marlene Dietrich

 One thing you will probably remember well is any time you forgive and forget.  

~Franklin P. Jones

We should feel sorrow, but not sink under its oppression.

Confucius

A man is already halfway in love with any woman who listens to him.

Brendan Francis

She sews!

We could never learn to be brave and patient, if there were only joy in the world.

Helen Keller

 There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief.

Aeschylus

Another summer project - Grandma taught her to knit and purl.

Life is the flower for which love is the honey.

Victor Hugo

Perhaps the day may come when we shall remember 

these sufferings with joy.

Virgil

We build too many walls and not enough bridges.  

Isaac Newton

Mixed Feelings

         You know how when you think about what to name your kids, and you have your favorite names in mind for that joyous future day, and then as you discuss them with your spouse, for one reason or another they get eliminated one by one.  There are those names you would never consider using because of some negative association.  Then you run across someone with that name and it seems like you approach problems differently from each other, but over time you work through some obstacles, and you finally end up gaining respect for one another after all.  Somehow in the process the name gains a broader spectrum of meaning, and its value changes.  

As it is for every second-grader, recess was a pretty big deal.   We looked forward to it, had plans and went for weeks doing the same thing;  Jump rope, Chinese jump rope, hop scotch, kick ball, making paper fortune tellers and learning cat's in the cradle string games.  Our  little school with three grades, Southside Elementary, was situated next to a rocky hillside, and several of us spent our recesses building a house from those rocks.  The rooms were laid out like a giant blue print which got bigger and bigger as we added on more rooms for our growing “family”.

        One day at the noon break, our Lunch Recess was joined with a usually alternating class.  My friends and I were placing rocks for the walls of our blueprint house when one of my friends approached saying that another group of girls claimed it was their house.  A disagreement ensued which escalated in intensity until a teacher was summoned. I was ashamed that an adult had to come referee the situation.  Feeling dread in my heart, I watched the teacher on lunch recess duty approach.  Of all the teachers, it was the one person I would have hoped it would not be.  I was deeply embarrassed that the teacher, Mrs. Chappell, who came to be the mediator was an older lady that I knew from our weekly fellowship meeting.  If there was anyone in the school who knew that I should not be getting in school yard arguments, it was she.

      It became clear who was most passionate about the project, because when the teacher came, all the other girls disappeared while we each presented our side of the story. Jeannie was completely convinced that she and her friends were the ones in charge of building the house, and therefore it belonged to them.  I quickly tried to convince the teacher that loud, obnoxious Jeannie who was not interested in conceding that anyone else might have an interest, was in the wrong, but it appeared my protests fell on deaf ears.  Those of us who had a different recess time had certainly been contributing to the work for a long time, I argued, but in my heart I knew we were building on someone else's work.

Within those few tense moments, a few facts crossed my mind.  I did not intend to have someone mean like Jeannie as my friend.   It was true that the “house” had been started by someone else, so perhaps that someone was Jeannie and her gang.  And when I looked into Mrs. Chappell's eyes, I knew that on this day my behavior was a surprise to her and I feared, raised some question about my character.  I was conscious of the expectations and standard of these three adults: the teacher and my parents - and I did not want them to be ashamed of me.  As gracefully as I could and as quickly as possible, I capitulated, giving over all possession: lock, stock and barrel, to Jeannie, and with my dignity more than a little tattered, I walked away.

Not long after this encounter, Jeannie approached me and tried to apologize.  She suggested we share the “house”.   However, hurt feelings prevailed against the hopeful prompting of my friends, so I declined with chilly courtesy. I had no plans to get into any more interactions with Jeannie and I had no further interest in the house if I had to share it with her.  I told my friends they were free to join Jeannie in her house but I would find something else to do, and off I went, head held high, with a couple of girls in tow.    Some of the girls chose to join her, but I was not one of them.   I would not risk another difficult situation involving a close call with Jeannie's selfish attitude.
 
It seemed to be Jeannie's attack that had worked the greatest harm to my sensibilities.  I felt like I had to fight back in self defense and from that I found it difficult to recover.  On one hand, my parents’ expectations of my behavior seemed to be greater than Jeannie’s parents’ requirements for her behavior, and on the other, my reaction could be labeled pride because of my refusal to submit to Jeannie's oversight of the project.  She may have been raised in a home where emotional volatility was accepted and understood, where people were expected to forgive and forget quickly, where feelings and actions were on a roller coaster of highs and lows and twists and turns, a kind of endless, confusing drama.  I couldn't forget the feeling of shame I felt during the encounter and therefore did not plan on repeating it, but I also understood that we both had vision and clarity of vision that was putting both of us into a leadership position.  Under those circumstances, working together would be difficult if not impossible.

My mom to this day impresses me with her dignity.  One day she left my younger sister and me at home while she ran some errands in town.  I have no idea what had prompted our disagreement, but we got into what I would term a knock-down, drag-out fight, chasing one another down the stairs yelling and even briefly added hair pulling to our repertoire.  Immediately I realized I had stepped outside the bounds of acceptable behavior, so at least it was one of the shortest fights on record.  

     Mom did not have to be present to influence me.  The very thought of my mother ever finding out that I had behaved in such a manner filled me with shame. I could only imagine her disappointment and astonishment.  Of course, my mom probably was not as unaware of my faults as I thought or hoped, but I nevertheless chose to think she would be caught completely off guard.    I became aware of my own nature, and began to see that if I allowed myself to release my own emotions, it was not a pretty sight.  I was more ashamed at my loss of dignity than anything, but what a lesson - what potential for destruction should my impassioned emotions be loosed.

Fighting for what belongs to you and being a driven businessman or woman has become somewhat expected among successful adults with high powered careers, a trait that is even desired and admired. Convinced that they will become doormats if they don't stand up for themselves, they allow no loss, and are unwilling to accept a temporary loss in exchange for their dignity.  There are plenty of people who have lowered the standard of behavior for themselves, but I learned quite young, that is not my style.  

We don't need to fundamentally transform America. We need to restore America.

Sarah Palin

Shoshone River

Unending was the stream, unending the misery, unending the sorrow.

Karl Amadeus Hartmann

Love to faults is always blind, 
always is to joy inclined. 
Lawless, winged, and unconfined, 
and breaks all chains from every mind.

William Shakespeare

Perfect Precious Moments Child

 The only nice thing about being imperfect is 

the joy it brings to others.

Doug Larson

Single shot, drive-by shooting - One handed  with 70/200 Telephoto Lens by me, driving pickup @ approx 40 MPH,
 Beacon Hill RD, but had to.  Recognized this plane!

Relative Theories

You can't be suspicious of a tree, or accuse a bird or a squirrel of 

subversion or challenge the ideology of a violet.

Hal Borland

Beauty Queen and Princesses

What the caterpillar calls the end of the world the master calls a butterfly.

Richard Bach

Gina's Lilies

Disturbing the Peace

The turtle lays thousands of eggs without anyone knowing,

but when the hen lays an egg, the whole country is informed.

There's no road map on how to raise a family: it's always 

an enormous negotiation.

Meryl Streep

Mountain Dew 

Seems we fought a lot as kids.  Mom hated the teasing and bickering so she sent us to our rooms to cool off.  When I heard my sisters upstairs playing within a very short period of time, although I was quite happily reading a book, I thought it was unfair that I had not also been excused from my room. Years later, my sister was distressed when I moved to Spokane,  a two hour drive away, and wrote me the best letters ever.  I'd left behind three siblings with some growing years ahead, a six-month old baby sister on whom we all doted, and a happy home in exchange for the unknown future; not that it was an easy thing to do.  

The family saga continued through her letters, a diaphanous link between the regular Friday night through Sunday afternoon visits I made every three weeks.  Moving to Wyoming fourteen months later was worse.  It was the end of the world as we knew it.  Who would have guessed we would become a team, and more or less inseparable?  

Apparently there had been some major bonding over paper-doll making, playing house, pretending to be student and teacher, and literally combing the hair out of our dolls' heads.  Together we had been walking the fence line and making repairs the day Janis called across the field to find us, bringing the anticipated news of the arrival of the baby, our newborn sister.  Although Dad would fail to see the necessity of quitting before the job was done, even in the case of such a momentous event, we left our post to celebrate, and  found it to be pointless.    

We rode the three-wheeler across the fields ahead of the Bale Stacker just as fast as we could go.  As one, we rhythmically kicked the hay bales over in a smooth motion so the strings were encircling them parallel to the ground, ready to be scooped up to the stack. Together we let one fall back over when we spotted a snake under it, and took the correction from the unhappy Stacker driver, who had to dismount and do it himself.  We chased cows, rode bikes, walked to Grandma's house, sewed, shopped, slept under the stars, skated, and carefully climbed the long, rustic ladders to the cupola.  We entertained often, and learned to help put on a dinner for dozens like a well-oiled machine. 

People who knew us as kids seem amused and surprised at how well we get along as adults.  While it may seem odd to them, I can only marvel that they would consider it strange.  The childish squabbles are for me a vague memory, probably a normal part of some kind of hierarchy, a sort of pecking order, more constant than vicious.  Well, except for that one time when Mom was gone we got a little carried away.  While learning how hard we could push we discovered which "buttons" got the biggest reactions, the honest tears.  I recall plenty of disagreements over whose turn to clear the table, and who had to wash the dishes.  However, it was far worse to be stuck in the kitchen working alone while everyone else went off to enjoy the evening, so we occasionally managed to bury the hatchet long enough to be in the same room, at least temporarily.  

You see, Dad declared he didn't need or want a dishwasher in the house, since he had three living girls to do the job.  The deal was that we could get a dishwasher if, and only if, we got a cow to milk.  Adamant about not raising spoiled rotten kids, and since we didn't relish the thought of making a trip to the barn to milk the family cow twice a day, the lack of an automatic dishwasher in our kitchen continued for years after I left home.  A dishwasher finally appeared in Mom's kitchen quite awhile after its installation in most houses, but before the baby of the family grew up and left home.  Perhaps it was that after the company left, there was no one with whom to share the cleanup chores.  Or maybe baby sister had finally gotten him wrapped around her little finger,  something that seemed far beyond my ability to accomplish.

Long, sloshing, tiresome hours seemed to slowly pass while the warm sudsy water cooled and turned into a thin, sickly gray, soupy liquid.  Mom had asked for special drawers to be built under the sink cabinet.  They had a wooden platform, a board that we could slide out to the front of the open drawer upon which we stood to better reach the sink basin and faucet.  We towered over the sink as we grew, then stood on the floor, leaning over the basin, now armpit high.  She made aprons for each of us, plastic ones in three sizes: Small, Medium and Large.  Mine was the largest, with yellow flowers on a white background and yellow trim.  We played in the soap suds, we took our time, we dallied, we sighed, and I suppose there were some shared, knowing grins in the living room and perhaps some long-suffering exasperation before we finally drained the dishwater and hung up our aprons.  

For some reason, I decided one day that I was not going to cooperate.  I sat on the bottom basement step with my plastic apron tied behind me and refused to do the dishes.  My protest had the unsurprising effect of Dad hauling me bodily up the stairs, a furious, howling, red-faced, red-headed nine year old.  Adding insult to injury, Mom took a picture of us when we reached the top.  Surprised that my display of rebellion earned laughter rather than a spanking, I struggled against Dad's relentless  grip on my arms imprisoning me to his will.   The reason for this display of defiance as my my wide-eyed younger sister looked on with an apprehensive gaze?  How dare I defy my parents!  Willfulness, mainly, I think.  I simply realized I did not want to do the dishes and probably nothing else that anyone wanted me to do. Could have had something to do with hearing that being red-headed was associated with a fiery temperament. 

I remember getting a red rash on my forearms from doing the dishes.  My arms were sore and raw, but it was a mistake to think that would get me out of the job, as I suggested.  Mom changed the brand of soap, and unfortunately that solved the problem.  Also, breaking glasses didn't work, nor did bleeding in the water and nearly needing stitches.  To avoid the hazardous work conditions, Mom bought plastic Tupperware glasses.  And I began to be pained at the thought of how hard this job was for my little sister when it was her turn, aware as I was that it took her so long to do the dishes.  And she was so little.  I was not, however, pained enough to do it for her and too stubborn to admit it bothered me.

Some of the lessons I learned from this are:

1.  Dad was very strong and I wasn't going to win.

2.  I was making a huge big deal out of something that was not very important, thereby looking ridiculous.

3.  Kids outgrow spanking age.  There are other ways of getting your point across.

4.  Mom's don't give up easily. (If at first you don't succeed, try something else.)

 How many legs does a dog have if you call the tail a leg? 

Four. Calling a tail a leg doesn't make it a leg.

Abraham Lincoln

Don't worry when you are not recognized, 

but strive to be worthy of recognition.

Abraham Lincoln

“Young people don't always do what they're told, but if they can pull it off and do something wonderful, sometimes they escape punishment. ” 

― Rick Riordan

A negative judgment gives you more satisfaction than praise, provided it smacks of jealousy. 

Jean Baudrillard 

Criticism may not be agreeable, 

but it is necessary. 

It fulfills the same function as pain 

in the human body. 

It calls attention to an 

unhealthy state of things.

Winston Churchill

Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them.

James A. Baldwin

Look deep into nature, and then you will 

understand everything better.

Albert Einstein

                                             
                    “Don't handicap your children by making their lives easy.”   ― Robert A. Heinlein         
                                                                                    

Green is the prime color of the world, 

and that from which its loveliness arises.

Pedro Calderon de la Barca

Forgiving is love's toughest work, and love's biggest risk.  If you twist it into something it was never meant to be, it can make you a doormat or an insufferable manipulator.  Forgiving seems almost unnatural.  Our sense of fairness tells us people should pay for the wrong they do.  But forgiving is love's power to break nature's rule.  

                                                                                                 ~Lewis B. Smedes

Don't waste time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind.

Mary Schmich

 A gossip is one who talks to you about others; 
a bore is one who talks to you about himself; 
and a brilliant conversationalist 
is one who talks to you about yourself.

- Lisa Kirk

Paradise Valley

A Field Trip

Industry, thrift and self-control are not sought because they create wealth, but because they create character.

Calvin Coolidge

He that would be superior to external influences must first become superior to his own passions.


~Samuel Johnson

The happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence, but in the mastery, of his passions.

- Lord Alfred Tennyson

He who reigns within himself and rules his passions, desires, and fears is more than a king.

- John Milton

Waiting is one of the great arts.

- Margery Allingham

Life becomes easier when you learn to accept an apology you never got.  

                                                                                                                           ~Robert Brault

The strong man is the one who is able to intercept at will the communication between the senses and the mind.

- Napoleon Bonaparte

He who conquers others is strong; he who conquers himself is mighty.

- Lao-Tzu

Dad assigned the task, picking sticks, I suspect, mainly with the intention of warding off any lack of work ethic we might hint at developing.  Since we moaned, groaned and complained often and loudly, he just kept clearing land.

Mom persuaded us out the door more gently, albeit firmly, with new cowboy boots and hats and long sleeved shirts tucked into our jeans to protect us from sunburn, with a kind of unrelenting impetus. Along with numerous reminders that we needed to get started as soon as possible before the day got any hotter.  And don't forget our water.

Reluctant and grumbling, we gathered up our gloves and water jugs for the trek to the field.  After several of these jaunts, I began to see a pattern, dreading most the first round of stick-picking - where the roots and branches were scattered abundantly before us.  Dad had started clearing a new field, and this one, he had  said as we finished breakfast, trying to prepare us for the work ahead, had been especially root-bound.  No kidding, a daunting task.  My eyes widened as I gulped and took in the sight before me.  

By then I was a veteran, but this field got my attention.  Working together, mainly with my sister three years my junior, we tugged the jagged tree roots from the dry, dusty earth and flung them through the air.  They landed  with a satisfying thunk on the slash pile Dad had been building with the D-6 Caterpillar.  Repeating this action time after time, we worked our way down the field, covering ground steadily.  As the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, we removed our hats, wiped away the sweat and paused for a drink, letting the light breeze cool our hair for a moment.  Returning to our work immediately, we paced ourselves, not too fast, not too slow, moving the tractor and attached trailer with our load, along as we went. 

In my teens, I understood somehow that this was my job, my responsibility to see it through and present to Dad a clean field at the end of the morning.  Moving our way back and forth, sometimes closer to the stack, then moving farther back, we bent, grabbed and threw sticks rhythmically until we reached the end of the field.  Hot, dusty and ready for lunch, we climbed on the Honda 90 and headed back to the house.  There would be no doubt if the job was done to satisfaction.  Dad only had to complain once.  His generously given praise was the best incentive, better even than the paycheck we would receive for our morning's work.  He was proud of our work, and wouldn't accept less than our best.

Despite the high praise Dad dished out, we continued our hearty complaining, perhaps because it seemed we were the only kids around who had to work.  For all the good it did us.  One day, one of our parents' friends decided to come help us for the morning to see what the fuss was all about.  Couldn't be that bad, she declared, and she was going to find out for herself.  She spent the morning with us.  Once.  And never said another word.  It was nice to have the help, anyway. 

We knew Dad would go over the field again with the Cat, and bring up more roots.  And again.  The soil on the farm was sandy in some areas, some summers were drier, hotter.  Bending, picking, throwing - the bigger pieces would twirl like uneven helicopter blades swishing through the air.  Our friends were welcome to come spend the weekend with us.  Under one condition.  We had to tell them that we would be picking sticks and they would be expected to help us.  Seems our friends began to find other times to visit.

I think he even bought adjoining land and cleared some more.  At last it was done, the fields were planted with grain, with hay, and we moved on.  Winter chores were few so we inner-tubed, trying out our snowy hills, then the neighbors'.  After driving the pickup with hay while dad fed the cattle, we went ice fishing and ice skating and had friends over for bonfires, cocoa and games.  When spring came, we cleaned the barns where cattle had wintered and calved.  Then branding day arrived, we ran errands and chutes, but never got brave enough to give shots or do the castrating.  We chased the cows, fixed the fences so they wouldn't get out again, weeded the garden, painted one thing or another, and swept the shop.  

I felt like the teenage queen of fitness; strong, healthy, hungry and thirsty, until I heard the stories of the legends.  My five aunts, when they were girls at home, helped Grandpa cut timber with a cross cut saw, carried water, milked cows, helped with haying, and dug a mile of water line to save their water rights from being taken away.  They had the bulging muscles when it wasn't popular for girls to have them, to show for it, and stories of beating other kids in races on the playground and in the classroom.  There were the stories of my dad who drove loads of logs to school when he was ten years old.  They added water to the stew when company came for supper.  The pigs all died when they got into treated grain, and when Grandpa had to go to the hospital after the accident when the drunk driver crossed the road and hit his wagon of milk in the darkness, Grandma wouldn't accept help for expenses because she was afraid she wouldn't be able to repay them.

And I wonder.  Complain?  Me?  Yes, I did.  And not too proud of it.  Think, my friends.  This is a lot to live up to, in my opinion.  So now, I'm thankful for hot, dusty days in the fields learning the values Dad had about working.  But more than that, I'm thankful that I could turn around and see the effect of what we did, the difference we made in a field that had been marred with jagged pieces of trees and branches, now a smooth surface, marked only by our footprints, ready to be turned again, deeper, this time. That is what we learned, what we earned.  The sense of accomplishment.  Along with the dust, we tasted results.  The spring was perfect, crystal clear, and refreshing.

There is little that can withstand a man who can conquer himself.

- Louis XIV

Discipline is the rejection of instant gratification in favor of something better and higher.

It is more fun to talk with someone who doesn't use long, difficult words but rather short, easy words like "What about lunch?"

Winnie the Pooh

Pooh's Little Instruction Book

Self-command is the main elegance.

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Grilled Vegetables

Feasting is the physician's harvest.

Malayan Proverb