My Favorite People to "Hang Out" With

Most young people, as they approach or enter their teens, find that their own families are insufferably embarrassing and often boring. This begins a period of "weening away" which can be painful for both the teen and the "parental unit." Among what I like to call "good kids," there are fairly frequent periods of truce and what the Soviets might have called "Rapprochement."

Parents often lament that the child, whom they inexplicably still love, couldn't have remained tiny, cute, soft, and malleable. Once they develop a mind and opinions of their own, they often seem to be a lost cause. Sometimes, their personal pulchritude seems to be all that saves them from utter destruction. Personal names of our extended family members will not be used here so as to avoid offending those who have, in the fullness of time, become honest, kind, loving citizens. And whom I never ceased to love for a second.

Family togetherness is never more poignantly delightful than at Christmastime. Last night we were all hosted to a delightful meal and even better company at Jake and Lisa's place. Such occasions never fail to comfort me. A few were missing, but a lot were there, and the result was the spirit of family. It touched me deeply to see my sister-in-law being moved by the memory of my father who was with us for so long and - it seems - so recently. In her recent blog post, Autumn wrote of their calling to be temple workers on Tuesday evenings. She feels her Grandfather's spirit there. And her mother's. And, I suppose, HER mother's. I look forward to sharing Shayne's journals with Aubey when next I see her.

It is astonishing to me how quickly our mortal probation passes. We really have to get on the stick and repent and live this gospel as if - - IT's TRUE! The reason we say MERRY CHRISTMAS is that this day which all Christendom agrees to celebrate His birth, is a physical confirmation that we really do believe that He is the son of God. That we do believe that He is our elder brother. That, under the direction of Heavenly Father, He constructed this earth for us. That He died and was resurrected for us so that we will have a glorified, perfected, resurrected body ourselves some day. We do all this each year to manifest in visible, audible, physical ways that we really do believe that He took upon him all our sins so that, by constantly growing and repenting, we can be WITH Him and eventually become LIKE Him.

Josh was at supper tonight. He says that, in the Army, no one is allowed to discuss religion at all. Sixty-some years ago, the battle-cry was "praise the Lord and pass the ammunition." Political correctness has gradually filled everyone -- even the DoD and the General Officers -- with fear of being called intolerant. And the result is that "the devil laughs and his angels rejoice."

To everyone I know on both sides of the veil: MERRY CHRISTMAS !

My favoritie Muse

According to Greek mythology, there were several young women, minor goddesses, who were called the muses. One might inspire you to do a good job in the Greek theatre. Another might help you to be a great architect, painter, or sculptor. But my favorite Muse is the Muse of Music.

Her name, as you can plainly see, is taken from the word muse, itself. I have been blessed with the ability to see beauty in all its forms. I am grateful for this. But the art form which has blest me the most often and the most powerfully in my earthly probation is music. If I am sad, I know just which pieces to play to help me cry out my feelings (Elegy by Massenet, or Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis by Ralph Vaughn Williams.

To bring the Spirit into my home, almost anything by "the choir" will do the job nicely. In recent years they've put out several new albums which would wrings tears from a lava rock, whether from expressing sadness or joy. For those who recall Empire of the Sun, that gorgeous welsh choir piece which the English by is practicing at the beginning of the film and which he sings to honor a very young kamikaze pilot near the end, is performed with such delicate perfection by the Choir that, after it's over, you might find yourself string at the wall and living in another place for several minutes after it's over. The same is true of Christmas music. I'm a big fan of Chip Davis and Mannheim Steamroller, but for quiet listening to music which must sound like what the shepherds heard, y ou can't beat the Choir.

Sometimes you're just in a mood. A few nights ago I got on Google and as many performances of Orange Blossom Special and of Foggy Mountain Breakdown as I could find. It satisfied something in me. So did Dueling Banjos from Deliverance.

That brings me to soundtrack music. So many films have been "made" for me by their soundtrack music that I can scarcely think of the film without hearing the music. High Road to China, Out of Africa, Gettysburg, Last of the Mohicans, Zulu, not to mention dozens of TV shows with great music. Peter Gunn (by Mancini), Mannix (by Lalo Schifrin), Mission: Impossible (Lalo Schifrin), The Avengers, The Man from UNCLE, The Wild, Wild West, Simon & Simon, Magnum, The Rifleman, Wagon Train, Gunsmoke, Twelve O'Clock High, and a bunch of others that won't come to my mind just now.

Popular music rarely appeals to me, but thee have been occasional pieces that seized my imagination and filled me with joy. The Music Box Dancer and Popcorn were among these. In earlier days, The Little Nash Rambler and The Witch Doctor appealed to us. As I was getting started in college, Simon & Garfunkel were having great success in both recorded and concert music. I found (and still find) that I can sit still and listen to their lyrics and feel bobbed about on their music as on a small boat. They were wonderful: The 59th Street Bridge Song, The Boxer, Scarborough Fair. Back in '69 the Romney Science Bldg. had a huge boulder made of lava sitting on the grass on its east side. When Simon & Garfunkel were popular, someone tastefully painted I AM A ROCK on the side of he boulder. Only minor graffiti and it gave so many people a smile.

Now to the classics. I really should probably wait and do them separately. They are so many and have blessed me so much. We grew up with Tschaikovsky's Peter and the Wolf and with the British band classics of Gustav Holst and Ralph Vaughan Williams. At about 13, all I wanted for Christmas was a copy of Stravinsky's Firebird ballet suite. I'd never seen it performed, but the title told me it must have some good stuff in in. It did, of course. I listened to it until I could appreciate it and finaly until I loved it. Eugene Ormandy had recorded it with the Philadelphia Orchestra. He was on the flip side, too, doing Modest Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition. I fell in love with that one even faster, especially after I read the liner notes and found out the great loss Mussorgsky had suffered to be able to write this piece.

I had only been exposed to a little Beethoven before my mission, but Elder Georges Spagnolo played the entire Fifth Symphony every P-day in Verona. I would just sit there and listen to it, not able to tear my mind or heart away from its beauty. Later in life I picked up more and more of Beethoven.

Aaron Copland, George Gershwin, and a bunch of other great guys captured my heart one at a time as the years rolled on. But I have to say that my favorite composers are three men who have written for films, TV, and special occasions for a long while. Only one of them is still living. I refer to Henry Mancini, LeRoy Anderson, and John Williams. Their accomplishments are legend and deserve to be so. Each of them has written dozens of delightful tunes as well as great orchestral works for film and concert. Anderson even translated Scandinavian languages for the UN! On the back of m y album shuck for the LP of Peter Gunn, the statement is made that Henry is working with a promising new young pianist named "Johnnie Williams." I wonder...

My Father Gets His Wish

My father has always been a man who loved life and the people in it. Everyone felt loved if they were around him. In the fifties, sixties, and early seventies, his word was law to us kids and that was fine with us. His was no benign dictatorship or enlightened monarchy. Only rarely did he feel that he needed to draw a line. He could enforce it without touching you. I recall that there was a disagreement between two family members in the summer of 1984. As I headed for the stairs, he instructed me to come back into the room. We were going to talk it all out. Nothing would be left hidden or undiscussed.

His instruction caught me by surprise. I was 33 and felt that I was beyond such instructions. I turned around and looked at him for a long moment. I could tell that he was aware that I might just keep walking. But he had always been a source of awe to me. At length I slowly walked back across the room and sat down, chiefly because I couldn't imagine not obeying him.

As he began to speak, his voice took on its usual characteristic of earnest concern and a desire to see love and reason triumph. We all knew perfectly well what the facts were, but he enumerated them anyway. That way no one could pretend that they didn't know something. That made us all responsible for the same set of knowledge. Then he suggested various behaviors and temporary sacrifices we could make that would restore harmony to the household. And it worked.

It was in this period that my parents began to grow tired. Raising children will do that to you. My brother and I had a few discussions in which we wondered at how much younger siblings could "get away with." Now, it could well have been that our folks had simply learned more tolerance and patience. But, to us, it sometimes seemed that something was wrong. Either we had been through an unnecessarily stern upbringing, or the younger siblings were without that degree of respect and obedience which we had known.

Now, after many more years of experience and having become amazingly tired, myself, I don't feel a desire to criticize anyone in the family. My love for my parents has grown and grown and stories of disobedience or disrespect by someone else don't seem to matter all that much any more. They all turned out to be good people, very possibly better than me.

Watching my father die several nights ago was a surreal experience. It was absolutely clear what was happening, and, indeed, I had been praying about and preparing for it for several years. And it wasn't any fun, actually. But there was lots of laughter, because we all felt the nearness of this wonderful, loving, funny, mischievous, tender, and spiritual man filling the room in such great abundance. Throughout his life I had felt something akin to worship towards him. I loved him with urgency and felt that I needed to fly to his defense if anyone showed him the slightest disrespect. But this love had grown even greater in the last quarter century of his earthly probation. No one else even came close to showing me as he did what a good man and a good priesthood holder should be. I will deeply miss just sitting and talking with him. I had always hoped that we could attend just one more General Priesthood meeting together at Conference time. We had done that several times, at least once with Joseph along. It was a great experience. I think it was a sort of spiritual version of the solidity that the Earps had with each other and with their favorite dentist. We were an inseparable family, and we were the good guys.

He had expressed his wish not to live if he couldn't be in robust health. He had left no doubt that no ventilators or heroic measures were to be taken if he were seriously damaged by another stroke or anything else. So he got his wish. My wish is to measure up to his example by the time I see him again.

Just Not a Typical Week

There! That ought to do it. I think I've now added enough cute or pretty pictures to offset all I have to say about the last several days. We moved, and that becomes physically more difficult and emotionally more traumatic each time. But, of course, it pales in comparison to what our loved ones have suffered during the same period.

Sheryl has a cousin named Laura Jo. Laura Jo's daughter, Alisha, lived in Jerome with her two children, a boy 7 and a girl 3. A week or so ago they disappeared and the community fasted and prayed and searched for them for four days before they were found - in their car - deep in a canal.

I had never attended a triple funeral before, nor even a double one. Closed caskets, of course. Four days under the water is hard on the complexion. The first little blonde baby below is the daughter of Meci whose mom, Julia is another of Sheryl's cousins. By the way, they used only two caskets, because the children were small enough to use only one. After the graveside service, we returned to the chapel for the typical big Mormon lunch. Now, Alisha had been in the process of being divorced from the children's father. I had heard him addressed two times from the pulpit, but I still hadn't spotted him. After we'd been eating for a few minutes, he was pointed out to me. Dirty work boots. Faded Levi's. A Snap up the front cowboy shirt, itself faded and the top two snaps casually undone. And, firmly affixed to his arm, a new young girlfriend. She had a fairly cute face, but her attire was on a par with his.

He looked happy! Not just "handling it" happy, but quite pleased with life. Twice I got up, ostensibly to go to the serving table, but really so I could pass within inches of him and study his face. Jolly. Not a care in the world. Not a single sign of tears in recent days or of a heavy heart that day. OK, so he'd stopped loving his wife, if he'd ever loved her. But he'd also lost two children! If such a thing had happened to me, I'd be a puddle on the floor. But then, I love my kids.

The previous Sunday, Johanna had called me to give me the horrible news that Len's younger brother, Alex, had been killed by a falling tree. His was the most heavily attended funeral I've ever seen. Alex's wife, a statuesque blonde, was clearly heart-broken when I met her, despite her brave efforts to be polite. Their daughters both spoke during the meeting and did an excellent job. I don't know how active Alex had been in the Church, but clearly his greatness of character had influenced his family, friends, and co-workers in vast and positive ways.

Marcus Aurelius, one of the "Five Good Emperors," once said "Tell me with whom thou are found, and I will tell thee who thou art." Hundreds of people clearly felt that to work or play or live with Alex Humphries made them much better people. I recall his driving a long ways to help us when my Jeep quit en route to Joseph & Mary's wedding. He was one of the only men I've ever seen who didn't look silly in a pickup that big. I also recall meeting him when he was in high school and showed up at the elk camp Len and I had already setup. It was snowing heavily
as Alex strolled around through his headlights and stood there, waiting for Len's reaction. Len looked him over. "Moon boots!" he exulted. They were the newest thing back then, and Alex was clearly pleased as punch to have his elder brother's approval.

We've been praying for both these families to have the presence and comfort of the Holy Ghost who is also known as "The Comforter."

So after all this, I thought maybe we'd be given some time to heal up emotionally. But it was not to be. John emailed a bunch of us to tell us that a 40 year old bishop whom John had known as a high school athlete,had been murdered as he sat in his chair in the Bishop's office. Two rounds through the heart for no apparent reason. He leaves a wife and six little boys, one of whom had only recently received his name and blessing. I went in to tell Sheryl about it and found myself crying yet again.

The Gospel is true. It lets us know that we'll see loved ones again, even in the flesh. This is wonderful to know. But it doesn't do much about the protracted pain in our chests right now and for a long time into the future. I remember being surprised every time I walked into a room and no one looked up and stared in horror at the gladius hanging out of my chest after Shayne left. Surely I thought, anything that hurts this much must surely be obvious to everyone. But no. Everyone just saw the same old me and expected the same old performance in everything I did. I don't know about you, but I'm going to increase my knee time. It's the only thing I've ever known to bring real help for a broken heart.

At the 60th anniversary reunion, the Fort Hall PowWow, and even on the street where we used to live, we have found cute people. They delight me. May they have the same effect on you.

The Results of Prayer and Intense Worry

It looks like we'll be moving backing to LeRoy Wilde's downstairs apartment again. I resisted pretty firmly for a few days, but it's there and much more affordable than where we are. The back fence seems to be almost Miss Sadie-proof. A little modification will make it perfect.

My short story Saturday night at the reunion will be Damon Runyon's The Hottest Guy in the World. If someone prefers something else, you have but to contact me and make your will known. I had given serious consideration to reading Mark Twain's Taming the Bicycle, but I thought the younger children might not be able to catch some of its subtleties. Journalism in Tennessee is hugely funny, but it's pretty violent, too.

We rejoiced today to hear that South Dakota has apparently prevailed over Pennsylvania so that Zannita Armell can get her daughters back from the white supremacist who is their literal father. Aric has to get her down to the SLC airport by 7:30 tomorrow morning.

I was pleased to learn this week that former student Jeff Thomason is now illustrating children's books and drawing still cartoons. He's quite good.

I'm going to go rest what's left of my brain. Tonight's picture is from a small bunch I took a few days ago on my cell phone while we were walking Mico and Miss Sadie around the track. If you are a fan of urchins, as I am, this is a great neighborhood.

Time Properly Wasted

Let me begin by quickly summing up our status in the struggle to remain housed. We have all but eliminated the rentals. As I said to Mother, the decent ones (such as the one we're being asked to leave) are unaffordable; and the affordable ones are indecent.

Recently we both got the feeling that we ought to try buying. This would be utterly impossible for us but for the fact that the same spirit that is nudging us periodically now is an old friend whom I recall giving me a shove back in 1973 to join Uncle Sam's Flying Circus. Because I followed that powerful prompting, look at the blessings that I've received:

Shayne

Joseph ($15)

Autumn ($25)

Hyrum ($11.50)

The Old GI Bill which helped us through school after I left the service.

A VA home loan which helped us buy the house on College Ave.

We're waiting now for the VA to tell us whether we've qualified again for such a loan, and, if so, how much we can expect. Until we know these things, all we can do is look at an occasional house and hope that we'll have the bucks to get it. One house which seems very attractive to us is in St. Anthony. We were looking at pictures of it just yesterday on the computer. I don't yet know whether it was one of the houses that Len told me about recently on the phone. We hope to go up to see it soon.

Now to my muttons, as Twain would say. I killed a couple of hours with Aric Armell and his son from Colorado, AJ yesterday morning. We had 15 eggs that were way out of date. We drove to "the Cedars" a place where we've done lots of shooting before. We spread the eggs around on the hillside.

Now it had been my presupposition that, since my Savage Mako .22 LR is zeroed to strike dead on at 50 yards, we would probably set up the rifles at some distance between that and 100. But I was forgetting that, to Aric, all rifles are sniping rifles. He drove the truck back to 225 yards. I sighed. If we'd been shooting .22 Centerfires, that would have been fine. But plain old .22s have a little trouble at such distances. We had used them on gongs out to 500 yards before, and they had so little energy left by the time they got that far out that the "ding!" was almost inaudible when it came strolling back to us at about the speed the bullet had started out with.

But the gongs were about 15" wide and 2 feet tall. We could paint them bright colors so that they were easy to see. These grade AAA Large eggs weren't all that large, especially at 225 yards. We could almost always hit within inches of them, but in two hours, only Aric had hit one. The dust we'd kicked up on the others made them more and more difficult to see. Someone had tied up a frying pan at about 200 yards, and when you hit it, it would ring a little and spin around. I hit it a few times and felt a little better. But I still felt bad about hitting no eggs at all.

One might say that this was a waste of time and a disappointing one at that. But any day out shooting is better than any day when you don't. It is either time wisely used or time properly wasted.

Dear Mr. President,

I thought a lot of you last night. My wife and I watched the Fourth of July concert in DC and the fireworks afterwards. In that program alone I heard the words "God bless America" about 100 times.

Then we watched a very similar program from NYC. Again, patriotic and religious phrases were used over and over, almost as if the people had decided that you were wrong when you said that "we are not a Christian nation." It could be that you were wrong. Hundreds of thousands of people in both DC and New York were gleeful about every pro-American statement that was said or sung. And I didn't see a single arrogant person in the crowds.

Then came the annual Boston Pops concert and fireworks display. This year it was hosted by Craig Ferguson, a Scot who was proud as punch to keep his nightly audience apprised a couple of years ago about the progress he was making towards gaining American citizenship. I was watching the night he announced that he was finally a citizen. The studio full of pretty average Americans cheered themselves into a frenzy. I watched his face closely and I think I saw tears. But it was hard to tell through my own. You see, being an American is a precious privilege, especially for one who has struggled to get the title or to defend that nation.

Craig Ferguson mentioned at the beginning of the show last night that he was "here with about 900,000 of my closest personal friends" and was cheered mightily for that. Later in the show he could be seen clambering over folks to reach groups of soldiers so he could sing with them. The source of all this joy was a single thing. They were Americans; they had the rights of Americans; and those rights had not yet been taken away from them, despite the efforts of so many to do just that.

Sir, I believe the reason that you do not think like an American is because you are NOT an American. I think you are a sham and created lie. I think you are a manufactured entity who has been trained to make unfulfillable promises. The fact that you have a nice-looking family does not in any degree diminish the truth that you are an enemy of the state. You are undermining one or another of every part of the Bill of Rights with almost everything that you do or say. I am convinced that you actually believe that having your life protected by armed force is more important than any other citizen having the same right. I believe that you don't know the first thing about free enterprise. I believe that you are a trained fifth columnist who is leading us not just into Socialism but into actual dictatorial Communism, the same as we fought from 1945 until about 1991. (Not to mention our ongoing struggles with China and North Korea, etc.)

I'm seeing more and more African-Americans in the crowds of people protesting against your plans and policies. Perhaps they realize as do I that "Voting for a man because he is black is just as racist as not voting for him because he is black."

I have news for you. The Framers and the Founding Fathers were inspired in their great debates and great creative writings by Jesus Christ, himself. And the day is coming when you will kneel and humbly acknowledge the truth of this. Jesus Christ is the god of this land. It has always been a special land. He has made the same promise to every nation or people who have ever lived upon it. As long as they serve him and obey his commandments, he will fight their battles and prosper them. But, "when they are ripened in iniquity," He will sweep them off. It has already happened a couple of times. As long as you are in office, we are on the downward slope to rebellion and destruction.

James D. Haeberle

Chubbuck, Idaho

Who'd Have Thought It?

Rolling History in a Parade at ISU

I told Johnny about this earlier today, but it occurs to me that it couldn't hurt to mention this to the group. When you do something for 20 years and people tell you that you're doing it well, you really miss it when it's taken away. For over 6 years I've been denied the pleasure of teaching History, except for those moments that I could sneak it into a Sunday School or Priesthood lesson.

Several nights ago our Relief Society (Shayne delighted in calling it "Rerief Soriety") president told Sheryl that several sisters had requested that their "work meetings" be classes in US History for a while and that a specific request had been made that I be the instructor! It has been passed by the Bishop and the Stake President, and a bunch of sisters from another ward also said they wanted to attend. For that matter, so does the Stake President.

Two miracles in one week. Sheryl's trashed heart is healed overnight and my many prayers that I might some day be of use again in the one thing I know I can do well being answered in such a huge and unexpected way. There's no money in it, but no one really teaches for the money, at least not in Idaho. I never told the people in Madison District 321, but I'd have done the 20 years just for fun if only my family had been provided for otherwise.

Now, of course, I'm becoming filled with self-doubt and worry. Will I still be good at it? Will the "holes" make much difference? Surely I'll have no problems with the groups themselves. These are adults, so you naturally expect more courtesy from them. However, I noticed a strong tendency among some parents over the years at parent/teacher conferences. Those who know a lot about one facet of History want to quiz you to see whether you know it as well as they do. It might be a hobby subject of theirs which they've studied for 50 years, but they'll be sure to look narrowly at you if you show any weakness by admitting that there was even one detail that they knew and you didn't. Over the years, I would wait nervously for that misfortune, but I think they only got me a couple of times.

I know that this opportunity is an answer to prayer. Perhaps it answers not only my prayers but also those of others who like me. I'm grateful to the Lord and also to anyone else who put in a good word for me.

A Wedding and a Military Leave

Two events worthy of note have occurred lately. Mellissa Bosen, daughter of Doug and Teresa (Wilde) Bosen finally settled for just one man. She had been pursued by literally dozens of fellows for years and years, but this kid, two years her junior, seemed to have all the right traits. Here you will see the newlyweds and all the beautiful people who came to the reception. Well actually only about half the beautiful people. I concentrated on showing you lots of the cute munchkins and a few of the great beauties in addition to the bride herself.

First, you will pass through a few shots of the returning soldier, Josh McBride, who just went back to the war this morning. He is not aware of anyone shooting bullets at him, but many mortars have been lobbed in the general direction of himself and his co-workers. He laughs his usual demonic laugh and says, "They're really bad shots." And they must be, because he says the closest a mortar round has come to his position was when three of them came down 75 yards from him. Mortars did better than that during the Colonial wars!

You'll also see the IF Temple flowers, or at least some of them. They were in rare form the day of Mellissa's wedding.

Radio Controlled Cars - A Post Chiefly for Joseph

I was reading and answering emails from all of you yesterday afternoon when I heard the unmistakable sound of tiny, high rpm engines approaching the front of our house. I saw that one of them was just arriving at a point where I could see it through the 10" of space between the bottom of the Venetian blind and the sill. It spun out and sat fairly still, although its considerable horsepower caused it to wriggle in anticipation of its next stunning move.

I ran out onto the front lawn and saw a young man and a young boy, whom I assumed to be father and son, trying to get their RC cars to climb the curb. Then they ran them around for a while in mock races of only 10 or 15 yards. I shouted "I'm loving this!" The young man, responded, "Yeah. They're pretty fun!"

They were both delighted to find someone who wanted to know all about their hobby. It turned out that these were not electrically driven cars, nor were they driven by mixed oil and gas. They employed a piston engine which was pull started and ran on nitrous oxide. Anyway, I think that's what the young fellow said. It was pretty loud out there.

It turns out that the young man has just started dating the big sister of the boy. In early conversations, they discovered that they both owned the same type of super-fancy RC car. The man told me that they can run $600 - $700. He also told me that they run an actual 70 miles per hour! Much to the objection of my ears, he showed me how the tires stand up tall like those of dragsters when you hit the accelerator. The last picture I took was of the young man's car as it rocketed past me, left to right. Our camera is quite archaic for a digital model. Sometimes you can squeeze the trigger and the camera will think about it for a minute or two before it snaps the picture. It did that on this shot. I knew it was about to take the picture, because everything went black. But the car was already almost abreast of me and still the camera hadn't fired. Shooting habits kicked in. I simply led the target instinctively, hoping that it would still be in the frame when the camera clicked. When I began to see things through the camera again, I saw the car zipping out of the frame on the right. I was pretty sure that I had missed it by not leading enough. But the shot above is what I actually got.